#and there's something to FUTILE about throwing stones into the sea

[backjustforberena]

EVE BEST as ROSALINE WARD in “Maryland” 1x02 -  ( footage thanks to @evebestonline )

[mintmatcha]

jjk manga spoilers:

It's a simple headstone. No dates or adornments are carved into the stone, just his name. Yellow flowers wilt in the vase at the base, their cold rotted petals already begun to drop and scatter themselves across the granite. The tiny amount of water that was once in the bottom is frozen over, locking the stems in place. You crouch down and unscrew the cap to your water bottle to top it off anyway, a futile nicety.

"His sister must have been here." Nanami's breath curls at he talks. Against the sea sick winter sky, he looks paler than ever, almost the same grey as the clouds that threaten to spill even more snow. He stands there and watches, eyes tipped low.

"Mhm," you hum, picking up each petal individually and gathering them in your palm, "This morning."

She had texted you in warning, to make sure your paths didn't cross. Maybe it was too painful to see you, maybe she just wanted to respect her brother's wishes to avoid the sorcerer world. Either way, you can't seen her face since she was a child. Either way, it was better this way.

You take the piles of gold you've collected and pile it below his name. There's not quite enough to form a heart, so it kind of looks like a butt.

Haibara Yu: butt.

He'd laugh at that. Probably a bit too hard.

Nanami breaks the thin layer of humor and it shatters, like ice underfoot.

"I still can't believe he's gone."

Sometimes, when you fight sleep for much too long, you swear you can feel his hand in yours, warm, plush, and soft just like always. You cried when they changed the way they made his old deodorant because it'll never smell the same.

"Me neither." you agree as placidly as you can.

"It's strange to think it's been ten years." He breathes into his hands to warm them, the slightly hint of pink returning to the tips of his fingers, "You two would have been married by now."

"Nana, you're so dramatic," you offer the wisp of a laugh, "Yu and I were, what? 16? 17?"

Seventeen. You knew that for sure. He called you his little dancing queen on your birthday and balked when you didn't know the reference.

"Even if he was still with us, we probably would have gone our separate ways." Your knees already ache from squatting like this. Age and use have already set into your joints. "He'd probably be--"

Your imagination fails you. You're unrecognizable from who you once were. He would be the same, nothing more than an unknowable possibility that you never had the chance to meet. Haibara will always be the boy you once loved and the boy you still do. You'll never be the same.

"He'd probably be doing something much better than hanging with me."

If you passed each other on the street, would he recognize you? Would you recognize yourself?

The wind sighs. Someone down the way is speaking, voice mumbling just below audible. A warm hand cups your shoulder, and the thumb traces a line back and forth, back and forth.

Grief is a shared experience. You and Nanami are linked by it.

"He loved you," Nanami says, "Very much. I don't know if he would have ever let you go."

The rhythm of your heart bounces against your ribcage, even paced as you stand. The feel of it chips away the pit in your stomach, crumbling away bits and pieces of yourself and letting them fall away.

Your companion throws an arm around your shoulder and hesitates before pressing a kiss into your temple. His lips are warm compared to the day and his grasp is firm. Everything about it is chaste and platonic, filled with unspoken comforts.

If Yu was alive, he wouldn't wear the same scents he did as a child. His hands wouldn't be the same width you remember, his laugh the same timber. He would change, just how you've changed in immeasurable ways since you were seventeen.

And yet, the fact remains that you still love him, same as before.

Maybe Nanami is right. Maybe, if things were different, Yu would still be in love with you.

"Ten whole years." You wipe your face with the back of your hand, "Feels like no time's passed at all."

[etherati]

Taproot - (6/25)

So I guess Wednesdays just aren't a great day for this, so let's call it Thursday and Sunday, going forward! Also gonna start adding music recs for each chapter, but feel free to ignore if you feel like it would be too distracting. Will edit the old chapters to include them.

Content warnings: Canon-typical violence, Sypha and Alucard being on the cover of a romance novel, and a lot of vampires getting melted. HYDROSTORM!!!

🎵 Music pairing: Whatever It Takes - Imagine Dragons

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Solstice night. The longest night. The sun set hours ago, here on the coast of the Black Sea, tracking its way westward toward the foothills and the mountains beyond them and, eventually, all the rest of Europe. Toward home. 

Will it be dark there, yet? Will the wolves be closing in?

Sypha can’t justify hiding herself away as she waits, not tonight. The waiting has become a desperate vigil, something that recognizes its own futility but refuses to bend under the weight of that recognition. But tonight is important and if she is here, if she must still be here against all her wishes, she will at least be present for it.

She’s cleaved close to the people she cares most about all evening: her grandfather, Lily and Arn, Kiri, the others who kept her family group knit together when outside forces did their best to claw it apart, all those years ago. They eat, fresh bread from the cooking stones and warm rabbit stew, laced with exotic spices from all over their people’s collective range, little pops of heat and sweetness and green earthiness, peppery and rich. 

It’s a celebration meal. Tomorrow morning, the sun is reborn. She knows that isn’t how it really works—has seen the planetary models in the castle library, knows that the sun is a fixed point and certainly neither lives nor dies—but that’s never really been the point. It’s a midpoint, a way to mark time, and the lengthening days mean warmth and easier travel and eventually better food stores.

In front of her, the bonfire crackles, raging mindlessly, consuming its fuel, throwing embers; something about it steals the breath from her lungs for just a moment. It feels something like the weight of sudden, unbearable prophecy, but almost more primitive than that. Inescapable, not like fate is inescapable but like gravity is inescapable.

There’s a shimmering off to her side, and it draws her attention before she consciously acknowledges it. It’s like a heat mirage, rising from the road in midsummer, and it hangs human-sized in the air, obscuring everything behind it. Caught up as she is in the breathless oppression of the fire, it takes Sypha a moment to realize what she’s looking at.

The mirror.

It’s—it’s the mirror. They got the message, they—they’re alive, and they got her message, and this is her passage home— but—

“Sypha?” her grandfather says from her other side, settling one hand on her shoulder. “That is what you have been waiting for, no?”

“It is, but...” 

But something isn’t right. She squints into the shimmer, can make out the far wall of the study, but no one has come through to greet her. What if—what if her message fell into the wrong hands? What if this is a trick? What if—

Then, in the haze: a body flying past in flames, and a very familiar figure following after it, the brilliant glow of the chain whip’s weighted end tearing through the space ahead of him. A hoarse cry. Wood splintering, glass breaking. There’s a splash of blood across the far wall, vibrant and lurid, and was that there a second ago?

In any event: that answers that.

“Okay,” she says, shouldering the pack she hasn’t let out of her sight for days, bracing herself for whatever she finds on the other side. Her boys are in trouble; they need her. “I’m going.”

Her grandfather makes a nonverbal noise, like someone restraining themselves from saying what their heart most wants to express. It’s dangerous. Stay here. Stay safe with us.

“Good luck, my angel,” is all he actually says—or, if he says more, it’s lost to her as she leaps into the breach, sound and vision smearing, reality disappearing up itself in a twisting, sucking inversion that leaves her, momentarily, unsure that the physical world ever existed, that she ever, in fact, had a body—

—then suddenly she’s there, and the shift from quiet night spaces, the calm hiss and pop of the fire, to this cacophony—it sets Sypha’s every nerve on end, her entire body protesting everything about what just happened in waves of churning nausea. She fights it down. Not the time. Not the fucking time. 

Her pack hits the floor hard and she casts around, urgent, taking it all in.

There are at least eight… enemy combatants, in the study with them. They look like vampires but they’re acting more like mindless monsters, with none of the grace she’d seen in their combat against Dracula’s generals. No weapons. No subtlety. Just tooth and claw, and speed, and ferocity. Feral.

They’ve got Adrian cornered against the far bookshelf, swiping and charging from every angle. He has a bloody gash across his face, his hair stuck to the wound, ghoulish. His eyes are wild from the fight, nearly as wild as those surrounding him. He has his sword in hand—not in the air, not aiding him as she knows it can when he’s at his best, but simply slashing inelegantly at arm’s length, keeping the surrounding vampires at bay.

She visualizes a fireball between her fingers, wills it into existence—wastes no time thinking about why he’s having so much trouble, and sends it straight into the thickest knot of them. Demons might resist flame but vampires, she knows with certainty, burn. 

Two of them light up, screaming, filling the air with the acridness of burning flesh—then the Morning Star comes slashing through out of nowhere, ripping one of the feral vampires just about in half even as it embeds itself in the next one over, waves of energy rippling through it to blow the second one apart from the inside out. 

That’s four down. That’s good.

“The mirror!” Trevor shouts to Adrian, and she’s not sure he even knows she’s here yet, as preoccupied as he is with getting the mob off of Adrian. He swings the whip again, a good amount of its length coiled around his fist to shorten the throw in this confined space—lands only a glancing blow, enough to enrage but not really damage, an ugly welt burned across the vampire’s face.

It hisses, furious. Sypha readies another fireball, to back up the missed shot. Trevor smirks into the thing’s face, unaccountably smug.

“Oh, that hurt, didn’t it?” he snarls, swinging the bladed star almost lazily in between them. Taunting. Backing his way toward the door, the staircase leading down. “Come on, I’m a way more interesting target than prince prissy-hair, here.” 

Ah. He missed on purpose—he’s trying to goad them away from Adrian. And it’s working; they’re worked up, agitated, and maybe it’s the smell of Belmont blood so nearby, dripping from his hand where it clutches the whip’s handle, but they’re peeling away from Adrian, easing their predatory, monstrous way toward Trevor instead. 

That’s all the window Adrian needs—with a pained hiss, he phases through the gap they’ve cut for him, right to Sypha’s side. Turns to the mirror without a thought, hair hanging lank and bloodied in his face, red-stained claws working at the mirror’s surface. Working to shut it down, she realizes with a chill—to seal it, so that none of their attackers decides to go barreling through and have Speaker for dessert.  

A lot of things happen all at once, then. 

Trevor doesn’t have a straight shot to the door—there’s one coming up behind him, cutting that path off, and with a shout, Sypha sends the fireball she’s been holding straight into its face. It catches fire, screams and flails, is easy for Trevor to sweep aside and get past, but there are suddenly more of them in the room than there had been and oh, they’re coming through the windows. Right through what should have been impenetrable wards.

Adrian seals the mirror, the Speaker camp fading from the glass. He turns to her, as if he’s just now noticing she’s there. A shrieking, wild-eyed vampire drops from the window behind them, and before she can even summon more flame, the sword in Adrian’s hand has whipped out and cleaved it cleanly in two.

“Sypha,” he breathes, staring; he didn’t even take his eyes off her to make the strike. They’re wide, wild with red, desperate and longing—and before she knows what’s happening he’s sweeping her up with an arm around her waist, pulling her into a kiss that is nothing short of ravenous. He doesn’t even try to be gentle, as he usually is with her; it’s all teeth and  possession, a primal sort of hunger that seeks to pleasure but also to claim, to make her moan and make her bleed, to turn her world inside out. 

It is, frankly, a fantastic kiss.

But it goes on just a touch too long, in the circumstances—they surely paint an attractive picture, Adrian with his bloody sword held aloft, Sypha with her hands ringed in fire, the two of them locked in the impassioned embrace of lovers too long separated. But they are being just a little bit invaded by vampires, and that fact demands attention, demands focus.

“Okay,” she says against his mouth, putting her hands flat to his chest and pushing; he’s immovable when he wants to be, but he’s learned these cues and he bends to it now, letting her put space between them. “Kill vampires now. Continue that later?”

A flash in his eyes, a sharp-toothed grin, and he swings back into action—maybe not as graceful as he usually is, maybe a little rushed, but no less lethal with that blade, now that he’s out from being cornered.

When she looks, she realizes that Trevor’s gone, off down the staircase already, most of the remaining vampires on his tail, and it’s the effort of a mere thought to fill that corridor with flame, purge the creatures in pursuit of their hunter, give them nothing but embers and ash to pass through to find their way back to his side.

“How the fuck are they getting through the wards?” Trevor mutters; he doesn’t expect an answer, is too busy dodging a wild, animalistic swipe of claws through the space his face had just been in, moments before. He catches the arm on its way by, lets the beast’s momentum carry it face-first into the stone of the staircase wall, taking advantage of it being momentarily stunned stupid to slam a throwing knife through its throat. The body tumbles down the stairs, out of sight.

“They’re old,” Adrian says from beside him, his presence crowding in on Trevor’s, which is comforting enough when he’d thought himself alone, but then—

“They’re not that old,” a familiar voice, one he hasn’t heard in two weeks, sharp and a little flustered and no wonder, dropping into the middle of an assault with no warning.

“Sypha,” he says, sheer relief, and before she can go on a tirade about the fact that wards don’t work that way, they don’t just turn off when they age, something else is going on and he knows, he knows—he reaches out and pulls her in by the back of her neck, presses a quick kiss to her temple, breathes her in. It’s the contact of an instant but in that instant: soft curl of hair against his cheek, smell of salt air and wood smoke, magic shimmering beneath his lips like a second skin.

“I missed you too,” she says, smirking a little as he breaks away, leans to peer around the archway. “But Adrian has your greeting beaten by a mile.”

“Yeah, well,” Trevor says, no patience for mincing words. “That’s because apparently the solstice makes vampires go feral, and in his special case that translates to ‘horny as fuck’.”

“Trevor…” Adrian growls, warning.

“Really?” Sypha asks, something in the tone saying that she already believes him. Trevor spares half a second to wonder what he missed, bailing out of the study like he did. 

“Oh yeah,” he says, hooking the chain whip back to his belt, reaching to unsheathe the sword instead. The staircase is narrow and winding, and anything coming up it to meet them will be in close quarters before they can blink. He edges down the stairs, one at a time, hyperfocused on the space in front of them. “Shame we’re being invaded, this could have been a really fun night.”

“Belmont.”

Sypha laughs, all nerves, magic crackling around her. “You would have had me miss that?”

“Oh my God, no,” Trevor says, grinning despite himself, despite the situation. Suddenly, everything feels right again; it feels like things can be okay, if they just hold onto their wits and see this through, try not to get sloppy. “You’d have to be here, or he’d wear me the fuck out.”

“If we are quite done discussing this,” Adrian says from behind them, glower audible in his voice; when Trevor risks a glance up and behind at him, he can see that the gash on his face is nearly closed, that his eyes are still bright with blood but not like they’d been before. There’s a focus there now, a clarity, that he’d lacked. Good enough. “Can we consider having an actual plan?”

“What,” Trevor says, “and ruin our perfect record of jumping into things blind and pulling off stunning victories regardless?”

“They haven’t all been stunning.”

“But they have all been victories.”

“Yes, yes,” Sypha cuts in, already sounding exasperated. “Recklessness is very dashing, until it isn’t anymore.”

And Trevor’s about to say something smartarsed in return, then stops himself, wonders for a moment if all this solstice madness is catching, because of course she’s completely, totally right. “Fine, okay. Got any ideas?”

“What do they want?” Sypha asks, voice low. 

Trevor jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Adrian, self-explanatory. “Single-minded, too. Took a lot to get them to go after me instead.”

“I saw some of that,” she says, considering. “So should we hide him, or…?”

Adrian grumbles something disagreeable; Trevor ignores him. “What I want to do is hide him under a rock somewhere, yeah.” That’s what his gut wants, what his heart wants. The screams echoing through the stone walls, vampires breaching their defenses anywhere there’s a window, are a solid reminder of why he needs to listen to his head instead, right now. “What would be smart to do is use him to lure them out into the open and take them all out at once.”

“Can you do that?”

Right, she isn’t up to date on all of their preparations yet. He scrapes the sword lightly against the stone as they descend, hoping to draw out anything that’s waiting for them around the next turn. “If you’re okay with no hot baths for a while.” 

“That was supposed to be an option of last resort,” Adrian protests vaguely. 

“Yeah, well, that was when we thought we had control over their points of entry and assumed we could bottleneck them,” Trevor says, and he can hear the irritation in his own voice. “Some of the variables have shifted. Besides, we hide you away, all that’s going to do is drive them into every nook and cranny in this place looking for you. It’ll take weeks to root them all out.”

“I’m not in favor of hiding—”

“All right, then,” Trevor whispers, drawing to a halt; up around the next bend, the light’s different, brighter. Intersection? Open landing? He almost never takes this staircase. “Do you have another suggestion?”

“We go down to the hall and we fight,” Adrian grits out, still sounding a little breathy, a little wild. “Keep the water as a backup plan, but try to fight them off first.”

Trevor shakes his head, sighs in frustration. “That could rack up casualties. Who’s being reckless now?”

Just a low growl in response, and okay, frustration is no longer the word; Trevor has officially fucking had it with this.

“No,” he says, turning to take hold of the collar of Adrian’s jacket; he tosses Sypha a look that he hopes conveys Cover the stairwell for me while I talk some sense into this idiot. Bright orange lights up between them all as she primes a spell. “You don’t just growl and get your way, that isn’t how this works.”

That seems to shake him—the snarling, bloodstained visage collapses into a mask of shame, flush rising up his face. “I wasn’t trying to threaten—”

“Listen to me, Adrian,” Trevor interrupts, because good God do they not have time for a guilt spiral. “You’re not thinking clearly right now. You’re spoiling for a fight and I get it, okay? I do. But a fight will get people killed. It could get one of us killed. And normally we wouldn’t have a choice but to risk it, but we’re in a crazy position right now—we have a way to take out all of them with minimal casualties, and it would be beyond insane not to use it.”

A huff of breath, defiant. “You don’t have to—they only want me.”

“Yeah, they do. They want you dead, and they want it bad, and they’re not going to have a, a civilized duel with you following the rules of engagement, all right?” Not that the dhampir could even handle that, right now, but Trevor’s not going to push his luck by provoking ego. “Adrian. I need you to trust me, I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“We have talked about this,” Sypha adds, not looking up from where she’s sighting down the length of her arm, flame at the ready. “We trust each other, and we work together.”

Something about the sound of her voice, so familiar and so painfully absent for the last two weeks, seems to get through to Adrian where his own words have failed—she plucks a chord in him, or maybe just completes one, the dissonance of two notes rounding out into three, and it’s like watching a sleepwalker come back to themselves.

“Of course,” Adrian says, finally, reaching to sheathe his mother’s bloodied sword; in this close, tight corridor it would be next to useless anyway. He draws the knife from his other hip, settles it comfortably in his hand. “Lead the way.”

Isabel had not been lying when she told the Belmont: she is no commander of soldiers. She had still hoped that, crazed as their attackers are tonight, her thoughtful leadership and the Belmont’s tactical prowess would give them enough of an edge to keep the enemy forces from breaching the castle.

Hope, it turns out, while not completely useless, does not win battles. 

She’s out here with her four ranged comrades, and Belmont had brought them an entire crate of bolts from who knows where; they’re not in danger of running out. But they’re also making little headway. Have they managed to thin the attacking mob? Yes. Have they eliminated it? Not by a long shot. A bigger force than they expected, maybe, but four marksmen just aren’t enough.

So. Fine. There are other ways to go about this.

The crossbow bolts are still whizzing dangerously close as she darts out of cover, gets a running leap off of the stone banister, jumps directly into the fray. The bodies are thickest where the massive doors have started to bow inward, the insane strength of those bodies undirected except for the most basic drive: break down the doors, get into the castle. 

She lands among them, claws three of their throats out before they even register her presence. It’s easy to duck and weave among them, their reflexes dulled by bloodlust and unused to seeing their own kind as an enemy, and so she tries to carve the still-beating heart of the mob out of its chest, winnows and thins them from within.

A crossbow bolt plants itself into a vampire’s eye socket, less than a foot from her own. The sound of metal striking dense, heavy bone echoes in her ears, as does the screaming that follows. In the single moment’s disorientation, she catches a set of claws across her face, splitting her cheek open down to the bone, and without a second thought she takes hold of the arm that did it, snaps it in two, reels the attacker in and drives her own claws into his throat.

And if this is all she can do now, be a whirlwind of claws that rends apart her own people, the ones who would ruin everything she and hers have fought for—so be it. Her people have their orders; they know what they need to be doing. If she falls here, they will fight on.

There’s a horrible screaming of metal, mechanisms twisting under strain, and the doors begin to give way.

The sudden noise of the door mechanisms failing and the roaring of their invaders is jarring, harrowing, after so much silence and so much waiting. They’ve heard screams elsewhere in the castle, echoing in that labyrinthine way that teases and taunts but is impossible to ever actually track down—and they’ve stayed put, because they are those doors’ last line of defense.

Now, as the doors give way, the attackers start spilling in as soon as there’s a gap wide enough to pass a body through—climbing over one another, fighting each other to get in, some of them already bloodied, some of them injured and healing in front of their eyes. All of them mad.

On the upper landing, at the top of the stairs, Jeanne resettles her grip on her short sword, squares her stance. She stands among humans, but she is no stranger to fighting vampires; they’re always curious about her, always wanting to see how her strength holds up to theirs, how her relative lack of weaknesses will play out in a fight. She is no stranger to sparring with vampires, or with having to forcefully turn away troublemakers at her people’s gates. She has never killed one, never wanted to kill anyone, does not truly believe herself capable of facing an intelligent being and taking its life.

These, though?

These are horrifying. These aren’t people. They’re animals, monsters, slavering beasts. And they were human once—something even she cannot claim—but right now, they are just fodder for her sword and her claws, fodder for the blades and spears of the five who stand around her.  

Tomorrow, they might be different. The morning may find their sanity restored. 

Guilt can, also, come in the morning. Right now, she has a job to do.

Luca Gregori considers himself a patient man. He is practiced in all forms of acceptance, these days; he is not quick to judge. Alucard of Wallachia, infamously opposed to killing, killed his own father? He clearly had a good reason. The Belmont is more than just a general, to his Lord? The stuff of crazy gossip, maybe, but to him it’s not even worth a second thought. That vampires are not just monsters, that they are as unique as the   humans they once were and as individually responsible for their choices as anyone else—this is a foregone conclusion for him, these days. But it is perhaps for the best that he has never, before now, gone abroad on this night, because this horrorscape is enough to sour anyone on the night world.

He’s bleeding from his shoulder, where one of the beasts got their claws into him. It’s his off arm, so it’s not impeding the swing of his grandfather’s blade, but it throbs and aches and he knows it’s going to draw more of them, and the whole point of being here is to get inside and let the others know that things are going to hell—but they’re going to hell so quickly that it’s all he can do to keep fighting them off, keep the entrance he’s guarding protected.

A pause in the onslaught—a chance to draw breath, halting and rough—then another is there, is leaping clear over him, alighting on the wall above his head, clearly more interested in the window above than in tangling with him directly.

Too bad. The sword becomes a projectile, spearing the intruder through the chest as if they’re made of no more than paper; all that sharpening had a purpose. The vampire tumbles, sword and all, to his feet. Goes still.

Luca doesn’t hesitate—he pulls the blade free, brings it up as he spins back toward the open grounds, anticipating another attack.

Another attack doesn’t come.

The night isn’t silent, not remotely—but the commotion seems, suddenly, to be elsewhere. He can hear a ruckus from around the corner of the castle wall, where the main entrance sits, and he supposes that the defenses there might be falling. He considers the tactical implications of abandoning his post and offering aid.

Then, from the corner of his eye: a flicker of light, in the ruins of the old, burned out estate.

From the moment his eyes met Sypha’s in the study, from the moment he held her against him and felt her pulse racing and the heat of the fire in her hands and the determination she held in her heart to save them, to save both of them—

Adrian isn’t sure how to explain it. It feels like something that’d been swirling, dangerous and intoxicating, through his brain and his gut has, somehow, settled. It’s still there, glinting in the sediment like gold dust, begging to be stirred back up, tempting the swipe of a lazy, greedy hand. But the water between them is finally clear.

He wonders: how much of this is the blood, how much Trevor’s proximity, how much the primal desperation of longing for an absent lover?

They encounter few opponents on their descent. One of them Sypha impales with a long, deadly spear of ice, one Trevor neatly beheads, and the third falls under the bite of the traitorous blade in Adrian’s hand, screaming and bleeding. And perhaps it is too agonizing a death to inflict on anyone—but they ought not have attacked him and his loved ones, then.

