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xximmortalkissxx · 14 days ago

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Where the Shadows Lie (Chapter One: Welcome to Mordor)

It has been an age since I've posted a fic, but this season of Rings of Power has dug itself into my brain and inspired this one. Thank you for reading!

Pairings: Sauron / Halbrand / Annatar x Móriel | Adar x Móriel (Original Character: Daughter of Morgoth)

Summary: When Halbrand is brought in chains to Adar's feet, the Lord-Father's consort Mòriel sees him for who he truly is, her father's former lieutenant and her oldest rival.

Warnings: (18+ Only! Adar Smut: Fingering, Oral Sex, Sex, Licking, Biting)

Translations (Black Speech):

Throqu-ni: Devour me.

Sha-ni: Together with me.

Ash Burzum: One Darkness

Word Count: 3k

Under the looming shadow of Mount Doom, an unruly war camp of Uruks stretched for miles, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning wood and the faint metallic tang of blood. Within the center of the camp, two crude thrones forged from blackened wood and iron stood atop a dais, watching over the gathering of Uruks and prisoners alike.

Móriel sat languidly upon her throne, her golden eyes catching the light of the torches like embers in the dark. Half-lidded in thought, her gloved fingers idly stroked the coarse fur of the warg resting at her side. Its snarling maw, dripping with saliva, leaned into her touch. Beside her, Adar sat tall, his eyes fixed upon the approaching prisoners dragged forward by the ever-fervent Waldreg. The Uruks jeered as the clanking of chains and hesitant footsteps of the captives filed into the clearing, but Móriel’s attention remained distant while Waldreg’s voice cut through the din.

“Do you swear allegiance,” Waldreg bellowed, “to Adar, Lord-Father of the Uruks, and to our Lady Móriel, Daughter of Morgoth, Mother of the Uruks, and Maiden of Pain?”

The prisoners quaked beneath the weight of the question, eyes wide with terror as they glanced between the towering presence of Adar and the ethereal, dark beauty of Móriel. Some muttered prayers, others stammered weak declarations of loyalty to the dark power that had consumed their land. All who swore loyalty were branded on the nape of the neck with the Mark of Adar and Móriel.

Móriel’s gaze barely flickered at their pleas and cries of pain, her hand still stroking the warg’s fur, until a particular figure was dragged forward. Waldreg pushed a man clad in rough, travel-worn clothes onto his knees. His face was bruised, his eyes steely, but there was something in his bearing—something familiar.

Sauron.

“Halbrand, The King of the Southlands turned himself in Lord-Father, says he wants to negotiate.” Waldreg spat.

Móriel’s interest piqued, her eyes sharpening as she recognized him immediately for who he truly was. Sauron, in a mortal guise, masking his power behind the pretense of this King of the Southlands. She kept her expression carefully neutral. With a voice smooth and honeyed, Móriel leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.

“Negotiate? What could you possibly offer us, your highness?”

“Let my people go.” The man commanded, standing up to meet Móriel’s eyes. He held firm even as the jeering intensified.

“Or yours will die.” he added tersely.

“Our people defeated the men of these lands, we defeated the elves who came to their aid, we even defeated their allies, the Men from beyond the sea.” Adar replied, standing from his throne and walking towards his prisoner.

“There is no one left for us to fear.”

“There is one.” The King of the Southlands retorted.

“Since Galadriel’s defeat, she sought out a new ally. An ancient sorcerer, to instruct the Elves in forging a new weapon. One you first told her about. “A power over flesh” Do you remember those words?” Halbrand continued.

Adar’s and Móriel’s eyes met briefly, though they quickly returned to Halbrand as he continued to speak.

“A power that will allow him to use your children as slaves in his army once more. Set my people free, and I will tell you where he can be found. So you can destroy him, and rid us both of his evil.” His voice seemed so sincere, Móriel had nearly forgotten how earnest Sauron could sound.

“No, Your Majesty. You will tell us everything you think you know of this sorcerer now. Or I will spill the words from your throat.” Adar threatened, his eyes locked on the man in front of him.

“If I die, all that I know dies with me. You can’t kill me.” Halbrand’s challenge lingered in the air, and Móriel watched with bated breath.

“In time, you will beg me to.” Adar countered coldly, then turned his head, dismissing the would-be king. Waldreg, sensing the conversation had concluded, struck Halbrand with a devastating blow to the stomach and drug him away into the depths of the camp.

Móriel’s gaze lingered on Halbrand as he was led away, a flicker of intrigue dancing in her eyes. Her hand stilled on the warg’s head as her thoughts drifted, contemplating what she had just witnessed. Sauron, always playing his games. Always maneuvering, weaving his webs of deceit. And yet, he had chosen to reveal himself to her. A dangerous move, but one that sparked something within her. What game was Sauron truly playing, and how could she turn it to her advantage?

The Uruks had been steadfastly loyal to Adar all these long years. He did not seek to rule over them; did not seek to instill fear in them; he seemed to love them, and they loved him in return. But love was fickle, and the Uruks had grown as restless as Móriel of late. None of them remembered the reign of her father or the terrible might she had commanded until he was cast into the Void and her power was collared by Valar. All of the Uruks revered her and saw her as their mother, but they didn't fear her. Not as they should.

************************************************

In the solitude of their shelter, Móriel moved with practiced care, her fingers deftly undoing the clasps of Adar’s armor. She worked in silence, her gaze steady as she freed him from the worn dark plates. Adar watched her, his expression softening.

“You seem distracted of late.” He broke the silence between them, a hand gently resting on her cheek. Her skin was warm, like the radiant heat of a kindling fire.

“Do you believe him? This King of the Southlands, that Sauron has returned?” Móriel asked, slipping a slight tremble into her voice.

“No.” Adar replied, his thumb brushing across her cheek.

“You saw him parish just as I did all those long years ago.” he added.

“I warned you then, it is no simple feat to kill a Maia.” Móriel retorted.

“I did not think the daughter of Morgoth would flinch at the mere mention of a ghost.” Adar replied sardonically.

Móriel's face hardened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You would risk all we have accomplished, risk our children's very freedom, on this belief? The hubris of elves still lives within you I see.” Móriel broke away from Adar's touch, and turned to leave. He grabbed her wrist in response, just as she intended, pulling her back to him.

“Mortári,” Adar addressed her with a cautionary tone but used his term of endearment for her.

“Do you remember what you vowed to me, all those centuries ago at Dúrnost?” Móriel asked softly. Adar contemplated for a moment before replying.

“I told you I would never see you bow to another dark lord again. That I would stand by you as your equal, in all matters, for all time.”

“Then I will speak with this King of the Southlands tonight. There is either truth to his claim, or this is merely the last prayer of a desperate man. “ Móriel said simply.

“I pity him.” Adar replied, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her pointed ear.

“Once he feels your wrath, his Majesty will long for Waldreg's gentle touch.”

Móriel’s mouth melted into a soft smile as she leaned in to his touch. Adar had been a good companion to her. Loyal, attentive, reverent, and accompanied by legions of Uruks for her to command. He saw her as another victim of her father and of Sauron, a kindred spirit in his quest for belonging. There was a part of Móriel that wished that were true. But in her heart, she felt only a ravenous endless hunger. Hunger for power, pleasure, dominion over all others, a hunger to become something truly divine. There was no room for sentimentality, she learned that lesson long ago. Her hands clutched the rough material of Adar's tunic and pulled him closer to her. With a practiced tongue, she traced the curve of his ear slowly. Adar's breath caught at the touch, his eyes darkening with desire.

“Lay with me.” Móriel whispered in his ear, her voice laced with urgency.

Adar eyed her hungrily as she slipped away from his grasp. Nestled amongst the rough woolen blankets and furs that littered the ground, Móriel removed her silk shift and beckoned him closer. After all this time, seeing her laid bare before him, long hair cascading down her body like a river of night, Adar still felt as though he had strayed into a dream.

His mouth found hers, hungry and unreserved as their bodies met. Adar groaned as her skin began to heat to his touch. His bare hand slid between her thighs, gently teasing and massaging her. Deliberately slow at first until he felt her mouth move beneath his, nibbling, sucking, moaning his name. Mòriel's hips rolled against him greedily, one hand clawing at the fur beneath her while the other grasped Adar's silken hair. He slipped a finger inside her, then another, causing Mòriel to whimper against his mouth. The sound was enough to drive him mad. Adar’s fingers worked eagerly, curved slightly to heighten her pleasure. Móriel bit his bottom lip as she neared overstimulation. He let out a throaty chuckle in response, nibbling along her neck, over her collarbone, and finally making his way to her breast. Adar's tongue took her nipple into his mouth and gave it a tight squeeze between his teeth. Móriel gave a sharp cry in response, he could feel her constrict around his fingers and the trembling of her body. She was close.

“Throqu-ni!” Móriel pleaded in the Black Speech. Adar's eyes met hers and she could see a smirk form from around her breast. Slowly, he continued gnawing along her body, across the tender flesh of her stomach, and down to her thighs. The momentum of his fingers didn't cease, even as Adar added his mouth and began to taste every inch of her.

“Adar…Lord-Father please!” Mòriel cried, pulling his hair as her climax took over. She bit into her lip as Adar's low guttural growls vibrated against her, sending aftershocks rolling though her body. Loosening her grip on his hair, Móriel guided him back to her, panting hard as she rested her forehead against his. She could smell the smoke in his hair and almost taste the sweat on his skin. As Adar slipped his fingers from inside her, Móriel's eyes met his with a mischievous glint. Shifting beneath him, she spread her legs wide and invited him to claim her.

Adar pulled away momentarily, unclasping his belt. Seeing her under him, eyes tracking him with anticipation, made his chest ache with longing. Slowly, attentively, he inched himself inside her and was welcomed by the sweet sound of his name and a lusty moan. Móriel's toes curled as he filled her to the hilt, savoring the fullness of him.

“Mortári…” Adar breathed against her neck, his thrusts becoming more rapid. Móriel's arms wrapped around his body, holding him close. With each thrust, the weight of him threatened to knock the wind out of her. Móriel relished the moment, the dizzying lightheadedness, the heat building in her core. She threw her head back with the pleasure of his body pounding against hers. Letting out a primal moan, Móriel raked her nails against Adar's back, sending him into a frenzy. But before he could finish, Móriel wrapped a leg around him and used their momentum to overturn them. Now in control, she rode him mercilessly with her hands digging into his thighs. Adar used the sharp points of his gauntlet to dig into her hip and ass, while his bare thumb rubbed her clit.

“Sha-ni Adar! Sha-ni!” Moriel screamed, as their bodies crashed together violently.

With a deep guttural groan, Adar took hold of her hips with both hands and thrust himself into Móriel as hard and far as he could. She could feel him spasm and the warmth of his seed spreading inside her. Móriel's body tensed around him, quivering with pleasure as the two of them rode out their climax together.

With trembling hands firmly planted on his chest for support, Móriel withdrew herself slowly. She already missed the breadth of him inside her, now feeling strangely hollow. Settling beside her consort, she gave Adar a moment to recover from her touch. Though they were already beginning to recede, she could still see the angry red marks on his chest and face. The inevitable burn of her caress. This much sustained contact, though undoubtedly pleasurable, was mixed with pain. But Adar was used to pain, and if it were by her hand he welcomed it. Combing his fingers through her hair, Adar brought his lips to hers before withdrawing again. He was utterly spent, panting softly at her side. The Lord-Father of the Uruks would rest soundly this night, but Móriel had other matters to attend to before sleep would claim her as well.

************************************************

Entering the dimly lit tent, Móriel was as quiet as a lurking wolf. The scent of charred earth and iron filled the air, mingling with the lingering scent of blood. The light of a lone torch caught her eyes producing a luminous eyeshine. A hint of the true lineage lurking behind them. Halbrand, shackled to a sturdy post, sat slumped in the center of the tent, his body bruised and battered from Waldreg’s less-than-kind methods of interrogation.

He raised his head slowly. Seeing Móriel step closer, his eyes narrowed with a flicker of recognition. She moved with graceful precision, a coy smile on her lips. Móriel felt a sense of satisfaction seeing him in this state, yet there was something else too, something so familiar about the scene before her.

Kneeling beside him, Móriel produced a damp cloth and began dabbing it gently against the cuts and bruises marring his skin. Halbrand’s muscles tensed under her touch, but he remained silent, watching her with calculating eyes.

“This,” she began softly, her voice lilting with a mixture of amusement and nostalgia, “reminds me of when my father was particularly cross with you."

Halbrand’s lips melted into a smirk, though the pain from his wounds made it brief. “Morgoth was often cross with me,” he muttered, his voice low but carrying that ever-present edge of defiance. “I lost track of the times.”

Móriel chuckled softly, her hand continuing to gently clean his wounds. Her touch was tender, so deceptively tender.

“Yes, well, your penchant for ambition often aggravated him.” She teased studying his face.

“And yet, here you are again. Spinning your webs, even in chains.” Móriel added, dabbing the cloth against a particularly deep cut, causing him to flinch slightly.

“Adar believes you are just a pretender—a king of a people long forgotten. It’s almost endearing. Could you imagine if he were to discover who you truly were? With how much he loathes even your memory.”

Halbrand raised an eyebrow, leaning his head back against the post.

“And you?” he asked, his voice low, testing her. “Do you loathe me too?”

Móriel paused for a moment, her hand hovering over his skin as she looked into his eyes. Her expression softened, but only slightly.

“Loathe? No.” She leaned in just a little closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper.

“You have always been… beguiling. A rival, a kindred spirit, calling to my very nature.” Móriel’s lips hovered just above his, tantalizingly close. It had been so long since he tasted them, held her soft scalding flesh with his hands and teeth.

“But prone to arrogance and never heeding sound counsel when presented to you.” she withdrew slowly giving him a knowing look.

Halbrand chuckled darkly. “I had a long time to reflect on your words. While you were here, playing wet-nurse to an army of orcs, and warming my would-be-murderer’s bed.”

“They have served their purpose, most enthusiastically.” Móriel purred, unwilling to fall for the obvious bait. The charged silence between them lingered for a time, neither wanting to break first.

“I have missed you.” Halbrand sighed, his eyes softening in feigned affection. Móriel scoffed, but her face lacked any sign of irritation.

“I have missed you too, Mairon.” There was a charming lilt to her voice as she spoke his name. A name he hadn't heard in an age.

“Now, I'm not fool enough to expect the whole truth.” Móriel began, setting the damp cloth aside.

“But you revealed yourself to me on purpose, why?”

“Because, you will expedite my release from these shackles.” Halbrand said giving his chain as sharp tug.

“So I can free you from yours.” He added.

A fit of uncontrolled laughter burst from Móriel's chest. The Vallar themselves had shackled her, suppressing the vast terrible power she had once wielded as her birthright. There was no force on Middle Earth that could break that. Was there?

“A noble pursuit, truly.” Móriel's laughter faded as she met Halbrand's gaze, expecting a glint in his eye, a vicious grin, but there was nothing. He looked at her expectantly, a slight furrow of his brow. He was serious.

“How?” Móriel couldn't contain the slight tremble in her voice, subconsciously touching the hollow of her neck.

“There exist three rings of power, forged in Eregion, which will reverse the very will of the Valar and restore the Great Tree of Lindon.” Halbrand explained, his voice low and conspiratorial.

“You forged these rings?” Móriel asked, her eyes searching his for any sign of deciept. Mairon had once served Aulë, the smith of the Valar, he had such knowledge. Móriel could feel her heart begin to pound in her chest.

“Inspired. But after I arrive in Eregion, my influence will help forge the rest. Seven for the Dwarf-Kings, nine for the race of men, and one for you my Ash Burzum.” the deep guttural sound of the Black Speech leaving his lips sent a tantalizing chill down Móriel's spine. His eyes locked onto hers with a fire she hadn't seen since that fated day at Dúrnost.

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” She asked, eyes narrowed skeptically.

“No.” Halbrand replied with a dry laugh.

“But I would rather not make the same mistake twice. I need you Móriel, and if the price is restoring you to your former glory, so be it.”

Móriel contemplated his words carefully. There was enough history between them to fill tomes. Memories of exhilaration, pain, lust, torment, and satisfaction flooded her thoughts. She couldn't trust him, there was obviously a cost to these rings, one that would benefit him greatly. But she had to take this chance…no matter the cost.

Móriel's hand clasped the chain around his neck, gently pulling him closer until her mouth hovered next to his ear.

“Then you have me Mairon.” Her answer was soft, delicate, like the vow of a lover. Twisting the chain slowly in her hand, she pulled him tighter, until her mouth touched the lobe of his ear as she spoke.

“But cross me, and you will long for the mercy of my father.”

Halbrand's eyes darkened and a subtle smile touched his lips. He was happy to let Móriel think she had the upper hand… for now.

#adar x oc #adar rings of power #the rings of power #morgoth #smut #halbrand #halbrand x oc #the brainrot is real

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bearbearbon · 2 years ago

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I get hit by Truck-kun, Now I'm screwed!: I don't like it here. It's cold, and wet, and in Historical Europe, and there's Yanderes everywhere.

You are, well technically, were a typical 21st century girl that fell into the rabbit hole of otome isekai manhwa while bored on a rainy Sunday afternoon—And you got hooked. You have read through anything you could get your sleep-deprived hands on, yes even the downright illiterate incoherent translations on some website that shall not be named because you were desperate to see what happens next. You were walking down the street just reading the latest chapter of your latest interest, really, just walking down some normal sidewalk to your nearest grocery store for an errand for your mother.

Then you heard someone scream, you turned to see that a truck speeding down the highway out of control—And problem is, it was headed straight towards you.

You should’ve moved or something. But you just stood there like a deer in headlights.

“Hey kid, get out of the way—!” Then it went dark.

.. … ….

“!”

You woke up. With a splitting headache but woke up and alive regardless. “I did just get hit by a truck..” you murmured, looking around your surroundings. Well this is odd. you thought to yourself getting up. ‘The hospital room is looking raaaather grand today...’ you realized, looking at the room you found yourself in. The large ceiling tall windows let in the sunlight, with velvet curtains as the stray rays reflected off the intricate furniture. All of it was screaming luxury, and expensive and then you started to fear for you and your wallet.

“Dang, I suuure hope the hospital bill won’t cost me returning my arms and legs.” you joked, laughing to yourself. Like an insane person. “Yeah, maybe the truck did help let some screws loose.” you admit to no one in particular as you wiggle your fingers and toes. Yep, perfect condition. Maybe you were better off crippled or dead—

You look around the room to find a mirror to inspect yourself in—to check if you really had to work till old age to pay back your debt. Ignoring the fact your head felt like it was gonna explode, you force yourself out of the soft covers on the cold floor. Strange… you felt a lot shorter than you remember. “Maybe the doctors really had to work on me.” you rationalized, dreading how much that’d cost you.

You carefully walk around the extravagant room, tip toe-ing lest you break any of the expensive looking decor, which could send you literal years into debt…. You better watch out for that aquamarine vase then. “Oof..!” you made a head dive barely catching it before it could shatter to a million sad little pieces on the ground. Along with your life savings. “Whew…”

You carefully put it back, making sure it won’t tumble and fall before sighing in relief—That is until you saw a big mirror mounted on the wall, perfectly mounted to flatter the room and make it look more spacious than it already is. The frame was intricate, warm golden and had designs that reminded you of rococo when you went down a rabbit hole of historical desig—you’re getting off topic...!

That being said, The problem wasn’t the mirror itself, no! Course not. The problem is what you saw in the mirror… You. “Is.. that me..?” you mumbled to yourself, startled and absolutely shell-shocked, oh I mean shell-shocked! When the girl mimicked your movements.

Oh.

Oh no.

You immediately paced around the room, pinching yourself, slapping yourself, looking around the room to see if things would get distorted if you looked hard enough. “Oh, no, no,no,nonononono—”

You were screwed, doomed even. To damnation.

Now you’ve read your fair share of manhwa, you even consider yourself an expert in the field. But you see… That's also the reason for your demise. You’ve read so many so many of them all the plots started to fuse together into one big amalgamation that you still eat up every time. You forget plot points, male love interests, you even forget the main characters’ own names! Defaulting to nicknames like ,the mc, black haired one, the prince etc. Ah.. to reap the consequences of your own hubris—You slap yourself back into focus mode.

So you currently have two cards against you:

A ) You were chucked into this world with no warning whatsoever at the hands of truck-kun B ) You don’t even know which story you are in, which plot, and what even happens to you because your brain cells just ate everything they could find their hands on.

“Well, technically I have another weakness… since I barely have ¼ of the average isekai mc’s IQ” Wow. way to go you are such an optimist.

Unfortunately for you, your little existential crisis was interrupted by a loud knock on the door. “My lady?” a voice calls out, noticeably female. And old. Probably a maid.

Shoot.

Masterlist

#orignal work #original character #fantasy #parody #satire #otome isekai #x reader #yandere #male yandere #Otome Isekai: The Parody

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obsidiancreates · 10 months ago

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One Undead To Another (Chapter 3)

(It's 1 AM and I work today so naturally I'm hyperfocused on writing. Trigger warning for blood drinking, POV of someone who's dying, and temporary death.)

Burton Guster wakes up to use the bathroom. He checks his phone as he snuggles back under his still-warm covers, a habit he developed pretty much the moment Shawn got a cellphone and the ability to send texts.

Following MY lead and proving you all wrong

Oh, no. He did not.

Halfway to the Spooky Mansion. Still a chance for you to join in.

Seriously are you ignoring me or did you forget to turn your volume up again :(

Going in, keeping your half of the check when I solve this.

Spooky mansion got way too spooky. Bury me with my Tears for Fears vinyls.

Gus immediately calls Shawn after reading that last text.

No answer. He waits for a text scolding him for calling during a snooping mission- he waits for ten minutes before he lets out a panicked scream and dials Lassie.

No answer there, fine. He calls Juliet next.

“Gus?” Her voice is groggy and scratchy. “This better be an emerge-”

“Shawn went back to that mansion.”

“He what? I- why am I even surprised?”

“His last text to me says he might be in trouble, Jules.”

“Gus, we ruled them out as suspects.”

“In those murders! In just one set of murders!”

“... That’s a fair point, actually. Okay, I will call Carlton, and we will check on Shawn. Are you going to come with us?”

“Yes, obviously I’m coming with you!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll pick you up on the way to Carlton’s. And Gus?”

“Yeah?”

“Change out of your pajamas before I get there.”

He looks down at his fireman pjs- the same he was wearing last time Shawn did this. Maybe they’re cursed. He should probably burn them and get new ones, just to be on the safe side. “Right.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Jebus, O’Hara, why is Guster here?” Lassiter groans as he slumps, practically unwillingly, into his Ford Fusion.

“He was extremely helpful last time!”

“Thank you, Juliet. Besides, I’m the one Shawn is texting!”

“If he got himself shot again, I’m putting you both in the holding cells for the rest of the case,” Lassiter gurmbles as he starts the car and pulls out.

“If he got shot again, I’m sicking his dad on him.” If there anyone left to- no, no, he can’t think like that. He can panic and doom-spiral after he finds Shawn totally safe, healthy, and grinning with some stupid new piece of evidence. Because that’s how they have to find him.

“Whatever. We’re either going to save his ass again, or arrest it for breaking an entering. Either way, Guster stays in the car.”

Gus scoffs. “Yeah, alright.”

The car ride is quiet. Lassiter oozes irritation over being woken up. Jules hums along to the radio, either used to or simply resigned to situations like this being apart of her life- and probably trying to help Gus calm down. It’s working, a little. Gus feels a little silly about it, but it’s hard to panic when there’s someone humming nearby.

They’re only a few minutes away when all three feel a… twist.

Lassiter tenses at the wheel as Jules lets out a soft gasp and Gus’s stomach drops.

Something is wrong. Deeply, deeply wrong, and they don’t need to say it out loud to know they all feel it.

Lassiter floors it for the last stretch. He and Jules run up to the house with guns already drawn and fingers on the triggers, Gus behind them with a mounting dread as the mansion looms.

Lassiter has barely raised his hand to knock when the screaming starts.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shawn’s scream of pain is muffled, silenced, in the shoulder of The Boss. He feels her fangs dig, pressing deeper and deeper into his neck as she uses him like some kind of handsome juice pouch, or maybe a soup dumpling- yeah, definitely a soup dumpling. Should he be thinking about food right now? He is food- and being food hurts.

She bites deeper, and his next scream feels choked. He can feel his blood as it’s sucked out of him, a horrible unnatural feeling. It’s not like when he was shot, where his blood just oozed out of it’s own accord. It’s like his blood knows it’s being stolen, knows it’s being taken away, and it’s trying to cling to the inside of his veins with all of it’s thick, liquid-y strength.

He thinks he might be screaming again, or maybe moaning in pain? He’s making some kind of sound, but good god, she is making quick work of him. The world is going dull and fuzzy, his eyes drooping but never closing. The flickering candles cast strange shadows, making it look like more than four other people surround them- he sees a dozen, maybe more, it’s hard to tell, they’re all moving through each other. How much blood has he lost if he’s hallucinating already?

His fingers feel cold. No, actually- all of him feels cold. His fingers feel numb. He’s slumping against her now. He can’t hold his own weight anymore. Will they dump him in a field? No, that- they have something else planned for him. Don’t they? It’s starting to go away. Everything is starting to go away. There must be fifty people in the room now. There’s a sea lion in the corner. His arms have gone slack. Why can’t he close his eyes all the way?

“-ay strong.” He’s not sure who spoke. What did he name the other people again? How many were there? He was… investigating something. Right? It’s hard to think. It makes him tired. Someone is cradling him and holding him up, but it doesn’t feel nice. His neck feels the least nice.

“-wn. Shawn, stay with us, help is coming. Help is coming.”

He… he knows that voice. It’s… comforting. Who is that?

His eyes still won’t close. He feels cold. He feels his last dregs of blood clawing to stay inside of him. There’s pairs of feet, just in front of him, taking up his blurry darkening vision. A pair of white shoes, for… some kind of sport, Shawn doesn’t know, he can’t… connect. And a pair of… he doesn’t know, some kind of old lady shoes. He knows those shoes.

There’s a hand against his cheek. No, there isn’t. Yes, there is. No, there isn’t- but there’s something. It’s there and it’s not there, like- like cotton candy. That stuff is weird. A whole mouthful turns into nothing within seconds. Someone is saying something to him.

“-ay. It’ll be okay. They’re almost here.”

“So are we.” He knows that voice too. It’s not as comforting- but it’s not not comforting. It’s… someone. He can’t make the connection. He should’ve passed out by now. He’s lost enough blood to die, he knows that, if he knows one thing it’s that. Why is he still awake?

“We’ll make sure they find you.” That not-there hand is carding through his hair now as whatever is digging in his neck leaves- it’s the first sensation other than numbness he’s felt in… has it been seconds? Minutes? Hours? He’s not good at tracking time even when he does have blood. This is a nightmare. He hopes it’s a nightmare. Thinking hurts.

His head is pushed back. The shoes belong to people- that’s good to know. He can’t really see who. He isn’t sure what he’s capable of seeing right now actually counts as Seeing at all. Someone is yanking open his mouth.

“-or you. I’m here for you. You’re not alone right now.”

“I’m not sure he understands what you’re saying.”

“Shush, Mary. He needs to hear it anyway.”

Something is in his mouth. Something cold, and thick, and slugdy, and awful. He doesn’t have the strength to gag as it slides down his throat. It tastes rotten. It tastes wrong.

There’s a lot of it. He can’t swallow. He can’t gag. It lasts forever.

It reaches his stomach.

It burns.

He’s on the floor now- he didn’t feel his head hit, but it’s resting against something solid, so it must’ve. Hey, he can still make deductions. That’s cool. Everything is numb, but not numb, and everything hurts, but he can’t feel it. It hurts someone else, even though it’s him. It’s… far away. He’s far away. Someone is kneeling in front of him. Two someones. He can’t see them. His eyes are closed, finally. He doesn’t know how he knows they’re there.

“Go to sleep, Shawn.” … Oh. Oh, he knows where he knows that voice. He must really be dying, then. Or already dead.

“Gr’ma.” He can’t hear his own voice.

“Shhh. It’s okay. Go to sleep. We’ll make sure you’re okay.”

There’s a sound pounding against his ears. He tries to lift his head to hear it better. It’s a dull roar, like a terrible low-quality recording of a rock concert. … Yeah, exactly like that. It’s screaming.

“Your friends will be okay too. I promise. Trust me, sweetheart. Just… let yourself sleep.”

He actually doesn’t think he has a choice- but it’s nice that she’s talking. It’s so much clearer than the screaming. He should probably care about that. He’s too far away to be able to.

Shawn takes a deep breath and relaxes.

He sighs.

He loses consciousness.

He does not breathe again.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as the screaming starts Lassiter breaks the door down. It’s almost too easy- the wood is rotten. Who would live in a place like this? Someone not looking to stay long. Shawn had said that. Why hadn’t Gus believed him?

“SBPD!” Lassiter and Jules to in with guns raised and ready to fire- Gus feels safe enough behind them to follow.

No-one is home. If it weren’t for the ear-splitting screaming coming from somewhere, it would be eerie.

“Guster, go back to the car.” Lassiter doesn’t move. “Now.”

“Shawn is somewhere in here.” Gus can hear his fear leeching into his voice.

“We’ll find him,” Jules promises, just as rooted to the spot- something in the air feels wrong. A stillness, but a crackling, an energy but a void.

“Alright.” He can’t stand it anymore, he loves Shawn and he wants to find him but he can’t stand it anymore-

The door slams shut behind him.

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” Gus’s scream is lost among the chorus. The lights are flickering- no, that’s too mild a word for it, because the lights are going in and out and sparking and buzzing and it’s like the whole house is screaming-

Someone’s at the end of the entrance hall.

“Hands in the air!” Lassiter bellows, but the figure doesn’t put their hands up. The lights go out again. They come back on. The figure is closer.

“Stay where you are!” Juliet’s gun is steady as she aims it.

“-me? Testing, testing- forgive me. The afterlife doesn’t usually have this much bleed-over.”

Gus almost faints. He knows that voice.

“That’s impossible.” Lassiter swallows. He knows it too. They all do. “You’re worse at rescuing than Shawn,” Mary Lightly says, hands in the pockets of his racquetball uniform. “At least he was moving.”

#psych #psychusa #psych usa #psych 2006 #fanfic #my attempts at fanfic

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excelsia · 2 years ago

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Oath of Blood and Fire

Chapter II

Upon hearing the news, Visenya felt the weight of uncontrollable apprehension. She knew someday she would have to face everything, but she had hoped it to happen as late as possible. She locked herself in her quarters ever since she saw her mother and was forced to face what she had dreaded the most since that fateful night. Going back to Kings Landing, everyone in the Red Keep looking at her like some freak, a bastard that had only the title of Velaryon in name and by the colour of her eyes. Speaking of which, the revengeful eye of Prince Aemond was already assaulting her in her made, and she will see him for the first time since she took his eye.

She paced in her room silently, she had promised herself not to allow weakness in her heart anymore, she had even made in her mind what she would need to rectify, her flaws. Her facial scar was not a remediable one, she had mourned on that matter years ago. She had begun to learn politics, history, high Velaryan, hell, even the art of the sword to be able to actually play a role in the tensions of her family. But just like she knew by any mystic resolved Aemond had gone to seek Vhagar, the biggest dragon in the 7 Kingdom, she felt within her core that going back there, without a dragon would only make her miserable in her own eyes and to the courtiers of the Red Keep.

She realised how just changing her personality, doing better and working harder all this time kept as passive and led her to feel that fear in her heart. But she was at least sure of one thing that gave her an amount of considerable motivation, since that night she was sure things would never get better, doom was to unfold. She either had the choice to let it consume her, or to embrace it. And so she made her choice: she will fight. She wouldn’t stay mourning her youth days any longer, she hadn’t decided to learn the art of the sword for nothing.

She almost ran to her desk when found that new determination that filled her being. She needed a dragon, and she couldn’t wait for an egg to hatch. She took one of her favourite books on dragons, gifted by her mother when she was but a child and read fervently. The Dragonmont wasn’t far from the castle, on horseback she would be there in a few, and that is why she immediately thought that she could find dragons there as soon as she left that very day. Vermithor, Silverwing and Seasmoke currently resided on the mount, she had heard her Father say that Vermithor was stubborn, he had seen many battles with his dragon rider and stayed on the mount ever since his death. Seasmoke was calmer and more welcoming, it used to be her official father’s dragon, and he would probably recognise her immediately. Moreover, he was a good candidate: if she bonded with him, people would see this as the proof of her inheritance. But she knew it would be all lies. Silverwing was good as well she thought, it was less aggressive than Vermithor but more elusive than Seasmoke. She also read about the wild dragons, it was better to be fully prepared, the three mentioned before were maybe not planning on getting a rider ever again, having already been hurt by the past adventures… Sheapsteeler was the easiest to define, he had only been seen eating sheep, and he wasn’t even perceived as a menace. Grey Ghost was more complicated, he was rarely seen, and people even wondered if he existed. But the last one, she thought, the Cannibal was completely off the table. He fed on other dragons, dead or alive, and also on eggs and hatchlings. He was also reputed to be extremely violent around humans and hadn’t any remorse to kill.

When Visenya had discreetly exited her room, making sure not any servant as heard her, she made her way to the stable. In fact, the adrenaline was actually very infatuating to her and she apprehended and as well couldn’t wait to get past the dragon keeper. They were not the biggest challenge, this being obviously actually bonding with a dragon but they could as well just find her, take her back to the castle and demand punishment by the law. But if she succeeded, they wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on her, the bonding being much more important. So she knew she had one and only chance. She rode to Dragonmont, making sure she took the road by which she didn’t get caught by Dragon keepers or any knight, it was still bright outside and the sun shone but it couldn’t penetrate the coal rocks of Dragonmont. As Visenya faced the volcano, fear took hold of her heart, but she didn’t let it rule her, she embraced it. It was either a dragon now, or she might as well die.

The immensity of the volcano amazed her. Though the landscape was only dark rocks and vegetation, she admired the beauty of nature, taking in for a while the immensity and feeling it in her core. She still remains cautious, dragons do not like when unfamiliar people get close to their nest, even worse if it's a wild one. She came across the first cave, it wasn’t the biggest but definitely not the smallest either. Unfortunately, it was empty. The dragon may have gone to fetch food, she thought. She didn’t back down and kept on, getting higher in the mount as she walked.

But soon, an once of discouragement showed in her will. she was warned to never go to the mont alone, but never that going could be followed by not seeing any dragon. Her eyes darted over the landscape before her: grey rocks, black rocks, grey rocks, black rocks, grey rocks… Black egg?

She blinked more than a few times. She was sure of it it was an egg. It wasn’t still a dragon but it was an egg and she could even take it to Dragonstone to gift Joffrey, to her mother’s delight. She is amazed for a second, she had seen one before, but coming across one was a different experience for sure. Even though that’s not why she came to the mount, she still decides to inspect it, she gets closer, bending over slowly.

But the ground vibrated, the wind hurled and a roar pierced her ears as she tried to cover them. Visenya panicked and got to the ground in retreat before searching for the egg with her eyes. However, her throat went dry and her hands sweaty when she discovered with terror that the egg was crushed under mighty claws.

The darkness that unfolded before her eyes, the fury that assaulted her mind and the malevolent glare that almost made her heart stop, made her freeze. She didn’t move. She didn’t even shiver, not even dared to breathe as the Cannibal held her in his eyes. She was sure it was him: dark black scales and shining eyes like those were the characteristics of the beast. He didn’t stop growling, he didn’t even look at the crushed egg anymore and Visenya ignored the liquid and blood of the stillborn that was slowly staining her dress. This dragon ate his kin, eggs, and humans, without distinction. His long tongue went through the rest of the egg, the noise of fluids and meat accompanied the smell of death. Then he proceeded to open his mouth larger and larger…

“Kostā ossēnagon nyke lo jaelā! Nyke morghūljagon kesīr iā ossēntan ondoso tolie, yn gīmigon emilā ojūdan drēje vēdros!” - “You can kill me if you want! I die here or killed by others, but know you will have lost true fury !”

The Princess shouted in an unknown tremor of her body and heart, letting the void take over.

The Cannibal stopped and growled while considering her for a long while. He brought his head closer and closer…

Soooo chapter II!

I was so excited to write a bit about dragons and mostly the encounter with the Cannibal... Again, I hope that English speakers that will read won't find many mistakes (even though you definitely will). Either way, let me know if there is anything wrong.

I can't wait for you guys to see the next chapters, mostly when she'll be back in King's Landing!

Visenya is supposed to be a character with a defined personality, but I also hope for you to emphasize with her as I do. Plus, I wonder what publishing frequency would be nice, a chapter per week? I don't know.

Still learning how to use Tumblr too... :,)

Have a nice day <3

#aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #house of the dragon #hotd oc #visenya velaryon #team black #team green

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warrioreowynofrohan · 3 years ago

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Today in Tolkien - September 25th

Today gets two full chapters of Fellowship of the Ring: “A Short Cut to Mushrooms” and “A Conspiracy Unmasked.”

Sam is particularly affected by his conversation with the elves, and seems to have gained a perspective that will stay with him through the whole of the quest:

I don’t know how to say it, but after last night I feel different. I seem to see ahead, in a kind of way. I know we are going to take a very long road, into darkness; but I know I can’t turn back. It isn’t to see Elves now, nor dragons, nor mountains, that I want - I don’t rightly know what I want: but I have something to do before the end, and it lies ahead, not in the Shire. I must see it through, sir, if you understand me.

It seems as though Sam has had an almost Elvish glimpse of foresight; this memory comes back far later, at the very darkest parrt of the journey, when he thinks that Frodo is dead in Cirith Ungol:

And then he remembered his own voice speaking words that at the time he did not understand himself, at the beginning of their journey: I have something to do before the end. I must see it through, sir, if you understand.

…“What am I to do then?” he cried again, and now he seemed plainly to know the hard answer: see it through. Another lonely journey, and the worst.

And so he takes upon himself the Ring, and the quest to Mount Doom, and as a result prevents Sauron from getting it. The seeds of that pivotal moment are sown in this chance-meeting with elves.