He remembers Trevor saying it, in the field outside the castle: If you even breathe threateningly at me or mine—

This isn’t vengeance, he knows, shaking the blood from the blade and continuing onward. It is self-defense, defense of his home. Defense of their life, of the way they’ve chosen to live, and damn anyone who thinks they have any right to punish him for it.

When they finally reach the entry hall, when his boots land in exactly the sort of bloodstain he had hoped his new carpets would never see, the scene is utter chaos—and not all that dissimilar to the scene they themselves had broken up when they strode in that front entrance a year ago. A home under assault. Those loyal to its master standing in its defense. 

This time, though, the fighting doesn’t pull to an awed standstill when they enter the room—not that any of them expect it to.

Still, Trevor swears, low. He’d obviously been hoping the doors hadn’t failed yet, that this could be done cleanly. Now, there will have to be a fight, which means there will be losses. Scanning around, Adrian can tell that most of the unmoving bodies scattered about belong to their enemies, ragged-looking in a way that none of Isabel’s people had been, but there is a downed human among them, moaning and clutching his middle and probably not long for the world.

“Have any gotten past you?” Trevor shouts to the small knot of fighters holding the upper landing against the assault. This room was designed to be a funnel, to be easily defensible from this spot, and Trevor had been wise to only station their defenses here, rather than wasting them elsewhere in the hall. If his father’s generals had been half as savvy, the three of them would have had a much harder time taking that first victory. “Into the rest of the castle?”

“No,” a young woman snarls back, blood in her short dark hair, fangs flashing. “They’d have to kill us all first.” She brings her sword around in an elegant arc, takes her attacker’s hands clean off, then lodges the blade deep into the vampire’s ribcage to finish him off. She’s untrained—that much is obvious from the way she handles the blade like an edge and like a point alternately, depending on what she needs, but she’s fast and fluid and far stronger than any of her compatriots, and has a natural fighter’s instincts.

It makes complete sense, given that she’s Isabel’s resident dhampir. Something he’s been asked to accept in passing, as if it were a common thing. As if he’d met another in his life, ever.

Adrian’s self control is already worn to a thin patch, barely there, threadbare. It takes a monumental act of restraint to not just snatch this one up mid-battle and hide her away somewhere safe, if only to be sure she’ll live long enough to speak with him. Because as solid a fighter as she is, she’s getting overwhelmed.

He can’t do that, can’t deprive the battle of her strength. But there are other ways he can help her odds of survival.

“Belmont,” he says, reverting smoothly to formality. He draws his sword again, readies both blades. “Can you handle the water?”

“Can you get those doors closed?” Trevor counters, changing his sword out for his whip, the links clinking at the movement. On the other end of the long hall, the doors are gaping open to the night, their mechanisms stripped and ruined; there’s no one coming through them, which is a pretty good sign that they’re all already in here. Trevor sends the weighted end of the whip whispering through the air, taking his targets out with terrifying precision. “If this is going to be a killing pen,” he grunts between throws, “then we really need to close the gate.”

“I can do it,” Sypha says, looking between them, her gaze settling on Adrian, and it’s like she can see straight through him, right to the core of his anguish. “Go help them, I will handle it.”

There’s a suspended moment there—they are three again, they are together, they are within touching distance and are within each other’s grasp—and then Sypha leans in and embraces them both, quick and hard. 

And then she is, again, gone—headed down the stairs to traverse the sea of bodies that the entry hall has become, dodging and weaving around swords and claws and worse, angling to get closer to the entryway. 

Adrian watches her, watches the fluidity of her movements, the way she skirts danger so effortlessly—then her hands go into the air above her head and a gust of wind kicks up, forceful. The doors slam shut with a resonant thud.

All that’s left to do, then, is give Trevor a significant nod, the man’s hand tightening on his shoulder before letting him go— and dive into the fight.

Trevor doesn’t know exactly what Sypha had done to seal the doors, once she’d closed them. It’d apparently involved melting the moving parts and rendering them useless as doors, because she claims, in clipped shouts over the roar of fire, that they cannot be opened again now.

Which—shit. It shouldn’t have mattered, he’d all but demanded they be closed, but—

There’s a panel set into the wall here, under his hand, modeled to look like just another stone; beneath it, something Adrian connected up to the same magical—sorry, science—bullshit that lights the torches by themselves. When he presses it, it will cause an ember of flame to burn something, something that very much likes to burn, that likes it so much that it tends to explode; the pressure will tear apart the pipes running through the castle, to a lesser degree the further away it gets. But here in the main hall, it will be a downpour.

There’s a panel under his hand, and when he presses it, holy water will pour down like rain and it will melt away every vampire in the entry hall like the last grey, gritty snow of spring.

There’s also a vampire staring across at him, black braids disheveled and tattered, blood streaked across her face, fierce determination burning in the burgundy eyes. Fucking Isabel. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have followed the attackers inside, the fucking idiot; this is why the status of the doors is, suddenly, important. “Why are you—I told you not to be here, we have   to—”

“Do what you need to, Belmont,” she interrupts, steely, eyes only for the fight. “I was warned; I made my choice. I won’t have any of my people die because you dragged this out for my sake.”

“Fuck,” Trevor says, and then, because once is rarely enough: “Fuck.”

“It’s been an honor,” she says, ignoring his invectives, holding a clawed, bloody hand out expectantly.

And for just a second, Trevor just looks at it—looks back up at the landing, where her people are weakening, becoming overwhelmed, even with Adrian’s help. Looks to Sypha, summoning ice and fire, holding her own effortlessly for the moment but how long can that last?

An honor, she says. And against his best efforts, it has been.

He can’t wait. He knows that. This is their one chance to keep the casualties in their favor, and the window is narrowing. 

His hand rests on the panel. Just another ounce of pressure.

Sypha, twenty feet away, spinning solidity from the moisture in the very air, projectiles that pierce like steel, barriers that protect her like any shield... 

Trevor narrows his eyes.

“Fuck that,” he says, smacking Isabel’s hand aside, everything coming together. “Sypha! Need some ice over here now.”

“On it!” she shouts back, and it’s like she’s been listening

in and already knows what he’s asking for—the ice blooms from the air, swirling around Isabel, enclosing her within its walls like something caught in a glass bottle. Trevor finds himself, as always, impressed with both Sypha’s talents and her perceptiveness, with her almost preternatural way of knowing exactly what they need when, in any fight, in any challenge. How did they ever survive two weeks without her?

He slams the panel hard.

A half second of held breath, a building roar, and then: the rains come.

Sypha thinks, in the split second she has to spare between one task and the next, that she should get a medal for figuring things out, after this fight is over. 

It’s not as if they’d had much time to explain things to her—between the need for vigilance on the staircase and the need to split up down here in the hall, all she’d managed to pick up was that they have some new allies fighting with them, and that Trevor’d had some sort of plan involving a mass dousing. Putting it all together, well—she’s just that good.

“I guess that’s that for this group,” Trevor says, shaking the water from his sleeves, wringing it out of his hair with an antsy urgency. The downpour hadn’t lasted long—a tremendous amount of water, but whatever they did to open the pipes, it had been incredibly effective. Possibly overkill. Definitely overkill in terms of their attackers, and someone with a weaker stomach would probably be turning green by now, overwhelmed by all the strangled screaming and the smell of charred flesh, bodies consumed in blue flame, ashes floating down all around them.

Sypha’s never had a particularly weak stomach. She’s seen worse; she’s done worse.

So, left standing: The three of them, and their human allies up on the landing, and the vampire Trevor had had her lock into ice—the only one of them all not sopping wet from head to toe, and thankfully so, if she’s really on their side. 

“God, that feels fucking weird,” Trevor complains under his breath and to no one in particular, shaking a foot as if that will somehow empty his boots of the water she can hear sloshing in his socks.

Adrian raises an eyebrow at Trevor from the landing, sheathing his sword, his knife. He looks like a very blonde drowned rat, and he’s just as antsy, like he’s been wrapped entirely in itchy wool. And that’s no surprise from him, in the circumstances, but— 

“Does it?” Adrian asks, keenly curious. Sypha narrows her eyes at both of them, wonders if maybe there’s something else in the water, some irritant or chemical that she’s just not feeling yet.

But Trevor just shakes his head dismissively. “Not the time,” he grumbles, reaching for the whip at his side, suddenly all business. “There might be more of them further up in the castle, we can’t let our guard down.”

“Then let me eliminate a distraction,” Sypha offers, pressing her hands together in front of her face. This is not her specialty, so she will have to focus, but it will do no good to have saved their ally only to have her burned by the floor they stand on—and regardless of Trevor’s grousing, Adrian is, she’s sure, legitimately uncomfortable. She summons a gust of air that rises from the space around her, a concentrated blast of dry wind that ripples through her robes, through her hair, stripping the moisture right off of her. 

Once she feels her own hair brushing dry against the nape of her neck, she sends the wind outward, swirling through the hall like a cyclone, pulling the water from skin and hair and clothes, from carpets and tapestries, and carrying it all up and away.

Well. Not away. It has to go somewhere, but she’ll cross that bridge later. 

“Better?” she asks.

Adrian shakes his hair out like the mane of some legendary beast. It’s still got that humidity dampness to it, that extra fluffiness, but it’s an improvement. “Much. Thank you.”

And she’s just about to go start melting their visitor out of her ice cage—she’ll need to get the story from Trevor later, of how exactly a vampire, not a dhampir but a full-blooded vampire, managed to earn such loyalty from him—when a man she’s never seen before suddenly appears through one of the side doors, right behind Trevor, wheezing and out of breath from running. The sword in his hand is coated in dark, stale-looking blood. 

“Trevor!” she shouts, bringing up a fresh fireball, but when Trevor spins to face the intruder, his stance immediately relaxes, hand leaving the hilt of his sword. 

“It’s all right,” he says, one hand out to her to say, stand down. “He’s one of ours. Gregori? What’s going on?”

“It’s—” Wheeze, cough. “They’re—”

“They’re what?” Trevor demands, patience thin.

A prolonged, whistling inhale, desperate for air, and then the man visibly makes an effort to compose himself, to regulate his breathing. “They’re gathered in the ruins,” he manages, then takes a deliberate breath. “Talking about a vault or something. That they’re going to get a weapon that will make them unbeat-able? That’s all I got—I couldn’t keep listening, they would have spotted me—”

“Fuck,” Trevor breathes, glancing at the doors, and Sypha knows: the hold.

“Wait,” Adrian says, holding up a hand, forestalling     Trevor’s obvious kneejerk reaction of running off to defend his family’s legacy without a moment’s thought. “They should have spotted you regardless. Or smelled you. And they acted as if they didn’t?”

“Actually, yeah,” Trevor says, narrowing his eyes at Gregori. “That sounds a little bit like bullshit. Is it bullshit, or is there something else going on?”

“I saw what I saw,” the man says, puffing up in defense of his assaulted pride. “I can’t explain it, but I’m not lying to you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Trevor murmurs, after a long, considered study of the man’s face. He presses one hand across his eyes, gestures with the other. “Maybe he’s lying to get us there, or maybe they let him get away so he’d bring this information to us, which is also a ploy to get us there.”

“It is a trap either way.” 

“Or they just want us to leave the castle undefended.”

Sypha sighs, fingers twitching restlessly around her magic, half-sigils that she’d trained into muscle memory to avoid accidentally conjuring fire when she’s restless. “But we can’t leave it alone, can we?”

Trevor just shakes his head. “Okay,” he says, after a thoughtful moment. “Sypha, get our frozen bloodsucker off ice. Jeanne?”

A dark-haired young woman turns at the summons, hands braced on the landing’s banister, paying perfect attention. There’s a stillness to her that’s a little unnerving to Sypha, almost like...

“They’re not getting in the front,” Trevor says, clipped, as Sypha carefully directs her fire, melting away the walls of the impromptu ice shelter. “If they come from anywhere it’ll be those little doors on the side there. You think your people can handle that?”

Jeanne looks to the newly freed Isabel, who despite seeming a little dazed, nods sharply. 

“All right,” Trevor says, sounding like a man who has no idea if he’s doing the right thing, is doing it anyway and damn the consequences.  “Good enough. Let’s go.”

< -- Back | Next -- >

Go to part: one | two | three | four | five | six

[kristaline2dmensimp]

Marco x reader (NSFW)

Warning: Femdom(?), Unprotected sex, slight bdsm.

A/n: Its already oct 7 in my country!!! In all honesty this is my first time writing smut so bare with wrong grammars? 😅 also this is kind a birthday gift to myself. 😁

(ahem @thatbadbruja My friend and fellow Marco simp I won't definitely forget to tag you on my Marco's content. 👀)

1,743 words

*****

3rd person's POV

This last few days you couldn't sleep well since you started to have this fantasy with your lover a.k.a Marco appearing frequently in your dreams. Moreover, in an outrageous state.

Imagining about taking complete control during your sexy time with Marco's hands tied to the headboard panting and moaning, both body glistening in sweat- wouldn't leave your mind.

Succumbing to your desires, you embarrassingly confessed it to Marco which he responded with a raised brow, but didn't dismiss the idea of it. In fact, he's quite curious; he's more open about his kink and fetishes to you, so hearing you voice out your own desire he's more willing to oblige. Which resulted to being locked inside the privacy of your room, full on liplock sharing a hot intense kiss, pulling away only to breathe; discarding each other's clothing until you were left with only your undergarments and him being completely bare.

"Strawberry will be our safeword." You said pushing him down to the bed, with a small smirk on your face. "I think you're underestimating me Yoi." He chuckled pulling you on top of him mirroring your smirk as you straddle his waist.

Smiling you lean down to his ear before you grind against his pulsating cock, wiping the smirk from his face, prompting a deep groan from the Marco.

"Just a precaution, my dear." You whispered before smashing your lips on his, tongue on the mix, one hand caressing the tattooed part of his well toned chest to distract him while your other hand reached for something on your bedside table.

Marco, of course, isn't one to give up easily, so expect a little challenge from him. He smirked as he tried to gain momentum on the kiss.

Frowning, you hump hard enough into his hardened cock swallowing his moans of pleasure.

He tried to move his hand to touch you but felt half of his strength drained from his body. Pulling away for air, a string of saliva connecting you two, looking up, that's when he realized you had cuffed his hands to the headboard.

'when did....' Marco wondered in shock.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind being tied up for a little while." You said massaging his chest with a small grin.

"Really yoi? Seastone cuffs?" He asked panting fo air looking at you through half lidded eyes. He can't deny he's actually turned on by this.

"I know you're not complaining. So relax, I'll make sure you enjoy it." You said grinning as he gulp seeing the mischievous glint in yoir eyes that made his cock stiffer than usual.

"My, my. You seem really excited." You said feeling his hard member under your clothed sex.

"Well that's your effect on me." Grinning at his reply, you lean down kissing his lips soflty before traveling down to his neck and chest until you came face to face with his aching cock.

You took a hold of his hardened shaft pumping it slightly and his hips instinctively jerk into your hand.

"f-f*ck (____)." He groaned out throwing his head back into the pillow, hands clench and unclenching tugging on the restraints you put on him as you drag your tongue from the underside of his shaft to his tip, licking off the precum before swallowing him.

"Shit f*ck!" He grunted catching him off guard by starting immediately on a fast rhythm, bobbing your head up and down feeling his legs tense up.

"Haa...haa...sh*t you're honna make me cum faster than I thought." Marco moaned accompanied by the rattling of the chains at his futile attempt of breaking free. Not being able to touch your face, your hair, 'anything' are pure torture to him.

Feeling delighted knowing you were responsible for the sound of pleasure leaving his mouth, you suck roughly on his length hoping this would push him over the edge.

"(____) I'm c-cumming." Feeling him twitch in your mouth, you immediately pull away. "wha- hey." He whined from the lost contact leaving him fromt the peak of his orgasm. He lift his head to look at you, eyes filled with lust and out of breath.

"Do you wanna cum Marco?" You teased, stripping off your remaining undergarments. "If you're gonna cum.." You trailed off taking his hard shaft and aligning it at your entrance. "Then do it inside!" You finished your sentence as you slam yourself down, the delicious stretch, movement and the thickness of his cock made you moan louder.

"Wai–" He didn't had the chance to finish what he was saying when his body stilled, releasing a strangled groan as he came deep inside of you, back arching feeling the tightness of your walls.

Your body shivering from the feeling of being filled to the brim. "Haa...haa..you came so..much." You panted both of your face flushed red and body covered with sweat. Smiling you look at him in the eye.

"Round two babe? I haven't came yet." You coed and before he could comprehend the dangerous glint in your eyes, you began to lift your hips up before slamming it back down, eliticing the loud sweet moan out of Marco.

"(___) w-wait! I just ca~me." He moan throwing his head back on the pillow, restlessly clutching and tugging the restraints on his wrist, flexing the fine muscles of his arm.

"F*ck!" He cussed. Without the healing properties of his devil fruit, Marco could thoroughly feel the slight overstimulation mixed with pleasure coursing through his body. This may be the first time he felt this kind of sensations and boy it felt too good. The drool at the corner of his mouth and the way he he shut his eyes closed are the proof of it.

"Haa..fuck it." He panted before digging the heel of his feet down to the mattress, moving his hips to meet your thrust feeling determined to make you cum faster. "Ahh!" The action made you gasp and moan as he hit your sweet spot. Falling forward to his chest both of you were breathing heavily but your movements didn't falter still maintaining the fast rhythm.

"Don't think just because...I'm tied up with sea prism stone...I dont have the energy left....to f*ck you..yoi." He said in between breaths while looking at you straight in the eye. "heh, we'll see...about that." You responded picking up the pace.

Groaning, you two chase each other's lips, muffling the sound of pleasure only pulling away for air and your body began to tremble feeling your upcoming release. Your hands on his chest for support.

You shut your eyes closed as you bit your lower lip while Marco let out a hoarse moan feeling you clamp down on him.

Noticing this, Marco speed up his thrust knowing you're gonna cum sooner or later as he found your sweet spot intensifying your pleasure. He smirk watching as you gave off a lewd expression while wiping the drool off at the corner of your mouth.

"Mmm, feels too good." You said slamming down on his shaft matching his pace. Encouraged by your words, Marco continously hit your sweet spot that made you see stars until your orgasm hit you hard to the point you collapsed on top of him. With one last thrust he came deep insde you.

He gave off a rugged breaths as you pulled yourself off, shuddering at the oozing feeling of his release down your legs.

"That was....amazing." Marco stated catching his breath before looking at you. "It sure did." You responded staring back at him.

Marco felt a chill ran down his spine seeing the dangerous glint on ypir eyes haven't faded. He jolt at the feeling of your hand on his softening shaft trying to spring it back to life.

"Haa..(____) stop pls....f*ck!" Marco whined as he squirmed, already feeling sensitive, you had made him cum twice without even a few minutes break.

"Is it too much? Yoi can say the safeword dear." You stated, pausing your ministrations to give him the chance to reply, but you were met with silence his gaze full with lust and heavy breaths.

"I really shouldn't underestimated you. Hope your done with the few seconds break, Marco." You coed secretly pulling out a blindfold, both of you were clearly enjoying this.

Your alluring smirk was the last thing he sees before you put on the blindfold on him, his other senses heightens.

You lean down, capturing his lips swallowing his groans and moans while you kept stroking his shaft.

"The main event is yet to come." You whispered tugging his bottom lip, aligning his semi hardened shaft at your entrance, you began to slowly sink down making him moan loud from the overstimulation and his grip tightened at the chains of his restraints.

" Haa.. You're lucky that you put...ahh...seastone cuffs on me or else...ah sh*t You'd be at my mercy yoi." Marco said struggling to keep his moans down as you started bouncing up and down on his shaft.

You knew he'd never let you go easily and his statement is the proof of it, so why not make use the best of it?

Feeling him twitch, you smirked. "Too bad, I'm in control." You responded letting out an occasional moans when the tip of his cock graze ypur sweet spot.

Completely drowned in pleasure, Marco let out a strangle moan, flexing the veins and muscles of his arms as you made him cum for the third time yet your movements didn't falter.

"If I can only escape this cuf-" Marco didn't had the chance to finish his sentence when you captured his lips, tongue dancing together.

'haa...f*ck..' He thought feeling his impending release coming quicker than the last one.

"I'm coming master~" You grinned widely when Marco cussed out loud from hearing your words, both of your bodies were already covered in a thick sweat and exhaustion were taking over, yet you had the the gal to still tease him? Was what marco thought and he wonder when did you become so bold. But he wasn't going to complaining.

"(____) I'll surely..haa..get you back for this yoi.." Marco stated tugging the chains as you giggle. "I'd be disappointed if you don't, my dear Marco~" You coed before you two came undone reaching pure ecstasy.

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 6

A/N Where does the time go?  I lugged my laptop 7,000km round trip with the sole intention of working on this fic, but that apparently didn’t happen.  For those who found the last chapter hard to bear, I apologize in advance.  I am not quite finished being cruel.  With that said, trigger warning for character death, childhood disease, suicide ideation.  The chapter title is Sleeping in the Clouds.

The first five chapters are available on my AO3 page.

Five Months Later

A persistent mechanical bleating lifted Claire from the indeterminate depths of medicated sleep.  The emergency contact number she provided to all her patients was programmed to forward to her mobile, where a particularly aggravating ringtone ensured she would never miss a call.  Even at one am on a Tuesday night.

Fumbling for the device, she glanced at the unfamiliar number before answering.

“Doctor Beauchamp speaking.”  Her voice was gritty and rough.  She reached for a half-filled tumbler of water while waiting for the caller to identify themselves.  Over the line she could make out muted traffic noise, and perhaps a distant foghorn, but no-one spoke.

“Hello?” she inquired, torn between concern that a patient needed her and frustration that she might have been woken by a misdialed number.

“If you’re one of my patients, you need to talk to me so that I can help you.”

There was an intake of breath, a weepy sniffle, and then the click of the call being terminated.  A prickle of gooseflesh washed over her.  She couldn’t say exactly how, but she knew who had called, and that he needed her.

One of the grim perks of her job was that she had backdoor access to reverse look-up for telephone numbers, in cases where there was a threat of self-harm or harm to others.  As Claire hastily donned socks and grabbed a winter coat, she waited on hold for the PSAP operator to provide an address.

“We’re in luck, Doctor Beauchamp.  It wasna a mobile number.  In fact, tis a telephone booth.  Gote Lane, in Queensferry.  Down near the... umm, next tae the bridge.”

Without so much as a thank you, she hung up and frantically punched the app for an Uber.

Fifteen nail biting minutes and an excessive tip later, she stood in front of an empty phone booth.  Predictably, the directory had been torn out, leaving only a thin metal cord and car-key graffiti inside the cramped interior.  But on top of the phone itself she found a familiar ecru business card, her name and credentials embossed in black font.

“Damn it, Jamie,” she muttered to herself, palming the card.

If he’d hung up and started walking towards the bridge, she might be able to catch him if she ran all out, but something called her towards the nearby shore instead.

The tide was out, leaving a narrow strip of beach and sharp, slimy rocks exposed to the heavy air.  Her nostrils were assaulted by the briny vegetative rot of the retreating sea.

On a weathered bench facing the river, encircled by a cone of foggy streetlight, sat a man, his eyes trained on the smudgy lights of the Queensferry bridge hovering high above.  Even bundled in a heavy black jacket and watch cap, she would recognize his long limbs and the set of his shoulders anywhere.  She let out a long breath of relief.

She approached the bench cautiously, not certain if her presence would be welcome.  Instead of turning to greet her footsteps, Jamie addressed the bridge.

“Maggie passed t’day.  I called ‘cause I wanted ye tae know, but then I couldna find the words tae tell ye.”  Despite his refusal to look at her, his words were calm and without a hint of the bitterness she’d expected.

“Oh, Jamie.  I’m so terribly sorry.  I didn’t know her well, but she was a very special little girl who loved you dearly.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of her words, but didn’t reply.  She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, suddenly aware that she was still wearing her pajamas, her hair doubtless a veritable cumulus of tangled curls.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.  “I still have some contacts at the hospital, I could...” she broke off, knowing it was ridiculous to offer professional assistance when she’d been the one to sever their relationship.

“Would ye, if it’s no’ too much tae ask, would ye mind jus’ sittin’ here with me fer a bit?”