Looking at the map of the Shire at the start of The Fellowship of the Ring, it seems like the hobbits’ ‘short cut’ today takes them south from near Woodhall to the upper parts of the Stockbrook; dowmstream along the Stockbrook a ways, and then south across it before it’s fully exited the forest of Woody End; then, accidentally, south (rather than west) through a part of Woody End. But I’m not sure about that; if it’s accurate, they spend a large part of the day getting quite turned around and heading south rather than east. But Farmer Maggot only lives about five miles from Bucklebury Ferry, so the hobbits must have managed to walk most of the way there, and by Frodo’s estimate it would have been 18 miles even without getting turned around.

At any rate, Frodo is probably prudent in deciding to stay off the road, as they have three more encounters (well, two sightings and one hearing) with Black Riders, to add to the two the previous day - one shortly after they start out, one in the afternoon when they are in the woods, and the one that they see from the far side of the Brandywine just after getting off Bucklebury Ferry.

This chapter (and the last one, with Gildor’s people) is a strong illustration of the importance Tolkien places on friendship and kindness and unexpected help. Not for Tolkien the ‘lone hero against the world’ story! (Indeed, those who insist on isolating themselves are almost always acting out of pride, and are almost always corrupted.) The hobbits only escape the Black Riders thanks to the aid first of the elves and later of Farmer Maggot, who drives them to the ferry; and Frodo and Sam would have been much worse off the later parts of their journey if Merry and Pippin hadn’t insisted on coming along. Later there’s Bombadil, and then Aragorn, and Glorfindel, and later Galadriel, and Treebeard, and Faramir. And while a few of these meetings - Glorfindel, who was spent specifically to seek them, and Lothlórien - are planned, most are not. Providence in Middle-earth seems to work in large part through ‘chance-meeting’, just as it did with Gandalf and Thorin immediately before the events of The Hobbit (recounted in “The Quest of Erebor” in Unfinished Tales). Even in the Silmarillion such chance-meetings have great importance, as between Finrod and the Beorings or Beren and Lúthien. They are quite clearly intended to be understood as more than mere chance.

And I love Merry’s statement on friendship when they insist on coming with Frodo:

You can trust us to stick to you through thick and thin - to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours - closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo.

I’ve read the books more times than I can count, and I still can’t decipher the meaning of Frodo’s dream at the end:

He seemed to looking out of a high window over a dark sea of tangled trees. Down below among the roots there was a sound of creatures crawling and snuffling. He felt sure they would smell him out sooner or later.

Then he heard a noise in the distance. At first he thought it was a great wind coming over the leaves of the forest. Then he knew that it was not leaves, but the sound of the Sea far-off; a sound he had never heard in waking life, though it had often troubled his dreams. Suddenly he found he was in the open. There were no trees after all. He was on a dark heath, and thete was a strange salt smell in the air. Looking up he saw before him a tall white tower, standing alone on a high ridge. A great desire cam over him to climb the tower and see the Sea. He started to struggle up the ridge towards the tower: but suddenly a light came into the sky, and there was a noise of thunder.

It’s possible that the first part of the dream is conveying Gandalf imprisoned in Orthanc. The second part, Frodo’s dream of climbing a tower and seeing the sea, may be related to where he will be three years hence, on his journey to the Grey Havens. This journey lasts from September 22nd to 29th, so by the they are likely west of the Shire by the 25th:

… going about the south skirts of the White Downs, they came to the Far Downs, and to the Towers, and looked on the distant Sea.

The Prologue to FOTR mentions that:

Three Elf-towers of immemorial age were still to be seen on the Tower Hills beyond the western marches. They shone far off in the moonlight. The tallest was furthest away, standing upon a green mound. The Hobbits of the Westfarthing said that one could see the Sea from the top of that tower; but no hobbit had ever been known to climb it.

#today in tolkien #tolkien #the lord of the rings #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #merry brandybuck #the silmarillion #the hobbit

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

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—𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒐;

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 15.2k+

summary: “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

warnings: swearing, violence, angst (?)

notes: So straight up: no John this chapter. But we are doing a lot of groundwork for plot and characters (hence why the chapter is so long because I’m getting it all out of the way in one, big sweep) cause covering just the movies would be boring anyway, and when have I ever made life easy for myself? So strap in, grab a snack, and enjoy this monster chapter!!

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | . . | 06 |

“It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” the priest reads loudly, his voice soaring over the pews of the dim church. “In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes upon them.”

You sit beside Avi, who nudges you when he notices your attention drifting, and you shoot him a quick glare. Tarasov’s hands are clasped together, his head bowed in deep prayer. His action is mirrored by everyone inside the church, and you bite back an amused laugh.

A man like him has a lot to repent for.

Especially for building his little safe house beneath this very church. A smart, but hardly original idea. Still, it keeps most people from sniffing around, and guarantees privacy considering that everyone—even the priest—is on Tarasov’s payroll here.

His call this morning came as a surprise. Apparently, after this little display of repentance, he plans on meeting with his brother to discuss some potential business deals with new blood from the West Coast.

Drugs, guns, money laundering, fraud, human trafficking. Everything and anything on the menu will likely be discussed.

Which explains his insistence for you to be here.

Tarasov always likes being prepared and asked you to come fully prepped in case talks go South. Your presence is also a good method of power posturing. Outsiders don’t need to know that your debt is almost repaid, meaning that your loyalty to Tarasov is flimsy at best. Still, it’s just like the man to try and squeeze whatever little use he could still get out of you.

The church door cracks open loudly, but people don’t so much as twitch, respectfully keeping their heads bowed.

Avi looks behind him at the sound of multiple footsteps echoing through the alcoves and you feel him go rigid beside you.

Even the priest falters in the middle of a verse, looking stricken as he stares at whoever just walked in.

Your head turns too and you feel yourself freeze.

Shit, shit, what is he doing?

The thought roars through your head as you stare at the approaching party. Santino’s eyes catch your own after a moment and his lips twitch upwards upon spotting you, pleased. His entire guard is with him, including Ares who stays loyally on his left, shadowing his every step. She looks less than thrilled to be here and you can understand why.

Tarasov stands to his feet, having paused his prayer in favour of checking what all the commotion is about, and exits his pew with deliberate slowness. Avi stands with him immediately, his left side covered, and you rise stiffly too. Your position is, ironically enough, that of Tarasov’s right hand ever since John’s departure—a fact that has never sat well with Avi due to your lack of iron-like loyalty which would be expected in such a position. Still, Tarasov has never changed his initial outlook of you outranking other members of his own guard, even if that knowledge has never brought you much joy.

“Ah, my apologies. We did not mean to interrupt the service,” Santino greets pleasantly, his cocky demeanour in full swing as he comes to a stop a few pews away. “We have simply come to…join you in prayer.”

You almost groan.

What is he doing?

Despite your efforts to subtly catch his notice, he looks only at Tarasov who seems to loom as he stands beside you unmoving.

“Didn’t take you for the praying type, D’Antonio.”

His voice is neutral, but you sense the danger there. People still sitting in the pews shift uncomfortably, wondering if the tension scale is about to tip in favour of bloodshed, and you find yourself wondering that too.

You’re more than armed. Tarasov would expect you to do your duty if it came down to a fight. But the idea of watching your poison eating away at a collection of mostly familiar faces makes you feel queasy.

“On the contrary, when I was a little boy, our family attended mass every Sunday morning without fail,” Santino says conversationally, his hands clasped in front of him as he sways slightly from side to side with a friendly curve of his mouth. Like two friends sharing a pleasant conversation. “Perhaps, that is why I like churches so much. Their walls are so full of secrets.”

His green eyes slide slowly, deliberately, around the space and you tense.

“Everyone, get out,” Tarasov informs in calm Russian and the people inside the pews scramble as fast as they can, not daring to look back.

Avi rests his hand on his gun, smiling faintly, and Tarasov’s guards that were previously scattered around the large space come to stand behind their boss.

You don’t move. Ares’ eyes flicker to you for a second but you find no answers in her expression. She seems calm though, unworried, and it eases your mind if only a little. Surely, she—Santino’s most loyal without a fail—would not allow him to come here and do something stupid. But it certainly doesn’t explain his idiotic egging technique. As if Viggo Tarasov is a man to be played with.

“I’ve heard you’ve come back to my city,” Tarasov finally speaks after a lengthy, tense silence between both parties. “But that fails to explain as to why you are here. Uninvited.”

Which is an insult and a provocation.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep your expression straight as you listen to their exchange, but you also know better than to interfere with a conversation between two leaders at the peak of their power.

Santino chuckles as if he’s just heard the funniest joke. “Your city?” he repeats, amused. “Ah, and here I thought that your city is Moscow.”

Tarasov does not share in his amusement. “That would make Naples yours.”

Santino’s friendly smile dips, practically disappearing and his eyes go from friendly to cold in a blink. “Indeed it would,” he muses, unblinking, but then his smile makes a comeback even though it’s smaller this time, sharper. “Bravo, bravo. So it seems to me like we are both a long way from home, no? Which would make all of us, here, what exactly? Tourists?”

He chuckles, the rich sound bouncing through the otherwise empty space, but no one else joins in. Both sides are too tense, too ready for violence to see much humour in this situation.

“As for the why,” Santino continues smoothly. “I’m afraid that I’ve found myself in a rather irritating little situation that requires the expertise of your poison master.”

Then, finally, since first walking into the church, Santino’s eyes find yours.

You make sure that he can clearly see your anger and disapproval.

The man has enough gall to actually wink at you.

Tarasov shifts, and you can hear his mounting irritation when he speaks next, “Poison master? Pretty title for a snake.”

Santino’s head tilts slightly to one side, and he observes Tarasov through narrowed eyes, his faint smile fixed in place.

“The deadliest kind, yes.”

“And this couldn’t have been handled over a simple phone call, I assume?” Tarasov wonders, his words rough with controlled anger. “No, instead you come here, into my territory, on a holy day no less and expect what? For me to shake hands with you? Your father is barely cool in his grave and you come into my kingdom, posturing like I’m supposed to be impressed. As far as I’m concerned you are nothing more than Giovanni’s heir. Not his only one, either. Or even his favourite. Which makes you…a nobody, really.”

Ares steps forward, a faint snarl twisting her upper lip, but Santino puts out his arm, freezing her in her tracks. The woman still glares daggers at Tarasov, her eyes narrowed and expression hard.

Tarasov’s booming laughter tears through the church, but you don’t pay him any attention. You’re silently trying to capture either Ares’ or Santino’s eyes to indicate to them that they should leave now.

“Fiery little thing,” the Russian comments with another deep chuckle before turning to face you. “Reminds me of you, little viper. Back when I first found you. You have mellowed out over the years though. A real shame. Took after John, didn’t you?”

It’s a provocation and Santino is not smiling anymore.

The next few seconds crawl by in another tense silence between everyone.

You say nothing.

“That nobody,” Santino finally breaks the stillness, his voice gentle—forcefully so. Chaos rages in his eyes when he speaks though. “May very soon be the new Camorra family head, and have a seat at the High Table. A rather unfortunate enemy to have, no?”

Tarasov says nothing to that.

Santino may be a “nobody” in his eyes now, but he’s right. If his father left him the seat…

He would outrank almost every person in this city, and then some.

“Now, shall we discuss business? Or will you try to undermine me some more, hm?” the Italian questions lightly, his easy charm back, and previous cold fury forgotten. Still, you know that Tarasov’s words would have cut deep. Under different circumstances, you might have felt some semblance of remorse, but he came here knowing full well what kind of reception he will likely receive. “I am, unfortunately, rather pressed for time.”

“What kind of job?”

Tarasov’s anger deepens his accent and you shift, trying to hide your unease.

“Oh, nothing too difficult,” Santino explains, waving his arm a little, dismissive. “A bit of murder, a bit of poison, that kind of thing. Might take her off your hands for a week or two though—”

“Two million.”

The church goes so silent you could hear yourself—and others—breathe.

It’s a well-known secret that Tarasov always overcharges Santino for your services. He didn’t at first, but when Santino’s interest in you became clear, Tarasov saw a prime opportunity to cash in. But even all those times in the past pale in comparison to this.

From everyone inside the church, Santino is the only one who doesn’t have a strong reaction to Tarasov’s demand. His lips press shut lightly, and a glimmer of a smile comes back as he regards the Russian curiously.

“Deal.”

He says it so easily, so calmly, you only blink. Even Ares looks surprised though she masks it quickly.

Tarasov, clearly, did not expect such an easy agreement, either.

“You get her for one week,” he informs, though sounds reluctant to do so. But he was the one to set the terms and the other party agreed to them. He has no choice but to follow through unless he’s purposely looking for a fight. Or is an idiot for refusing that amount of money for one job. “Any overtime and I’ll charge per hour.”

“Meraviglioso,” Santino calls out with a wide smile, he extends his hand your way, his overcoat pulling back slightly. “Shall we?”

Swallowing, you step forward, feeling confident you can do so without Tarasov dragging you back to his side. Your every step is stiff but you hold Santino’s gaze the entire time.

Coming to a stop before him, you frown deeply, and drop your gaze, choosing to walk past him. The guards who know you well by now part like the Red Sea and you step past them without a glance, heading towards the exit.

What you’ve just done is an insult. Not taking a boss’s or heir’s offered hand is punishable in every major crime family you know. Ones that follow the old code at least. In some places, such a blatant show of dismissing one’s authority would even get you a bullet in the head—and that’s the best-case scenario; a quick, clean death.

But it’s more about not giving Tarasov any more ammunition against you. He already knows far too much about you and Santino; a fact that sits like a sickly weight in your stomach. Santino being willing to throw 2 million away simply to have your service is also too telling. But then again, when has he ever played by the rules? Or been subtle?

That brilliant idiot.

“Ah, women, such fine but complicated creatures,” you hear his voice cut through the pews with a warm chuckle. “My father used to say that a wise man will always admit that his woman knows better than he does. Tell me, do you agree?”

Tarasov is silent, and you’re not sure if he replies because the church door is right in front of you and you shove it with enough anger in you to make it fly open.

The New York air is crisp today with heavy, rolling clouds overcasting the sky. It looks like it will rain again. But you don’t want to think about that because it makes you remember the funeral. It makes you think about John and how he’s possibly holding up.

Shaking your head to lose the thought, you come closer towards the collection of large, expensive cars you know are Santino’s and the three guards outside look up at you in surprise.

It doesn’t take long for the door behind you to creak open again but you don’t turn to face him.

Because angry is a little bit of an understatement right now.

Your back is a tense coil of muscles and you shift in discomfort at the thought of all those people behind you.

A hesitant, slow hand lands on your shoulder after a moment and your head snaps to the side. Ares winks at you in greeting, her arm snaking around your shoulder blades when she knows that you’re comfortable it’s her and not some stranger touching you.

“Always one to have the last word, hm? Or is it last action?” Santino wonders out loud before his figure appears in your line of sight, turning to face you both. “A bold little display back there, cara mia.”

“Inside,” is your tight whisper.

Santino’s expression smoothens but his eyes still flicker over the churchyard with dismayed understanding, and he nods his head.

Ares gives you a tight squeeze and you turn to face her.

Go easy on him, she signs discreetly but you ignore her.

Much to your surprise, she goes to the front, allowing you both privacy in the back.

As always, Santino is a picture of elegance as he sits facing you, drumming his fingers against his leg. In such a small space, you can smell his cologne and don’t bother masking your irritation.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you explode the moment the car starts moving, and no matter how hard you try to sound controlled only an idiot would miss your clear annoyance. “Coming to Tarasov like that? That was pretty damn stupid of you, Santino. You’re lucky you didn’t start something worse with this little stunt. I mean did you even think about the position you put me in? What if it came to a fight? I would have had to—”

Your voice breaks off, and he looks caught off guard by your deluge of words.

“Bella,” he broaches, delicate but surprised, too. “I did it for you. That tyrant is holding you in a standstill to prolong your service to him. I simply forced his hand. But I am also in a need of you and your skills. Two birds, one stone, cara mia.”

“I’m flattered,” you shoot back dryly, crossing your arms over your chest as you slump backwards. “You really thought this through.”

Santino practically pouts at you. “Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me for my foolishness?”

“No, that was stupid.”

“Ah, you blinked.”

“People do that Santino.”

“And now you are smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“No, no,” he laughs, pointing at you with a smug expression as he tuts. “That, is most certainly a smile, cara mia.”

You groan under your breath, turning away from him, but he remains smug for the entire length of the journey. Which just shows how useless your attempt to stay mad at him really is.

Once, out of curiosity, you asked Santino how much his New York penthouse cost.

Without batting an eye, he told you 30 million.

Your first—and looking back on it, unwise—reaction was to call him a rich idiot. The man looked so taken aback by your blunt words that, at first, he said nothing.

Then, he laughed till his shoulders shook from the force of it.

Not exactly a reaction you expected given that most rich, powerful men can’t stand even the slightest criticism of their wealth. But having come from close to nothing, money has always been an abstract concept to you. Such an amount back then sounded ludicrous to you, but by now you have witnessed deals go down amounting to two, three times that number.

Sometimes though, you look back on that moment as the first time you saw anything even remotely genuine about the man so many fear and hate.

“So, as you can no doubt appreciate, I need him alive,” Santino talks as he moves around the large lounge area leisurely. His dark navy suit jacket is off, and his hands are buried deep inside his pockets as he continues on his little path, occasionally lifting his eyes to you. “For now, of course. Which is where you come in, bella. He wasn’t working alone and I need to know the names of the dogs who helped him.”

“I’m sure you can find plenty of fun ways to get that information out of him without me,” you tell him offhandedly, inspecting one of your blades. “Why did you throw 2 million at Tarasov again? To show him you have some spare pocket change?”

Ares’ shoulders shake in silent laughter as she observes the exchange, her feet propped on the expensive coffee table despite Santino’s earlier—“feet off the table”—as she cleans her gun.

The man in question pauses, shooting you an unamused look and you shrug. He deserves a bit of attitude after his earlier stunt. Him and his intent need to show off are going to give you a permanent migraine one day.

“So,” you start, eager to recap and get everything in order. “That little hiccup a few days ago was a shipment to Brazil going missing, then? An inside job that cost you a pretty penny. Also too big of an operation for only one person to handle. This guy you caught says he knows where the shipment is, so you need him alive to find it and also learn who else was helping him. What about the people waiting on the other side? Any troubles?”

“None, for now,” he informs, though doesn’t hide the annoyance in his voice. “But they are getting irritatingly persistent for updates. The one we caught is being brought to us from the Mexico border. He thought he could run from me. Sciocco.”

Balancing the blade on your index finger, you hum thoughtfully. “Motive?”

Santino rolls his eyes, and reaches for his tie, loosening the silky material slightly. “The same as always, bella. Greed.”

“Clearly,” you deadpan, flipping the blade and catching it in your hand as you lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs. “But no other motivation that you know of? You don’t exactly lack enemies.”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking, before he sighs and sits down on the plush chair, completing your council triangle. He reaches for a glass of half-finished scotch on the table, taking a large gulp and rubs his temple for a moment. Ares’ eyes move to you momentarily and you see her worry.

Santino looks more exhausted than usual, his earlier bravado muted, and you know he only shows it because his most trusted are in the room right now. He hates showing weakness in any capacity, you know that well enough, so this must be weighing heavier on his mind than you first assumed.

“Right you are, cara mia,” he mutters, and you don’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. “Right you are. But I’m afraid that I do not know.”