He finally turned to look at her, and she could see the spider web of red veins that surrounded his irises, testimony to his heartbreak.  His mouth, usually such an accurate barometer of his mood, was strangely inert.  She nodded, unable to deny him such a simple request.

It was the time of night when the daytime symphony of the city broke into its component parts, every passing car, every lapping wave a single instrument singing its own plaintive song.  They sat in silence for long enough that she could feel the damp creeping up the legs of her pajamas.

“Maggie loved tae cross that bridge,” Jamie said at last.  “She’d lower her window, rain or shine, and stick her wee arm out, sayin’ it felt like she was flyin’.”

Claire smiled at the image, trying to picture the little girl with the giant imagination.

“What colour was her hair, Jamie?” she asked.  “Was it red, like yours?”

“Nah, dark, like Jenny’s and our Da.  But wi’ curls like mine and my Ma’s.  A little like yours, actually, Sassenach.  That is, before the chemo took it away.”

She grimaced, not knowing what topic to choose that wouldn’t lead Jamie on a path directly back to his grief.

“She fought sae hard,” he continued before she could attempt another distraction, “but the cancer wouldna let her win.”  Tears were rolling down his cheeks, glinting in the sodium light like stars, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.  “She was the best person I knew.  Sounds strange tae say of a wee lass, but she truly was.  An’ it made me a better person tae love her.  What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

Jamie was looking straight at her, as though he truly expected her to offer useful guidance.  All her training, her professional distance, fell away in the face of one broken man.  She swallowed, searching for words that weren’t a platitude.

“You’re going to go on living, because she can’t.  Because your happiness, when you are ready to feel it again, will be a gift to her memory.”

Jamie sniffed, then wiped his sleeve across his face.  He placed his hand on the bench between them.  Without allowing herself to think, Claire reached for it, finding his skin surprisingly warm.  There was an agonizing fermata, when all the instruments held their breath, and then he turned his palm upwards to meet her own.  Beneath the fog the river slipped by, blending endlessly into the sea.

"Look, Jamie, I know it’s not the right time, but I want to tell you that I’m sorry.  For the way I treated you, and ended things, and...”

“Nay, Sassenach, it’s me who should apologize.  I had no right tae throw my diagnosis at ye like some kinda weapon.  An’ when I think of how I heedlessly brought up yer becoming a mother.  I, of all people.  Weel, suffice it tae say I’ve spent many an hour regretin’ my words an’ actions.”

She squeezed his hand, wordlessly declaring them equal in remorse.

“How have ye been?” he inquired, peering at her as though trying to read her state of mind on the planes of her face.  She chuckled, looking away when the intensity of his gaze became too much.

“About the same, I suppose.  Better some days than others.  Geillis has started ordering my lunches for me, so I no longer have any excuse not to eat.”  Jamie nodded, seemingly pleased with this news.

“And you?  Are you still seeing Dr. Rafferty?  I... uhh, I know his office requested your file.”

In fact, Giles Rafferty had called her the week after her confrontation with Jamie, wondering why his new patient’s record of treatment contained no more than his biographical details and the time and date of each of his appointments.  She told him the same thing she’d told Geillis when she asked the same question in significantly cruder terms: that her weekly interactions with Jamie had never led to a professional diagnosis or a recommended course of treatment.

“Aye. He’s a good man, although tragically immune tae my charms.  Unlike some.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Fraser,” she warned, although his rakish grin warmed her from the inside out.

“I’ll be darkening his doorway wi’ some frequency, after t’day,” he continued with a return to solemnity.

And yet you called me, Claire wanted to say, but didn’t.  When his beloved niece had slipped away, hers had been the number he had dialed, despite everything.  The very idea made her thoughts flit about like fireflies.

“I missed ye, Sassenach,” he confessed quietly after a time.

“I missed you too, Jamie.”

They sat together through the thin hours of the night, talking, sharing memories of Maggie, but mostly in silent companionship.  As dawn brightened the eastern sky, the fog began to lift, revealing an overcast sky.  The lights of the bridge blinked out, and the city’s music began anew.  Claire wished futilely that day would never break, knowing that it would bring them both the pain of two very different kinds of goodbye.

Her hand, when Jamie finally let it go, felt strange, as though it had been separated from its source.  She tucked it quickly into her pocket.

“I.. errr, I need tae be goin’,” Jamie said by way of apology.  “Ian and Jenn will be needin’ me.”

“Yes, of course.  I’ll just, um, call myself an Uber.”

They were both standing, neither seemingly knowing how to part.

Jamie opened his mouth, paused, shook his head in frustration, then looked away.  Her traitorous hand escaped her pocket and found its way to his chest.

“I’ll be thinking of you.  All of you.  If there’s anything, anything at all..”

“How long until your no’ my doctor anymore?  Ethically speakin’.”  He was looking at her in a way that made the fireflies whirlpool about.

“What?” she asked to buy herself some time to breath.

“Before I go an’ face everything that is wrong about t’day, I want tae ken, how long must I wait before I can kiss ye again wi’out riskin’ yer reputation?”

“There’s no written timetable,” she stalled.  “It’s a question of a doctor exerting undue influence or the exploitation of the patient’s trust, and there’s really...”

“Those rules are meant tae protect the patient, aye?  So I should be allowed tae waive them, no’?”

“Jamie...”

“Fine, let me rephrase my question.  Doctor Claire Beauchamp, when can I, James Fraser, ask ye tae look upon me as a potential suitor and no’ a former patient?  Six months?  A year?  Two years?”

“You really are the most infuriatingly stubborn man,” she huffed.

“Aye, I ken.  Sae, two years?  Do we have an agreement, Sassenach?”

“Fine, yes, two years, but Jamie, I don’t expect you to...”

A finger was placed across her lips, silencing her protests.

“Two years are naught if I can kiss ye again once they have passed.  Until then, Claire, please take care of yerself.”

She stood by the bench long after Jamie was gone, staring out across the river.  A flock of geese flew by in formation, broad wings nearly touching the surface of the water as it reflected the steel gray clouds above.  She thought of little Maggie, and her birdhouse surrounded by clouds.  A sob wrestled its way up her throat, surprising in its urgency.  And then, she allowed herself to cry.

[deathisanartmetzli]

Cabin in the Woods || Eilidh & Metzli

TIMING: Current, at night

PARTIES: @BRAINDEACL​ @DEATHISANARTMETZLI​

SUMMARY: Metzli goes on the hunt for some vampires, and Macleod joins in on the fun.

CONTAINS: Domestic abuse, Emotional Abuse, Gore

Despite Metzli’s best efforts to quash any sense of anxiety that built up like a mountain on their chest, the pressure only seemed to build. After the pleasurable moments of distraction, laying in the dirt, surrounded by nature, they wished they could go back to that. Laying there with Eilidh was easy, it felt like it was a grace to not linger like a tragedy in slow motion, or a heartbreak set on pause. They walked next to Eilidh, tracking the scent of the vampires. It started so faint, and within an hour, it had thickened and spread around.

Eloy would inevitably find Metzli, even if they took out the vampires they were attempting to find. They were just prolonging the ending they already played in their head on repeat. Like a video cassette they kept rewinding of a movie that had not even been made yet. But they persisted, and used the martial arts approach to protecting their world. Fear and anger were their self defense as they disregarded the cost of going against their once master. No running, just going forward to protect. Because nothing was more precious. It was priceless. It was their home.

“The scent is overwhelming all around. They must scavenge and frequent this whole area. How do you feel about splitting up? The scent is pretty evenly coated and has been for the last few hundred paces.” Metzli explained and looked towards Eilidh, who was only a foot away. “What do you think?”

The trees watched them transgress in their territory. Gaze always, usually, a comfort for as long as Eilidh could remember. And they had felt as such, only moments prior. In those pleasant pauses. But now their presence felt scrutinizing. Tainted by the tense energy in air, radiating off Metzli. Bouncing off that bark, ricocheting down on Eilidh. She watched them with a hidden caution. Their high nerves concealed with a stoned expression. But every box got its leaks. She saw those tremors in hands, those strained breaths in chest. Soldier set to war. Without a choice but to move forward into certain peril. Eilidh had that choice, but she matched those dreaded steps. Hers tensed with anger and a hunger to rip and shred. Send those sources of anxiety to floor in tattered bits—reduced to confetti. And to sprinkles down her throat.

Eilidh saw those nose twitches. At first light but sent to frenzy as unseen predators grew closer. Her own stayed still—unaware of any approaching danger. Her mouth twitched instead, turned to grin. “Like I said. You go right. I go left.” Eyes went to that chosen destination. Only darkness met them, but mind filled in the blanks. Placed those hidden enemies in sights. Sent her hand a twitch in anticipation. Her chest rumbling in hunger. Her attentions went back to Metzli for a moment. Enough to spare a parting kiss. And to press her hand on their chest. To that concealed gift—necklace with a black pendant. A bit off her thigh providing color. Used as both beacon and reminder. That she’ll always be close, even now, when she turned and raced off into the woods. Before the darkness took her, she shouted behind. “Don’t let ‘em kill you! I’ll be pissed!”

It felt strange to receive a tender kiss from someone who used so much force, so much passion. Eilidh had given them a gift, one they were told to keep on in case of any danger. James, the ghost bound to her, who seemed antsy when they presented red eyes and fangs, he would be their walkie talkie of sorts. A piece of her attached to them so he could aid them in their search. “No promises!” Metzli responded just as loudly, and with as much light energy as they could muster. Eilidh faded into the trees, and they watched for a few moments before they turned around and continued down their chosen path. Blood and death overflowed from every tree, meaning that the clan members had been around long enough to hunt several times. That didn’t sit right with them in the slightest.

“So how long have you been, uh, dead? I think I’m going on 110 years or so. Kinda lost track.” Metzli asked awkwardly, not knowing how to talk to someone who they didn’t know and seemed to get nervous at any signs of their vampirism.

James watched Eilidh disappear. Despite the lack of visual, he knew where she journeyed. Not a feeling or a thought. But something even deeper. Like he was a passenger in her mind. His attentions shifted and felt that knowing grow quiet but not disappear. Eyes went to one more tangible, to the one called Metzli. He knew nothing but stories. But the way Eilidh described them, the way her eyes lit up. It was in the way when she found others with that ‘touch of the wild’ as she so called it. And it made him on edge. While he lacked any sort of flesh and blood the vampire could attack, he tensed. For his body remembered, despite his true one having rotted to nothing long ago. And he tried to bury this concern, like that old body. But Metzli would not let the thought of death escape him. There was a following silence as he gawked at them. “Um. That’s not really a conversational topic I start with…” His arms crossed against his chest, as if that incorporeal barrier could do anything.

Face grew dark and tense as leaves and twigs crunched, marking every step they took. There was no avoiding it, but it made them flinch every time. Giving away their position would prove fatal, but the area was chosen for that reason. Keen hearing was not only their ally, but their enemy too. Metzli trudged on for about twenty minutes, following tracks and carcasses that grew in number. Meaning, they were getting closer. Their phone vibrated with notifications, and they removed it from their pocket to see a few messages. Feet continued to move while they were distracted by the screen and James’ incoming answer. “Sorry. I’m not good at conversation starters. I figured it was fine, you know? Death, and me being a vampire. I mean, vampires are vicious, but you like Milo and he attacked our friend Bex the other day. But like she’s fine and—” They gave an update until their peripherals caught sight of an anomaly. A cabin. “Que suerte...”

James wanted to leave. Not that Eilidh was particularly better in regard to source of his anxieties. But she was a monster he knew well—knew how to talk to. And had grown to care for, despite his better judgement. And he had grown to care for Milo as well with a hope he could escape that nature. Young and new with the thought of humanity still fresh on his mind. But the news broke that illusion. Not immediately, only a crack at first. Denial trying to keep the wall up. Mind went blank. Then it was all too much. “What… what? No. He- No he didn’t.” He stammered, something of a laugh on his lips though he felt no amusement. Mouth couldn’t form words just as mind couldn’t form thoughts. Sailboat lost to a raging sea. Trying to steer clear, but he was close to drowning. Before he could be swept under, before that wall could break—he vanished.

Eyes were transfixed by the cabin, by the sheer amount of death permeating from within. Even with blurred sight from distraction, they could see James on the other side of their peripherals, he was saying something but they couldn’t make out what. There had to be at least six vampires within the residence, and that took precedence over his sudden disappearance. While their fingers hovered over the screen of their phone, something knocked them down. Someone.

Phone flew several feet away, but that wasn’t important now. A whistle of alarm reverberated against the trees, and Metzli pulled out a stake from their side and plunged it into the vampire, killing him and cutting the whistle short. It was too late though, and they could hear a door break open. Gaze locked onto four vampires sprinting from the cabin straight for them. Matching their vigor, Metzli booked it towards one and plunged the stake into her chest. Another one down. Only five more to go. The three that were left leapt for them, trying to overwhelm them. It worked, but by some miracle, the stake plunged into yet another chest, leaving only two to land punch after punch on them.

Two more vampires stepped out from the cabin, and Metzli was forced to watch as a familiar face got dangerously close to theirs. Fighting back was futile while their head was being held up by their hair and their arms were locked behind them. “Hola Metzli. Hace mucho tiempo.” Tremors overtook their body as they stared right into the vampire’s eyes. The vampire who was their partner when it came to protecting Eloy. “Chinga tu pinche madre, Anselmo.” They spat through gritted teeth, right before a bone crunching punch to the face.

Blip! Blink of an eye, James was back. Face still contorted as mind could not see past that unresolved conversation. That wall gaining new cracks—close to shattering. “Was that just a, um, weird joke or something because I didn’t think it was funny and I’d really like it if you- Oh!” More eyes than expected were watching him. He stared with just his two. Then vanished again.

Another punch landed onto their face, and Anselmo laughed. “Did you really think you could run away? Did you really think Master Eloy would let you go?” Metzli locked eyes with the vampire and spat at him. Black blood spattered over his face and rage filled his eyes. “Fuck you, and fuck Eloy!” Metzli retaliated, lunging forward and breaking the grasp that held their hair. Forehead met nose and Anselmo screamed in agitation. Using the moment of distraction, they grabbed the stake from the ground and took out yet another vampire. Three left to go. But just as the point rushed around to make impact with the other, Anselmo’s hand wrapped around Metzli’s, giving him the chance to throw them on the ground.

Their face hurt, and the pain spread throughout their body as he pinned them down and attacked their throat. Red eyes locked only momentarily right before teeth sank in, threatening to dig deeper. Deeper and deeper, Anselmo attempted to sever the attachment their head held onto their body. Metzli was going to break their promise. The fear of that grew as their strength depleted, unable to make their arms do anything. They had taken too much damage, they needed blood.

The scent of death was potent. But there was one who did not match. A flat note in the choir. And growing louder. Closer. Threatening to ruin the whole show. But the show only faltered for a moment, something of a reprieve found in their brief consideration. Barely a murmur was uttered—something deeper transpired between the vampires. An understanding was found in that veiled conference, quick and efficient to not distract from the main course. Not a moment wasted, Anselmo simply waved a vampire off before following that motion down into a strike upon Metzli. The chosen protector, or chosen sacrifice depending on the point-of-view, followed that clashing note. Foxhound on the fox. But this fox knew how to bite back. And when he found the source of distraction, woman with the chattering teeth, he came to understand just how hard.

Eilidh threw the stake in her hand. It whistled through the air, ending in a meaty thud. Coming to a quick stop inside the vampire’s chest. He had only a second to stare at her in confusion before crumpling. Dead. Stride merely slowing, Eilidh fished out the stake from his remains. Then regained her former speed, as inhuman as the glint in her eyes. Feet beat fast but light on the ground. If she was devoid of that telling scent she may have been able to ambush. But they would be waiting for her, she was sure of it. She had known even before the encounter in the woods. But time and experience had revealed tricks against that pesky disadvantage.

As that foreign scent became church bells, all those bloodthirsty eyes turned to meet it. Something humanoid, something familiar, was the expectation. A known enemy they had all replayed in their minds killing with a familiarity. What stood at the treeline had the shape of a human. Kind of. If the outline had been filled with static. The touch of mundanity made where it differed all the more jarring. All parties stood still. Until a single “¡¿Que demonios es eso?!” broke them out that trance. One vampire ran to meet the thing in the woods. But his pace was weighed with hesitation: could this thing even be killed? Eilidh rumbled with a metallic shriek—undecided form convulsing in beat. And when her arm struck out to stake this one’s chest, it looked more tree than limb. He fell as fast as the one in the woods. Returned to the Earth.

Anselmo laughed as weak arms could not grip, could not gather enough leverage to shove him off. Photos were taken unbeknownst to them, and sent off. Evidence of their struggle. Metzli grew worried that they wouldn’t be able to manage. People have hope because they cannot see death standing behind them. But not Metzli. Their eyes had been ingrained on death’s visage, losing all hope in the process. Never fearing death because it was the one thing they could count on. But White Crest had given them everything they needed to want to look away from those hollow eyes. And as reality settled in, darkness consumed their sight. A muffled and distant voice growled. Eilidh��s scent filled their nose. Metzli began to imagine what hope would feel like. And wish that they had never looked death in the eyes. That way, they could be blissfully unaware. So they didn’t have to feel, for the very first time, the fear of dying.

The punching and biting ceased as Anselmo and two other vampires Metzli didn’t notice before, looked towards Eilidh. What they believed to be Eilidh. A sharp pain caused them to groan, and even through hazy vision, they could see two knives inside of their torso. Anselmo rose off of them and leered at the crazed undead creature before him. His body was rigid, unsure what to make of the foul thing before him. This was the break Metzli needed. Looking down at the knives, they attempted to raise their arms, which were feeling like they weighed tons. And then, one of the knives came into focus. It was their old knife. The one Eloy made for them. The one they used to fight with.

Anger surfaced onto Metzli’s face and a newfound resolve formed in their chest. Fighting against the hunger and pain, they removed the knives jutting out of them, and rose to their stumbling feet, tackling Anselmo to the ground. Fangs and knife pierced skin. A foul taste filled their mouth, but they didn’t care. All that mattered were the screams of pain and the knife that plunged into Anselmo over and over again until he knocked them back, looming over them to once again gain the upper hand.

Another quickly took her opponent's place, but this vampire was faster than that amalgamated arm. Ensnaring Eilidh in her grip. Hands grappled hands, grappled bodies. Her stake tumbled to the grass in the fervorous skirmish. A third noticed the vulnerability, and made quick to exploit. Rushing into the fray, two against one. But it was actually two against two. The second was enveloped in a strange feeling. A foreign pressure. A lingering cold. Enough to preoccupy for mere seconds, but each counted in a fight. Eilidh shifted her weight, brought that first opponent—still trapped in each other’s holds—closer to chattering teeth. And they did as nature intended. Bit and tear. Severing any connection her nose had to her face. It too tumbling into the grass. Overwhelmed with pain, enough constitution was lost to let Eilidh get closer. And those bloodied teeth found her neck. And bit equally as hard. With mouth at work, Eilidh’s hand was free to slip up skirt. Gripping tight a silver dagger. Blade met the vampire’s neck on opposite side, until her incisors and metal joined in the middle.

With a twitch, Eilidh severed the last remaining tendons connecting neck to torso. The head rolled off with ease, joining its nose on the ground. James’ trick had gone stale and the third vampire was ready to try his chances. Eyes free from the glaze of distraction, completely locked on her. But her own was placed elsewhere, far away. To the confrontation between Metzli and that stranger. She didn’t like how Metzli looked. She didn’t like how this man looked at them. Not one fucking bit. A snarl burned in her throat, but it sounded like chainsaws to any near. The vampire closest tried to be a substitute for her broiling anger. He pounced at her, but she simply shoved him into the dirt. Hardly a thought to make sure he wasn’t following when she rushed to the distant altercation. Before the stranger was able to fully turn, confront that approaching death, she leapt onto his exposed back. Arms looping around his shoulders—stifling any movement. He bucked and shrieked like a wild stallion, but she had encountered worse. Those arms only grew tighter. Teeth tried to find that neck, but it jerked out of hold. Accidentally meeting an ear instead. Incisors latched on anyway, ripping off the flesh and cartilage. The shrieking grew louder. Her own primal sounds filled that air, in lieu of words. Mind having no room to translate. But there was still an intention in each grunt. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

Wide eyes stared as Anselmo could no longer move. Eilidh’s firm and powerful grasp held him in place and he wailed in agony as a piece of him was torn away. “M-Macleod...I—” Metzli shook uncontrollably. Understanding washed over their face, but they couldn’t move, couldn’t force their body to lunge forward with the knife in their hand. A slippery grip tightened around it, beckoning them to do it. To kill their partner of thirty years. The very partner who had sworn to protect their abuser with them. No more. Those days were over and a new one was on the horizon. Finding the motivation, they rose to their feet, only swaying slightly.

“Todo lo que nos enseño Eloy fue malo. Y ahora, voy cambiar a todo.” The knife plunged into the center of Anselmo’s chest and he gasped with the widest eyes. His eyes met with Metzli’s for a split moment before he crumbled into nothing. As pieces of him fell, so too did Metzli. A hand reached out for Eilidh, but contact was never made. Their body gave way to the crushing pain, forcing them to the ground. Neck revealed the damage, the death they almost met. Black liquid stained their skin.

In spite of the overwhelming agony, a weight was lifted, and a piece of them felt free. “Thanks Mac—” Their hand reached out but fell to the ground as spots of black coated everything in sight. “Need blood.” Metzli’s voice was hoarse, throat dry from the urgent need of sustenance. Their body went rigid, as still as a statue while their body began to render itself into a comatose state of preservation.

They crumbled into her arms, and Eilidh instinctively covered that battered body with her own. Eyes surveying the suspicious quiet. She knew there were others. The one she had shoved no longer lay in the dirt. But he seemed to lay no where, absent entirely. Somewhere. Anywhere. Who knew how many were like that, in an unknown somewhere. Waiting to come back. Or waiting for her to find them. Have them join the others in that growing pile of ash. She lacked any innate warning signals—relying on average ears and eyes. And they both revealed nothing, except a peace she did not trust. And this unknowing would be fine—mysteries a commonality in her life—if she did not have two tasks at hand. Protecting and feeding. To hunt would leave Metzli exposed; to guard would leave them to starve. And either would benefit from knowing where the fuck anyone was. So, divide and conquer.

Eilidh called to James, meaning to do so in words but only squawks came out. He understood regardless—even a simple look would’ve sufficed. In his own look, there was a creeping tension. Formed deeper lines and tighter jaw the closer he got to Metzli. In another state of mind, she would have the thought to wonder. To decipher those subtle flinches and squirming. To find what hid in each wrinkle, each twitch—a practice she was good enough to be tenured. But that was too much thinking and not enough doing. He was where she needed him to be and that’s all that registered. With that confirmation, she returned to the woods. Leaving James with Metzli and a strange sense of déjà vu.

Minutes passed before Eilidh’s return. Sporting a fresh layer of crimson on her hands and face. The body she carried too covered in fresh blood. Though it only met their paws, head no longer present. Torn away by ravaging bites. Enough to appease her hunger, to allow herself to do away with the kill. Though a part did want to hesitate, to consume the coyote in entirety. But seeing Metzli again, remembering in clarity their state. It appealed to something deep inside her. It told the hesitation to fuck off. She dropped the corpse near Metzli without a second thought. Remembering how to speak, she uttered a single word. “Eat.”

Obediently and with some difficulty, Metzli navigated their body to the coyote, consumed by the ravenous need to eat. When the blood hit their tongue, a feral fervor took control and fangs pierced the corpse, draining it quickly. It tasted better than usual, and they supposed starvation would do that to just about anything. At this state, Metzli would even drink from a werewolf.

No longer able to get another drop, fangs retracted and their body was upright once again. Now on auto-pilot, Metzli took steps that teetered to one side, but they remained standing. “There might be others. We—I—” Eyes tightened shut, trying to relieve any residual dizziness. “Hunt for food. Then hunt for stragglers.” Voice was vacant of their personality, laser-focused on finishing the job thoroughly.