“Look,” you say firmly, and his eyes meet yours, weary. “Give me two minutes with him. He’ll tell you everything you want to know. If he does know anything, that information is as good as yours. When are we expecting him anyway?”

Ares catches your attention and your eyes swing to her.

Tomorrow morning, she signs and you can tell that she’s personally looking forward to that meeting.

“Then there’s no point in us sitting here and wondering about it,” you say firmly, giving Santino a pointed look. “You have people out looking. Relax for the rest of the evening. We’ll have answers tomorrow.”

I should secure us a location, Ares adds, already rising from her spot and gives you a slight, knowing nod; a silent moment just between you two. Truthfully, you’ve always appreciated your easy understanding of each other, and the man you both work for.

Santino nods in agreement too, briefly looking up at her. Appreciate it.

Ares leaves without another word and you watch Santino silently.

It’s an odd reversal of situations. Usually, you’re the misbalanced one, constantly clawing for some semblance of security; both emotional and physical.

But Santino is a businessman before all else, and this is a failed deal—an embarrassment to his otherwise spotless reputation. You’ve seen firsthand the depth of his ambition, his drive to reshape things in his favour. His raw desire for power and success. He works for it constantly; focused and driven. Often cruel, and even vicious.

But despite what he may say, you know he’s not as unaffected by his father’s death as he may try to convince the world he is. You don’t strive for someone’s approval, their love, for years without holding love for them in your heart.

The uncertainty of his own future must be hanging around his throat like a noose. It’s a feeling familiar to you.

“Still angry, amore?” he wonders idly, disturbing the tranquil silence between you, and tips his glass from side to side.

The amber liquid glows due to the fireplace casting light on it, and you shake your head slightly.

“No.”

“Oh?” he voices in amusement, his accent a purr, and his eyes lift to you. “That would be a first.”

A slight smile curves his lips and you chuckle too, nodding in exasperated agreement.

“You should get some rest,” you whisper after another minute of quiet, your eyebrows furrowing. “Long day tomorrow.”

“On the contrary,” he replies, and there’s something sharp in his voice as he takes another swing of his drink. “I feel in a mood for a swim. Care to join me?”

You stare at him for a heartbeat. Shaking your head, you smile faintly and stand to your feet, moving past him. You pat his shoulder when you stop beside him, and he turns to stare up at you.

“I should get going.”

He places his hand on top of yours immediately, stilling you. “Before dinner? I was just about to order.”

Hesitating, you look at him for a few seconds before carefully pulling your hand from under his. It drops like a heavy weight and he breaks the eye contact.

“I have a table booked at the Continental,” you explain, but it feels forced. “And I think Winston mentioned something about brandy later.”

Santino places his glass on the table, standing to his feet, and you meet his stare reluctantly. He moves closer one slow step at the time, and you fight to keep your expression straight.

“Or you could stay here,” he suggests, his tone and expression saying a thousand things all at once. “You know my home is always open to you, cara mia.”

“I do. But I can’t stay.”

“Ah, now why is that?”

There are a great number of things you can tell him. That it’s not right, that you’re just friends, that Tarasov might find out, that it took you two years of working with him before you were even given permission to carry weapons in his home. That every moment you’re not carefully watching yourself, your mind slips back to John.

That this is dangerous. For both of you.

That he is dangerous to you but not in the way he is to everyone else.

“You know why,” you tell him instead, your voice hushed. His still crooked tie catches your attention, and as if on automatic your hands reach forward, fixing it for him. “Because I think that it means something different to you.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, (Name).”

His voice is barely a shallow whisper as his fingertips delicately ghost over the silver chain around your neck. You stare at his tie for a hard moment before pressing your lips together, and quickly glance up at him. Your hands drop away when you register his expression and you avoid his heated stare.

“Don’t lie,” you breathe with a slight shake of your head and give him a meaningful look. “It always means something with you, Santino.”

His eyes roam over your features like he’s looking for something important—vital—to him. “I do wonder how long it will be before you let me in. Before you realise that I am not like him—that I will never abandon you.”

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

“Please, don’t,” you plead, and somehow sound weaker than you have in years. This is not an exchange you are ready for or wish to have right now. So instead, you try to divert the conversation. “I mean, maybe I don’t even like you.”

He grins; a wide, lazy thing that shows off his dimples and brings back that familiar gleam in his green eyes.

“Oh, amore,” he purrs, knowing and sly. “I have seen you with people you do not like. I know there is more than simple indifference here. But, what I said the other night still stands. I’ll wait.”

He leans closer, and your breath hitches in your lungs when you feel his warm breath fan over your ear. He inhales deeply, humming, his fingers coming to lightly rest on your hip for a moment.

“But one day, we will have this conversation,” he promises you softly, and the steel in his voice tells you that his conviction will hold no matter what. “And I will not let you run away from your feelings anymore.”

He pulls back, his half-lidded stare pure fire, and smiles faintly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, cara mia. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Halt.”

Your eyebrows rise but you do as you’re told.

The man in front of you is unfamiliar and you regard him with open curiosity. Much like all of Santino’s guard—with exception of Ares—he’s a 6’0 muscular giant. His neat suit seems to creak at the seams as he moves closer towards you. His reaches for you, but you swipe across his hand with a concealed blade, frowning.

The man jumps back as if you’ve shot him, clutching at his bleeding palm.

“That’s a warning scratch, next one will be your throat,” you inform him calmly, watching him fumble for his gun.

“Flavio!” a deep voice calls, anxious and loud. “What are you doing? Lower your weapon!”

“Roberto,” you greet with a slight nod, casting a look at Flavio who does as he’s told but continues glaring at you. “Whose the new blood?”

The older man looks apologetic as he approaches you. From all of the guard, he’s the most bearable one. Not that you’ve ever purposely mentioned names in hopes that Santino will bring your favourites along. Of course not.

“My apologies about that. We had to have him called in at the last second,” he explains with a pointed look at the other man, gesturing for you to come along. “He was not informed you were coming. Boss is inside waiting for you. You’re running late. He’s displeased.”

Glancing at Flavio, you wiggle your fingers at him playfully before walking into a seemingly abandoned industrial warehouse. “Santino is always displeased about something. I’m sorry but I don’t control New York traffic. Once I do I’ll be sure to inform him of it.”

Roberto coughs into his hand, trying to mask his smile as he walks beside you.

“If Flavio has insulted you in any way I will have to inform boss—”

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, giving the man a knowing look. “He’s new. I rather not ruin this opportunity for him before his first day is even over.”

Because it’s a well know fact that Santino culls his guard ruthlessly till only the best remain in his employment.

“—I will not ask again,” the devil himself speaks in the distance, his voice calm, almost amiable. “Tell me their names. Tell me where my property is, and you will live to see another sunrise.”

“Get fucked,” a distinctly Scottish voice spits back immediately, his words gurgled as if he’s speaking through a mouthful of blood. “I ain’t scared of you, Italian scum.”

“Famous last words,” you call out, stepping into the vast hanger. The guards relax upon spotting you and Roberto while Ares only winks in greeting. “And not very creative ones, either.”

Santino straightens, adjusting his black overcoat and a grin splits his previously stony expression.

“Ah, just the woman I was hoping to see,” he speaks pleasantly, extending his hand in your direction. You walk up to him, placing your hand in his and he lays the customary greeting kiss across your knuckles. “Now, the real fun can really begin, no?”

You reach inside your pocket, pulling out a thin vial with light blue liquid inside. Your eyes sweep over the guard and you frown, realising who the new fish is replacing. “Whatever happened to Mario?”

“His wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl,” Santino responds with a little quirk of his mouth that only widens when he notes your own delighted expression. “Birth of your first child is a special occasion. I allowed him to fly back to Rome.”

“That’s nice,” you say with a faint smile. “If he checks in tell him congratulations from me.”

Before Santino can reply the man tied to the chair cuts in. “If you think I’m gonna talk, you’re wrong. The arrival of this dumb cunt ain’t changing that.”

Santino’s expression flickers; his slight, playful smile fading as he continues gazing at you seriously. Ares shakes her head with an amused little smile as if she’s one of the few to understand the magnitude of the mistake just made.

“Well,” the man in front of you begins, his voice low as he turns to face the prisoner. Santino’s head tilts to one side as he examines him with faint but open disgust. The man already has a split lip and a swelling eye which explains his inability to speak clearly. “I can’t say that I am a man fond of such disgusting shows of disrespect.”

Already knowing where this is heading, you slide the vial back into your pocket, and cross your arms over your chest, staring. Trying to stop Santino now would be useless anyway. He’s a man of principle, and you’ve long since learned when to pick your battles with him.

The Italian hums lightly, tutting like he’s talking with a petulant child as he approaches the man, bending closer so he can look him in the eyes. “In fact, I believe a lesson in manners is in order,” he decides, turning to one of his guards. “Break his left kneecap.”

The guard does so without hesitation, and the man screams, drowning out the sound of cracking bones.

“Ah, ah, focus Mr Murphy, focus,” Santino chides, grabbing the still struggling man by the face so he can look him in the eye again. “You do not talk about her like that, is that understood?”

His voice is like velvet but Murphy only glares at him, attempting to gather blood and saliva in his mouth in order to spit. Santino anticipates this, letting go of the man as he sidesteps him. He glances down at his now bloodied fingers with vague disgust and Roberto offers him a clean serviette.

“Oh, Mr Murphy there is no need for such disgusting acts,” the Italian berates, wiping his hand, and watches the panting man with pitiless disinterest. “This pain will pass. Your bones, too, will heal. But manners? Ah, those are forever. Now shall we return to business or do you need another moment to catch your breath?”

“Fuck you,” Murphy mumbles, but his smile is cutting, arrogant. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, don’t you? With your fancy guards and suits. Why I bet you think you’re the king of the whole fuckin’ world, don’t you? Did you really think no one was going to figure it out, huh? What you and that snake did in Chicago?”

Murphy laughs; a twisted, crackling sound as his bloodied teeth shine in the light.

Santino pauses, looking taken aback and you step closer till you’re both side by side, staring at the tied man with a scowl. “What are you talking about?”

“You dumb bastard,” Murphy continues as if he hasn’t heard you, shaking his head as he continues grinning; an awful, bloody thing that twists his mouth into a sneer. “You really did think you got away with it. But nah, we were always going to find you out. And now you’re both exactly where we want you to be.”

You react with the gunshot.

Your body slams into Santino’s, the impact of the bullet hitting you in the back as you both fall to the floor. A sound like an explosion shakes the foundation of the warehouse, and you twist to the side, shooting the assailant who rushes through the doorway you walked through with Roberto only minutes prior.

On the opposite side of the warehouse what appears to be a military plated van has smashed through the closed shutter door, and you glare at the people in black gear that pour out of it.

People are coming from both sides, leaving you outnumbered one to three; and that’s your best case calculation.

Santino’s fingers latch onto your wrist, pulling you back with him, and you pause in your shooting to check on him. Before any words can be exchanged, you shove him towards one of the few crates littering the hanger, watching a shot miss him by inches. Two seconds later the one responsible for the shot collapses on the floor, a silver blade no bigger than a nail file sticking out of his throat.

Ares finally manages to shoot her way through to you, and collapses on Santino’s other side, checking him. You reload in a handful of seconds, shooting another three men before they can reach your spot, and quickly survey the area.

Four of your men are dead already and you calculate it’s been a minute and a half at best since the assault began.

“Shit.”

Your turn to Ares, half-covering Santino as you catch her notice.

Get him out of here, you sign hurriedly before taking another few shots over the crate. Two men fall to the floor with subdued groans. Hopefully their last. Take the east exit. Fewer windows. Give me five minutes to deal with this.

“No,” Santino snaps, glaring. Not without you, his stormy expression seems to say.

You don’t have time for his tantrums now.

“You stay here and you die,” you bite out harshly, jerking him lower by the shoulder as something that sounds suspiciously like a goddamn machine gun joins the symphony of bullets overhead. “Get out of here, and the guard. We need these men alive and I have just the thing for it. Go!”

He glares at you but Ares puts her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and he follows willingly. You nod at her and you both count together before you rise and open fire, giving them both a small window to get closer to the East exit.

Most of Santino’s remaining guard is already there—a standard procedure that they’ve been trained for, for months—and you roll across the floor to avoid bullets, snarling low in your throat as one of the men on the opposing side grabs you.

His mistake is leaving your arms open and you wrap them behind you, kicking the larger figure in the ankle brutally. His weight sags, and you twist his head sharply to the side, his neck snapping like nothing more than a dry twig.

His body falls with a heavy thud but you feel nothing. He made the mistake of trying to kill you and that’s on him.

You dive behind the crate and glare at the small cluster that remains of your party. “Which part of ‘get out’ did you all not understand?”

“We don’t take orders from you, nor do we run,” one of the guard’s snaps. “It is not the Camorra way.”

The man falls quiet as the crate gets rained on by more bullets, and your eyes find Santino’s, staring at him with an annoyed, pointed purse of your lips. He glares at you too but after a moment his expression relaxes somewhat.

“Do as she tells you,” he states, reluctant and displeased, but the guards’ pause. “We are leaving.”

You reach behind you, pulling out a vial from a special pouch that you’ve had custom made years ago. Made especially for you to securely carry your solutions in without the worry of smashing any of the vials.

Removing one of the many thin, custom-made gas canisters you carry sewed into your clothes, you slot the vial inside. The guards continue offering cover fire and you work quickly, shaking the canister harshly. The liquid reacts to the gas inside, losing its mass as it transforms.

“On my signal, get the hell out,” you speak loudly, directing your words at Santino and Ares. “Don’t look back or pause no matter what.”

His glare drills into you, hard, but he still nods his head.

From the original guard, only three remain and you’re happy to see that Roberto is one of them. You lock eyes with Ares and jerk your chin; a sign for her to get ready. She reloads smoothly and her hand rests protectively on Santino’s shoulder. She nods, just once, her expression drawn.

You tighten your fingers firmly around the canister and a clear crack inside pops through the air. Inhaling, you immediately throw the canister over your shoulder, listening for the telltale sound of it hitting the floor. It does after another few seconds, nothing but a tiny ping against the deafening sound of bullets and you jerk your head towards Ares.

“Now.”

You rise over the damaged crate, opening fire and hear the party next to you hurry along. Two bullets hit you; one in the shoulder and one in the side, making you wince in pain but the bullets fall away harmlessly. Oh, the wonders of custom made, bulletproof clothing. It will bruise an ugly purple, you know that, but better than be bleeding out from three bullet holes.

A few seconds later, you collapse down, your magazine empty and find everyone has managed to make it to the exit without problems.

Reclining back, you check your watch, resuming your mental count as you reload unhurriedly. Straining your ears, you listen to the familiar sound of hissing poison fill the warehouse.

15 seconds and confused, pained shouts start replacing gunshots.

30 seconds and bodies start collapsing; the last few, disorientated shots sailing completely off the mark.

45 seconds and the only sound drifting through the air is the last dispersing gas and groans of pain.

45 seconds? Still too slow.

Frowning, you rise to your feet, your gun still raised defensively.

Most people fail to understand that poison is—by its very nature—rather easy. Given the right materials, anyone can do it. Being able to properly weaponise it and find ways to use it to such a widespread effect without being effected yourself, is where the real art—the raw difficulty—of being a poisoner lays.

The men that are still alive—you count ten that are still twitching—lay prone on the floor, breathing in more faint mist that has paralysed their bodies and continues spreading steadily.

At that moment, you are a Reaper standing in the field of half-dead, and it would be so easy to finish them off.

Cutting through the hanger, you slowly approach Murphy who—unlike his little friends—is still conscious. He has maybe ten seconds before he, too, is paralysed completely. It will fade. Eventually. But you doubt Santino will allow any of these men to survive past getting information out of them.

Such a direct attack on his life in broad daylight is—

Murphy’s dark eyes roll and he tries to glare at you.

Swiping a blade from under your jacket, you sink it into his left thigh—right above his smashed kneecap, and the man howls.

“Wakey, wakey,” you call, your voice dull, irritated. “We’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

“B-Bitch,” he slurs, and you release the blade before placing your palm on the top of the hilt, pushing deeper; and then all the way to the bone. Murphy cries out again, trashing clumsily. “I—I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

“Trust me, you won’t have much of a choice in that,” you inform him with mock cheer, and release the pressure on the blade, taking out your initial delivery to Santino. You shake the tiny vial with blue-tinged liquid in front of his face. “This is going to make you sing like a little bird.”

Grabbing his face, you jerk his chin up, forcing the liquid into his mouth. “You try to spit this out and the blade currently inside your leg is going to be the least of your worries. Yeah, that’s right that one right next to your artery, buddy. Do you think this hurts? You don’t know pain, not yet.”

Murphy swallows. Whether because he believes you or because he knows enough about you—clearly if he’s aware of Chicago, he knows you well enough—he doesn’t try to fight back.

You smile faintly and pat his cheek with a patronising smile. “Good boy.”

With one last cold smile, you head towards the Eastern exit, knowing full well that no one still alive in this room is going to be going anywhere for a long time yet.

You cut across the street, pausing in front of a closed building door, whistling a little tune. The sound slices through the fresh air and you smile slightly when Ares opens the door, her eyes sweeping across the street before she grins at you.

It’s a signal you agreed a long time ago. To whistle a little tune before you walk into a secure building to avoid getting accidentally shot by the very people you’re trying to keep protected.

Finally, she signs with an exasperated roll of her eyes. He is starting to become grumpy.

“I’m sure,” you begin, checking your watch. “That a whole eight minutes is far too long for his majesty to wait. My bad.”

You both share an amused grin before heading inside.

You find Santino on the phone and pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “I do not care about your incompetence,” he snaps in angry Italian, and his curls fall into his eyes when he pivots angrily to one side on his heels. An old habit of taking out his frustration by running his fingers through his hair. “You will get me more—I will call you back.”

His eyes catch the sight of you, and he hangs up without waiting for a reply. His legs carry him to you in a few strides and he glares.

“Foolish woman,” he mutters with a fixed frown, still speaking in Italian, but it lacks bite. His frown only deepens when he spots the bullet indents in your jacket. “Do you enjoy playing with your life, hm?”

You grin, wide and innocent. “Well I associate myself with you, don’t I? Same thing.”

His expression falters and he closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply. Mentally, you know he’s asking for all the patron saints to give him strength. You have often done the same thing over the years due to his actions.

“They’re all yours,” you report, your smile sliding off your face. “You have an hour till they can talk. Murphy is ready for a nice, long chat now though. It will be roughly another three before they start regaining mobility, so I suggest you deal with them before then.”

“They know about Chicago,” Santino points out quietly, his gaze guarded. Ares shifts. From the remaining guard, she’s the only one who knows what happened there—parts of it, at least. “I intend to find out how.”

You don’t say anything, but the long look you share is telling enough.

“If there’s more to this,” you start frankly, though you already know this conversation will not go down well. “I will need to inform Winston.”

Santino’s chin tilts upwards, displeasure twisting his expression immediately, and he glances at Ares, jerking his head to one side. She nods in understanding, snapping her fingers at the remaining guards.

We are going to collect the prisoners, she signs and you gesture for her to cover her face. She knows to do so by now—as well as time limitations of your poisons—but a reminder can’t hurt.

The room clears out, leaving you two alone.