“Thank you, Macleod,” A mutter, but not too low so that it went unheard. Grass depressed underneath their feet as they reached Eilidh to leave a bloody kiss on her cheek. “I will find a way to repay you. For now, let's search together. No splitting up. Not this time.” Crimson eyes locked with Eilidh’s briefly before turning and limping softly in their chosen direction, waiting for her to follow and finally put an end to the encounter.

[ladylynse]

A second part of the ATLA role reversal AU, this one focusing on Sokka training Aang as a thank you to @cakercanart for donating to my ko-fi. You can also find this chapter on FFN and the AO3.

How can someone who isn’t a bender teach water bending?

Atonement (Part I): Sokka wants to make up for his past actions, to join the Gaang, and Azula is having none of it.

-|-

“Ignore them,” Sokka said as Aang looked over his shoulder at the fire bender siblings again; at least the earth bender had gone off…somewhere. He’d lost her quickly in the trees, though she’d picked her way through them without any trouble. “Concentrate on replicating these forms.” Sokka moved his hands in the same fluid motions as before. They were still working on the simplest forms, as Aang had been too distracted to make any progress. He wasn’t just sloppy; he was wrong, and Sokka didn’t need the still bowl of water set between them to know that he wasn’t getting it.

They hadn’t been sitting cross-legged opposite each other for very long, however. Sokka’s legs weren’t aching for movement yet, and it was cool enough in the shade provided by the trees overhead. He could stay like this for hours if he had to.

Aang was already fidgeting, though Sokka knew perfectly well he could sit still if he had to.

The air bender would put on a show of concentrating, even going so far as to stick out his tongue between his teeth and screw up his face, but he seemed to be more focused on the faces he was making than on the forms he was supposed to be replicating.

“Bending is about more than just forms!” hollered Azula from where she sat against a tree not ten feet away.

Not that Sokka possibly had any idea why Aang couldn’t concentrate.

“You need to feel it, and you can’t! Which is why Aang needs a real water bending teacher!”

It certainly couldn’t have anything to do with the judgemental stares and accompanying heckling.

“You might be more successful if you moved to the stream,” observed Zuko. “Perhaps, if he’s immersed in the element—”

“That would just make it more dangerous to the rest of us,” Sokka snapped, finally acknowledging the two of them. “Besides, I highly doubt your method of teaching fire bending had you throwing him into an inferno.”

“Well, they did,” Aang said, sounding entirely too cheerful about that memory, “but not before they thought I was ready. Toph’s the one who nearly ran me over with a boulder.”

He was grinning.

Sokka had no idea how he could be grinning.

Years of searching for the Avatar had formed a solid idea in his mind of who the Avatar was—which had promptly shattered once he’d found the kid. Because Aang was a kid, younger than both Sokka and Katara. Besides, even when they’d been Aang’s age, they hadn’t acted it, at least not in public. It wouldn’t have been proper. Aang? More often than not, Aang did act his age—unless you counted the years he’d been in stasis as part of his age. Sokka had seen him act that age, too, and it was far more disconcerting, but that was more in line with what he’d expected from the Avatar.

This Avatar, however, had quickly gotten bored of Sokka sketching out the forms in the forest detritus with a stick and had instead started drawing stick figures of all of them. Flattered as Sokka had been to be included in the group so easily, he was not impressed that Aang had apparently stopped paying attention to him almost immediately. That was the primary reason he’d emptied his waterskin into a bowl and started demonstrating the simplest forms for Aang. He seemed to learn better by doing than anything else.

Unfortunately, that was when Azula and Zuko had decided to join them, each picking a tree to recline against while offering unwanted commentary.

While Zuko’s suggestion of the stream wasn’t a bad idea, per se, as it was one Sokka had considered himself, it was clear enough that Zuko hadn’t thought the suggestion through. Water might not be as obviously dangerous as fire, but it was still dangerous. They should know that as well as he did. He hadn’t been sure if Aang would have an infinity for water, and someone with a great deal of power and very little control was not—

“Look, look, I’m doing it!”

Sokka blinked.

A tiny waterspout had formed over the bowl.

“That’s air bending,” he said, causing Aang to let it collapse with a huff. “Twisting your own element around the water doesn’t make it water bending.”

“But I know what water benders can do,” Aang complained, “and they don’t just—” He made a crude slicing motion with one hand.

The water in the bowl didn’t react, all its ripples merely remnants from the earlier disturbance.

“Water flows,” Sokka said. “Like air. You still need fluidity in your motions.”

“Can’t you teach me more complex forms? That’s probably why I can’t get this. Because it’s too simple. I mean, if it is like air bending, then I should be able to get my whole body into it, right, and that’ll make it work better.”

Sokka let out a slow breath through his teeth and kept his voice low in a futile attempt to give the fire benders less fuel for their inevitable criticism. “Is that how you learned the other elements? By jumping right in over your head?”

“Well, no, but—”

“You can’t do that here, either. There might be similarities, but you can’t treat water bending like air bending. They’re not the same.”

“You just said they’re like each other!”

“You really did,” called Azula. “We all heard that, non bender boy.”

“Having more similarities to air than to earth doesn’t mean water isn’t its own element,” Sokka said with a glare in Azula’s direction. He hesitated for a moment, looked at Aang’s crestfallen face, and made his decision.

“What are you doing?” Aang asked as he stood and flung the contents of the bowl in the general direction of the fire benders. He was rewarded with twin squawks of surprise, but they were far enough away to just get a spray rather than anything satisfyingly substantially wet.

“Come with me,” Sokka said. He tucked the bowl back into his pack and strode toward the clearing where they’d camped last night. It was near the stream but not near enough to give Zuko any gloating rights. “I want you to show me how air benders move.”

“You know how I move,” Aang said as he hopped up to follow. Unfortunately, Sokka saw the fire benders rise as well. “I mean. We have fought. A lot. It’s not like you haven’t seen me air bend.”

“Humour me.”

Aang shrugged but skipped ahead without protest, guessing their destination when Sokka didn’t call out to correct his direction. For someone carrying so much responsibility on their shoulders, he could appear remarkably carefree. Sokka envied that, though he wasn’t about to admit it. He liked joking around, but he rarely had an opportunity to do that anymore. Katara didn’t mind it much in private, whatever she pretended, but it was heavily frowned upon in public. Even now, Sokka wasn’t convinced the Fire siblings could take a joke from him, Azula especially, and in the years since he’d been off searching for the Avatar in an attempt to crush the threat before it came to crush them, well….

He hadn’t had the opportunity to be himself for a while.

Aang, it seemed, had never stopped being himself.

Before they even got to the clearing, Aang had formed a spinning bubble of air and was bouncing off the last of the trees. As Sokka reached the edge and dropped his pack, Aang used one of Toph’s stone tents like a ramp and shot off the top before letting the ball of air dissipate. Using his momentum, he spun like a leaf and sent a powerful rush of wind towards Sokka that nearly knocked him off his feet. The acrobatics continued, Aang being very careful not to disturb Appa further after the bison lowed a sleepy protest at being blasted by the wind.

Predictably, Aang finished with a flourish, alighting on the tip of Toph’s tent and giving an exaggerated bow.

“Yeah, you’re making great strides at teaching him water bending, aren’t you?” Azula said from his left. Zuko snorted but thankfully didn’t comment.

“He needs to see the differences for himself.”

“And how are you going to show him those differences when you can’t bend?”

“Azula—”

“Watch,” Sokka said sharply, not caring that he cut off Zuko’s defence. That wouldn’t silence Azula. This…. This might not silence her, either, but it might at least earn him enough of her silence to give him a chance to teach Aang something.

Sokka stepped into the clearing and flowed.

He’d grown up surrounded by water in all her forms. He knew her scalding touch as well as her frigid bite. He knew how she could rage and how she could laugh. He knew what it was like to be completely at her mercy, and he knew how to steer her towards the end he wanted.

He had never danced with her like his younger sister had danced with her, but he knew the motions that the masters used to sculpt her into their weapons. What he was doing now was far less impressive than it would be if he were working with water, but his audience was made up of benders; they would have some sense of the power and intent behind his actions, even if their elements were different.

Besides, whatever Azula believed, he knew the mindset that was needed for water bending.

Too gentle a touch, and she would gleefully overwhelm and swallow you, trying to drown you in her depths. Too harsh and demanding, and she would balk and become as immovable as the ice shelf itself. Working with water required a partnership like the sea had with the moon. If you were careless, you’d exhaust yourself over something that should be simple, and any attempt to force a form would fail miserably. If you didn’t trust her, didn’t trust yourself, you were as likely to find your trap falling flat as you were to be caught in it.

He wasn’t sure how to convey to Aang that working with water would require him to surrender himself to the current so that he could learn to guide himself along and work with it rather than fighting it every step of the way, as he seemed to be doing now. If nothing else, this demonstration of the difference in styles should drive home Sokka’s point that water bending, while fluid, was hardly the same as air.

Anyway, Aang had asked to see some more advanced forms, even if Sokka wasn’t moving slowly enough for him to learn any of them.

They could float leaf boats on the stream after this, and he could try to explain about the currents then.

He finally stopped opposite Aang, breathing a mite heavier than he ought to be, even though it had been years since he’d run through this entire sequence.

Once it had become clear that he wasn’t a bender, his practice of the forms—even under the guise of exercise—had been frowned upon. His time was much better spent learning other things, military tactics included, and practicing moves and training muscles as he would ultimately use them in battle. He was not his sister. He didn’t need to have every step of the water bending forms perfect. His talents lay elsewhere.

Katara had excelled under her tutelage, and Sokka had been kept busy enough with his own classes, so he hadn’t been able to watch Katara train as often as he would have liked. He’d learned more from watching her and the other masters in action. He knew the breadth of their skills—he needed to know as much to know how best to use them—but while he knew the rain could be stilled and turned into sharpened daggers, for instance, he did not know the exact combination of forms required to do that. He could guess, based on the breakdown of the motions he knew and how the water reacted, but he could not do that for every outcome. Besides, there was far too much flexibility of the potential motions involved for him to have any certainty, as more than one combination could have the desired effect.

Ultimately, Aang would have to learn from experimentation—and, if Sokka managed to teach him anything, intuition. Water was a very intuitive element, as Aang would realize once he stopped trying to force it to move the way he wanted it to. Like a river took the path of least resistance, the simplest combination of forms was more effective and efficient than a complicated set that led to the same end. Aang would fight better if he learned to bend water even half as intuitively as he did air, and he’d need that to face Katara.

Aang grinned down at him. “That was awesome!” he said as he jumped lightly to the ground. Sokka could hear Azula muttering that she wasn’t impressed, but she wasn’t saying that louder, which had to mean she was, at least a little bit. “Are you going to show me how to do that now?”

Sokka picked up his pack and reached for his waterskin, only remembering it was empty once he held it. “Let’s head to the stream for now.”

“So you are taking my suggestion?” Zuko murmured, a smirk on his face. Sokka rolled his eyes and held up the empty waterskin.

It was snatched out of his hand a split second later by a chittering Momo, who had it halfway up a tree before Sokka could blink.

“It’s empty,” he said as the winged lemur uncapped it and held it over its mouth, waiting for the last drops to fall.

“What do water benders do when they run out of water?” Aang asked as Momo frowned at the waterskin and threw it down at them. Sokka ducked, but it still took him in the head. He scowled, and Momo dashed back the way they’d come, presumably to steal someone else’s waterskin. “What if what they had is used up and there isn’t any water nearby? If they’re somewhere really dry and they had to drink the last of their water or something like that?”

Sokka rubbed the top of his head with one hand and slipped the waterskin back into his pack with the other. Any anger he might have felt towards Momo drained away at Aang’s question, as it reminded him of the fact that he hadn’t seen all the horrors of which the Water Tribe was capable. He must think blood bending was the worst of it, and blood bending was terrifying, but it wasn’t the only thing water benders could do.

“If you’re lucky,” Zuko said before Sokka could decide how to answer the question, “they’ll pull a weapon and fight like any other non bender.”

“If you’re not,” Azula said tersely, “and they’re skilled enough, they’ll take it from you. Or another living thing, if they want to torture you first. Unless they’re entirely alone in the middle of a desert, they’re not without water.”

“Oh. That’s….” Aang trailed off and looked at Sokka, maybe hoping he’d say the Fire siblings were wrong, but he couldn’t.

Chances were, they’d seen what was left behind after a water bender had done that. Sokka certainly had, and even he didn’t like it.

Instead, he picked up his pace and started telling Aang about the currents, trying to relate them to the element of air and hoping that would snap Aang out of it, but Aang’s troubled expression made it clear he wasn’t listening.

No doubt, he was thinking about how water was the lifeblood of all the living things around them, and if Sokka couldn’t distract him, he’d think too much on the sickening feeling of seeing it drained—or worse, doing the draining—and that would only make him more reluctant to learn how to wield water as a weapon.

But maybe that was the trouble.

Sokka was trying to show him how water could be used as a weapon, but it wasn’t only a weapon. It could shield as easily as slice. He admittedly didn’t know the intricacies of it, but it could heal as well as hurt. And it could bring delight as readily as destruction; upon learning to control multiple droplets, the youngest water benders—Katara included, when she’d first found her bending—would invariably decide to throw up a spray of water into the sunlight to create a rainbow, and peals of joy were always the result.

He missed those days.

“None of the elements are one-sided,” Sokka said, touching Aang’s arm briefly to make sure he had his attention. “None of them are inherently good or bad.” Yes, a water bender could pull water from any living thing—but an air bender was no different. Aang could pull Sokka’s breath from his body if he wanted to. He wouldn’t, but he could. Sokka wasn’t going to say that, though, because Aang would be horrified by the suggestion, and he wouldn’t win any favours from the fire benders for thinking of the possibility. “What you intend to do when you bend will influence the outcome as much as anything. You balance them all as the Avatar, but there’s a balance within each of them as well.”

“I’m trying not to hurt people,” Aang insisted, perhaps thinking that Sokka was implying that he was doing more harm than good with his bending. “I don’t want to. I just…. I know there have been some accidents, but I’ve been trying.”

Sokka glanced at Azula and Zuko, raising his eyebrows just a hair, as he would hardly call the amount of destruction the group had left behind accidental. It was one of the reasons they’d been relatively easy to find and follow, at least off the start. It might not happen as frequently as it once had, but it certainly still happened.

Zuko looked away, but Azula met his gaze steadily.

At least, she did until he tripped over a tree root and found himself spitting rotting leaves out of his mouth, and then she laughed at him along with the others.

Sokka picked a twig out of his hair and stood to brush off his clothes. Leaves and burrs and dirt and— He paused, plucked up a mostly-intact leaf, and straightened up. The others were giving him questioning looks as he tried to balance the leaf on the edge of the stick, and they erupted into the giggles and snorts when he was unsuccessful. Repeatedly. He wound up laughing too much to get manage it, and they were still chuckling when they reached the stream, but he pulled out his boomerang to make his point anyway.

He dropped his pack and sat down on the edge of the stream. They followed suit, Aang jumping to the opposite bank first while Azula and Zuko stayed on this one with him. He balanced the twig on the side of the boomerang, with much more success than he’d had with the leaf. And then, even as they were asking him what he was doing, he scrapped the edge of the twig along the boomerang just enough to scar the bark, and then snapped a bit off the end and tried to balance it again. It wouldn’t balance in the same spot it had before, as he’d known it wouldn’t, so he adjusted it accordingly.

“See?” he said, even though it was clear from the looks he was getting that none of them understood what he was trying to do. “It wouldn’t balance where it did before. It’s changed, and I needed to move it so it would balance again. People are like this twig. Everyone is different, and sometimes they change so that they’re different from who they used to be. They have to find their own balance.”

Azula snorted. “You couldn’t think of a better way to try to explain that?”

“I don’t hear you coming up with any grand suggestions here.”

“You’d need to make sense before I could try.”

“Or you could listen to him and let him finish explaining things before you interrupt,” Zuko pointed out as Sokka tossed the twig to the current and put his boomerang away.

Azula made a face, somehow managing to look incredulous while scowling at her brother. “He did finish. He just finished poorly.”

“It wasn’t that bad of an explanation,” Aang started, but Azula cut off the rest of his feeble defence, assuring him that it was.

“You two hanging around isn’t helping either of us concentrate,” Sokka retorted. “Why didn’t you go with Toph?”

“Because we can’t break into that new earth bent bunker she sensed and see if there are any supplies left.”

“You could’ve helped her carry stuff!”

“What, you think I can’t carry stuff by myself?”

Sokka blinked. “How long has she been standing behind me?”

“Long enough that I’m surprised you didn’t notice, Twiggy.”

Sokka winced, and not just because there was a heavy thud behind him. He turned to see a slab of stone heaped with a mishmash of materials sitting on the bank behind Toph. He couldn’t make out much, but from what he did see, there wasn’t any food, which was unfortunate but understandable. The rope might not be any good, but she’d found it, and if they looked over what else she’d found, some of it might be salvageable. Anything was better than nothing, really. They were sorely unprepared to face his sister at the moment.

“How goes the water bending?” she continued as she sat down beside him. “Swimmingly?”

“More like glacial,” Sokka admitted. He cupped his hands and drank from the stream, wondering if they should try a few more forms or if they should skip straight to the leaf boats.

“Have you tried throwing Aang into the water?”

“Hey!”

“I suggested that, but he didn’t like the idea,” Zuko said, nodding at Sokka.

“We could really do without the audience,” Sokka said, hoping Toph would take the hint.

Judging by the smirk that spread across her face as she shifted position, she knew exactly what the hint was supposed to be and deliberately ignored it. “Too bad you’ve got one, then.”

Sokka sighed. “On your feet, Aang. I’ll show you one of the first things every water bender learns.”

“What, how to make an ice dagger to stick through someone’s heart? I think Aang can do without learning that.”

Sokka spun on Azula. “I just told you guys that none of the elements are inherently bad. That includes water and water benders!”

“She didn’t mean it,” Aang said. “Right?”

Azula shrugged, but when Zuko elbowed her, she muttered an apology.

Sokka ignored them and turned back to Aang, demonstrating the form and explaining how it called up the water as a simple globe to start, though it could be refined to multiple droplets with practice if so desired.

While Aang was frowning at him, Sokka demonstrated how non benders did it—and splashed him.

Judging by the way Toph had cracked up as he’d knelt to scoop up the water, she’d known exactly what he’d been about to do.

She splashed him before Aang had the chance to retaliate.

The ensuing water fight quickly involved all of them. No one was bending at first, but Toph was the first to cheat, shielding herself with the ground, and the others followed suit. It didn’t take long before all of them were soaked and laughing.

At some point in the midst of it all, Aang let out a shout that had them stop in place, slowly dripping as they watched him juggle a wobbly ball of water.

Maybe immersing him in the element hadn’t been a bad idea after all.

It was just a start, but a start was all Sokka had needed. He could help Aang get this. He could help the Avatar—and, ultimately, he could help the Water Tribe.

Even if it did mean going against Katara.

(see more fics)

[takerfoxx]

Blood Island, Chapter 6

Okay, one last chapter before I start working on cross-posting!

...

She left.

Nuriel didn’t bother waiting for daybreak. She didn’t even prepare herself for the journey. She just climbed down from the ship and started walking, following the twisting paths of sand as they wound around stone hills and cut across canals of water. It didn’t matter what direction she was going, just so long as she was heading away!

She couldn’t stay. No, no sir, not a bit. The Carmilla’s Fancy was now officially demon territory. As far as she was concerned the birds could have it back!

And wasn’t it just her luck?! Wasn’t it bad enough that she be thrown to her death during a monstrous thunderstorm? Wasn’t it bad enough that she had to wash up on a bizarre island inhabited by…by monsters of both feather and scale, enormous spiders, crawling slugs, and most likely ghosts as well? But no, now she had to be stalked by a demon, a being powered by Hell itself! If she stayed too long under its watch it would no doubt drag her off into the Pit!

She kept walking, sometimes stomping through the sand, sometimes sloshing through the shallow canals.

Hell, she might’ve been better off just drowning after being thrown overboard! At least then she might have had a chance of escaping eternal damnation! Who knew, maybe the Saints and Angels would have taken pity on a poor, young sinner. But if she consorted with the spawn of Hell itself? Oh no, no salvation for her!

It was then that Nuriel noticed that she had left the labyrinth of sandbars, canals, and smaller islands, and was now walking along the island’s coast, with the open sea now to her right.

Nuriel stopped and stood in the sand, staring out at the surf. It had not been too long ago that she had been thrown into those very waves, abandoned to drown as punishment for her perceived crimes. The memory of her struggles to escape her watery grave were still very fresh in her mind.

But more pressing was the memory of golden light and green eyes, of a black smile grinning up at her from the water.

Nuriel shivered. It would not do to forget that there was another monster out there, one that prowled the depths. She couldn’t stick to the coast lest it reach out and drag her under. She couldn’t move further inland lest something find and eat her. And no matter where she went, there was no place that the red-eyed monster couldn’t find her. Hell, it probably was following her right that second, watching with amusement as she tried to get away from it!

Was it even possible to be even more fucked than she already was?

Shaking her head, Nuriel moved forward. She had to keep moving. To stop was to die. She had to find…someplace, someplace where she wouldn’t be followed. But what were the chances of that happening?

Nuriel had no idea how long she walked. She passed by the grove of red fruit that the chirpers had shown her, around towering cliffs, through a lagoon around which slept a family of weird, shaggy things that looked like horse-sized turkeys, complete with blunt beaks and crested heads. She walked under towering bridges of stone and past lush jungles. She waded through canals that drained out into the ocean.

Then, as she passed by another hill that rose up from the beach, she caught sight of an odd tree.

It sat on the top of the hill and was strangely shaped. Nuriel paused and looked up at it. There was something very strange about its leaves. They were certainly thick, but were unlike she had ever seen, too large to be like the trees back in England, too sharp-edged to be palm fronds, and they most certainly weren’t needles. Plus, they were moving in an odd way, one that couldn’t be explained by the wind.

And then she heard a familiar sounding cackle, and she froze.

And then the tree suddenly lit up with dozens of golden eyes, and she understood.

No.

With a shrill cry to action, the first of the birds leapt from the tree, spreading its wings wide. Nuriel didn’t stick around to see the rest take off. She ran.

As her feet pounded the sand, she cast a fearful behind her. The tree was now abandoned, revealed for the naked dead thing it was, and the birds were giving chase, darkening the sky behind her, their bloodthirsty screams filling the night.

No.

This couldn’t be happening! Out of all the things she had to run into, it had to be them?

Then she felt something hit her shoulder. The lead bird rose up, cackling as it went, leaving a gash in her shirt. The skin beneath was barely scraped.

This was of no relief. Another bird reached her, and she was cut again, this time along her back. They were going to cut her down little by little until she slowed, and then they would descend upon her en masse.

She was going to die.

No.

She was going to be brought down.

No.

She could feel them now, feel the hot lances of pain as their talons slashed through her clothes.

No.

She was going to be eaten alive.

No.

She was going to die here, now, tonight, and there was nothing she could do about it.

No!

Then, as she rounded another cliff, hands flailing as they futilely tried to protect her head, she saw a chance.

She had come to a bay, in which a river emptied into the sea. And it was surrounded by a thick grove of bamboo.

Desperate for any kind of shelter, Nuriel found a final burst of energy and took off, pursued by vengeful screeching and the flapping of dark wings.

The birds struck again and again, slicing away at her clothes, cutting into her flesh. But she didn’t stop. The pain galvanized her on, the terror giving her legs strength and speed.

Somehow she made it. Nuriel burst into the bamboo thicket, throwing herself between the shoots and forced herself further and deeper in. Behind her, the birds screeched with rage as they tried to follow, but while they were small enough to fit, their bodies weren’t properly shaped to navigate the tight spaces.

Once she had gone as far as she could, Nuriel collapsed. Her back, shoulders, and the back of her neck felt like they were on fire, crisscrossed with hot agony. Furthermore, she was covered with something wet and sticky.

Hands shaking, Nuriel touched a finger to her shoulder and brought it to her eyes. Even in the dark she could tell that her fingers were now slick with blood.

Something inside her broke, something she had been struggling to hold together for a very, very long time, long before she had even washed up on the island. Nuriel slumped down and started crying, great, shaking sobs wracking her body.