“Do not go to Winston, cara mia,” Santino speaks bluntly and your eyes narrow. “You know what will happen when you do. We broke his precious rules. He will punish you. We can handle this on our own.”

“He will not punish me,” you argue, and continue on despite his small, disbelieving scoff. “The situation escalated but it’s been years—”

“He will inform those who have the power to punish you, then,” he rebukes and gives you a long, searching look. “You know I’m right.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Let’s not stand here and pretend like this isn’t about protecting your own self-interests, Santino.”

“Oh, certainly,” he shoots back easily, and reaches forward, swiping his thumb just above your brow, his touch gentle. “Which just so happens to include you too. So let me handle this for now, yes?”

He stares at the speck of blood on his finger and smiles that devilish, sly smile. “As you are so fond of saying. I will make them sing.”

“Indonesian Green Erla,” the Doc shows you, carefully taking the plant out of its container. He clips one leaf off, offering it to you for inspection. “It took me a while to hunt down a mature tree. They are hard to come by.”

You raise the leaf to your nose, inhaling deeply, and then proceed to place it against your tongue. The taste is even more bitter than you’re used to and your eyebrows rise, impressed.

“I appreciate it,” you say with a nod, placing two golden coins in front of him. More than the entire order cost but you don’t mind overpaying him. He always finds you ingredients of the highest quality. It was an accidental partnership that was born years ago when you both realised you had a shared interest in rare plants and ingredients.

Him, for medicine—mostly his own private studies.

You, for poison—less private studies and more an attempt to refine your craft.

While the Doctor and you do not see eye-to-eye when it comes to the usage of these rare plants, you both find a great deal of use in swapping notes and researching together. His insight has been incredible, and you drop by his private clinic often. Both to collect any outstanding orders but also to swap notes and have some tea together.

No one makes better Jasmine tea in all of New York City.

Your senses prickle suddenly and you straighten, glancing towards the window outside. Nothing.

Twilight has fallen but other than that the back street is quiet.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, glancing over his shoulder.

Still nothing.

“No,” you state slowly, frowning. “Just wondering if perhaps you have a rodent problem.”

The Doctor looks affronted at first but it takes a split second for understanding to dawn across his weathered features.

“I will have to look into it,” he says, shifting wearily. “This city is overrun.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you hum under your breath. “I will take a quarter of it. Is it okay if I come back for the rest another time? You still need to finish your story by the way.”

The older man chuckles and secures a portion of the plant for you. “Most certainly,” he tells you, a knowing gleam in his eyes as he places it in your hand. “You are always welcome at my clinic. As long as you don’t bring any trouble with you, that is,” he adds, giving you a pointed look and you nod in understanding.

Bowing your head in respect, you tell him a quick goodbye and exit his clinic.

Your phone buzzes the moment you’re back in the fresh air and you pull it out.

Something has come up. I will speak with you in a few days.—Santi

Frowning, you immediately text him back. Is everything okay?

For Santino to text instead of calling—“I like hearing your voice much better.”—it would have to be something truly important. Worry gnaws at your bones as you cut through New York streets and back towards the Continental. Is it something to do with the earlier attack?

Your phone buzzes again. Yes, it reads and you can almost hear his devious voice in your head. I have my men looking for the shipment already. But I need to fly back to Rome. Family related.—Santi

And immediately after, another sharp buzz. I like it when you worry about me, cara mia. :)

Rolling your eyes, you text back. Don’t get carried away. It would be inconvenient if you died now. Also, you would make an ugly corpse.

You turn towards an alleyway, a faint smile lingering across your face as you wait for a reply.

An indistinct shuffle…

You slip the phone back into your pocket.

Smile wider as your back muscles tense.

A slight breeze.

The concealed blade in your sleeve hits the man right in the shoulder, sinking deep and he yelps, collapsing against the dingy alleyway wall. You’re on him immediately, kicking him in the chest and he slams against the wall again, baring his throat to you which is an opening you use to place another sharpened blade against the fragile skin.

Your free hand latches onto the blade already stuck in his shoulder and you glare at the dirty face before you.

“You have twenty seconds,” you snarl at him, sinking the blade deeper and he lets out a small, pained sob. “Why are you following me? Who sent you?”

“The—The Bowery King—”

You falter in surprise before your features harden. “Why?”

“He—please don’t kill me—” he whimpers and you press the blade in deeper, not in the mood for snivelling. If you wanted him dead, he would be. “He demands an audience!”

“Demands?” you echo coldly. “No one demands anything of me. Be sure to tell him that.”

Face twisting in disgust, you rip the blade out and take a step back, watching the man press his fingers against the bleeding wound. Under his woolly hat, his eyes are wide and frantic.

“P-Please! He will not be happy if I don’t take you to him.”

You clean the blade, not bothering to look at him. “I’m busy. I’ll come to see him tomorrow. Noon.”

The man looks momentarily stunned by your simple refusal. “But—”

“Or,” you emphasise, casting your eyes his way and he freezes, pressing closer to the wall, terrified. “You can tell him you failed. Tomorrow noon.”

“Next time call instead of sending one of your little rodents after me.”

You wonder down the creaky, metal staircase and fresh New York air kisses your skin as you hear a deep chuckle float through the air.

“Should I send some flowers next time as well?” the large man questions as he turns to face you. The Bowery King is an imposing figure and he approaches you slowly with a grin that turns into a sharper thing when he comes to stop in front of you. “I can’t say that I was too pleased about the state poor James came back in last night.”

It’s an effort to not roll your eyes, and you note how the King’s own guards circle you. Clearly on the defensive. These men are survivors, their instincts are better than most.

“I barely scratched him,” you defend, bored, meeting the Bowery King’s stare head-on.

His eyebrows arch in open surprise. “The man has a hole in him.”

You take a step towards him. “He’ll heal.”

The guards shift, coming closer the moment you move, and Tick Tock steps closer as if in attempt to check you for weapons. His hand freezes midair when your eyes snap to him, your glare harsh enough to give him a pause.

“I won’t do that, my friend,” the Bowery King says with a laugh as if the whole situation is incredibly amusing to him. “The Vipress does not like being touched.”

Tick Tock wisely steps back but the tight circle remains. Your eyes pass them all, taking note of their open distrust and wariness. “What is it that you want, your majesty?”

The Bowery King exhales loudly, considering you, before his head tilts towards the open blue sky. It’s a stunning day, bright and clear. Unlike the misery of the last few weeks of cool or straight-up miserable weather. He nods at Tick Tock, and the small gathering disperses, leaving only the King’s right hand behind.

For a moment it’s silent, only the distant sound of traffic and gentle hooting of pigeons filling the air.

“Do come along,” The King says as he turns towards the cages. “It’s been a while since our last little chat.”

“I’ve been busy,” you explain as you move after him but not before giving Tick Tock another measured stare. The man grins at you widely and your slight frown doesn’t drop.

The King stops suddenly and you almost run into him, tensing.

“Yes, you have,” he says knowingly, grinning at you over his shoulder. “Between the Russians and the Italians you have your tiny little hands just full, don’t you? Appetite for everything, ain’t that right?”

You say nothing, watching as he ghosts his fingers over one of the cages. The birds come closer, clearly recognising him and you watch the tiny pigeon rub its head against the King’s open palm. “I’ve also heard about the little shootout you and your Italian got involved in the other day. Nasty business.”

That doesn’t particularly surprise you. There’s very little that happens it this city that The Bowery King doesn’t know about. Something of that magnitude happening in broad daylight would have been impossible to conceal even with Santino’s influence. “It’s being handled.”

The Bowery King practically cackles, his laugh deep and rich as it bounces through the open air. “Handled? Ha! That is the D’Antonio way.”

Folding your arms, you stare at him for a moment. “I assume you’ve heard about the old man passing.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah if I do say so myself.”

You don’t bother holding back your own amused smile, and allow your face to turn towards the sun for a moment. When your attention returns to the Bowery King, he’s holding a light grey pigeon in his hands, stroking its head carefully. A gentle action for a man of violence just like the rest of you. “Then you know that there’s 50/50 chance that Santino will be the next head,” you comment neutrally, your double meaning clear.

The Bowery King’s smile is a slow coming, knowing thing. “Good friend to have.”

Shaking your head, your arms loosen, and you step through the rows of little cages, peering inside curiously. Tick Tock’s stare drills into you, and you know that he is not the only one. “I assume this is more than just a social call to share gossip.”

The King moves closer, steady and purposeful as always. “Maybe it isn’t? I am so very fond of gossip,” he tells you, his teasing tone almost making you smile. But then his expression shifts. “But no. This is no ordinary meeting. But then again, it is not every day that you learn about John Wick’s wife, unfortunately, departing the land of the living.”

Your eyes find his and you hold his gaze steadily. He chuckles, and strokes the pigeon’s head with his thumb again, glancing towards the horizon. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Not at all. I assume Winston told you.”

“And if he did?”

The Bowery King turns to face you, and this time his expression is serious, previous amusement forgotten. “I would say the same thing I’ve been saying for a while. The man is getting old.”

You scoff. “If you think that makes him any less dangerous—”

He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “That ain’t it, sweetheart,” he argues as if disappointed you would assume that, and releases the pigeon in his hands. “I know the old man has power extending far beyond his little castle. But some believe that it’s no accident that he has taken you under his wing. Some even believe that you are his not-so-secret protege—that he’s grooming you to take his position as the head of New York Continental. After your unpleasant business Viggo Tarasov is concluded, of course.”

You stare at him with wide-eyed disbelief, trying to digest his words. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” you mutter, sounding just as baffled as you feel. “If you really think that Winston of all the people is busy making retirement plans, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

The King moves towards you slowly, stopping a few steps away—just out of arms reach like most smart people do now.

“Except I have been paying attention. And it’s all very…peaceful, isn’t it?” he questions knowingly, closing his eyes with a smile and inhaling deeply. Sun bathes his skin with light and you stare at him silently. “But you can feel it, can’t you? There’s a little something in the air again. A bit of danger. There’s a storm coming, dear Vipress, and I do wonder how many of us will survive this fucking thing.”

He glances at you again, strolling past your prone figure leisurely. You let him pass but turn immediately after, your muscles tensing despite your best efforts to remain calm and collected.

“You mean John, don’t you?” you wonder quietly, a slight catch to your words as you gaze at his broad back. “He’s not coming back.”

“Why won’t he? What does he have that is holding him to the other side anymore?”

You consider his question for a moment. “He’s retired. He’s found peace.”

The King laughs; a short, amused sound. “Peace. Now, now, we both know that no such thing exists.”

Why you are here is the real question. Something about this entire encounter rubs you the wrong way. Any conversation with the Bowery King is an effort in both patience and mental gymnastics. Often he speaks in riddles or muses random thoughts that only come together later to form a murky narrative. Most of the time you both simply try to bait each other for information.

Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, you ask him a blunt, “Who is it?”

The man looks at you over his shoulder with a slight grin.

“Sharp as always,” he states but it doesn’t particularly sound like a compliment. “We have an understanding when it comes to business, don’t we? We work together every once in a while and then go back to our respective little corners of the kingdom.”

You turn your attention towards the New York skyline and frown.

“I can’t do a job for you right now,” you inform him bluntly but keep your tone respectful. “I’m still finishing things up with Santino.”

“By all means,” he dismisses with a casual wave of his hand. “This time, I don’t actually require you personally, just one of your little potions.”

That gets your attention. You usually refuse jobs unless you are there personally to carry them through. That’s not only because you doubt the competence of others—and God if that doesn’t make you sound like Santino—but also because you don’t trust your creations with others. Who may steal and study what you have created. There’s been plenty of attempts to copycat in the past. Some more successful than others, but none like you. That’s because you guard your secrets fiercely.

“Since when do you poison people?” you demand and don’t bother hiding the suspicion in your voice.

The man before you grins, indulgent, amused. “Since this job requires a more…subtle touch.”

That’s not good enough. But instead, you simply ask, “Who is it?”

“Someone you know,” The King admits, nodding his head from side to side, unbothered, almost bored. “But worry not, it’s not anyone from our little New York family. I would so hate to upset the established order.”

The smile on his face by the end does little to comfort you and your scrutiny doesn’t drop.

“I will need a name, your majesty.”

His smile fades, and you know it’s because he’s not used to being questioned, and by you of all the people. “Since when do you care?”

“I care when I’m not the one doing the job personally,” you tell him tightly and take few measured steps towards him. Tick Tock moves forward, intercepting you, his expression twisted into a mocking expression. “The last thing I need is the High Table on my ass because you mishandled my creations.”

For a moment, the Bowery King only stares at you. “Careful with that tone, sweetheart. I am the King, and you are still in my kingdom.”

Sighing, you shoot Tick Tock a look and he steps back with arms raised slightly. Then, you turn your attention back to the man before you. Wind blows gently across the rooftop, and you can’t help but find it ironic that you’re openly discussing murder with such a lovely backdrop.

“Well then, your majesty,” you inform him flatly, not wanting a fight but not in the mood for games, either. “When you’re ready to give me the information I need be sure to send me one of your little birdies.”

The Bowery King gives you the name eventually.

Zach Kahanek. In your world more commonly known as “Divider”.

An American mother and Czech father. Suffice to say, he took after his father in terms of career choice and his aptitude for it.

You do not particularly care for the King’s reasons for wanting Zach dead. Nothing from your dig for information brought up anything that could potentially get you into trouble. That did not, however, mean that you are about to pass your poison to just anyone.

No, the last 48 hours have been dedicated to creating a vastly different, more wash out version of your original formula. If anyone tries to misuse it or copy it, they’re in for a nasty surprise.

Your hotel room phone starts ringing shrilly and you jump in your chair, almost dropping your tools. Straightening, you blinking at the harsh glare of your phone screen which reads ten minutes to midnight. Your eyes feel dry and heavy as you open and close them one sloppy blink at the time.

Bones aching and head heavy, you patter across the room, grabbing the phone and lifting it to your ear.

“What?”

So maybe you sound cranky, but it’s been a while since you had human interaction. Or sleep for that matter. In fact, now that you are standing you feel positively nauseous.

There’s a pause on the other end, and you frown before a voice finally speaks. “Miss Vipress,” Charon’s familiar voice filters through and you blink again. “My apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour, especially when you have requested privacy to focus on your work. However, I have a visitor wishing to see you.”

“A visitor,” you repeat and wonder if you sound as dead to him as you do in your own ears. Swallowing, you crack your neck, trying to push your brain back into the land of the living. “Who? I’m not really in the state to see anyone right now, tell them to come back tomorrow.”

“Mr D’Antonio insists that he will not be leaving until he sees you,” Charon speaks and his voice is so flat that under normal circumstances you might have found it comical. “However, due to our security protocols—”

“Santi?” you mumble, now even more confused as well as worried. Santino never comes into Winston’s territory unless it’s absolutely necessary to do so. In fact, you had no idea he was scheduled to fly back to New York today. Your last contact was the few swapped texts before he went back to Rome. That was three days ago. “Send him up.”

“Miss Vipress, as you have said so yourself you are in no state—”

“Charon.”

The man falls silent, and after a beat, “As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

The line goes dead and you sigh. As if that doesn’t mean that he will be telling on you to Winston.

By the time it takes to gather yourself, and go to the door, there sounds a sharp knock against the wood.

“If you expect me to entertain you at this hour,” you grumble with a frown as you wrench the door open. “Then I’m crushed to inform you that I’m in no fit condition to be your court jester tonight.”

Santino stands with a familiar air of cocky elegance, his bright eyes searching and suit immaculate as always. Today he’s favouring dark charcoal grey with royal blue accents that seem to add a different dimension to the green of his eyes. He shifts, straightening when your eyes meet.

He frowns the moment the sight of you registers though. A beat, and then, “You look terrible, cara mia.”

“Thanks,” you snap with a wide, sarcastic smile as you gesture for him to come in, and give a mock salute to two guards waiting by the elevator. “Just what everyone wants to hear. Please do come in.”

Santino shrugs off his overcoat, folding it over his arm as his eyes sweep over your room. Given his nosy nature, it doesn’t surprise you that his attention snags on your work desk. He takes a few steps towards it, his expensive shoes gleaming and he hovers his arm over an array of samples, ingredients and solutions.

“I won’t if I were you,” you tell him off as you pass him, collapsing on the loveseat with a groan. Your neck is aching and so are your fingers and arms. Your work takes precision which means a lot of squinting to get correct measurements and very steady hands which doesn’t do much for one’s muscles. Stretching helps, but you’re usually too lost in your work to do it often enough. “Unless you want to be left as a drooling mess on the carpet. I’m sure Winston would have a field day seeing you like that though. Do sit down at your earliest convenience by the way.”

His attention returns to you, and you find him still frowning, eyes sweeping over your features as he seats himself in front of you. He still hasn’t said anything past his initial assessment of you. Which is unusual. Santino likes to talk.

“I don’t have any fancy drinks and the fridge is empty so I can offer you…water,” you inform after a lengthy pause of racking your foggy brain. “Want a glass?”

Santino nods but his frown doesn’t let up. “You look tired.”

It’s a loaded statement.

You don’t answer at first and let the water fill the glass silently. When you approach him and place the glass on the table, you meet his stare.

“So do you.”

Which is true and rare. Santino seems to have some bizarre drive that makes him near unstoppable and always hungry. It’s not that you’ve never seen the cracks in his armour before—you have, so many times: his last birthday, Chicago, New Years in Prague; they come to mind first—but this is different.

“Not with you.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it which worries you even more. There’s not much you can say in response to such a soft, almost absentminded confession.

“I’ve been working for the last 36-something hours on maybe 3 hours of sleep,” you offer up as you walk to get yourself a glass of water too. Till this exact moment, you haven’t even noticed how thirsty you’ve gotten. “What’s your excuse, grumpy?”

“You should have called me,” he says seriously, and there’s that knowing tilt in his low baritone that tells you he knows exactly why you haven’t been sleeping. “You know that I do not like it when you choose to suffer alone, bella.”

Drowning the first glass, you pour more water, letting your tongue wet your lips.

“As if you don’t already have a mountain of problems to deal with,” you remind him because as much as he likes to think he’s the only one who worries, that’s hardly the case. You’re a team. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe a team. Because you’re certainly a something—it just usually feels too large to fit into any tangible bracket or label, so you don’t bother. “And whatever came up with the family must have been pretty important for you to drop everything—”

Your words cut off when you turn around and spot his expression. He sits slumped in the chair, his features almost—

It looks almost pained and you don’t know what to say to that.

He twists his golden Camorra ring around his finger and you feel your pulse jump.

“Santino?”

He blinks, and his expression clears as he looks up at you with a faint smile. “Nothing to worry about, amore,” he tells you, his voice soft. “They moved the will reading to yesterday, hence the reason for me flying back on such short notice.”

Shit. Oh fuck.

Suddenly, you feel so awake and alert that your head hurts.

You cut the distance between you at once, and plant yourself on the table, staring at him expectantly. “And?”

“And,” he bites out after a moment, controlled fury twisting his voice and thickening his accent. “You are looking at the Spare of Camorra family.”

A Spare.

The failed, back up heir. Which means—

You don’t know what to say—don’t know if there’s anything you should even bother saying. For so long, he’s wanted this. The entire time you have known him, Santino has had no other goal than to become the head of his family and inherit the High Table seat from his father. Control all the power that comes with it. His father and grandfather had, in their time as Camorra bosses, transformed and pioneered the family into a new age; an age of fortune and indisputable power. A terrible sort of legacy for both Santino and Gianna to live up to.

Seeing your disbelief, he chuckles but it doesn’t sound happy or amused or warm in any way. It’s a cold, hollow sound and you watch dumbly as he rises to his feet, frustration marring every inch of his body.

“Ah, life,” he whispers through clenched teeth as he fixes his cufflinks. There’s not a seam out of place though, and you know the motion is more about channelling his frustration. “It sure does have a fine sense of irony to it, won’t you agree? But no matter, I seem to be in the business of never getting what I truly desire.”

You rise to your feet slowly, still staring at him.

It’s not pity that you feel—not really—but it is…sadness perhaps? Frustration on his behalf?

You recall Naples. You recall the warm, salty breeze of the Gulf and Santino’s home. His office and the immeasurable pride he has in it.

He is most certainly a power-hungry man. He has an appetite you don’t think anything or anyone could ever quite sate, but he also has deep-running pride and love for Camorra. He doesn’t hold illusions that what they do is good or fair. He doesn’t bother to present himself as anything other than what he is. He is deeply hated for it, but it has never stopped him for working towards his goal.

And now—

You try to imagine what he must have felt in that moment, sitting in a silent room with his sister, and learning that everything he has worked for, for decades has been blown away like old dust by a few lines on a paper.

Back when you first met, you didn’t think he would make a good boss, either. He always struck you as too selfish, arrogant, vicious and—on an occasion—even petty. It took you a long time to begin seeing anything beyond a powerful man who you could use to your own advantage. It started as nothing more than a business necessity, your work with him, and you’re still unsure when exactly you began classing him as someone you could rely on.

Chicago is when you knew, a voice deep down reminds you and your lips press into a thin line.

You don’t even feel yourself approach him. The only thing that registers is your arms wrapping around his shoulders when you hug him. They squeeze tightly around him and you don’t care if he will find it unnecessary, or if there’s some unspoken rule about not touching an heir without their expressed permission first.

You’re friends, aren’t you? Even if he’s always wanted more, right now you can tell that’s what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quietly, bumping your nose against his shoulder as your eyes squeeze shut for a second. “I’m sorry.”

His suit is like silk against your skin and you inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself calm for his sake. He’s already angry, you don’t need to add to it.

He breathes. Shallow, soft breaths that seem to fill his lungs as he stands there. Then his arms hesitantly wrap around your waist, and he holds you to him with such ferocity that under normal circumstances you might have said something about it. His face buries itself against the crook of your neck, desperate, and his shaking fingers come to rest against the back of your neck. Gentle.

He doesn’t say anything, and for a moment you simply hold him, and he you, before he pulls back with one last inhale of breath.

“Is there anything I can do—”

“You could come to Paris with me,” he jokes, his voice thick, but his sly smile brings you some semblance of relief. “You still owe me a trip, carissima.”

“I might take you up on that offer after we deal with everything,” you say with a slight smile and Santino’s eyebrows rise in amusement. His expression drops after a moment though, drawing into a more serious and morose thing, and you try hard to control your breathing when his large hand comes to rest against the side of your face. “Anything else?” you force out, hopeful that you can dispel the change in the air between you.

The heat of his thumb leaves featherlight kisses against the curve of your cheek as he tenderly traces your skin, seemingly lost in thought, and your throat goes dry.

“Poker?” he suggests calmly, and you both pretend he isn’t staring at your lips with enough intensity to leave most people flustered.

“Learned my lesson in Chicago,” it’s an effort to keep your voice steady, and Santino laughs under his breath, his hand finally dropping away. You inhale discreetly and watch him for a moment. Your next thought comes unexpectedly—like all best thoughts do—and your expression brightens. “But I do think that I have a better idea.”

“This is not what I had in mind when you said ‘better’, cara mia.”

He glances outside as if to double-check if Ares is still out there, waiting for you by the car. As if the brunette would ever leave either of you here of all places. You follow his gaze and find that the woman in question is still with other three guards seated inside the car and waiting patiently. Thankfully, it’s so late that even by New York standards, this place is quiet. But you already knew that prior to coming because you frequent it often. It’s a cheap place with pretty great food, even if it’s far below Santino’s usual high standards.

“Speak for yourself,” you intone flatly, scooping another spoonful of ice cream and shoving it in your mouth. Santino frowns at your forced cheery smile and inspects his own ice cream dully. “Oh, come on, eat it. It’s not going to bite you.”

He scoffs under his breath, shooting you a disbelieving look as he inclines in his creaky seat; all tailored edges and sharp lines. “I’ve had ice cream before, carissima. I know that. I simply—”

He pauses, lips pursing and you feel a stab of surprise at the conflict he lets show clearly on his face for once. He usually guards his emotions carefully, and it’s often hard to pinpoint what exactly he feels unless he wants you to know. Today, however, is a mess and even though your distraction seems to be working, your previous conversation still hangs over you both.

“You can tell me,” you promise him, and see his expression twist as if your words pain him before he clears his throat, nodding his head once. “Is it something embarrassing?” you guess helpfully with a tilt of your head.

His laugh is short, unpleasant. “No. I have simply never eaten—this is my first time. Having ice cream like this. On the outside. In some dingy diner of all the places, too.”

There is a clear question to be asked here; a clear line of enquiry to pursue. But seeing the guarded look on Santino’s face keeps any questions under lock and key. You can’t bring yourself to ask how the son of one of the most powerful criminal families in the world has never had ice cream outside his own house before. How come he has never experienced something as simple and as ordinary as having a frozen treat growing up.

You can’t. Not only because you can’t bear the thought of pushing him into a headspace he may not want to revisit, but also because you are a coward. Santino talks about his childhood like one might about a broken toy; fragmented into times before and after, clearly divided by the death of his mother. Old conversations paint an image of life full of plenty but no real joy. He might have had luxury others can only dream of growing up, but being who he is—the only son of Camorra’s head—meant a childhood of living in a golden cage. Protected and stifled. Forced to conform to the role his father expected him to fill. Gianna adapted—blossomed into something fierce and deadly—but that restless hatred for rules and traditions still lives in Santino to this day. Unlike his sister, he has never let go of that wildness raging in his blood.

A part of you may never fully understand him. For you, having had nothing for so long, it seems almost funny to compare your lives. Santino doesn’t understand the terror of not knowing where you will sleep next, of never settling down anywhere, or going to bed with an empty stomach. He had everything growing up expect that which he needed most. Your parents may not have been able to buy you new toys every week but at least they loved you openly.

What must it have been like, growing up in a mansion with luxury and money found in every corner but with a father who pushed you into being what he wanted you to be? What must it have been like for two young children to lose their mother so tragically and for their father—instead of comforting them and being there for them—starting to pit the two siblings against each other.

Every conversation you’ve ever had with both Santino and Gianna about their father painted a clear image of a man who did everything in his power to turn his children into suitable heirs. He only saw or cared about Camorra’s future—the family’s wellbeing past his own service to it—and failed to care about his own kids along the way. He only ever added fuel to the blaze, fanning flames of hatred and mistrust between the brother and his sister. Perhaps, Giovanni D’Antonio thought he was doing them a favour, forging them into strong leaders, but at what price?

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.” When he said those words to you on that bitterly cold New Years night in Prague, you took his words at face value but now you know better than that.

He’s dead and his children resent each other because of his actions.

And the very dream Santino fought for—had tried to break himself for—has been taken from him.

It concerns you. Because he is not a man to take things laying down. This frustration and hurt will pass, and it worries you what might come after.

“Well, you’re here now,” you state calmly, watching the golden ring on his hand reflect light as he drums them on the table. “Having some with me. Seems like I’m destroying your diner innocence. I’m not sorry either, and I’m not going to take it back. This is a right of passage with me. Think you can handle it, Santi?”

A faint, crooked smile twitches his lips and he hums, still staring at the ice cream like it holds all the answers to the universe. “With the added pleasure of your company, I imagine I can weather a great many things, cara mia.”

It’s a relief to hear the usual haughtiness back in his voice, and you nibble on your lip, trying to hold back a snarky smile. “You know what?”

He glances up at you immediately, and the startling green of his eyes steals your breath for just a second. “What?”

It’s your turn to give him the largest, most shit-eating grin you can muster up. “You look like an absolute idiot sitting here in your ten thousand dollar suit while we eat half-melted ice cream in this run down joint.”

The slightly distorted music from the jukebox wraps around you both for a second before Santino laughs. It’s a slightly awkward, unsure laugh that shakes his whole body and you like it more because it’s not practised, not expected of him. He laughs genuinely—a warm, rich sound—and it’s the first one of the night, maybe even the week. You sit together, facing each other, and you’re suddenly reminded of Chicago. Of how much your situation has switched since then to now. But you’re not here because you owe him. You’re here because, despite his questionable methods, you really do consider him a friend.

“Ah, I will look even better when you take it off me,” he comments idly, his eyes twinkling with mirth; a sly promise. “That, cara mia, I can promise.”

“I think you look best when you’re snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“My, my, why do I put up with this again? You are so…vexing sometimes.”

“Have you met you? I’m surprised I haven’t thrown myself over the nearest cliff yet. I should really be paid more for putting up with you.”

“Ah, bella, I believe it is because you adore me, no?”

You roll your eyes at the smugness in his voice but don’t deny his statement.

He waits for it, but it never comes.

You see the realisation dawn across his features—a mere split second that softens his entire face before he hides his expression with a turn of his head.

Neither of you speak after that. But that’s fine.

Santino spends the rest of the night with a strange little smile on his face and you don’t question it.

“You could be free,” Winston muses, taking a sip of his tea. “Could just walk away from everything. Not many would be able to stop you.”

You shake your head, a hint of an ironic smile lingering across your face. “You make it sound so simple,” you remark, tapping your finger against the rim of the cup. “When we both know it’s anything but. Tarasov will not make it easy.”

“If the debt is repaid, he cannot hold you,” Winston shoots back, and your eyes lift to him, noting the sharper edge in his words. “There are rules about this sort of thing. You served loyally. He must release you or the High Table will get involved.”

You know that. But it also seems too easy. It’s been so long. The idea of there being just one last job to do till you’re finally free seems inconceivable.

Your job with Santino overran by two days but he had his information, and his missing shipment has been tracked all the way to Canada. The thieves believed they could safely move the shipment and lay low for a couple of months before attempting to sell it in parts. Santino and Ares left earlier this afternoon to personally handle the people caught and you can’t help but feel sorry for them.

You wouldn’t wish the terrible storm that is Santino D’Antonio onto anyone right now. Not even Perkins.

There would be no mercy for stealing from him nor trying to kill him. Or you for that matter.

It grates on you that you couldn’t go with him though. This whole situation is giving you a bad feeling and the fact that you can’t do anything yet is annoying.

There is also the matter of someone on the outside knowing what you did in Chicago. That’s a whole other can of worms you don’t want to open any time soon.

But information gathered from Murphy—the other ten soldiers didn’t know anything aside from their orders to kill you and Santino—made one thing absolutely clear.

Someone else definitely knows. And that someone wants revenge.

You haven’t been able to learn how, exactly, they knew about your location in advance to get a drop on you like that. The intel has simply been passed along last minute by, presumably, whoever ordered the hit. The worst part is that you have used that warehouse in the past, as have other people, expanding the pool of potential suspects. Ares took the blame on herself but Santino has been dismissive of it. She has proven her loyalty plenty of times in the past, and you know that he trusts his left hand without question.

You’ve also considered the fact that maybe someone had eyes on you and was tracking you instead. But as with any mission, you have made it into a habit of taking misleading routes to throw off any potential trackers.

So, in the end, you’ve been left with too many questions and too few answers. And although physically you are still tied to Tarasov and New York and your last job to him, your mind is adrift, fractured into different places which is unwise. You have no idea what to expect from Viggo but you doubt it will be anything straightforward. All of your time and focus should be going into preparation for The Last Job as Winston calls it.

“It could be a happy ending,” the said man continues, bringing you back to reality. “If you want it to be.”

You snort, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “People like us don’t get happy endings, Winston,” you tell him, your voice distant. “You know that.”

The older man doesn’t disagree with your statement and you stare at the crowd.

People are dancing and drinking and having a good time. But something sits in the pit of your stomach; a weight you can’t explain but it looms over you like a nameless threat.

There’s a storm coming.

“Johnathan did.”

Your head snaps to Winston, your hard stare locking onto him. “His wife died. Some happy ending.”

The man exhales deeply, lowering his pen and you watch him take off his glasses, too, placing them carefully next to his open notebook. He laces his fingers and regards you frankly, thoughtful.

“But he found it,” he says knowingly, scrutinising you. “Even if for a short amount of time. People are so cynical nowadays. Some individuals come into your life and it’s so easy but when they leave it takes so long to let go, to forget. Most assume that positive emotion is better than negative, but in my experience, you learn far more from the negative. From the pain. Otherwise, we’re empty. Better to find something good, and have it for a little while, then not at all.”

You glance down and your tiny smile is scornful. “Can’t say that’s a sentiment I can share in, Winston.”

His stare is curious, shrewd. “You wish you’ve never met him, then?”

“No, not in the beginning,” you speak and tap your fingers against the table, keeping your attention away from the too-clever man. If only because he can read you too well. “I still loved him too much back then, so even though it hurt more, I kept holding on. But with time…Yes, I now spend most of my days wishing I’ve never met him. Whatever we once had died a long time ago.”

He regards you silently for a few seconds before nodding his head once, and reaching for his pen and glasses again; the conversation clearly over in his eyes.

A blade slides free and into your palm when a man suddenly comes too close to your booth and Winston raises his hand at you in a pacifying motion. The young guard, to his credit, doesn’t flinch and you watch him lean closer to Winston, speaking something hurriedly in his ear.

The expression that falters Winston’s face makes you pause.

Your phone lights up, a familiar but unwelcome name glaring through and you glance at the message on the screen.

And promptly feel something cold slice through your entire body.

You both speak almost simultaneously.

“Oh my.”

“John.”

Iosef stole John Wick’s car and killed his dog.

. . .

an: heh. now that all that is out of the way and the playfield is a bit more even...let the real fun begin :D

as always, you all have my eternal love and appreciation for reading!! love it? hated it? feel free to let me knowwww. and thank you for your support! x

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick fic #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #viggo tarasov #winston #fic: children of ares

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chromalogue · 4 years ago

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I wasn’t here much over the summer, partly because my parents had a lot of houseguests who are disturbed by my nocturnal wanderings so I just stayed home at the apartment a lot, and partly because I had so darned much to do: two catering gigs, writing an article, editing my own book chapter, editing other people’s articles, developing a themed reading list for the magazine, and putting together a mammoth job application. (As in, once I got the requested materials together it was 600 pages. I didn’t apply to grow my teeth out and wander around the ice caps naked on all fours, because I don’t have the accreditation for that.)

Also, that pandemic thing that makes you bake your own bread hit me too, so my normal aversion to food waste kicked into high gear. I made dandelion jelly and chokecherry syrup. My parents have a freezer full of strawberries, blueberries, apples, pears, and Saskatoon berries; and more pears and apples are sitting dehydrated in bags. One of my best friends came back to town after the death of one of her grandmothers, and we spent some time over at her parents’ house, and her parents said, “Oh hey, by the way, when you pass the house, pick some pears. Off the ground, off the tree, doesn’t matter. The place is empty, and you’ll save us cleaning them up.” So yeah, lots of tiny juicy pears. And seeds for next year, in case the job application doesn’t go through.

And the garlic scapes my father bought ended up going brown and gross down in the basement. I’d promised to pickle them, but by the time the houseguests left there was no doing anything with them. Well, except harvesting the heads to plant our own garlic for next year. I was supposed to build raised beds for them this week, as per instructions from the local alliomancer, but the hardware store is out of 2x4s, because remodelling is apparently sourdough for homeowners.

I’ve also taken up smoking. Started with a cheese, and when that seemed not to kill anyone immediately, tried salmon. I like it just fine, but Will said I should slice it more thinly. I wasn’t able to make the homemade smoker I cobbled together out of two lasagna pans, tinfoil, and a couple of binder clips work the way it did in the YouTube tutorial--perhaps because I was using a barbecue lighter, and the YouTube guy had a blowtorch--but in the end I just put the chips and the food into my dad’s barbecue, turned the burner on low, and closed the lid for like three hours.

Still no cases in town. A new case pops up every couple of days in Sudbury, but so far there have been no deaths in our district since May. But Toronto is going wild.

The original plan was for my mom to go down to spend Thanksgiving with my brother’s family, and then, on the way back, scoop up another of my best friends and her mom, who would spend a week at my parents’ house and then take the bus back. But a couple of weeks beforehand, as case numbers kept rising and rising, the friend and I decided that it was too risky--even if she and her mom made it up okay, being on a bus for hours seems kind of iffy right now--and then my brother found out that one of his sisters-in-law who’d been visiting had attended a wedding where someone tested positive, so everyone stayed put for Thanksgiving. And there was lamb and toasted pecans with garlic and roasted vegetables and cheesy bread and chai pumpkin pie and apple-cranberry kuchen.

Oooh! And the dive bar at the end of my parents’ street has been replaced by an Indian restaurant, the first one in town. The food is AMAZING, and every time I pass they are as full as they can be while observing proper distancing between tables.

I finished La Baronne Trépassée, but it was kind of disappointing. Like, a genre fail. Imagine LOTR if when Frodo and Sam and Gollum made it to Mount Doom, Frodo offered Sam the ring and confessed that this was all an elaborate proposal, and all the orcs and ringwraiths took off their costumes and they were just students, and Sam said yes and they lived happily ever after.

Best books so far this year have been Happiness by Aminatta Forna and Raybearer by Jordan Ifueko.

153 000 words on the new fic. Probably gonna need cutting.

#rambling #mostly about food now that I see it

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kdtheghostwriter · 5 years ago

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SNK #128 - Seeing Shadows

That’s bad, right?

There were some semantic debates regarding what exactly Hange meant when they said, “Humanity is out of time!” I think it’s clear now that humanity has no more time for them to be indecisive. Eren is on the march, and even if he settles for destroying everything on the Marley continent, that’s a massive loss of civilization and one you simply can’t live with if you think of yourself as a hero. The look on their faces tells the story. It’s no longer about saving the world; it’s about saving what’s left.

How much is left depends on how quickly they move, but it’s not as easy as mounting up the troops. Eren and his Colossal Army are across the ocean now. They’ve had at least one full day to march and probably more since the previous chapter’s events around the campfire. Think about how long it takes for a plane to cross an ocean. Not a full day. Their best bet is commandeering Miss Kiyomi’s special aircraft powered by the mysterious Iceburst Stone. Before they do that, we have to pause for another episode of the worst show in the world: This Floching Guy.

As much I have advocated for Eren to be accepted as the new villain – praising Isayama for turning the Face/Heel dichotomy upside down as it pertains to Reiner – those two, even in their most vile moments, still have their fans. There is no guesswork with Floch Forster. He’s predatory, conniving, authoritarian and mean-spirited. Above all of that, he’s a cocky little shit in a way that even Kenny Ackerman would have scoffed at. He’s the antagonist to the characters we’ve followed for ten years now, but in his own mind they brazenly oppose him, which is where the title of this chapter ‘Traitor’ becomes important.