This is the end, she thought with great bitterness as she sobbed and wept like a little child. I’m done. I’m beaten. If I don’t bleed out here, something else will find me. I’m dead, I’m fucking dead, I’m-

It was then that she surfaced enough to notice that the birds were no longer screaming. And in that absence, she heard something through the nearby river, something…large.

Now too scared to cry, Nuriel tried to get up, but the burning fire that was her back flared up so much that it brought fresh tears to her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she moved herself around as much as she could to try to get a look through the bamboo shoots.

What she saw told her that her night had somehow gotten worse.

A long, dark shape was moving through the river, heading toward the sea. It was huge, easily over twice her height, and had a vaguely crocodilian shape, if a crocodile walked along on two massive legs; with a bullet-shaped head suspended on a long, thick neck; and an equally thick tail that stuck out far behind it. Instead of a front pair of legs, it had a two clawed hands.

Though it was only in silhouette, Nuriel had no trouble seeing the rows upon rows of sharp teeth whenever it opened its mouth, or the two huge sickle-shaped claws, much like those on the feet of the feathered butchers, only this one had one on each hand.

Nuriel clamped a hand over her mouth to keep any sound from coming out. Her pain momentarily forgotten, she ducked down as far as she could, listening to the deep growls of its breathing and the water sloshing around its legs.

She closed her eyes and mentally willed the crocomonster to just keep walking, keep on its moonlight stroll, and to pay no attention to the tiny, insignificant, quivering creature that was hiding nearby.

The sloshing stopped.

Oh no.

Nuriel opened her eyes again. The crocomonster had stopped and was now standing still in the river. It lifted its head and sniffed the night air.

The blood. It smelled her blood.

Then it turned its head toward her.  

The next thing Nuriel knew, the crocomonster had forced its massive head into the bamboo thicket, bending back the stalks with its two clawed hands, revealing where she was cowering.

It looked down at her, a monstrous black shape blotting out the stars, and she looked back up at it.

Then with a guttural growl it stepped forward and bent its head toward her. Nuriel tried to run, but she had neither the space nor the strength, and its jaws closed in around her.

It lifted her up, the dagger-points of its teeth pressing into her. Nuriel thrashed and kicked, but it did no good.

But it didn’t bite down. It just held her there, carrying her as it returned to the river, wading back the way it came.

Nuriel gawked as she was carried through the air. It’s taking me home, she realized. It’s taking me home to its nest. But to what? Save her for later? Feed her to its young? Regardless, whatever it intended for her, she would not survive.

Suddenly the crocomonster stumbled. Nuriel’s body jerked terribly, and some of the teeth punctured her.

The crocomonster stumbled again, and she tumbled out of its mouth.

Nuriel hit the river. The shock and the cool water momentarily numbed her pain but not her fear. She knew she ought to start swimming, but her limbs wouldn’t respond.

There was very little current, so she was surrounded by nothing but darkness and cold and the sound of the crocomonster’s legs as they thrashed through the water. She heard its hoarse and distorted roars. It sounded like it was in pain.

Maybe it’ll step on me, she found herself thinking. The possibility didn’t seem so bad. At least it would be quick. Probably.

And then, as she drifted off, waiting for it to finally end, a most curious thing happened. Out of the dark a golden light appeared, one that was moving toward her.

Was that an angel, come to take her away? If so, then God was even more merciful than reported, if He was to overlook her life of thieving and deceit.

There was something in the light, something that was…vaguely human in shape, but far too long and sinuous. It was swimming toward her like a dolphin, its body rising up and down. That didn’t look like an angel.

And then it got close enough that Nuriel could see its face. It was the face of a girl, framed by long, flowing hair. There were stripes across the face, and its eyes…

Its eyes glowed bright green.

…

Nuriel Cunningham woke to the sound of falling rain.

This time, there was no gradual drift back to consciousness, no slow rise from the depths of oblivion. It wasn’t a fight, it wasn’t a fade; one moment she was dead to the world, and the next her eyes had snapped wide open, and she was lying on her back, staring up into darkness as the rain’s clamor filled her ears and her heart pounded away in her chest.

She was…where was she? Was she alive? Had she survived? Had the crocomonster actually brought her back to its lair? Was she moments away from being feasted on by its young?

Or maybe she had washed up on the beach, and the birds were watching her from above, waiting for her to show some signs of life so that they could snuff it out!

Or maybe the sea monster had hauled her through dark waters and had brought her to its underwater lair, and she was to be made its bride!

(of the available choices, she found herself hoping it was the latter)

Surprise was still coursing through her, so Nuriel made a concerted effort to slow her breathing and take in what information she could gather.

Fact 1: She was not dead. This was encouraging.

Fact 2: She was somewhere dark, lying on a flat, hard surface. This was discouraging.

Fact 3: It was cool, but not outright cold. This was neutral information.

Fact 4: It was apparently raining, but not on her. So she was probably inside…something. This honestly could go either way.

Fact 5: She did not…

Nuriel frowned.

Though she had yet to build up the willingness to move, now that she was taking stock of herself, she didn’t seem to be in any pain. Now, that was just odd. Encouraging, but also very odd, because by all rights she ought to be in agony. The birds had ripped her back and shoulders apart, and she had been stabbed in the belly by the crocomonster’s teeth. And yet she could not detect any hurts.

This might be a problem. Maybe she was dead.

Nuriel concentrated on her right arm. It lifted. The fingers tingled, and it felt a little sluggish, but it lifted.

She laid it on her stomach. She was still wearing her shirt. She ran it over the fabric until she found the holes where the crocomonster’s teeth had gone through. But the flesh beneath was whole.

Nuriel breathed in and out. Her chest lifted and sank. Well, she felt alive.

Letting her hand lay across her stomach, Nuriel then shifted her focus to her left arm. She curled the fingers and ran them across the surface she was lying on.

Wood. Old wood.

Uh-oh.

Nuriel slowly sat up. Every bit of the way she expecting her back and shoulders to flare up in hot agony, but it didn’t happen. She felt woozy, yes, and strangely tingly, but she didn’t hurt.

Nuriel looked around. It was as she had feared: she was back in the Carmilla’s Fancy. It was dark, but meager light shown through the chips, holes, and cracks in the hull, though oddly enough no rain was coming down through the holes in the deck. She tilted her head and listened. From the sound of it, something had been laid over the deck, some kind of covering.

Her bad feeling growing, Nuriel reached behind herself with one hand and up to her shoulders with the other.

The back of her shirt was a shredded mess, but there were no bloody gashes beneath. She was fine.

Then, just to make sure, she lifted a trembling hand to her ear, the one that the bird had torn. The flesh was still ragged, but it no longer hurt. The infection was gone, and the skin healed.

Nuriel slowly laid back and stared up into the shadowed ceiling as she tried to make sense of this.

By all rights, she ought to be dead. Even if the crocomonster had failed to end her, something else would have. She had been torn and bleeding, a sure signal to any predator that an easy meal was nearby.

But she wasn’t dead. She had been returned to the ship. She had been made well again. Her wounds were all closed, both the ones she had gotten fresh and the ones that her first encounter with that evil bird had given her.

Green eyes swathed by golden light, swimming toward her out of the murk.

Nuriel shivered. The sea monster had brought her back; there was no other explanation. Perhaps even with the red-eyed monster’s help. It would not surprise her if they were in league.

As for how she had been healed, it was magic. It had to be magic. The whole island was probably full of it.

But what kind? Was she now touched by demons? Was her soul now irreversibly stained? Was Heaven’s Gate now forever closed to her?

Oh, come off it. Like you had half a prayer of getting in anyway.

Well, she was alive. That was the important part. In the end, survival was all that mattered-

Wait!

Nuriel’s upper body bolted straight up. She hastily swung her leg around and seized the boot, hands thrusting themselves inside, fearful that she would find-

St. George was still there, resting snugly in his hidden sheathe.

Sighing with relief, Nuriel drew him out and lay back again, hands clasping him to her chest. It was all right. She still had him.

Nuriel’s head slumped to the side.

Then she frowned. Wait, there was something there.

The pale light was shining in through one particularly large crack, and it was illuminating something…new. Nuriel sat up and crawled over to investigate.

It was the basket of fruit, still full. Sitting next to it was a corked glass bottle. And on it was a piece of paper.

Nuriel picked it up. As she did, it unfolded in her hand, revealing itself to be a very, very long piece of paper, one that spilled all the way to the floor.

It was another note, no doubt courtesy of the red-eyed monster. Only this one wasn’t a few short messages and amusing illustrations. This one was…long.

Sighing, Nuriel set it aside. There wasn’t enough light to read it by, and right now she was too tired to give it the effort.

She then looked to the fruit. Twice she had rejected the gift, but now she no long really had the luxury. Healed she might be, but she was still very hungry, and her throat was parched with thirst, something that the sound of rain was doing nothing to help.

Nuriel picked up the bottle and yanked out the cork. She gave it a sniff.

Wine.

Wine that could have any number of things added to it, her father’s voice cautioned. Are you willing to take the risk?

Do I have a choice? Nuriel thought bitterly. Besides, in moments like this, a bottle of wine was exactly what she needed.

Holding onto the bottle with one hand, she grabbed the basket of fruit with the other and dragged it back into her dark corner.

[zertzertzhang]

I Need a Hero Chapter One

Synospis: Seen as the demon bastard of his village, Nezha is sent on a quest to redeem his character. It was supposed to be simple. Rescue the maiden, marry her off to the viceroy, collect community service points, and done. He really didn't think one mission alone was all that it took to unravel his past, present, and future like an onion. When a cursed princess swamps him under a horde of secrets, he is faced with two choices; accept fate...or fight it.*A story loosely (or largely) based on good ol' Shrek with some other influences sprinkled here and there for giggles.

Once upon a time, in a palace far, far away, lived a maiden. Said to be the fairest of her kingdom, she was doomed to spend twenty years in solitude, locked away from all life. A curse was placed upon her, only to be broken by true love's first kiss.

If she was not saved by her twentieth birthday, then her soul would be claimed by the Dragon Lord of the East Sea.

Her true face was never seen by anyone, as the tower was guarded by a terrible dragon.

Many have tried to free her from this dreadful prison, from the warriors of the state to the princes of Agrabah. None prevailed.

Thus the maiden waited in her chambers, in the highest room of the tallest pagoda, still waiting for her true love...And true love's first kiss-

"What a load of bull!"

Nezha busted out laughing. It was a bitter sound that bounced off the walls, traveling at least half a corridor down the hall.

An ear-grating tear echoed from the rooms of Li Manor as a frustrated shout followed just seconds after.

The double doors flew open with a terrifying bang, revealing the youngest young master storming around his room in a fit of disbelief.

"People still read this shit?!" Nezha forced a harsh laugh that scraped at the butler's eardrums. "Bring me better reading material next time or else I'll send you flying to the nine levels of hell and back!"

His pointed finger at one of the butlers was enough to send the latter teetering over the edge of an epileptic seizure.

The poor butler could only sputter as he tried every method in the book to lessen his suffering "Y-yes! Young master! I apologize for my transgression! Next time-"

"There's no next time!" Nezha fumed. "One more stupid story from you and I'll take my leave to the village where I can actually have fun!"

A lopsided grin broke across Nezha's face while he uttered the last words, as if just thinking about seeing the horrified faces of the villagers could serve as ample entertainment. The dimwitted guards by the manor would be no match for him if he really wanted to leave.

It would seem that it was inevitable for a run in with the law that day. Paying no attention to the stuttering servant next to him, Nezha frowned, debating the pros and cons over leaving right then and there.

"Young master," the butler started, "how would you like to-"

Nezha interrupted with a swift wave of a hand. "Scram already!"

To add to his point, the young man snapped his gaze to the quivering butler, scowling for good measure. It worked, as expected.

The older man scrambled backwards, squeaking for mercy. But he didn't need to go far, for the subject of his terror had long left the spot where he had originally stood. Nezha was on the rooftops in a blink of an eye.

"W-wait!" The butler tried to climb over the decorative stones, only to find himself hanging by the sides of the ledge like a helpless kitten. "Where are you going, young master?!"

At the sight of such, Nezha smirked. He made no attempt to help the butler up to his level.

"You gotta try harder than that."

"But you can't go out the manor!" the butler wailed. "Master Li has specific orders that you-"

"Stay in for the rest of your life," Nezha cut in for the upteenth time. "I heard it the first time."

Cracking his knuckles, he let out an obnoxious yawn before looking down at the latter with utmost boredom. "But anyways, I'll see ya later!"

The mischievous smile never left his face as he hopped down from his perch, disappearing from the butler's vision just as fast as he did before.

It was futile to attempt to control Nezha, especially now that he had grown right into his adolescent form. Had it been a year earlier he would've still been a child no older than eight. Even then, the demon child was a living nightmare, but at least he could be consoled with a few magical trinkets.

The Nezha now was a bottle of raging hormones a few buttons away from implosion. His butler didn't want to entertain the idea of some unsuspecting villager accidentally triggering his fury, thus adding more to the Li Family's monthly bill.

There was still more renovation needed for the living room. Nezha had created a hole right in the middle of Li Manor square during one of his 'experiments'. And that alone sucked hundreds of pounds of gold into construction fees.

Putting two and two together, the butler slapped a hand over his hand, inches away from a mental breakdown. He had to come up with an excuse as to how he let Nezha slip away.

He had to save his own ass at least.

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

Not a lot of effort went into devising a plan to escape the manor. Hell, the word 'escape' never registered in Nezha's head over the two years since he began his daily avoidance from the manor servants.

In a second's time, he could turn himself into a maid. So a maid he did turn himself to.

With the excuse of buying the daily grocery, Nezha had no trouble in slipping past the manor guards. The duo of metallic chumps had no doubts, lifting the spell between the doors just enough for the disguised maid out the building.

If he could, Nezha would've been on the floor convulsing with laughter by now. There was nothing more hilarious than repeatedly fooling the same people around him with the same tricks every time, and still getting away with it.

Not bothering with another extra thought, Nezha made a beeline towards the main entrance of Chentang Pass.

The fun was just getting started.

Crunch.

His feet squandered a pitiful branch below him with a brittle snap. Nezha didn't bother with his usual surreptitious style of tormenting the villagers. Weeks of the same old pop and scream had taken to the boring side for him.

He wanted something fresh.

Like he predicted, heads snapped in his direction the moment his bare foot stepped into the street market. The stares from people were like an automatic feature the town had inserted for him.

All sounds of life came to a screeching halt in his presence. Even the leaves seemed like they had minds of their own and stopped rustling as soon as Nezha popped up.

Dead silence washed across the mass, readying its ugly fingers around their necks, urging them to scream.

The way his tendons popped as his slender fingers clenched to fists sounded akin to a bone-crusher readying himself for a new victim. It was of no help that the young man's inhuman mark glowed with his excitement.

Before Nezha, a man towards the front of the market opened his mouth. His distorted face combined with the growing tint of purple on his cheeks was a good indicator of the things that were about to spout from his lips.

It's the demon! Run for your lives! Get away!

Nezha waved lazily at them, their old scripts running through his head like a broken record. It was impossible to get them to think of something more enticing to say about his grand entrance.

For a moment, Nezha actually feared that the illiterates before him could only speak those three phrases. Crossing his arms, he allowed the grin on his lips to morph into a wolfish smile.

"You all know the drill right?" Nezha beat the man to the talking punch. "I don't need to say more than I have to."

The unified gasp was a good indicator that they got the message. Nezha scoffed.

"One."

All at once, sound rushed back to the village as screams shot through the air like a needle piercing through flesh. Under the dust of everyone shuffling at the same time, civilians stepped over one another in a frenzied attempt to hurl themselves into the nearest shelter they could find.

Soon, it was every man for himself. No place was barred from being taken up by bodies: pots, cabinets, closets, haystacks, and coffins, too.

"Four."

If the squawking chickens and kicking cows weren't a sight enough, a few villagers had somehow come to the conclusion that as long as they couldn't see him, then he couldn't see them.

"Eight."

There were times when Nezha wanted so desperately to capture the scene before him in his mind and replay it by himself in his room for shits and giggles. He wanted to memorize each and every wrinkle of terror everyone made, taking in the affects he could have on them.

"Ten." He uttered the last number with soft delicacy, but anyone with a brain could hear the restrained agitation seeping under the words.

Nezha was losing patience. Flinging an apple onto the head of a still running man, he marked the beginning of hide-and-seek with a screech from the villager.

The man skidded onto the ground in a thud, shivering uncontrollably. Something about the way he curled up into a ball, avoiding eye contact with him irked Nezha.

A grown ass man can't be that much of a coward?! I didn't even throw that hard!

Nezha scowled, passing the fallen civilian without as much as another glance.

He shouted into the void, "I hope everyone's gonna try harder than this! Ready or not, here I come!"

It was too easy; some failed to cover their mouths as they breathed in and out like a dragon in battle. Despite going on about it for over two years, the village never improved.

There was no point for Nezha to use his heightened senses to scope out the 'players'. They might as well hold up a sign that scribbled 'I'm right here!' at that point. Running finger along the cement walls in a haphazard manner, he whistled a jolly tune too festive for the tension around him,

"Come out, come out wherever you are!" Nezha called. Lifting the lid off of an empty wine pot, he feigned surprise at the lack of shrieks.

He could hear the one person in the next pot over practically whimpering under their cover. The fear must've been great enough for the entire container to shake.

Nezha hummed to himself as he stepped towards the pot, twirling a branch in his hands. With a languid drag, his feet thudded against the dirt ground with emphasized force. A tiny squeak echoed from the container, officially giving away to the person within.

"Hmm." Nezha stroked the other pots besides it almost lovingly. "Now where did ya go?"

Fwip. The pot second to the left was slapped away. Each smash of a china elicited a shriek. If Nezha had a third eye, he swore he would see the fear radiating in the last pot of the bunch.

His smile grew; playtime was over now.

Reaching over, Nezha wrapped his fingers over the handles, breathing in the anticipated rush of adrenaline the shear horror from the man would bring.

Lips peeling back to reveal sharp canines, the young man readied his most terrifying expression. At the same time, the villager inside prepared himself to beg for mercy.

Funny enough, it would appear that his prayers were answered, because the lid never opened.

Instead, Nezha's eyes were glued to the posters nailed onto the columns over his head. The stark contrast of red against white caught his attention. A warrant of some kind had been posted all over the town square.

It had to be fresh; the last time he had been in Chentang's center, Nezha didn't notice such a thing. Littering the walls of restaurants and stands, the warrants were hard to miss.

Without a second thought, Nezha's arm shot out and tore off a poster. Even the ink smelled like it had just been stamped onto the paper.

"Viceroy of Chentang calls for any brave warrior willing to rescue his bride, the maiden of the East Sea Pagoda. If successful, the reward of one hundred thousand taels of gold and twenty acres of land..." Nezha mumbled out the information in a string of low growls.

Pathetic.

In a huff, he crumpled the paper, tossing it aside. It sounded like some cheesy bedtime story plastered into reality, and he couldn't help but remember the stupid fairytale he'd read earlier in the morning.

As much as Nezha appreciated the celestial aspects of life, sappy legends were very much barf-inducing, real or not. He had seen enough men who forced others to fight their own battles to not give a hoot for this dime a dozen opportunity.

Agitation spiked through his veins. He realized he wasted a good minute of his time mulling over a poster. It almost derailed him from his original plans. Speaking of which...

Nezha chuckled, eyes zoning back to the quivering pot next to him. Throwing all thoughts of the fairytale out the window, he cracked his knuckles.

There was still a town left to scare.

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

Li-Jing's voice boomed over the courtyard, threatening to take down trees had he been any louder. The deep baritone made matters worse, echoing off the buildings like an angry thunder god seconds away from blasting lightning to the ground.

"I am about done with you!"

The servants scurried back to their quarters, not bothering to deliver dinner. Though, it didn't sound like the Li Family was hungry either.

Clustered around the mess of a room, Li-Jing and Lady Yin were currently looming over a lounging Nezha, who clearly wasn't going to pretend to give them an audience.

"What must I say to make you obey me?" Li-Jing demanded. "The village's tolerance of you is waning! One more misshape and they'll be at your neck!"

The threat made no difference in aiding their argument. If anything, the fine lines between Nezha's brows creased deeper, forming harsh valleys contorting his face in the most horrifying way possible.

He snapped, "And why do I care? That's what they said last time. If they really had the guts, they'd be dead by now."

Venomous abhorrence spewed from the youth, matching the volume of his father's with no trouble.

Li-Jing narrowed his eyes, balling his fists at his sides.

Not thrilled to see another fistfight break out, Lady Yin rested a hand against his back, trying desperately to reel her husband back from the land of rage.

The general was at his limits. In spite of all the training with Taiyi in the past two years, the volatile nature never left Nezha.

Reality crushed Li-Jing with an insufferable amount of pressure that he swore his back would break if it got any worse.

"You're not helping!" the general argued. "The more you retaliate, the more monsters you have to slay to appease them. You'll be back in square one."

Out of everything Li-Jing said, one of the words seemed to trigger Nezha, because the latter was up in his father's face in a flash, teeth baring like a wild boar beaten to a corner.

"So what," Nezha hissed through gritted teeth. "That's for me and me only! I'm not slaying monsters to make them happy. Those ingrates could rot for all I care!"

It didn't take a grand scholar to see that Li-Jing wanted to slam his own head against the poles.

Chen-Tang's general, held to the highest standard of all citizens, couldn't even control his own son. It wasn't clear if the red tint on his cheeks was from anger or embarrassment.

Lady Yin, on the other hand, didn't appear to give up. "Please, Nezha. I'll stay with you longer tomorrow. Just promise mother you won't go out like that again."

Nezha let out a bitter chuckle. Her consolidation had long lost its meaning to him. After the thirtieth time she failed her promise, he stopped counting. The efforts to calm him only served as an insult to his wounds.

"I wouldn't dream of holding you back," Nezha slurred. "Save your pity party for next time."

He rose to excuse himself, but the arm of his father appeared in his way, blocking the exit. Nezha did a double-take, but he could feel the smoldering indignation rising at incredible speed.

"That's not gonna stop me."

Li-Jing sighed. "Son, I understand your frustrations. But what happened today happened, and we need to do something about it."

"No we don't." Adamancy was Nezha's strong suit.

"I know you better than you'd think," his father retorted. "You want them to accept you. But every time some villager gets to you, you go right back to your old self. It's not doing favors for any of us. We only want you to be happy. And you do, too. But you know you won't get any better by terrorizing them."

A slight twitch at the corners of Nezha's lips was a bigger sign than all else. He was listening, albeit begrudgingly.

Exhaling in relief, Li-Jing took the silent invitation to go on. At least he had a foot in the door now.

"There might be a few assignments we could give you," he continued. "They're not boring for sure. You might have to get physical with a few demons, though. But it could come in handy for training."

At the sound of demons, Nezha made a rigid turn towards his father, his pointed ears stood at attention. As long as he had the chance to put his two-years worth of training to work, anything was negotiable.

Li-Jing knew he had his son's full interest. He just had to give one more nudge and-

Bang!

A crash exploded by the doors, slapping all three Li's from their stare-down. Li-Jing groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. They had everything smoothed over, inches away from calming Nezha, and this motherf- just had to ruin it.

The general whipped his gaze to the dusty entrance, mouth open to unleash a slew of grievances, before his eyes widened at the sight of the guest.

Standing over the crumbles of what was left of the gates, Taiyi stumbled over his two left feet, mumbling something about wine and pretty women.

Nezha couldn't roll his eyes any harder. His master was undoubtedly drunk over his head, maybe even rejected by a few girls on the streets. The scene before him was too familiar.

Huffing, he glared. "Get lost, old geezer. I'm in the middle of something."

Taiyi ignored his demand, instead sauntering over in a giddy fashion like he just discovered the next best thing.

"Yohohoho!" The stench of alcohol escaped from the deity's mouth, gagging the poor audience around him. "Found the next adventure for ya, boy! I Overheard tha 'hole thing back there!"

Nezha growled. "You could've at least knocked!"

Taiyi snorted, patting his beer belly. "Can't a retired model relive his catwalk entrance?"

If he thought that was supposed to be funny, then he flopped hard. Nezha's previous agitation was on the rise once more, this time with full force.

"Spit it out already, old man! Can't you see I'm busy?!"

"Jeez," Taiyi complained. "Alright, alright! I found the perfect mission to repair your majesty's tarnished reputation, you little ingrate."

The deity grounded the last words in a whisper, trying but obviously failing to hide his distaste. Nezha's enhanced hearing caught it without a problem.

In light of his hammered state, Nezha stayed silent despite feeling a vein pop. There was always another day to light Taiyi's pants on fire.

"Spit. It. Out," he grounded.

Taiyi seemed to find amusement in twirling Nezha's mood, opting to wag a finger in front of the youth's face. The god knew his ass was going to pay for it later, but the petty in him had to take the opportunity.

Fumbling through his many pockets, Taiyi's face lit up with child-like jubilation at the sound of crinkling paper.

Nezha was not prepared to have a smelly and stained piece of parchment shoved into his face. He was sure if Taiyi had another pot of alcohol, he would've straight up crashed into him instead.

His master wiggled his caterpillar of a brow.

"Ya interested in some dragonslayin'?"

It took Nezha a moment to come back down to Earth. He snatched the paper, scowling at the deity before him. Focusing on the words of the parchment, the young man almost coughed blood at the sudden recognition.

It was the warrant for the princess.

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

A/N: QUICK! Somebody insert Allstar in the scene! ;)

[lokimostly]

Polaris (Ch.1/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU Word Count: 2,768 Warnings: none Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything-- if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: The bitch is back! (Me. I’m the bitch). I’m super excited for this, and I hope you are, too! It was promised a long time ago and it’s finally here. Let me know what you think~~ 

Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three  ~ Chapter Four ~  Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen

Night fell like a curtain of embroidered silver stars over the port of St. Thomas. The moon rose in a honey-colored crescent over the black blanket of the sea, where the last ships of the day were tied to the docks: all of it visible from your window, the double panels open and welcoming the warm summer breeze. Mid-July was beautiful in the Caribbean.

This would be your last July here. 

You fastened your cloak and set one final look to your bedroom door – locked, of course – before leaning over your nightstand to blow out the lone candle that flickered warmly. You shouldn’t have been awake at this hour; you had a pressing day tomorrow, a day which had already caused several quarrels with your father. 

You also shouldn’t have been climbing out your window.

The dark material of your cloak weighed heavy on your shoulders as you bunched up your dress and swung one leg bravely over the windowsill, bracing yourself against the suddenly-stronger wind that teased and pulled at your hair, enticing strands around your face to come loose. You pulled your other leg over and shifted carefully, searching with one foot for the foothold you knew to be there.

A-ha. You planted your foot onto the brick, pushing out carefully – a fall from this height would be deadly – and stood with practiced balance. You exhaled softly, calming your nerves as the wind blew against your back and rippled through your dress. A gecko skittered across the wall and disappeared over the crest of the roof. You watched it go before pushing the panels of your window shut, leaving them unlatched for you upon your return, and began your descent. 

You kept your hands on the windowsill and found the next brick. This convenient path of rugged stone was your tiny stairway to the world at night, to the city below, to freedom. Even though you’d done this so many times before, the taste of anticipation at the adventure to come made your heart flutter happily inside your ribs. 

Your feet hit the cobblestone without a sound and you breathed a happy, exhilarated exhale, pulling up your hood. You cast one last glance at your window before turning and heading down the alleyway, towards the twinkling light of the oceanside town.

The night was yours. 

Despite the sweltering warmth of the night, you pulled the fabric of your cloak a little tighter when you slipped by the front of your father’s estate. Even at this hour there were servants around, standing post at the iron-wrought gates or mingling outside the door to the kitchens. All it took was one pair of eyes, and your little expedition would be ruined.

Not that it mattered, really. You doubted that you’d ever get the chance to do this again.

You would never claim to hate your life. There were just certain aspects of it– the formalities, the frivolities, the bone-crushing corsets – that you could happily do without. But being the only child of a moderately wealthy shipping merchant meant that you were born into these things, and expected to die in them. 

You relaxed as your feet carried you further downhill and out of sight from your estate. The streets turned narrower and more crowded despite how late the hour was. Soon, you were making your way through crowds of people: sailors, harlots, vagrants, fishermen, maybe even pirates… not that you would know one if you saw one. Everyone thrived under moonlight.

You would never get the chance to live like these people, so the most you could do was get close. Close enough to taste the salt of the sea, to imagine the feeling of coarse rope between your hands. There was so much you would never experience that you so desperately wanted to: what it felt like to get drunk on cheap tavern liquor, how to handle a ship in a storm, the taste of someone’s lips against yours… 

Well, not the kissing part. Out of everything life had to offer, romance was furthest from your desires. Partly because you’d never been interested in anyone – which was far from a problem in your opinion – but also because it would be forced on you so very soon. The marriage that had been arranged for you since before your birth was coming to a head: you were meeting your fianceé tomorrow. The thought of it made your stomach turn in upset. 

The way you saw it, marriage was the final nail in the coffin of an adventurous life, and you were about to be buried alive.

Once you were in the thrall of the seaside crowds close to the docks, you removed your dark hood and pulled out your braided hair. You inhaled the sweet, salty stench of the ocean, mixed with putrid perfume and the alcohol-ridden breath of the people who passed you by. The ships rocked gently, their wooden bodies creaking like aching joints. Lamplight and candlelight made the port feel like a living being with glowing eyes, blinking away the dark.

It was wonderful. But what to do?

You had every intention of staying out till dawn. Whether or not this was destined to be a remarkable night, you were determined to make it so. It was your last hurrah of freedom – consequences be damned.

The corner pub was positively throbbing with noise, like a pulse point of energy. Somewhere in the clamor you could hear someone playing a four-string fiddle. The sweet sound was mixed with raucous laughter and the occasional breaking of glass. 

A perfect start to your evening.

You slipped in past the crowds outside and immediately found yourself immersed. Tankards clanked together, barmaids wove in between tables, and in the darker corners of the room men played cards and laid wagers amidst cigar smoke and sordid expressions. Everyone here felt open: there was no hiding behind etiquette or polished niceties. There was no stiffness or reservation like you were used to in the daytime. 

Despite the hoots and wholly inappropriate catcalls of the soldiers, you slipped in entirely unnoticed. Free to observe without interruption. You briefly considered buying a drink, but discarded the idea almost immediately. You didn’t care for the taste. Cards, maybe? A quick glance at the tables told you no – there were no women playing, and you wouldn’t dare venturing to a table of burly men on your own. Your nighttime excursions had earned you a few friends through the years, but you couldn’t find any of them in the bar tonight. It was probably better that way – you wanted this night to yourself. 

You found a banister to lean against, wondering what to do, when a laugh caught your attention. It wasn’t the rough and weather-worn roar of a sailor, or the tittering giggle of a barmaid. This laugh was clear as a bell, deep and light at the same time, drawing your attention almost by force.

The source of the sound was sitting at a round table, mid laugh with a tankard in hand. He was unlike any sailor you’d ever seen: fair skin and slick black hair that tumbled down in gentle waves against his shoulders. A jawline you could cut your finger on. The white, bishop-sleeve shirt he wore opened in a wide V that travelled almost halfway down his chest, revealing a scandalous amount of toned muscle. His smile was wide and brilliant and wolfish.

Your heart did a somersault in your ribcage. He was devilishly handsome, there was no denying it. The stark contrast between him and everyone else in this grimy seaside pub was staggering.  But there was something about him that frightened you- something lurking beneath the depths. You couldn’t put your finger on it.

You decided not to stay and find out. You turned towards the door, and immediately collided with someone. The glass bottle in their hand hit the floor and shattered. For a split second, the tavern was entirely silent. Even the fiddler in the corner had paused mid-tune.

Then the sound resumed. The fiddler continued his jig; laughter howled and chairs scraped across the wooden floor. Your heart was in your throat as the sailor you’d just slammed into – and also cost a full bottle of rum – turned around with an ill-fated look in his eye.

Oh, god, he was enormous.

“Hello,” you began nervously. Why did your voice have to tremble so much? “I’m terribly sorry–”

“What do we have ‘ere?” He growled, snatching your wrist and squeezing it painfully tight so you couldn’t run. His eyes raked over your figure, surveying you like a choice cut of meat. His breath reeked of alcohol. You grimaced and tried to pull away, but his bear-like hand only tightened its grip. “No, I don’t think so,” he drawled, obviously more than a little drunk. “You got a debt to pay.” 

Your eyes widened and you shook your head - you’d left your coin purse at home. “I’m sorry, I— I don’t have any money,” you pleaded, trying once more to get away from him. It was a futile attempt. The sailor yanked on your arm and you yelped as he pulled you forcefully against his chest. You resisted the urge to throw up – his shirt smelled even worse than his breath.

“Please,” you begged, cowering in spite of yourself as he towered over you. To think you had felt so brave only minutes ago. 

The sailor gave you a nasty smile full of rotting teeth. “I weren’t talkin’ about money.” 

Before you could think of a response (how were you going to get yourself out of this?) you felt the ghost of a hand on your back and a clear, polite voice that spoke through the noise of the tavern. 

“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.” 

The sailor’s sluggish eyes drifted upward and his grip on your wrist loosened as he realized who was speaking: the dark-haired stranger, whose sea-green eyes were staring at the sailor with a fury so cold it made you shiver. This glare was elegantly countered by a charming smile.

“I’d be more than happy to mitigate the debt,” he continued politely, sounding very much like he intended to do no such thing, and would seriously hurt the man if he accepted. The sailor, despite being as drunk as he was, picked up on this subtlety, and dropped your wrist entirely. He muttered something indiscernible – with a few inelegant profanities directed your way– and went back to the bar. 

You rubbed your wrist like it had been shackled, letting out a shaky sigh of relief. You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was beating. Now you had a chance to compose yourself, maybe find some of that courage you had been wanting for. 

The dark-haired man leaned down and whispered into your ear, “if you’ll allow me to escort you outside, milady.” His warm breath on your neck made you shiver.

So much for composing yourself.

You managed a nod and made your way out of the bar with him close behind. You wove through the crowds easily, but people seemed to part for him instead, making way like he was some kind of prince.

Or maybe a pirate.

The thought occurred to you as soon as he stepped out onto the cobblestone street and beckoned for you to follow him, heading a little ways from the lights and crowds of the bar. He walked with a certain gait that you could only describe as cat-like: keeping his shoulders squared, but with a sort of elegance that made him seem quick on his feet. Like he always knew where he was going. 

And against your better judgement, you followed.

“Thank you,” you began, still holding onto your wrist. He slowed, and turned around, gazing at you with eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. You shivered. 

“Tell me,” He said, raising a dark eyebrow and setting his hands on his hips as he stepped towards you, “What’s a girl like yourself doing in there? Shouldn’t you be at a gala somewhere?” He sounded like he was teasing you, but the smirk on his lips threw you off. 

You bristled, feeling your pride swell up a bit. “You don’t know what kind of person I am.”

He chuckled. “I’m afraid your dress speaks for itself,” He pointed out, nodding to your fancier-than-usual clothes. Your face flushed and you pulled your cloak around you. He was right. Despite your attempts to dress down, you had never owned anything that wasn’t embroidered with lace. The fact that he saw right through your disguise in less than a minute was more than a little embarrassing. 

The handsome stranger eyed you curiously, watching as the gears in your mind turned over. He held out his hand to you– elegant fingers outstretched in silent offering. You looked down at his hand. Despite its initial beauty, you could see now that his fingers were calloused, and a few white needle-thin scars lined the palms of his hand. Curious.

“Allow me to walk you home,” he said. His words were phrased so sweetly, they were practically dripping with honey. 

You forced yourself to remember why you were out here. What awaited you tomorrow, and for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t let your last night go to waste.

You shook your head, taking a step back. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Why did you feel like you owed him an apology? You had nothing to be sorry for. Yet something about those sea-green eyes had you entirely at his mercy.

His eyes narrowed and he retracted his hand. “Why not?” 

“It’s just… this is my last night.” His brow furrowed, but you continued on. “I don’t get another chance to do this, and quite frankly I’m not looking forward to the rest of my life.” You swallowed, staring at him and setting your shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you repeated. “I can’t.” 

The handsome stranger merely stared at you. There were micro-expressions that crossed his face while he mulled over your words: a twitch of his eyebrow, a slight narrowing of his eyebrows. It should not have been so fascinating to watch a man think. Then again, he had destroyed a lot of your so-called certainties tonight: most particularly, the idea that you would ever want to kiss someone.

But god above if you didn’t want to press your lips against his. You were so distracted by them that you hardly heard him when he began speaking.

“Let me help you, then.”

You blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Let me help make your last night worthwhile.” 

Your eyes narrowed with suspicion and you crossed your arms, trying to figure out why on earth he would offer to help you. “Why?”

He shrugged and smiled, holding his arms out. “If you’re so intent on getting into trouble, you might as well have a friend.” 

“We’re not friends,” you muttered, though the idea was sounding more appealing the more he talked about it. No, snap out of it! He’s playing you like a fiddle, your conscience pleaded.

Unfortunately, you were no longer listening to your conscience. His hand was extended to you once more, and he gave you a look that said ‘go on. Be brave for once.’ 

You were never one to shirk from a challenge.

“Don’t you trust me?” He asked. 

There was that teasing tone again. You held back a snort. “Absolutely not.” 

He grinned. “Smart girl.”

~

Hours later, when the sky was beginning to dim, you climbed the uneven brick wall with tired muscles and lifted yourself onto your windowsill, taking a moment to stare at the city. Even at near-dawn, the lights were still twinkling. The moving specks along the docks that you knew to be sailors were beginning to load the ships with crates and barrels. You breathed in the smell of ocean air, closed your eyes, and savored it for a moment before opening your window carefully, sliding off the sill and landing on the wooden floor. You latched the window behind you.

Your room was undisturbed. You took off your cloak and folded it quickly, shoving it into your dresser. Your dress came off just as fast, despite how tired you were; it fell from your shoulders and pooled on the floor around your feet. With a contented sigh, you fell into your bed, where sleep took you the minute your head hit the pillow. 

And as the sun rose, you dreamed. 

Next Chapter  _____

A/N: Thanks for reading! The tag list is wide open. Tell me what you think! <3

Tag List: @neontiiger, @un-consider-it, @jessiejunebug, @nerdypisces160, @lokiisntdeadbitch, @e-wolf-90, @cursedmoonstone-blog, @kikaninchen-2, @bluebellhairpin, @evy-lyn, @midnight-queen-1, @travelingmypassion, @harrybpoetry, @adefectivedetective, @absolutecraziness13, @kumikokagato, @randomfangirl7, @timetraveler1978, @tarynkauai, @arcanethamin, @ornate-ribcage, @julianettedoe, @kinghiddlestonanddixon, @yespolkadotkitty, @befearlesslyauthenticc, @ladybugsfanfics

[iwhumpyou]

I loved your Captive’s Dilemma trope, where two teammates who don’t get along refuse to save the other from torture by giving up information. But imagine the other way around: they are always arguing, putting each other down; but when it comes to life or death, they crack. They hand over the information, begging the bad guys not to kill their teammate, because when it comes down to it, that’s what they are: teammates. And no amount of disagreements can change that. @shy-whumper

@shy-whumper, oh, yes, another beautiful facet of enemy-to-caretaker is rival-to-caretaker!

(I’m sorry I took so long, I didn’t know which universe to put it in.)

Masterlist.  Injection.  (Takes place before main timeline.)

~#~#~#~#~#~

They weren’t even good.  That was what was truly insulting, what got under her skin and caught on all her jagged edges.

Sure, they had the power suppression cuffs and sure, they knew how to throw a punch but Catalina had clocked the sound of waves breaking against stone and the rhythmic light flashing against their window was definitely a lighthouse and it really wasn’t difficult to narrow down where they’d been taken.

Adrian was shivering, unexpectedly cold without his flames, but he’d live.  At least he was too uncomfortable to crack a sneering grin at her and insist, yet again, that she should let him handle it.

Their argument was what had gotten them captured in the first place.  It only contributed to Catalina’s rising fury.

“Aw, are the heroes a little bit uncomfortable?” a man strode in with a wide grin.  Clearly the leader of the operation.  Muddy boots, a whiff of sea salt, and a yellow poncho that had a green logo in the corner.

Catalina despaired. Brian would never ever let her live this down.

“N-now that y-you mention it,” Adrian said through chattering teeth, “I-it’s a b-bit drafty in h-here.”

The man stopped smiling. He gestured angrily and one of guards marched forward to bury his fist in Adrian’s stomach.

Adrian wheezed, his face red, but he didn’t make a sound.

“A bit drafty, Your Highness?” Yellow Poncho snarled, “Shall we light a fire?”

“Please do,” Adrian hissed, a grin stretching across his face, “Then we can see how long it takes idiots to burn.”

Yellow Poncho rumbled forward to punch Adrian across the face, so hard his head snapped to one side. “Shut up!” he screamed, “You’re not allowed to talk!”

Lovely.  Stupid and unhinged.  Wasn’t this just her lucky day.

Adrian spat out a mouthful of blood.  “You were the one asking questions,” he said with a wide-eyed look that only made them angrier.

By the time Yellow Poncho had calmed down, Adrian’s face was a mask of blood and bruises and the firestarter was groaning.

“You’re an idiot,” Catalina said coldly, after Yellow Poncho and his guards had stormed out.

“Better than being a coward,” Adrian laughed, his head tilting back in a futile attempt to stop his nosebleed.

“You’re a hot-tempered, self-serving jackass,” Catalina seethed.

“Oh, baby, I love it when you talk dirty,” Adrian made a harsh, wheezing sound.

“You know what?  Go ahead and get your face pounded into a pulp. It’ll certainly improve your looks.”

“Ouch,” Adrian snickered, “What’s the matter, darling?  The smeared lipstick or the runny mascara?  I have to say, you’re doing a great job on the raccoon impression.”

“You’re such a child,” Catalina sighed, leaning back to stare at the ceiling, “Instead of doing something useful, you’d rather bicker with me and insult the guards.”

“I haven’t seen you do anything useful either,” Adrian pointed out.

Catalina scowled.

~#~

Somewhere around the time the grimy window began to darken into pale blue-gray, Adrian started shivering again.

Catalina curled further in her shackles and listened to the waves.

~#~

“I hope you’ve reconsidered your rudeness,” Yellow Poncho said, like he was scolding schoolchildren. “I’d like to have a civilized conversation.”

Catalina glared at him. Adrian smiled, like he had several retorts at the tip of his tongue but had also miraculously remembered that his hair was stiff with blood.

“A deal,” Yellow Poncho said, “Between two interested parties.  You give me information, and I’ll let you go.”

Truly incompetent.  A six-year-old wouldn’t have believed him, even if his guards hadn’t been standing behind him and smirking.  One of them was wearing a particularly disturbing grin as he watched Adrian.

“Counteroffer,” Adrian groaned, “I’ll pay you five dollars to get out that fashion disaster out of my sight.”

Yellow Poncho frowned.

One of the guards stepped forward, baton in hand, and snapped it across Adrian’s ribs.

Five more hits, and Adrian was wheezing, curled up as far as he could in his bonds.  Yellow Poncho turned to her, “You seem like you’re more reasonable.”

That was more of an insult than a compliment.

“Tell us what we want to know, or we’ll hurt your friend some more.”

Catalina laughed and Adrian managed a rusty chuckle.  “He’s not my friend,” she said, smiling wide, “Go right ahead.  Maybe you can manage to beat some sense into him.”

Yellow Poncho glared at her. The guard, the one that looking at Adrian with interest, pressed a button on the baton.

It crackled with electricity.

Adrian didn’t scream, but the strangled whine was almost worse.

“How about I give you some time to think it over,” Yellow Poncho said, before motioning for everyone to leave.

He stopped on the threshold and looked at her.  “We won’t be coming back with an electric baton,” he promised softly.

Adrian was still slumped over, groaning.

~#~

“Brian said –”

“I know.”

“I can’t tell –”

“I know.”

“They’ll come for us.”

Silence.

~#~

“Have you made the right decision?” Yellow Poncho asked, “I’m a reasonable man.  I just want some information.  Give me the information, and I’ll let you go.”

“Anyone who wears that shade of yellow is not a reasonable man,” Adrian choked out.

They pushed his head back underwater.

Catalina watched, unmoving.

~#~

“Brian’s coming for us,” Catalina said into empty air.

There was no response.

~#~

“Just tell me what I want to know,” Yellow Poncho said, wide eyes and innocence.

Adrian was screaming. Every time he stopped, they threw salt water on his wounds.

Catalina stared back at him, her face pinched.

“That’s all you have to do,” he said, leaning forward, “Just tell me what I want to know, and all of this will stop.”

“Cat,” Adrian groaned, “Cat – please –”

Catalina stared back, her lips pressed into a thin line.

~#~

“Adrian?”

…

“Adrian?”

…

“Adrian.”

…

~#~

“Tell me,” Yellow Poncho snarled.  He had a fistful of Adrian’s hair as the man sagged in his bonds, limp.  His face was a mask of blood, red and black, and his shirt was soaked through.  He was trembling, even half-conscious, flinching every time the shudders jostled his broken ribs.

“Tell me,” Yellow Poncho said, and the guard, the one that set her nerves on edge, moved forward and curled his hands over Adrian’s shoulders.  “Or you won’t like what happens next.”

Catalina stared at her teammate, her wrists red and raw from straining against her shackles.  No amount of struggling had freed her, and she knew exactly where they were but that meant nothing if they couldn’t leave.

Their mission was supposed to be secret.  Brian was coming for them.

But there was no time left.

The guard’s fingers drifted to close around Adrian’s throat.

“No,” Catalina breathed out, despite herself.

Yellow Poncho began to smile.

“You don’t want me to hurt him, my dear,” he said softly, “Just tell me where the shipment is going.”

Catalina looked at Adrian again.  The guard’s hands began to squeeze.

“I’ll tell you,” she said, quiet and defeated, “Don’t hurt him, please, I’ll tell you.”

“Where is it?” Yellow Poncho scrambled forward, his eyes wide with hunger and greed.

“I – I don’t – I can show you on a map –”

Catalina breathed out slowly as Yellow Poncho sent out the guard to get a map, his eyes alight.  The look of a man about to get everything he wanted, and certain that it was his right.

The guard returned with a map.  “There – that corner –” Catalina pointed futilely with shackled fingers, “No – not that – no, past that road – up, right, not that much right, no, down –” She cringed back as Yellow Poncho stepped forward, impatient, and undid one of her shackles.

“Just point to it,” he snarled.

Greed made them so blind.

“Here,” Catalina said, leaning forward, letting the tremulous expression die to something more wide-eyed.  She pointed somewhere on the map, her expression trained on her captor, “You’ll let us go.”

“Yes,” Yellow Poncho said, not even registering that it wasn’t a question.  The guard began to scowl.

“Let us go,” Catalina said again, staring at the guard.  She still had one shackle on, but it was easy to manipulate someone who thought they got what they wanted.

“In a moment,” Yellow Poncho muttered, staring at the map.

“Let me go,” Catalina said, silk over steel, “Now.”

The guard stepped forward and undid her other cuff.

“Hey, wait a minute –”

“Take your gun and kill the man in the yellow poncho.”  Catalina tilted her head, smiled, and straightened out of her chair.

“What –”

“Good job,” she said warmly. The guard stared at her with glazed eyes.  “Now go and kill everyone else involved in this little operation.  And then set yourself on fire.”

“Yes, of course,” the guard whispered happily, and went to do exactly as she told.

Catalina’s smile slipped off her face as she stumbled across the room to release Adrian from his shackles.

“Adrian?” she called out quietly as the sound of gunfire started.  He nearly toppled off the chair once she’d removed the bounds, unconscious and warming up far too fast.

“Adrian?” she tried again, trying her powers, but he didn’t twitch.  He was still, covered in blood and bruises.

“Oh, Adrian, I’m so sorry,” she said quietly, pulling him off the chair and into her lap.  The sound of gunfire ended as abruptly as it had started.  She needed to get to a phone.  She needed to find a car.  She needed to –

She exhaled harshly and stayed where she was, protecting her injured teammate.

“I’ll get us out of here.”

[aleteia-ff]

1000 followers! | The Phantom of the Archipelago - Sneak Preview

Ohhh, yes!