For the last four years, Eldia has been ruled by deft slight of hand. In spirit, Historia Reiss, the rightful heir to the throne, has reclaimed her birthright. In reality, she retired to run an orphanage while the three branches of military have taken control of the government and all proceedings. Eren’s mission to Liberio as well as the counterattack from Marley’s Warrior Unit caused a vacuum to appear that was quickly occupied by the Jaegerist Faction. They now control the government and in extension all facets of Paradisian society. So what do you call a group of AWOL soldiers that are conspiring to sabotage your one method of security?

Traitors. Villains. Monsters.

They’re killing your friends and attacking your home. They’ve infiltrated your ranks and betrayed your trust. Thousands of innocent people dead just for the sake of completing their mission.

This week I learned that many people viewed Bertolt’s death as karmic in some way. I never saw it like that at all. His death at Armin’s hands was a necessary evil. Necessary certainly, but it was evil. It doesn’t make the 104th evil for carrying out the deed. It just happened to be the most brutal death in the series even if it wasn’t the most graphic. Bert is left defenseless as his powers are forcibly taken from him. He calls for his former comrades only to realize none of them will help. Then he calls for Reiner, his best friend who barely escaped with his own life. He dies a lonely, agonizing death.

“Who the hell wants to kill innocent people?!”

Who knows how long this question has been haunting Armin’s waking thoughts? There is evidence to suggest that the once bold Survey Corps veteran who was willing to sacrifice his life to help Eren take down the Colossal has been hampered by his successor’s timid nature. Ever since he acquired his powers, he’s always attempted to seek non-violent resolution. I don’t see this as simple naivety.

If you were given a power as destructive as his, where you are capable of destroying a town by simply calling upon it, why would you ever use it? Why would you ever want to? I grow uncomfortable with the amount of voices in the fandom concern trolling the 104th and their refusal to spill the blood of their neighbors. They’ve fought alongside or trained with most of these people. Why should they be expected to kill them like nameless drones? Even if it is necessary, why are they not allowed to mourn the choice?

Characters like these that we’ve known from almost the beginning. They know nothing of the outside world other than it’s filled with people that want them dead. Eren Jaeger is their best chance at keeping their society alive and these people they lived and fought and suffered with want to impede that and doom them. Samuel and Daz are soldiers, too. Forget for a moment that they’re opposing the main characters. Why would they let this happen?

I digress, though. This point is more about Bert and his exit from the story. It came at the end of a fierce battle that saw the SC expend all of their resources and most of their man power. The fact that they came away with even one shifter’s power is a small miracle. The characters can be excused then for watching, unfeeling, as their former teammate is eaten alive. Now the shoe is on the other foot. Armin has been mortally wounded and the one vehicle that can get them to Marley in time is about to be destroyed. Before Daz can do this, he is stopped by Armin who is delirious but regenerating. Before he can deal the fatal blow, Connie wrestles the gun away from Samuel and shoots them both.

The mission continues.

One could say that it’s overkill perhaps. How many times must the 104th learn the hard lesson? Even Annie made reference to the fact that the Warriors plan was being criticized with no alternative. If they spot them, the mission fails. If the ship is blown, the mission fails. If they Azumabito clan is destroyed, the mission fails. All of these facts are true and the current best way to keep any of that from happening is to fight and kill the Jaegerists. It’s remarkably easy to say, but then they are the ones who have to live with choices made.

No one should ever have to “get used to” the idea of killing…well anyone but especially not people you partnered with. Bert’s inclusion in this moment was no accident. It isn’t just because Armin inherited his mental likeness. This is the closest they have come to understanding the impossible position he was forced into four long years ago. Only this time, it’s Samuel who is scared and confused.

You can disagree with Samuel’s point of view but what Connie does next is by definition an act of treason. He shoots two members of his own combat unit and defies a direct order from a commanding officer. We know that the commanding officer is a sociopath and we know that following orders means being an accessory to genocide. But that genocide is the only thing keeping that island alive. That island has been the only home Samuel and Daz have ever known. They deserve as much as anyone, an explanation instead of a bullet to the face. But this is what happens isn’t it?

I love Metal Gear Solid for a number of reasons, but chief above them is the series protagonist, Solid Snake. In the flagship game, he is introduced to us as a super soldier engineered for battle that is pulled out of retirement to thwart his twin brother’s plans of nuclear destruction. This game is one of the few of its kind that can be completed without killing a single enemy. You are rewarded for your stealth. Because, you see, Snake the character is a pacifist at heart. He doesn’t want to do this, but he’s the only one who can. It’s a solo mission, so running and gunning almost always fails and if you kill too many people, the action hero main character becomes sick.

You see, because, these choices aren’t made lightly. They ripple and they matter. The 104th kids aren’t acting high and mighty, lording their moral values over the heads of those that betrayed them. They genuinely hate doing this. From your mouth you say, “We have to save the world,” but when you arrive you are told, “We have to kill these people.” For once they would like to preserve peace without additional death and I don’t think they should be scolded for that wish.

Stray Thoughts

- Wasn’t all that impressed by Magath’s little speech, especially considering what came before it. It’s a change of heart, yes, but not from a genuine place. When faced with the reality of his homeland being flattened, and the futility of his current position, he immediately goes back to torture. Yelena is callous in her own right but she did nothing to warrant the violence. He’s lashing out and I don’t shed tears for him.

- Onyankapon on the other hand. What a guy. He resets the joint in Yelena’s arm and crafts a splint to keep it in place. He has no powers, but you would want this guy on your team during the end of the world.

- Reiner finally puts the pieces together here. “I’m just like you,” Eren says and like Eren, Reiner moves to protect his former teammates from making this impossible choice. It’s a noble gesture and one I respect. There’s no going back for him. He has far too much blood on his hands. That he recognizes that is a strong moment for the character.

- Armin and Connie’s plan wasn’t a bad one. If nothing else, it bought time enough for Annie and Reiner to get into position. If they had attacked outright, the plane likely would have been destroyed. Some people are frustrated with them but honestly, go read Berserk if that’s the case.

- East Sea Gang rise up! Mikasa in combat is still an absolute treat. And Floch gives us an example of this faction’s greatest flaw. You know; besides the nationalist framework they are founded upon. Floch is the most experienced soldier they have and when Floch Forster is your best fighter, your team sucks. Mikasa Ackerman was worth 100 soldiers as rookie. As an adult soldier, she is easily worth two Jaegerist groups put together. Kiyomi is clearly capable, but she also took advantage of Floch’s arrogance in the moment.

- Credit to Reiner and Annie for hitting their cue. I wondered what it would be like having them in this group but it seems like for the purposes it should work.

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curuniel · 4 years ago

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Library(ies)

For the first prompt of the Tyria’s Library anniversary event. This was meant to be a short story, but it turns out a story in three parts isn’t going to be short.

“This one, this one!”

The young Jura Ogawe bounded back towards his parents, heedless of the heavy sigh that came from a librarian giving up on quiet in the children’s section. His father came to meet him, shushing him with a wink as he reached for the book Jura had picked out.

“Alright son, what do you have there?”

Jura’s mother laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder as she came up behind him and peered at the cover.

“King Joko the Implaccable versus the Wurm of Ronjok?” she read, raising both eyebrows as she did.

Her son grinned, practically bouncing where he stood. “It has pictures! Of the battle!”

“Illustrated by Vinanda Bayet,” Jura’s father noted with increasing amusement, “whose artistic career has apparently taken a few turns since that palace ceiling fresco up north.”

He handed the book back to Jura, who immediately opened it and began looking eagerly at the pictures. Beyond his notice, Jura’s mother drew her husband aside for a quiet word.

“Do we really want him reading things like that?” she asked. “Today it’s how King Joko saved Kourna from a rampaging sand wurm, but tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow he’ll being going to school anyway,” Jura’s father pointed out softly. “Better that he be reading the same books and playing the same games as every other child. We agreed –”

“- that is was safer for him. I know.” She sighed, even more wearily than the librarian had. “It just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

He gathered his wife up in his arms. “We’ll talk to him when he’s older,” he murmured for her ears only. “When he can understand the risks. It may be harder when the time comes, but at least Jura will live to see it.”

She nodded against his chest. “And may Grenth give me the strength to endure ten more years of those gods-forsaken books.”

Jura’s father chuckled, and Jura’s mother shook with her own muffled laughter as he hugged her tighter, and Jura obliviously dropped to sit and read his book with wide, uncritical eyes.

* * *

Much older, and alone, Jura flicked through pages irritably now and the swishing sound of paper drawing a few eyes to him. That was the problem with libraries – quiet enough that the slightest irritation was noticed – but he was beyond caring about etiquette today.

It was more of the same. Tehelo was one of King Joko’s favourite biographers (of many) and it was starting to become obvious why. Every paragraph contained another overblown description with too many adjectives, not to mention comparisons to events in the author’s other works so that every battle and feat of magic was cross-referenced. The sycophantic quality of the writing, however, was not what was frustrating Jura.

This happened in my lifetime, he thought. The dragon Zhaitan, an ancient power that could raise the dead… as nothing but shells for its will, less than the simplest Awakened. Or so he had always believed. In Vabbi they had been taught that the dragon roamed the seas to the west from its lair on the risen island of Orr, making it impossible to cross to other continents. Elona was a last bastion of safety, the sulphurous Desolation a barrier against draconic doom. But then…

He flicked back to the beginning of the chapter. 1326 AE: the slaying of Zhaitan. The way Tehelo told it, someone suggested in King Joko’s hearing that the elder dragon must be the greatest necromancer the world had ever known. Annoyed at the comment the Eternal King had harnessed a mighty mount and travelled all the way to Orr to strike down Zhaitan and prove once and for all that Joko was the greatest master of necromancy in the history of Tyria and only true commander of the dead. The book, Jura noted, did not mention anything about the fate of the person who had insulted the king.

But none of this made sense as it should. 1326 was only a few years ago; if King Joko was setting out to slay an elder dragon, it was inconceivable that he would do it without full splendour, tribute and boasting. Jura remembered nothing of the sort. He remembered hearing stories about Kralkatorrik (how King Joko had allowed the dragon to send its crystal minions into a Vabbian palace that had blasphemed against him, then stood and commanded it to leave the rest of his kingdom untouched) – but Zhaitan had hardly been mentioned. Until King Joko had proclaimed he had destroyed it.

“This isn’t –” he began out loud, but it wasn’t the glare of a nearby librarian that made him finish the thought in silence. None of this is right.

* * *

The sun of the afternoon beat down hot, but Jura was new enough to Amnoon that it still felt like paradise. There was shade both natural and artificial, water when he needed it, gardens unlike anything he’d seen since leaving the halls of Vabbi behind. And he wasn’t wearing armour, which made the heat significantly more bearable. It had been days before he had really felt comfortable going out without armour, but today he felt almost normal in a shirt with a sash, loose pants and sandals.

And a sword. He’s left his ragged shield behind, but he wasn’t going to abandon all sense just because he was in a city again.

Today he was strolling into the surrounding farmland, marvelling at the freedom with which he passed in and out and the decidedly alive cavaliers who nodded to him on his way past. There were people at work here, tending the land and maintaining a marvel of an irrigation system whose workings Jura didn’t yet understand. There were refugees, too, as there seemed to be on every inch of the roads here, and the priests that aided and escorted them. As Jura walked past two priests of Kormir who were poring over a book together, he had to stop and look again at the huge figure his eyes had skimmed over next to them.

The man was easily two feet taller than Jura, and certainly twice as wide at the shoulder. He wore a beard in two braids and a dusty blue robe within which he seemed to be cooking, though he had the sense to have the hood up against the sun. His skin, from what Jura could see, would not have taken kindly to it otherwise.

Jura’s surprise much have shown more than he realised, because the giant man chuckled and gave him a wave. Curious, Jura wandered over.

“Ahai, friend,” the stranger said in a deep voice. “Let me guess; first time meeting a norn?”

“Ah… I suppose it must be. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with… your people,” Jura replied carefully. “I hope that doesn’t cause you offence.”

The norn gave a dismissive wave, then wiped his brow with his sleeve for good measure. “Not at all. We’re not native to these parts, in case that wasn’t obvious.” He chuckled at his own expense. “I prefer the cold, if I’m being honest. Though your city and its harbour are truly lovely!”

“Not my city,” Jura said automatically, then “although… I’m not sure where is, now.” He didn’t want to get into that, so he quickly moved on. “Where are you from then, sir norn?”

He broke into a true smile. “The Shiverpeaks! Great, snowy mountains full of fearsome beasts and majestic sights. Far away, I’m afraid, across the sea. But I’m here as a representative of the Durmand Priory, and the sharing of knowledge is an adventure I will tolerate your devastating sun for.”

The norn gestured at the cart behind him, and Jura’s eye widened momentarily. It was a wagon of sorts with hinged and shuttered sides, currently latched open to show rows of neatly shelved books. Seeing his expression, the norn chuckled again and invited him to take a look.

“The Ossa Legacy… Three Lands, One Sun… An Unauthorised History of the Order of Whispers,” he read aloud.

“We put that one in there just to annoy them,” the norn admitted with a wink.

“I’ve never heard of any of these,” Jura said wonderingly. Then, quashing the wonder from his voice, “and you say these are true histories?”

To Jura’s surprise, the response was a shrug rather than a sales pitch. “No history is ever really a true history. They’re all biased in one way or another.”

“Some more than others,” Jura noted with a touch of bitterness.

“True,” the norn acknowledged. “But these are from our scholars’ collections. Think of them as versions of history told by people who left these lands hundreds of years ago.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before Jura ventured, “may I… read a little?”

“Of course!” The man looked pleased, and it was hard to stay suspicious of him when his emotions seemed so free and genuine. “As long as you don’t take anything away or, say, throw it in a ditch, you’re welcome to read as long as you like.”

Jura, discovering he did not have the words to express everything he was feeling in that moment, made a bow instead and picked a book off the shelf at random. Within seconds he was sitting under a nearby awning, devouring every new piece of knowledge he could find.

#tyriaslibrary event #Guild Wars 2 #my writing #my characters #Path of Fire #I haven't talked about Jura a lot here but after playing Path of Fire I desperately wanted to explore a character raised in Joko's Vabbi

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gofancyninjaworld · 5 years ago

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Some manga predictions

Been told my predictin’ game’s getting a little weak lately. Truth be told, there’s been so many jinks in the manga that I’ve been quite happy seeing what the heck happens next in the story, but can’t take that lying down.

Btw, I haven’t forgotten my random list of predictions for the next chapter of the webcomic! Be fun to see which ones pan out.:)

So, let’s have some more story predictions. Serious enough this time for me to stick by. I’ll take a told ya so if I’m wrong. :)

Short Hits!

Well that settles it!

Metal Bat’s going to get his rematch. We can finally stop wondering what would happen if he brought his bat down squarely on Garou’s head.

Then he’ll collect his slice of Humble Pie, same as everyone else is getting. It’s fresh, it’s hot, it sticks in your throat but you can’t cough it up.

Speaking of humble pie, I predict that Golden Sperm gets to hand out free slices to just about everyone still standing. No need to have Amai Mask telling us that this is a difficult foe even for their combined efforts, show us! And that Garou shows up to save them all... for himself.

No, I don’t dare make any predictions for Genos other than he gets to have a whole Humble Pie. There’s just too many opportunities for catastrophe, from the shining Angel of Annihilation perched on top of the impromptu Mount Doom to the varied nasties crawling out of the rubble. Speaking of varied nasties, onto prediction two!

One Last Land Mine

One thing that sticks with me was Gyoro-Gyoro/Psykos noting that some monsters undergo unexpected rapid growth and act as jokers in the pack. We’ve said hello and goodbye to two of them: Rhino Wrestler and his buddy, Phoenixman (now was that a joker or what?).

It’d hardly be fair if none of the cadre (fair? Nothing fair about it -- I mean insufficiently entertaining for us) turned out to be land mines. I am predicting that Bang fighting Fuhrer Ugly is going to give us some truly sickening transformation and not go down so quickly. Bang will win, of course, but it should be an extra extra fight first.

Phew, that was Close!

This one is as much prayer as it’s prediction. I’m predicting that the transport convoy sent for Waganma juuuust escapes the carnage wrought by Tatsumaki pulling up the Subterranean city. On one level it has to as several of them are transporting wounded heroes, and heroes never die, but there’s no guarantee for all of them. Why do I care? Keep reading!

Long-Range Hits!

Saving the Hero Association

The Hero Association is on the rocks in the webcomic. Between public criticism, internal dissension, donors deserting, and the Neo Heroes leaching talent, political goodwill, and money from them faster than they can comprehend, they really don’t know where to turn right now.

Seriously, the Hero Association can’t afford to fall, unless the story is going to turn into a tragedy where mankind ends up scattered into a few small enclaves, Attack on Titan style only it’s not a lie about what lies beyond the walls.

I’ve been hoping that the convoy gets away because when the manga gets to this point, they’re going to need Sekingar. They need Sekingar’s insights on two levels. The immediate one is to understand the nature of the threat they’re facing. Sekingar may be inclined to give heroes the benefit of the doubt, but he’s not a gullible fool either:

If he’s alive, then he’s going to have no trouble at all figuring out that someone is awful keen to usurp the Hero Association, as well as Metal Knight’s automated tech and telling Sitch about it, who is no fool himself. It will be their first chance to understand what kind of enemy they’re facing.

Second, they’re going to need someone on the Executive Board who actually understands what hero work is like. Even if they see off the threat the Neo Hero threat off, they’re going to need to be able to sort through the varying suggestions of what needs to be done and actually get those changes implemented.

Since so far Sekingar continues to be a manga-only character (since chapter 20!), I have no idea where their insights might come from in the webcomic. Of course... Sekingar might not make it back in which case they’re no better off in the manga either.

So When You Said Countless, Did You Mean More Than Six?

Here’s something I’m going to stick my neck right out to predict: I’m predicting that we’re going to find out that Genos hasn’t been a cyborg for all that long, rather than four years the way we tend to think. I present to you four pieces of circumstantial evidence.

First, how has he been getting away with roaming the planet and burning bits of it out of existence? I’m not the only one to have wondered how it is that Genos never got stopped for carrying weapons -- was it somehow legal? Turns out, it’s as illegal as hell -- no wonder the Hero Association was on his trail. He’s not even subtle. At its worst, a demon cyborg special sees absolutely everything, even rock, destroyed by extreme heat for kilometres. [Becoming a hero has really clipped his claws.] For him to have avoided being intercepted by them for weeks? Sure. It’s a big place and he’s very mobile. But evading the Hero Association for years? No chance.

Second, when he said he was inexperienced, he wasn’t joking. Learning to not take his eyes off a monster is such Fighting 101 stuff it’s painful. Conversely, Saitama may have no technique to speak of, but his awareness of where a hit may be coming from has been absolutely top-notch, something Suiryu notes with admiration.

Third, body count. As of chapter 80, Genos was only on Body Four. We know what happened to the rest -- the third body got crushed by Gouketsu, the second body got melted by the Deep Sea King and the first one got cut up by Mosquito Girl. I can totally believe that if he’s being Drive Knight cautious, actually doing research on his targets before he strikes, bodies will last a lot longer than we’ve been seeing him go through them but four years of use? Hmm!!! I doubt that.