Thank you, everyone, for your support. This week, I passed the milestone of 1000 Tumblr followers. I have only been on this website for 11 months by now and the amount of love and support I’ve received from this community, the people I’ve gotten to know... I’m so happy I joined! <3

Now, because you guys make me so happy, I want to do something back. And since a lot of you probably started following me because of The Phantom of the Arena, I wanted it to be related to that fic. And although I’m still working on building enough buffer of it’s sequel, The Phantom of the Archipelago, before I actually start posting, I figured I could at least share the draft of one scene from one of the first chapters. 

To say it’s a major scene would be an understatement. 

Obviously, spoilers below the Keep Reading line ;) 

And just a reminder that my ask box is always open! I might take some time to answer them, but in the end I always will. And I will try my hardest to work through some of the asks still in there. 

You can also always find me on Discord in the #aleteias-fics channel!

Hiccup let his gaze wander towards the far side of the island, intuitively scanning Berk’s dense forests for the little clearing in the middle of the trees. For the place he’d loved, and had later come to hate because of how his father had tainted it. But when his eyes found the all-too-familiar spot with ease, he decided that it wouldn’t be that bad to revisit after all.

He nudged Toothless to glide downwards, the two of them staying low and circling the cliffs before soaring over the treetops. Not that anyone was ever looking towards the sky the way Hiccup did, but he’d rather be safe than sorry. Especially on a clear and sunny day like this.

Or perhaps that had changed too over the past couple of years.

Toothless warbled happily when they descended into the cove. Hiccup rolled his eyes, patting the dragon’s neck. “As if you didn’t know where we were going already. You’re flying this thing too, remember?”

They circled around to confirm they were indeed alone, and then skimmed over the pond, the tips of Toothless’ wings just breaking the water’s surface. Hiccup took off his right glove, leaning sidewards to let his scarred fingertips trail through the fresh water, sending a shiver down his spine. He released the straps that secured his feet to the pedals, readying himself to dismount. He didn’t use the straps that often these days, but they were a welcome safety measure when spying on villages, hanging from a cliff. Although he’d definitely let himself drop on purpose a few times, as an excuse to use his own wings.

It was all about danger assessment. And after eleven years of flying, there wasn’t much that could surprise him anymore.

He yelped when that thought was immediately proven wrong as Toothless made an abrupt tight turn, sending him flying all on his own. He realised reaching for his wings was futile just before he hit the water with a loud splash!.

He gasped as he came back up for air, frantically looking around from behind the hair stuck to his forehead in search of an explanation. And broke into a chuckle when he caught sight of his drenched dragon, wading towards him with a proud, gummy smile.

“Good to see at least one of us hasn’t grown up since we first ‘flew’ together all those years ago,” he teased.

Toothless moved one of his wings, but Hiccup ducked under water, avoiding the retaliatory splash, throwing water right back at his best friend when he came back up.

They continued to wrestle and tease each other, both of them somehow ending up even more drenched than before, until Hiccup decided he was done and swam towards the shore. Toothless gave his best Scauldron impression as his rider got out, almost making him fall flat on his face when the water hit his back. He stuck out his tongue towards the dragon, removed his helmet, and shook his head, getting rid of most of the water as he took apart Inferno, confirming none of its vital parts had been soaked. Some of it needed oiling - and he couldn’t wait to get around to that - but not like this.

He looked around, a satisfied smile spreading across his lips as he surveyed the cove. It was exactly like he remembered. Frozen in time, the only thing that had changed in the past eleven years the removal of the shield he’d clumsily lodged between two rocks at its entrance, and of course, his remembrance stone.

In honour of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III

Berk’s Bravest Dragon Killer

He found he no longer minded the text. Because it was finally true. And if people chose to remember him for killing that one dragon that had tormented them for so many generations, then he’d settle for that. It was a lot better than being remembered as a Viking-hating terrorist, he supposed.

He sat back against the stone, comfortably leaning against it as Toothless continued to splash around behind him.

“It feels good to be here again,” he murmured to himself. “Now that the memories are no longer tainted, and I can just… Enjoy them.”

He remembered it all like it was only yesterday. How he’d been both scared and then incredibly excited to find Toothless there on that first day, wondering why the dragon was sticking around before he’d spotted his missing tail, instantly realising he’d done that and, more disturbingly, that he felt incredibly sorry for it.

How they’d locked eyes from a distance, and how that look had stayed with him from that moment on. Prompting him to seek out the dragon again the next day and end up swallowing a way too large bite of slimy, raw, regurgitated fish.

It had only been uphill from there… All the afternoons he’d spent in the cove, observing Toothless, learning who he was and interacting with him, closing that gap bit by bit until it had felt no more than simply right - although still thoroughly nerve-wracking - to extend his palm towards the Unholy Offspring of Lightning and Death itself. And how his entire world had changed when Toothless had pressed his snout against it.

He trailed the scars on his face with his left hand, once again mapping out every line as if he hadn’t already memorised them long ago. He’d been through a lot since he’d met Toothless. Lost a lot. But it was the one thing he’d do again, and again, no matter how many new attempts at life he might get. Because he couldn’t imagine a world without his best friend in it.

“I love you, Bud,” he told the dragon, who warbled a ‘I love you too’ in return.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the sun on his face as he waited for his hair and armour to dry, allowing himself to slightly doze off. He went back to those first attempts at getting Toothless back into the air, at all the failures they’d gone through before they’d actually made it out of the cove. Let alone gone for an actual flight, the first of which had gone anything but smoothly. But he’d enjoyed every second of it. The wind on his face, the saltiness of the sea in his nostrils, the two people shouting in the distance…

His eyes flew open and he put up his hand. Toothless instantly stopped moving, not a sound in the air for a mere moment. And then he heard it. A clear, audible “Wait up!”, echoing through the forest. Louder than before.

Coming towards them.

“Hide!” he hissed at Toothless as he scrambled to his feet, the distance between them too big for them to reconnect and fly away unseen. He sprinted after his dragon, the two of them disappearing behind a boulder in the back end of the cove. He snuck a look over his shoulder, spotting a figure at the top of the cove’s entrance.

A child.

He held his breath, peeking from the shadows, but the kid didn’t seem to have seen him, or the large black dragon currently breathing down his neck. Good. Now he just had to get out of here unseen as well.

“Hey, H!” - Hiccup’s heart skipped a beat, before he realised the kid’s name probably started with an H - “Not so fast!” he heard, coming from the forest once again.

He furrowed his brows, a surprised whisper escaping him. “Tuffnut?”

“I can do it myself!” the child - a boy - shouted back before he started to make his way down the cliff at the cove’s entrance.

“I know you can, but your mother will kill me if I let you,” the man repeated, and surely, Tuffnut Thorston appeared at the top of the cliff, gesturing at the boy, who was climbing down a lot faster than Hiccup would have assumed a child his size could.

“Tuffnut has a son?” he murmured, but Toothless just huffed, also clueless. “Kid doesn’t look much like him.”

Based on his length, the boy couldn’t be older than four, five at best. So he’d likely been born after the Phantom had left Berk. He searched his memory, wondering if he’d ever seen Tuffnut with a woman whose hair remotely resembled the kid’s unruly mop of auburn. He’d seen Tuffnut with many children today and yesterday, but when it came to a wife, he came up empty-handed.

“I didn’t think he even liked women to begin with,” he confessed, grinningly recalling the time Tuffnut had unknowingly flirted with the Phantom. “Guess we learn something new every day.”

“Then I want to fly down,” the boy insisted, pausing on the edge of one of the rocks, leaning forward and peering down in a way that made Hiccup’s stomach churn.

Tuffnut caught up with him, grabbing the boy’s arm and gently pulling him back. “You can’t fly. You’re not a dragon.”

“But I want to be a dragon!”

Tuffnut knelt down, putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “And I will still love you even if your breath smells like rotten fish, Little Hamster. But if you want to fly, you should grow some wings first.”

“So I should eat more raw fish?”

Hiccup grinned. Clever boy.

“No, then you’ll get sick, and we don’t want that, now do we?” The boy shook his head, his hair flopping around. “Although between you and me, it’s probably not that much worse than your mom’s cooking.”

“Berkian women and being bad cooks. Name a better duo,” Hiccup chuckled. He’d understood from his dad that his mom hadn’t been stellar, and Astrid surely couldn’t be called remotely talented either. He thought back to the fish stew she’d once tried to make, and instantly felt sympathy for Tuffnut’s situation.

The boy laughed loudly. “I’m gonna tell Mum you said that!”

“Go ahead, snitch,” Tuffnut teased, poking the boy’s chest. “I can take her on any day.”

The boy shook his head. “You can’t! No one can!”

“Are you doubting my mighty Thorston blood? There’s ‘Thor’ in my name for a reason, you know!” Tuffnut caught the boy in his arms, tickling him. “Are you, huh?”

“Stop!” the boy laughed, swatting at his father. “Uncle Tuff!”

Or not his father, then.

Hiccup bit his lip. Perhaps he was one of Ruffnut’s, then? But he thought he’d seen Snotlout with a girl of about the same age as the boy… Twins, then? They did run in the Thorston family, after all. Or perhaps they were siblings who weren’t that far apart, and one of them looked a lot older or younger than they actually were.

He felt he should leave, that he was peeking at something private, something he shouldn’t see. But he simply couldn’t. Instead, he quietly retrieved one of his Changewing skins and hung it over his head, allowing him to blend in with his surroundings and creep forward so he could get a better look. Behind him, Toothless warbled curiously, but he nudged the dragon back with his foot, telling him it wasn’t safe enough.

“Alright, wait here,” Tuffnut told the boy before he climbed down the remaining rocks, opening up his arms when he reached the bottom. “Ready when you are!”

The boy leapt forward, landing in Tuffnut’s arms. He spun the two of them around, keeping the boy high up in the air, making him squeal in delight until he finally put him down, Tuffnut visibly swaying on his feet as he tried to regain his balance.

Hiccup could see the comedic duo more clearly now. Tuffnut was still wearing his usual disorganised combination of a tunic, vest and lustrous assortment of spiked accessories. The boy was dressed way more conservatively, in a dark red tunic, half of it tucked into a pair of brown pants, the other half unintentionally hanging out, a leather satchel with the crest of Berk on it slung over his shoulder. Hiccup had always had good eyes - Astrid had noticed he could make out certain details from high up in the air, while she couldn’t - allowing him to spot the smattering of freckles on the bridge of the boy’s small nose, the tips of his big ears peeking through his copper hair and his forest green eyes, which curiously taking in his surroundings.

In a way, the boy struck him as oddly familiar. Then again, he had likely once met a Thorston who looked just like him, given how colourful and diverse - not just mentally - the family was. Tuffnut and Ruffnut were rather tame by comparison. Or so he’d been told, by enough sources to make the stories believable.

“Go on,” Tuffnut gestured in front of him as he sat down in the grass. “We’re here for you, after all.”

The boy adamantly shook his head. “Not for me. For Daddy.”

“Because you want to talk to him, Hamish,” Tuffnut pointed out.

Hamish. Huh. Hiccup could understand that name becoming fashionable again after he’d personally destroyed the portraits of his ancestors, Hamish I and Hamish II, five years ago. But it seemed like such an usual name for Ruffnut and Snotlout to give to their son. Especially if he was their firstborn son; then he was Snotlout’s heir… It’d be more logical for him to be named in the -lout tradition, but perhaps they had wanted to give off a clear sign by naming him after the great Haddock Chiefs, who had been defiled by their actual descendant.

How un-Thorstonly political.

The boy nodded and slowly walked forward to the edge of the pond, looking down and fidgeting with his hands. Eventually, he stopped in front of Hiccup’s remembrance stone, a bright lop-sided smile spreading across his face. “Hey Daddy.”

Hiccup furrowed his brows, because all of this was only making less and less sense the longer he watched. Was the boy’s father dead? And had his stone become a place to go to to think of other dead, or presumed-dead, people? Or those who simply weren’t around?

“Mama’s not here, but she said it’s okay if I go alone,” the boy - Hamish - continued.

Only to be corrected by Tuffnut. “If someone else goes with you!”

Hamish huffed, looking at Tuffnut. “But I know the way!”

“And you can go alone when you’re older. Until then, you can show an adult how to get here whenever you want,” Tuffnut quipped.

“I’m old enough,” Hamish insisted.

“I disagree. And so does your mother. And while she’s not the boss of me, she’s certainly the boss of you.”

Hamish frowned angrily, but Tuffnut simply grinned at him in response. “So what did you want to say to your dad?”

The boy wavered for a moment, his brows furrowed as he seemed to be thinking, but then his face opened up into a wide smile. He fumbled with his satchel, retrieving something black from it, and walked closer to the stone, proudly holding it up. Hiccup squinted, trying to make out what it was. And then the boy spoke.

“Look, Daddy, I brought Mini-Toothless!”

He only vaguely heard how Toothless purred in response to his name. Because right then, the ground underneath him disappeared, and the entire world along with it. Until there was nothing left but that boy, and the little statuette he held in his hands.

Of a Night Fury.

Which he’d carved and painted for Astrid as a Snoggletog present over five years ago.

“Mummy told me to take care of him while she’s gone -”

The boy’s mother was gone.

He’d given that statuette to Astrid.

And Astrid was gone too.

That boy was Astrid’s son.

But he didn’t have her beautiful blonde hair, her gorgeous blue eyes, her adorable but slightly oversized ears - no, he did have those, so Hamish could be hers, but then where did he get the rest? Hiccup thought she’d waited for him, that she…

“- like you take care of real Toothless!”

You.

The boy was talking to his father.

Who probably had auburn hair, and a pair of green eyes.

Who wasn’t there.

Whose dragon, named Toothless, was worriedly nudging Hiccup’s side, sensing his rider’s distress.

The boy was talking to him.

Because he was his father.

He hardly heard what the boy - Hamish, his son, named after his ancestors - said after that. He simply stared, unable to move, his breath coming out in short pants. Hamish rambled, his tiny hands moving along as he talked, as if this was completely ordinary to him, as if Hiccup’s - as if his father’s - world wasn’t completely falling apart at that very moment. Because it didn’t make sense.

How?

How…?

How!?  

He crumbled to the ground, pressing his hands to his ears, because he couldn’t listen, because this wasn’t happening. The Gods were playing a trick on him, or his mind was, yet again. He was seeing things, hearing things, deluding himself into picturing something that wasn’t there. That didn’t exist, that wasn’t true, because it couldn’t be true. He would’ve known if Astrid had been pregnant, he would’ve known if he was a father, she would have told him, he would have felt it.

It couldn’t be real. But no matter how often he pinched himself, they didn’t go away. The boy, Tuffnut, and the tiny wooden Night Fury stayed where they were. He wanted to flee, but he couldn’t, they would see him, and he didn’t know what happened if delusions spotted the person who was deluding them, not that that thought made much sense -

Oh Gods.

Oh, Gods.

He turned his eyes towards the sky, trying to snap himself out of it, to focus on anything but the scene in front of him. But the sun moved too slowly, and time along with it, so he wasted away, waiting, praying, asking the Gods what they’d brought down on him this time, until finally, his nightmarish visions left.

After scoldingly calling out the boy’s full name, Tuffnut picked him up, and, although reluctantly, the boy eventually stopped struggling, keeping Mini-Toothless clutched to his chest as Tuffnut carried him towards the cove’s exit. They exchanged some words, and the boy waved in the direction of the pond.

Hiccup only just prevented himself from waving back.

He couldn’t banish the boy’s name from his mind. Not even after he and Tuffnut had left, and Hiccup had jumped on Toothless’ back. Not even after they took to the air, the wind in his face not waking him up like he’d hoped it would.

So he simply flew West. Hoping to go back to the nightmare he’d come from. The one he was familiar with, the one he could deal with. Because he couldn’t handle this one.

Hamish Hofferson.

[tomakeitbeautifultolive]

Hey I was just wondering on your interpretation of Jonerys in the books? Because according to the bad leaks we will get Jon killing Dany, but in the book version its pretty clear that these two will marry and I don't necessarily see how those two things jive with each other, unless we get a literal repeat of the Azor Ahai/Nissa Nissa bs with them🤷🏼‍♀️ Thoughts? Because I have given up hope for the show and need some reassurance on the books after reading all of them plus the history books,,

Look, anon. Even in the fucking show these two have been paralleled to death - in a way that inextricably links their lives together, as seen here and here and here. When you learn that when Ian McElhinney (Barristan Selmy) confronted D&D about how he thought it was too early to kill off his character, it made them want to kill him more, out of spite… it makes it pretty clear what D&D are doing.

In their effort to adhere to shock and subversion… they’ve left mounds of unused foreshadowing all over the place (I’m still working on a master post of unused foreshadowing and plot elements). As you might’ve guessed, Jonerys foreshadowing is among those casualties - such as Dany mentioning she may have to enter in a political marriage at the end of season 6 before setting sail for Westeros, or the four different instances that challenge Dany’s belief that she can’t have children, that her family hasn’t seen its end, and that Longclaw will go to Jon’s children after him. As of right now, none of the leaks indicate that any of this meant anything other than dialogue filler. If it was never intended to amount to anything, then the writers should not have included these lines at all, especially in a show that was cut down from ten episodes to seven. Way, way too much emphasis was put on challenging the notion Daenerys can’t have children. It’s what a good writer might call ‘trimming the fat’ from the story, otherwise, it does nothing but muddy up the story unnecessarily.

Jonerys aside, D&D have killed so much foreshadowing in the series just to make a shocking ending (which by the way, makes no sense at all). I was flabbergasted when I read this quote from 2013:

When I asked Benioff and Weiss if it was possible to infer any overall intentionality to the upcoming 10 episodes, they sneered. “Themes are for eighth-grade book reports,” Benioff told me.

Uh, what?

As you may have seen, I already recently covered why Jon shouldn’t care so much about the incest aspect - in the comments I received, there was a great point about how Jon has borderline romantic feelings toward his cousin Arya (who he believes is his half-sister), tending to think of her when he wonders what his love interest’s (Ygritte) body looks like under all those clothes. In the original outline for the series, Jon and Arya were supposed to end up together or at least be involved in a love triangle with Tyrion.

As you see, in the books, Daenerys has already been groomed for the reality of being wedded to her brother, so her nephew won’t be some grand depature from this. She’s a dragonrider, and if the shows are to be believed, Jon will be, too - and if the majority of fans are to be believed, then there might be something magical about Targaryen blood that makes them different or unique or magical, hence the incest.

When you look at just how finely crafted this book series by GRRM is… it makes it really hard to believe that he’d throw out all of his foreshadowing for shock value.

“It’s easy to do things that are shocking or unexpected, but they have to grow out of characters. They have to grow out of situations. Otherwise, it’s just being shocking for being shocking.”—George R. R. Martin

I think we can all agree that season eight of Game of Thrones is all about futility, shock, nihilism. So, check out this quote:

Q: Early on, one critic described the TV series as bleak and embodying a nihilistic worldview, another bemoaned its “lack of moral signposts.” Have you ever worried that there’s some validity to that criticism?

A: No. That particular criticism is completely invalid. Actually, I think it’s moronic. My worldview is anything but nihilistic.—George R. R. Martin

It was George who said we’d get a bittersweet ending, not D&D. It was George who said he wanted a LotR-style ending, not D&D.

While there are many conflicting quotes out there about GRRM’s ending vs. D&D’s… This recent article published right after episode 3 had some interesting lines:

“Of course you have an emotional reaction. I mean, would I prefer they do it exactly the way I did it? Sure. It can also be… traumatic. Because sometimes their creative vision and your creative vision don’t match, and you get the famous creative differences thing — that leads to a lot of conflict.”—George R. R. Martin

My interpretation currently is that yes, Jonerys is real in the books…

(just as it was in the fucking show until they decided to abandon all preestablished groundwork and foundation) …and has been thoroughly foreshadowed - and not in a tragic way.

First of all, the series is called ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ - while this stands for many things from literal to metaphorical, I’d say it absolutely encompasses Jon and Dany. I have some very unpopular ideas that ice actually represents Daenerys and fire, Jon. Whether or not I’m right about that, we have some hints that Jon will ultimately accept his Targaryen identity…

Subtle clue about who he is, in one of his true house’s colors:

“The next time I see you, you’ll be all in black.”Jon forced himself to smile back. “It was always my color.”

He idolizes historical Targaryens:

“Daeren Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said. The Young Dragon was one of his heroes.

He’d pretend to be Targaryens while playing as a child:

“I’m Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,” Jon would call out.

For Daenerys, we get this curious line:

“Mother of dragons, bride of fire…”

Bride could also be metaphorical in some way, sure, but let’s just say it’s literal. Jon is the dragon, the fire.

Okay, so for the books, I’ll try to hit the bullet points:

First and foremost, the pair are incredibly similar, both stepping into positions of rule after immersing themselves into a foreign culture, adapting to their way of life before making allies. Both Jon and Daenerys make grave mistakes while wielding power, and they learn from their mistakes. They’re being shaped into rulers.

Both fall in love, yet still feel alone:

“Her captain slept beside her, yet she was alone.” / "Even with Ygritte sleeping beside him, he felt alone.“

Daenerys dreams of her lover:

“It was never Jorah Mormont she dreamed of; her lover was always younger and more comely, though his face remained a shifting shadow.”

Jon is described as a shadow:

“A shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain.” / “He would be condemned to be an outsider, the silent man standing in the shadows”

Daenerys also dreams of life as a wife and mother:

“In her dream they had been man and wife, simple folk who lived a simple life in a tall stone house with a red door.”

Both dream of children they will never have:

“I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms.” / "I will never have a little girl.“

From Jon’s first chapter, there are hints that Benjen knows his identity and that family might someday be important to Jon:

"You don’t know what you’re asking, Jon. The Night’s Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor. You are a boy of fourteen, not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up.”

“I don’t care about that!” Jon said hotly.

“You might, if you knew what it meant,” Benjen said. “If you knew what the oath would cost you, you might be less eager to pay the price, son.”

We have those quotes from Maester Aemon, that hint that Jon might choose love or a child over duty:

“What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms … or the memory of a brother’s smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.”

While yes, Aemon hints that it is both glory and tragedy, we’re coming off a long, long line of tragic Targaryen love stories - the difference here being that one of these Targaryens is out to break the wheel that destroyed so many of these star-crossed, doomed Targaryens loves (Rhaegar/Lyanna, Duncan/Jenny, Daemon/Daenerys, Aemon/Naerys, etc).

Blue roses are linked to Lyanna Stark or even House Stark in general. In a vision, Daenerys sees:

“A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness.”

Meanwhile, there is foreshadowing that Dany will help Jon’s effort against the white walkers with lines like these:

“He might as well wish for another thousand men, and maybe a dragon or three.”

Daenerys, herself, has a weird moment with some ants while she wakes in the Dothraki Sea, brushing them off of her body as they swarm over a wall:

“To them these tumbledown stones must loom as huge as the Wall of Westeros. The biggest wall in all the world, her brother Viserys used to say, as proud as if he’d built it himself.”

Around the same time, Jon is killed, whispering to his wolf:

“Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. He gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold…

Meanwhile, after ‘opening her third eye’ with some berries, Daenerys hears the call of a wolf all the way over in Essos:

“Off in the distance, a wolf howled. The sound made her feel sad and lonely.”

We can extrapolate that this is, in fact, Ghost… as first, there don’t seem to be wolves in the Dothraki Sea, but also this line from Bran also provides context:

“Here in the chill damp darkness of the tomb his third eye had finally opened. He could reach Summer whenever he wanted, and once he had even touched Ghost and talked to Jon.”

Now that we know Jon’s true name (at least according to the show), this curious line from Daenerys also hints she might marry Jon:

“A crown should not sit easy on the head. One of her royal forebears had said that, once. Some Aegon, but which one? Five Aegons had ruled the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. There would have been a sixth, but the Usurper’s dogs had murdered her brother’s son when he was still a babe at the breast. If he had lived, I might have married him.”

Meanwhile, Jon is infatuated with Val, a woman who sounds an awful lot like a precursor to Daenerys, who is a warrior woman with silver-pale hair… Jon is also reminded of Val’s hips and breasts and that she’s 'well made for whelping children’…

“The light of the half-moon turned Vals honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. The air tastes sweet.”