Fourth, becoming a cyborg is a process, not an event. Thanks to the webcomic, we’ve got an appreciation that body modification is not easy (or safe or sane past a certain point) and it takes months to be functional. So, some non-negligible fraction of the last four years of his life has been spent Not Dying and Learning to Walk Again.

Adding it all together, I’m expecting it to turn out that he’s really quite new at all this. That said, Genos never said he’d been searching for all four years. We just assumed.

#OPM #manga #story predictions #webcomic spoilers #Garou #Metal Bat #Sekingar #Bang #Genos #I'm keen to start seeing some plotlines start marrying up #I'm totally on board for some more cruel twists with the final showdown #and the HA's troubles from a mysterious foe #need to get less mysterious and fast

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thewarriorandtheking · 5 years ago

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The Warrior Revealed

The Warrior Queen: The Warrior and The King Book II

Chapter 9. The Warrior Revealed

******************************************

Thorin took a deep breath and kissed Kaylea’s neck, waiting for his mind to catch up with his body. He felt as if every inch of his body was vibrantly alive, like sparks were dancing over his skin, the sensation intense and sustained. After a moment he moved to lay beside her, she too was breathing deeply, her whole body flushed. They lay together for a time, feeling the sweat start to dry on their bodies. Thorin took Kaylea’s hand in his and brought it to his lips.

“I have missed you so much,” she said. She shifted to settle herself in his soft bed, the light from the fire bathing her naked body in red light.

“Then why leave again, my love?” Thorin asked quietly.

Kaylea shook her head, she pushed herself up to sit back against the pillows. “We have talked about this.”

“And we have still not reached an agreement,” Thorin scowled at her. “I have done all you asked of me. My line is secure, my kingdom prospers, the alliances of Erebor are strong.” He moved to kneel on the bed beside her, taking her hands in his. “Every time you ride away I convince myself that you are right, that we should wait, but as soon as I have you in my arms again I know I will never be complete until you are with me always. Will you marry me?”

Kaylea met his gaze, her face pleading. “Thorin, do not tempt me! You know I cannot.”

Thorin’s face went dark. There was an edge to his voice as he spoke. “If it is true you love me as much as you say, then you must tell me once and for all why we cannot be together. I am tired of all the secrecy, I am tired of waiting. I will have an answer. You owe me that.”

Kaylea looked at him for a long moment. Thorin could see she was weighing something in her mind. At length she spoke. “Very well. You are right, I have put it off too long. But it is easier if I show you. We will need to go for a ride.”

Thorin frowned at her. “You cannot just tell me?”

She shook her head. “It would be just words. If I show you, it will make better sense.”

Thorin bent over to kiss her gently. “How long then must I wait for my answer, my love?”

“A half day’s ride. We must go to the north, toward the Misty Mountains.” Kaylea ran her hands up over his chest. “We can leave now, if you wish.”

Thorin grinned. “The morning is soon enough.”

It was mid-morning the next day before Thorin and Kaylea set out from Erebor. Thorin felt such a rush of nostalgia when she mounted her horse and reached down to pull him up behind her. This was how he remembered falling in love with her all those years ago, that wild night chasing orcs through the forest, his arms around her waist, that smell of sage and pines in her hair. He remembered how badly he had wanted to kiss her on the neck then, now he could do it. Kaylea felt his lips on her neck and turned her head to look at him.

“Feel like old times?”

Thorin chuckled. “Better than old times,” he said. “I do not have to worry where I am putting my hands.” He reached around to put his hands inside her coat. Kaylea put a hand on his and clicked her tongue to her horse.

“If you bite me, I bite you back,” she said.

Thorin chuckled.“I hope that is a promise.”

Her horse trotted out the gate and across the bridge, Ajax loping ahead. As Kaylea had said they started north around the foot of the Lonely Mountain then turned west to the foothills of the mountains. Once they were on the open road Kaylea gave her horse his head and he ran like the wind. It still astonished Thorin how fast these black horses were, this one seemed the fastest of any Kaylea had brought. Watching her grey wolf run ahead of the horse made Thorin think of Hector, and all the time they had spent together so many years ago. He still missed that black wolf, though Ajax was much friendlier.

With the dire wolf setting the pace they were in the foothills of the mountains in hours, by then her horse had slowed to a reaching trot. They headed up a slope and when they reached the top Thorin saw a wide, flat basin surrounded by hills. The air was quite still at the bottom, there was no sound of birds or wind between the rocks. All was empty and silent, just grass and what looked like one of Kaylea’s black horses grazing across the meadow.

Kaylea let Thorin down and got off her horse. She unbridled her horse and turned him loose to graze. Ajax came up and leaned against Thorin, who scratched the back of his head with a bit of apprehension. Kaylea turned to him, her face deadly serious. “My king, once you have seen this there is no going back,” she said gravely. “If you wish to accept the explanation, I have given you we can continue on as we have before, with the possibility we can be together in the future. After I show you this everything will be changed.”

Thorin looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment, wondering at her words. What can she show me in an empty valley? He drew himself up, folding his arms across his chest. “I want my explanation.”

Kaylea turned toward the open expanse, she reached up and touched the side of her neck. “Turn the cloak off,” she said.

“General, what are you doing?” Came the answer from out of thin air, Thorin jumped. Whatever it was it spoke Khuzdul. And did it just call her General?

“Making a point,” Kaylea responded. “Turn it off.”

Suddenly a giant winged vessel appeared in front of them. Thorin started and gasped in surprise, Where had that come from? One moment there had been nothing, now there was this emormous thing. It was larger than the freighting ships that sailed the seas but looked more like a giant bird, made entirely of metal. It had wings that almost touched the edges of the valley, and sat on two giant supports, like an enormous eagle about to take off. Almost immediately his Dwarvish curiosity took over and he started looking at the joints in the metal, the elegant shape of it, wondering how it was built. As he was studying it a wide platform descended from the belly of the thing, becoming a ramp leading inside. Kaylea walked forward and put a foot on the ramp, she turned to look at Thorin.

“You once told me the marvels of my country would not frighten you,” she said flatly. “Are you coming?”

Thorin took a deep breath and followed her, now her warning was making sense. It was all very strange but he trusted her, Kaylea would not be leading him to his doom. They walked up into a wide space, divided into compartments. There were a variety of things stored here, odd-looking wheeled wagons, metal cases stacked high, one compartment looked like a kind of workshop and there was one was filled with those strange metal weapons, lined up on racks. Thorin paused, then stepped in run his hand over them. There were many different types, a few like the one Kaylea always had with her, and there were others that were smaller, that could fit in the hand.

“No,” Kaylea said. Thorin looked at her with a sideways grin.

“You seem to have quite a few. How could you miss just one?”

“No,” she said again. At the far end of the space was another ramp, steeper that curled to the right. They followed it up to a corridor with doors opening off it. On one side the hallway opened up into a wide space, Thorin could see counters and storage, table and benches, some kind of soft couches on one side. At the end of the hallway was another, smaller room with a wide window that wrapped over it. There was a curving slanted table made of what looked like dark glass, many lights somehow blinking under the glass. There were two comfortable looking chairs against this table and a number of different ones along the wall behind, all but two folded up. One of the chairs was occupied by a very large cat with bright orange fur, dressed like a Man in a sleeveless vest-type garment, soft breeches and high black boots. He was reading a book, the end of his short-haired tail twitching at his feet. He looked at Thorin with mild surprise as he walked in.

“Good afternoon, your majesty,” he said in a deep raspy voice. It was not the voice Thorin had heard outside, but the creature also spoke Khuzdul..

“Have we met?” Thorin asked, looking at the creature nervously.

“In a way.”

“Thorin, this is Pilot Ahk-Set. He is a Kzin and a telepath. That means he can read your mind, among other things,” Kaylea said. She moved towards the slanted table, as she put her fingers on it, different lights appeared. Thorin looked back at Pilot.

“Does that mean you know what I am thinking?” He asked. The Kzin nodded.

“Kind of like breathing for me, your majesty.”

Thorin frowned, he realized why the Kzin looked familiar. This was the cat he had seen in Galadriel’s Mirror, he recognized the odd-looking ears. Webbed, like the wings of a bat and they moved up and down as he spoke. Although many events of the last fifty years faded in his memory, everything Thorin had seen in Galadriel’s Mirror he remembered with absolute clarity.

The light changed and Thorin looked back towards Kaylea. The view out the window had disappeared, replaced by the night sky. As Thorin watched, different colored lines snaked across the sky, he noticed there was a blinking yellow light on the left side.

Kaylea turned to face him. “This is a map of the galaxy,” she began. “Every star you see in the night sky is a sun like the one above us now. Around every star are worlds like Middle Earth, some are hotter or colder, some are inhabited by strange creatures,” she gestured toward Pilot. “A great many are inhabited by different races of Men.” She turned back toward the window, pointing to the blinking light. “That is Middle Earth, this is Dorsai.” She touched the counter and another blinking light appeared high on the right side.

Thorin sat down almost involuntarily in one of the chairs along the wall, stunned. “You come from the stars?” He asked incredulously.

Kaylea nodded. “Yes.”

Thorin looked at the map again, the blinking lights. He was starting to feel panic rising in his chest. Then suddenly, he felt calmer. As he looked at the map, names came to him for the different colored lines on the map: Second Empire, Kzin, Vorlon, Dubari, Hive. The names of some of the major races of the galaxy, these were the borders of their empires. When he looked around the room: console, viewscreen, spaceship, bridge, computer. It was the oddest feeling to look at things he had never seen and know what they were called and what they did. He gave the Kzin a sideways glance.

The cat shrugged. “It was not very nice of her to hit you with it like that,” he looked at Kaylea who was frowning at him. “I can stop, if you prefer.”

Thorin really did not like the idea of someone else being in his head, and his sense of panic had passed. “I am fine now,” he said, though he was tempted to ask the Kzin to continue. He looked back at Kaylea. “Go on, my love.”

Kaylea’s fingers danced over the console. “This large area outlined in white is the Empire, of which Dorsai is a part. More than a thousand planets now. I can travel in this ship to any of them.” She brought up a picture of a large globe, green and blue and white. A second blue globe was surrounding it. “Middle Earth is different. It is surrounded by an impenetrable shield wall. The only one of its kind, it keeps the planet hidden and no one can get through it without permission. This is how my lord Blackwolf protects your planet. Without it this place would be very different, believe me.” She turned to Thorin. “Blackwolf guards all the entrances, he holds all the keys. When he wants me to do something for him on Middle Earth, he gives me permission to get through the shield, but only for whatever length of time he thinks the mission will take.”

Thorin frowned. “You said he does this to protect Middle Earth?”

Kaylea nodded. “This was his home, he will not let it be destroyed by others. You have no idea how extraordinary your planet is. I do not agree with my lord on many things, but the protection of Middle Earth is one of them.”

“But why does he need to protect it from you? Are you not a loyal retainer? I do not understand why you cannot travel here freely.”

Kaylea sighed. “That is part of a much longer conversation about Blackwolf. He knows I love this place so he makes sure I can only come here at his will. It is a way he can have power over me. Several times in the past I have been able to travel here on my own time by calling in favors Blackwolf owes me. After this war is over he will owe me many favors. I have an idea of how I can travel often to Middle Earth, but I cannot even ask him until we win this war.”

“If we win it,” Thorin said, shaking his head. “It seems this Lord of yours treats you very poorly.” He put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, trying to let all he had just seen and heard sink in. Thorin had seen many fabulous things in his life, but it was usually one or two in a day, not so many at once. It was all so fantastic, but there was no other explanation for the things he was seeing that made any sense. He felt that calming sensation again. Things started to rearrange themselves in his head, in a way he could grasp them better. It was amazing, but also rather frightening that he suddenly knew what Kaylea was talking about. He looked over at the Kzin, who shrugged.

“A hard habit to break, your majesty.” Pilot got up and put one of his four-fingered hands on Thorin’s shoulder. “How about a drink?” Thorin looked up at him. The Kzin was very tall, taller even than Kaylea.

“How about seven?” Thorin replied.

Kaylea led the way into the galley. They took seats on the curved bench behind the table while Pilot opened a cupboard and took out three glasses and a bottle. This was a different liquor than the one Kaylea usually brought with her, this one was blue. Pilot poured the shots, then raised his glass, Kaylea did as well.

“Welcome to the galaxy, my king,” she said. Thorin clicked his glass to theirs and drank it down. The liquor was smooth and strong, with a sweet aftertaste. Pilot poured another round, Thorin knocked his back and had to admit he did feel better. He looked around, amazed at all the metal in this spaceship. Metal floors, metal walls, metal furniture. How could they make such a thing? And why not add some decoration?

“Do you not get tired of all the grey?” He asked, looking around. Kaylea smiled.

“No, we can be anywhere.” She spoke a strange word and the walls suddenly disappeared, replaced with a green forest of broad-leafed trees. Sunlight came through the canopy in long shafts, the leaves moving in a slight breeze. Thorin could see a wide pool with at waterfall dropping into it on the wall across from him. It was weird to still see the doors and table in the middle of this forest. The word hologram popped into his head, the walls projected moving pictures, recorded in different locations. He looked at Pilot, who nodded to him.

“This is my planet,” he said. “We actually developed this, we Kzin hate to be confined for long periods and space travel requires us to spend many days at a time in these ships.”

Kaylea spoke another word and they were in a grassy meadow, the sea before them, mountains falling steeply to the ocean beside them. Thorin’s eyes went wide, he recognized it at once. He slid off the bench and stood up, turned around to see a large keep on the wall behind the table. Crenelated towers and walls, old stone, solidly built.

“Where is this?” He asked. Kaylea looked at him curiously.

“This is Tor Graham, my home,” she replied.

Thorin turned around taking in the view. This was the spot he had seen in the Mirror, where they were to be married, he was sure of it. Galadriel had told him the future was never set, but his heart was racing. This was the place!

Kaylea was watching him closely. “You have seen this before.”

Thorin nodded. “It is in that portrait you gave me,” he said, which was true.

Kaylea nodded. “Of course, I had forgotten.” It seemed to her he was remembering something more than just her portrait.

She got up and retrieved two bottles of beer from the provisions unit, she opened them and walked over to hand one to Thorin. He took it gratefully, sipped at it as he studied the view. The ocean was blue grey, he could almost hear it crashing against the cliff below. There was a breeze blowing the grass underfoot, waterfalls worked their way down steep paths in the mountains to either side, the sun high in the sky, the light seemed more blue than that on Middle Earth. He was going to be married out among the stars, his life had taken some strange turns, this would be the strangest.

“How about some dinner?” Kaylea asked. Thorin nodded. He was not particularly hungry, but the idea of eating seemed so normal among all the unbelievable things he had just seen and heard. He went back to sit at the table while Kaylea and Pilot busied themselves in the kitchen. It was not like any cooking he had ever seen, mostly opening packages and doors and pressing buttons. Kaylea brought two plates to the table of some kind of spicy curry dish that smelled delicious. Pilot was eating what looked like a huge slab of liver, he gave a second one to Ajax, who eagerly devoured it. Thorin looked from Kaylea to her Kzin pilot.

“Does Pilot talk to you in your head, like the wolves do?”

Kaylea smiled. “What Pilot can do is far more precise, as he just showed you. But he cannot get into my head. I have defenses against telepaths,” she said. Pilot snorted. “The kind of telepathy the dire wolves use is different. Even I do not quite understand how.” She smiled at the Kzin. “Kzin telepaths are incredibly powerful, but like all telepaths they are fond of silence. He has no reason to try to get into my mind.”

Thorin gave Pilot a puzzled look. “You read minds when you do not want to?”

“Telepaths are not supposed to, but when we are around people with unshielded minds it is like they are shouting all the time,” the Kzin said. “We have to consciously keep them out.”

Thorin felt oddly embarrassed he had been shouting, wondering what the Kzin must think of him. “You said we had met before.”

Pilot nodded. “I was at the Battle of the Five Armies, though you did not see me. Ever wonder why all those cave trolls kept dropping dead?”

Thorin stared at him. “That was you?” Everyone had assumed it was Gandalf.

Kaylea chuckled. “Telepaths are formidable weapons, the things they can do never cease to amaze.”

Pilot chuckled. “You should hear what is being said about you two in that Dwarf city. Kissing each other in a public street, half the place is talking about a wedding.”

Thorin stared at the Kzin. “Are you telling me you can read the minds of people all the way in Erebor?” He shook his head in realization, smiling. “I guess that is not any more extraordinary than the other things I have seen today.”

Pilot nodded gravely. “Kzin originally bred telepaths for communication between planets, as well as for war. Your city is not that far away.”

“So, the people approve?” Kaylea asked.

Pilot shrugged. “A 70-30 split. All the men are for it, of course,” he smiled at Kaylea. “You rule over a rare group of subjects, your majesty. I think they will support you in anything you choose to do.” He got up and poured himself a glass of water, nodding toward Thorin. “I hope you are keeping him, I like him.”

Kaylea laughed. “Oh yes, I am keeping him. If he still wants me.”

The Kzin turned and disappeared down the hall to the bridge without a further word. Thorin watched him go, wondering if the fact Pilot liked him was a good sign. Kaylea got up and gathered the dinner dishes, depositing them in a slot under the counter. Thorin was on his feet again, looking around at the hologram they were standing in, trying to remember every detail of it and also make sense of everything he had seen today. Kaylea came over and handed him another beer then went to sit on the couch.

“I warned you that everything will be different now,” she said.

“Some things are still the same, my love” Thorin replied following to sit next to her, he reached over to touch her face. He had long known there were many things she had not told them, he had never expected them to be so strange. But when he looked in his heart, his feelings for her had not changed.

Kaylea met his gaze, putting her hand over his. “You do not feel differently about me? Now you know where I am really from, now that you know what really separates us?”

Thorin had to smile. “I always knew you were not from anywhere near here, now I know just how far.” He shook his head. “I find it does not change the extraordinary connection we share or the fact that I love you and still want to marry you. Though I am not sure what kind of life we will lead together.”

Thorin could see the relief on Kaylea’s face, her eyes filled with tears. She pulled him close to her and kissed him. After a moment Thorin pulled back to wipe the tears from her cheeks, smiling.

“You really thought all this would harden my heart against you, or send me running in terror? You do not know me as well as you think, my love.” He kissed her again, his hand travelling under her shirt to touch the skin of her back.

“My king,” Kaylea began, after a moment. “Now you know what you are asking when you ask me to marry you. I want you to think carefully about it before you speak of it again. I am not sure yet what form a life together might take, but you can see how different it may be.” Thorin started to speak, but Kaylea put a finger on his lips. “Do not answer yet.”

“Very well, I will think about it. I promise.” He sat back next to her, holding her hand. “Can we go to that place with the ice ships?”

Kaylea spoke a word and the scene changed. They were on the deck of a huge wooden ship, full sails and running from the wind. Thorin looked around and saw a sea of ice. There was a large island on the other wall with what looked like a small seaport clinging to its side. Thorin looked around, fascinated. There were many stranger things across the horizon than he had ever dreamed.

The complete adventures of The Warrior and The King are posted on AO3 & FanFiction, author is akdogdriver. All three books now also on Wattpad.

#fanfiction #thorin x oc #thorin fanfiction #tolkien fanfic #jrr tolkien #the hobbit #lord of the rings #thorin oakenshield #true love #middle earth #fantasy adventure #fanfic

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