“Lonely and lovely and lethal, Jon Snow reflected, and I might have had her.”

“A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her.”

As for GRRM, he told a helpful clue to director Alan Taylor circa season one of Game of Thrones:

“Anyways, he alluded to the fact that Jon and Dany were the point, kind of. That, at the time, there was a huge, vast array of characters, and Jon was a lowly, you know, bastard son. So it wasn’t clear to us at the time, but he did sort of say things that made it clear that the meeting and the convergence of Jon and Dany were sort of the point of the series. So, I was happy that a big step forward was taken in the episode I got to do this season is where he has fallen for her both, you know, emotionally and politically I think.”

But that’s not all. I did write a meta about the mother goddess Danu and her parallels with Dany - and this, to me, rings much more true to who Daenerys is in the books rather than whatever impostor is parading around in Dany’s skin on screen in season eight.

There is a lot of proof that GRRM puts a LOT of thought and detail into his books - even down to the Starks ‘howling’ and ‘growling’ and the Lannisters ‘roaring’. I’ve uncovered a cool trend where many of the names he assigns to characters reflect their numerological gemstone house colors - and the names he chooses all shed some light on the characters they are given to, such as Bran meaning ‘raven’ or Sandor meaning ‘defender of man’ or Gendry meaning ‘son-in-law’.

I’ve done a lot of thinking about these things, and I just cannot see GRRM throwing out all of his foreshadowing or all of the clever little things he’s been hinting at since book once, all for the sake of shock value or subverting expectations… That’s not his style and he speaks out against it.

Bearing that in mind, the clear mad queen is Cersei, who shares virtually every parallel to Aerys Targaryen - the way she tortures parent and child chained just out of reach from one another, the way torture sexually excites her, the way she was tortured into madness, and straight down to her wildfire use. Daenerys better fits the archetype of an anti-hero rather than a straight villain. With only two books left and still no signs of madness… I just don’t see it going down this way in the books.

As for whatever just happened with Daenerys, I’ve been given a compelling argument that in the books, as she squares off with (f)Aegon Targaryen, or, Young Griff, in an effort to expose the Mummer’s Dragon, she might accidentally set off these wildfire traps that make her look just like her father, and perhaps she even goes a little mad with grief.

Especially considering that ASOIAF is so heavily based on Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn, which share countless parallels, such as:

Norn (White foxes)  → The Others (White walkers)

Sithi (Dawn children) → Singers (Children of the forest)

Witchwood  → Weirwood

The Storm King → Night’s King

Ineluki → Azor Ahai

Sorrow → Lightbringer

Black iron → Dragonglass

Nisse → Nissa Nissa

Hayholt Castle → Winterfell Castle

Green Angel Tower → Winterfell Crypts

Simon Snowlock (secret heritage) → Jon Snow

Princess Miriamele (disguised as a boy) → Arya Stark

Warring brothers King Elias/Josua → Stannis/Renly

Tailed star → Red comet

Black priest Pryrates → Red priest Melisandre

Daenerys is suspected to be the Princess Maegwin figure, a woman who “is forced to watch as forces conquer her people and is eventually driven to madness in her desperation to save them.”

You make a good point about Fire & Blood and ASOIAF prehistory, too. Aside from the doomed Targaryen love stories I mentioned earlier, we get another history book that basically gives us a rundown of various Targaryen ladies who never got to be queen. I’d say this book has a strong feminist message - and might even hint that the last vestige of House Targaryen just might accomplish what her foremothers could not - finally becoming the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Lastly, I’ll leave you with a clip from the man, himself, about Dany:

“From my mother’s stories, I always had this kind of sense that I was like disinherited royalty. Here was this dock that my great-grandfather built - it wasn’t ours anymore. Here was this house that my mother had been born in - we didn’t own this house anymore. We didn’t own any house, we had an apartment. So it was like, ugh, I came from greatness - like Dany! And I will take back what is mine with Fire and Blood! I think on some level, that must’ve gotten to me.”—George R. R. Martin

I could be wrong about all of this, of course… but that’s my current take. 🤷

[edgeofpages]

Literary References in ‘When the Weather is Fine’ <날씨가 좋으면 찾아가겠어요> Part I: Poems

날씨가 좋으면 찾아가겠어요 (English: When the Weather is Fine/I’ll Find You on A Beautiful Day/I’ll Go to You When the Weather is Nice) is a 2020 JTBC drama which is adapted from the original novel by Lee Do Woo.

In this part, we are going to have a jolly time reading all the poems featured in the drama.

01. ‘A Drink’ <술 한잔>

In the second episode, Aunt Su-jeong reads Jeong Ho-seung’s poem ’A Drink’ <술 한잔> during the Goodnight Book Club meeting.

인생은 나에게 술 한잔 사주지 않았다 겨울밤 막다른 골목 끝 포장마차에서 빈 호주머니를 털털 털어 나는 몇 번이나 인생에게 술을 사주었으나 인생은 나를 위해 단 한 번도 술 한잔 사주지 않았다 눈이 내리는 날에도 돌연꽃 소리없이 피었다 지는 날에도

Life has never bought me one drink. Many a time I’ve shaken out my empty pockets in a tent-bar at the end of a blind alley to buy life a drink, but life has never once bought me one drink, even on snowy days, even on days when stone lotuses, without a sound, bloomed. and faded.

02.  ‘To Daffodil’ <수선화에게>

In the third episode, Mok Hae-won is seen reading another Jeong Ho-seung’s poem ’To Daffodil’ <수선화에게>. The first stanza “Don’t cry. To be lonely is to be human. To go on living is to endure loneliness.” brings her back to her high school memories in which Eun-seob read out the exact same poem in front of their class.

울지 마라 외로우니까 사람이다 살아간다는 것은 외로움을 견디는 일이다 공연히 오지 않는 전화를 기다리지 마라

눈이 오면 눈길을 걸어가고 비가 오면 빗길을 걸어가라 갈대숲의 가슴 검은 도요새도 너를 보고 있다 가끔은 하느님도 외로워서 눈물을 흘리신다

새들이 나뭇가지에 앉아 있는 것도 외로움 때문이고 네가 물가에 앉아 있는 것도 외로움 때문이다 산 그림자도 외로워서 하루에 한 번씩 마을로 내려온다 종소리도 외로워서 울려 퍼진다

Don’t cry To be lonely is to be human. To go on living is to endure loneliness. Do not wait in vain for the phone call that never comes. When snow falls, walk on snowy paths, when rain falls, walk on rainy paths. A black-breasted longbill is watching you from the bed of reeds. Sometimes even God is so lonely he weeps. Birds perch on branches because they are lonely and you are sitting beside the stream because you are lonely. The hill’s shadow comes down to the village once a day because it, too, is lonely. And a bell’s chime resounds because it, too, is lonely.

Both poems ‘A Drink’ <술 한잔> and 'To Daffodil’ <수선화에게> stem from a poetry anthology by Jeong Ho-Seung, 'The Person I Love’ <내가 사랑하는 사람>. English-language readers can read the collected poems of Jeong Ho-seung in 'A Letter Not Sent’, translated by Brother Anthony of Taize and Susan Hwang. The poems are presented side by side in Korean and English.

03. ‘An Empty Field of Grass’

In the second episode, Mok Hae-won narrates the poem ’An Empty Field of Grass’ written by her aunt, Shim Myeong-yeo.

Sleet fell on the waters of Lake Hyecheon The time they spent together as lovers last night melted away completely Y thought of him, whom she left on the grass How much longer will I have to wander along the edges of pain to kill off all the memories? If memories of love were sleet or a snowman lost in the wrong season no regrets are needed I just want them gone Only disillusionment is left in the lonely grass And old love crosses the river of oblivion If only I could also cross this field of futility

04. ‘Natasha, the White Donkey, and Me’ <나와 나타샤와 흰 당나귀>

Natasha, the White Donkey, and Me is the poem that Jang Woo has planned to read for the book club in episode 4, but was distracted. This poem was written by Baek Seok (1912-1963), translated into English by Chae-pyong Song and Anne Rashid.

가난한 내가 아름다운 나타샤를 사랑해서 오늘밤은 푹푹 눈이 나린다

나타샤를 사랑은 하고 눈은 푹푹 날리고 나는 혼자 쓸쓸히 앉어 소주(燒酒)를 마신다 소주(燒酒)를 마시며 생각한다 나타샤와 나는 눈이 푹푹 쌓이는 밤 흰 당나귀 타고 산골로 가자 출출이 우는 깊은 산골로 가 마가리에 살자

눈은 푹푹 나리고 나는 나타샤를 생각하고 나타샤가 아니올 리 없다 언제 벌써 내 속에 고조곤히 와 이야기한다 산골로 가는 것은 세상한테 지는 것이 아니다 세상 같은 건 더러워 버리는 것이다

눈은 푹푹 나리고 아름다운 나타샤는 나를 사랑하고 어데서 흰 당나귀도 오늘밤이 좋아서 응앙응앙 울을 것이다

Tonight the snow falls endlessly because I, a poor man, love the beautiful Natasha. I love Natasha, the snow falls endlessly, and I sit alone, drinking rice wine. Drinking rice wine, I think: the night the snow falls endlessly I would like to ride, with Natasha, upon a white donkey to a remote, mournful mountain village and live in a cottage. The snow falls endlessly. I love Natasha. Natasha must be coming. She has already come in quietly and tells me: “You throw away such a thing as the world because it’s muddled, but going to a remote mountain doesn’t mean you lose it all.” The snow falls endlessly, the beautiful Natasha will love me, and somewhere the white donkey, too, will cry out, delighted with tonight.

05. ’Small Love Song’ <조그만 사랑 노래>

어제를 동여맨 편지를 받았다. 늘 그대 뒤를 따르던 길 문득 사라지고 길 아닌 것들도 사라지고 여기저기서 어린 날 우리와 놀아주던 돌들이 얼굴을 가리고 박혀 있다. 사랑한다 사랑한다, 추위 환한 저녁 하늘에 찬찬히 깨어진 금들이 보인다. 성긴 눈 날린다. 땅 어디에 내려앉지 못하고 눈뜨고 떨며 한없이 떠다니는 몇 송이 눈.

I received a letter which held yesterday. The path that had always trailed behind you suddenly disappeared, and everything that wasn’t the path went with it. Scattered stones which played with us as kids hide away their faces. I love you, I love you…and in the cold, clear night sky I see the steady cracking of gold. A thin snow falls. Unable to settle anywhere on the ground, a pair of flakes close their eyes and tremble as they drift together endlessly.

Eun-seob starts his day drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book. In episode 2, he is joined by Hae-won. He hands over his coffee and starts reading this book 'Every Day, A Cup of Poetry’ <매일, 시 한 잔>. One of the poems, 'Small Love Song’ <조그만 사랑 노래> by Hwang Tong-gyu is featured in episode 4.

Along with Bae Jung-ae’s pretty handwriting, this book introduces 79 poems of 56 prominent poets, including Baek Seok, Yoon Dong-ju, Natae-ju, Jeong Ho-seung, William B. Yates, and Khalil Gibran. Just like a cup of tea, a cup of poetry spreads warmth and comfort throughout one’s body. Read a poem slowly, pour it over, sip it again and enjoy it as if you were drinking tea.

06. ’Something Small and Trivial’ <아주 작고 하찮은 것이>

아주 작고 하찮은 것이 내 몸에 들어올 때가 있네

도꼬마리의 까실까실한 씨앗이라든가 내 겨드랑이에 슬쩍 닿는 민석이의 손가락이라든가 잊을 만하면 한 번씩 찾아와서 나를 갈아엎는 치통이라든가 귀틀집 처마 끝에서 떨어지는 낙숫물 소리라든가 수업 끝난 오후의 자장면 냄새 같은 거

내 몸에 들어와서 아주 작고 하찮은 것이 마구 양푼 같은 내 가슴을 긁어댈 때가 있네 사내도 혼자 울고 싶을 때가 있네 고대광실 구름 같은 집이 아니라 구름 위에 실컷 웅크리고 있다가 때가 오면 천하를 때릴 천둥 번개 소리가 아니라 아주 작고 하찮은 것이 내 몸에 들어오면 나는 견딜 수 없이 서러워져 소주 한잔 마시러 가네

소주, 아주 작고 하찮은 것이 내 몸이 저의 감옥인 줄도 모르고 내 몸에 들어와서 나를 뜨겁게 껴안을 때가 있네

Something small and trivial sometimes comes inside my body like the prickly seeds of a cocklebur or like Minseok’s fingers that slightly grazed my armpit or like a toothache that troubled me every time I forgot about it like the smell of jjajangmyeon that we ate after class Something small and trivial sometimes comes inside my body Something small and trivial doesn’t even know my body is its prison and comes inside my body to sometimes hug me intensely.

The poem ’Something Small and Trivial’ <아주 작고 하찮은 것이> on episode 5 stems from Ahn Do-hyun’s 1999 poem collection ’The Post Office by the Sea’ <바닷가 우체국> that deals with the reminiscent of average thing from the past in a sympathetic and romantic way.

07. <한 사람 때문에 힘이 다 빠져 나갔을>*

What did they say when they broke up? Did he carry her bag for her when they left? Why did that have to happen in the evening? Were they both used to seeing each other crying? We run at full speed seeking love somewhere at the end of this world But after giving up on that love, we return to where we were in the first place with all our energy drained from our bodies. Although we call that a breakup when we use up all our energy for that one person, we can call that love as well.

In episode 8, Myong-yeo recites prose entry #52 한 사람 때문에 힘이 다 빠져 나갔을 from Lee Byungryul’s travel prose book ’Wind Blows, I Like You’ <바람이 분다 당신이 좋다>. The main theme of the book is 'people’. The book has no table of contents or page numbers, allowing the readers to travel without a destination, just following the wind in this book.

* this poem is not translated in its entirety

08. ‘A Pitch-dark Night’ <머루밤>

불을 끈 방안에 횃대의 하이얀 옷이 멀리 추울 것 같이

개방위로 말방울 소리가 들려온다

문을 연다 머루빛  밤한울에 송이버슷의 내음새가 났다

The lights in the room are out. The white clothes hanging from the rack look distant and cold. I hear the sound of horse bells from the northwest. I open the door. The night sky is pitch-dark. There is a scent of pine mushrooms in the air.

In episode 11, Eun-seob recites the poem '머루밤 (meorubam)' that stem from Baek Seok’s poetry anthology ‘Deer’ <사슴>. First published in a limited edition of 100 copies in 1936, 'Deer' contained a total of 33 poems in four parts. The most remarkable characteristic of his poems is the use of dialect.

09. ’When we sit face to face’ <우리가 마주 앉아>

우리가 마주 앉아 웃으며 이야기하던 그 나무에는 우리들의 숨결과 우리들의 웃음소리와 우리들의 이야기 소리가 스며있어서, 스며있어서,

우리가 그 나무 아래를 떠난 뒤에도 우리가 그 나무 아래에서 웃으며 이야기 했다는 사실조차 까마득 잊은 뒤에도,

해마다 봄이 되면 그 나무는 우리들의 웃음소리와 우리들의 숨결과 말소리를 되받아 싱싱하고 푸른 새 잎으로 피울 것이다.

When we sat face to face smiling and talking in front of that tree, our breaths, our laughter, and our stories were permeated in that tree. They were permeated so deeply. And even after we forget the fact that we smiled and talked below that tree, every year in spring, that tree will remember our laughter, our breaths, and our voices to produce fresh and green new leaves.

The poem stems from ‘The Heart That Leaves You to the End’, the first poetry collection of South Korean poet, Na Tae-joo.

10. ’Love’ <사모>

사랑을 다해 사랑하였노라고 정작 할 말이 남아 있음을 알았을 때 당신은 이미 남의 사람이 되어 있었다.

불러야 할 뜨거운 노래를 가슴으로 죽이며 당신은 멀리로 잃어지고 있었다.

하마 곱스런 웃음이 사라지기 전 두고두고 아름다운 여인으로 잊어 달라지만 남자에게서 여자란 기쁨

아니면 슬픔다섯 손가락 끝을 잘라 핏물 오선을 그려 혼자라도 외롭지 않을 밤에 울어보리라 울어서 멍든 눈흘김으로 미워서 미워지도록 사랑하리라

한 잔은 떠나버린 너를 위하여 또 한잔은 너와의 영원한 사랑을 위하여 그리고 또 한 잔은 이미 초라해진 나를 위하여 마지막 한 잔은 미리 알고 정하신 하나님을 위하여

When I realized I hadn't had a chance to tell you that I love you with all my heart You were already in love with someone else.

I silenced the passionate serenade inside my heart as you drifted far away from me.

You told me to forget everything before your pretty smile vanished and only remember your beauty But to a man, a woman either signifies joy or sorrow

I will cut off the tips of my five fingers and draw a staff with my blood I will be alone tonight and I will shed tears With crying and bruised eyes I will hate you to love you

The first glass is for you, who left me Another glass for our eternal love And another glass is for me, who is already pathetic And the last glass is for the Almighty who foresaw and decided everything in advance.

[lumikatdraws]

Prompt #2: Bargain

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

(”T,” bro fluff, Estinien & Aymeric, slash if you squint)

- - - - - - - - - -

“I will not.”

Aymeric smirked at his churlish comrade, lifting his eyebrows.  “I can promise good food to be had there,” he continued, and when Estinien felt his face slacken slightly, Aymeric grinned in vicious triumph, surely knowing he struck at a weakness.  “Simone is the finest culinarian in Coerthas—”

“No,” Estinien insisted, shaking himself back into stone.  He tossed the tail of his hair back between his shoulder blades and tapped his tankard loudly to get the barmaid’s attention.  “I will not set foot in your manor.”  He spat the word out like it was poison and grimaced at his ale as the barmaid refilled it.

But godsforsaken Aymeric de Borel was nothing if not persistent.  He tapped his ale for a filling, too.  “What about a bargain, then,” he suggested, watching as the brew rose in his own cup.  “A challenge, man to man.”  Foam brimmed as he gripped the handle of his tankard and lifted it in imitation of a toast. “If I can finish mine faster, you come home with me.”

Estinien snorted loudly.  “Bawdy.”  But his dark eyes glinted, and he grabbed his tankard by the handle, sliding it across the table.  “You know I can drink you under the table, you demented dingbat.”  He looked at him through his long silver lashes like a wolf sizing up unfortunate prey.  “If I finish mine, you never ask me to come home with you again.”

“Seems fair,” Aymeric agreed, pale eyes blank and insipid.  His tankard lingered midair.  “Do we have an agreement?”

Estinien lifted his ale to knock against Aymeric’s and grunted.

The ghost of a smirk pressed at Aymeric’s lips as he glanced down the bar to find the maid again. He injected his voice with charm. “Beg pardon, miss—” She sidled back over, wiping her hands with a washrag.  “Care to arbitrate our challenge?”

Her eyes roved down de Borel’s absurdly beautiful face and frankly burned.  “Why not?”

Estinien tried not to snort at the way she regarded his nearly celibate companion.  Avert your futile glance.  “Right, then,” he rumbled, bracing himself, taking a breath. “Count us down.”

“Three, two, one—”

The ale was cold for once, but burned his throat as he tipped his chin and poured down the entire—

A heavy clunk beside him.  He choked on the last dregs of foam and spluttered, slamming down his tankard, glaring at Aymeric.  “No way in seven bloody damned hells—”

The barmaid was shaking her head, arms crossed.  “This one finished first.”

Aymeric tilted his mug to show him.  Empty. He wiped his lips with his tongue and the back of his hand and smiled like something feral, like something indisputably wicked.  “Fair and square,” he said, quirking one handsome black brow.  Payment rattled from his hand to the counter and he got to his feet.  “And now, if you please, the Manor Borel kitchen awaits—”

“I most certainly do not please,” Estinien spat, bristling at him.  “You cheated, you big buggering—”

But Aymeric was thrusting an arm at his shoulders and flashing a dazzling smile at the barmaid. “Much obliged, my good lady,” he said to her, causing her cheeks to flush.

Estinien struggled away from Aymeric and stalked to the door.  He slammed it open and lunged out into the night.  Flurries were pouring fat chunks of snow into the streets. Hackles raised, he grimaced at the frosty bits of sky raining down, squared his shoulders against the cold, and hunched at the edge of the wall.

The door swung open and Aymeric closed it politely.  “I truly want to feed you, you know,” he said, sidling up beside him, shoving his hands in his cloak pockets.  A note of dry humor.  “Your delicate virtue is safe with me.”

“You make me sound like a bloody stray hound,” he grumbled, throwing him a glare.  “I truly want to feed you,” he mocked, scoffing.  But he was swaying slightly forward, slightly away from the tavern.

Aymeric started strolling out into the street, blinking up at the sky, smiling gently at the snowflakes.  “Come on then,” he beckoned, glancing back at him.  “Heel.”

Luckily for him, he managed to duck before the ball of slush hit him in his stupid, handsome face.

- - - - - - - - - -

[queen-scribbles]

Hug Prompt

8-Group Hug for @risualto tumblr’s not letting me save changes to the draft, sooo here ya go 

Emiri had no gift for strategizing. Not surprising, given her background, and also usually not a major problem. Right now, though, it was turning into a major problem. For being a pirate, Brynlod and his crew were proving quite adept at fighting on dry land. And there were a lot of them. Having a plan beyond weeding out the weaker members first and working their way up would have been nice.

Ghosts of terrors from her past drifted through her mind’s eye, causing her strike to go wide, and Emiri glared at the Cipher-Captain even as her hands shook. She tightened her grip on hammer and dagger and forced the nascent terror from her mind.

Brynlod bared his teeth at his failure to overwhelm her and turned his attention to Pallegina and Kana, currently working in tandem to deal with a pair of pirate spellcasters; druids or wizards Emiri couldn’t tell from her vantage-

The sharp stinging draw of a blade against her arm gave her a painful reminder she needed to pay better attention. Emiri yelped and backhanded her hammer into the skull of the individual responsible. Worry about Kana later, yourself now. And she did need to worry about herself; in the time she’d been distracted, a trio of pirates had hemmed her off from the rest of the fray. Whether they thought she’d be easy pickings with no armor, or recognized her as a threat with abilities similar to their captain, the result was still three on one odds that cornered her against the broken-down wall of the mill behind her. It left her facing the uncomfortable reality she might have to use the abilities she didn’t like if she wanted to get out of this alive.

One of the pirates, armed with a pair of stilettos, made a feint at her injured side. Emiri moved to parry, and something electrical sparked from the hands of the second pirate as soon as her focus was committed.

She cried out in pain when the spell hit, arm spasming so badly she almost dropped her dagger.

“Emiri!”

I’m fine, Aloth. The fact she couldn’t even get the words out sort of belied them, but she still tried to press them into his mind. Surely he had his hands full even without swooping to her rescue. From somewhere around the other side of the ruined mill, Hiravias bellowed a curse, but it cut off in a way that made Emiri’s gut twist. Worry about him instead.

They needed to finish this. The longer it dragged on, the worse their odds would likely get. She shook off the lingering twitches from the lightning spell and swung her hammer at the pirate wizard. The third of the group, more heavily armored and wielding an estoc, stepped in between, and her hammer glanced off his pauldron. Emiri growled in frustration and followed through the motion to crank her elbow into the fighter’s jaw. She turned to handle the rogue first, at least remove one threat, just in time to see a pair of pinkish-orange bolts careen into his back.

Apparently Aloth hadn’t believed her.

He was already summoning another spell by the time his presence registered for the pirates and the fighter deviated from his focus on Emiri to deal with this new threat. He was faster that Emiri would have expected for a man his size, and had lunged close enough for his blade to reach while she was still grasping for a cipher trick to throw him off.

No, no, no! She settled for throwing a mental scream at him, but it wasn’t enough to deter him. Her throat closed up with terror as the gleaming estoc swung-

-And the blade cleaved through the double Aloth had just finished summoning rather than its intended target.

Emiri sighed in relief as the fighter stumbled through the empty space before her attention was reclaimed by a pair of magic bolts whistling past her head, one so close it grazed her halo. Right. She still had the rogue and the wizard to handle, so would have to trust Aloth knew what he was doing.

She could hear the wizard chanting another incantation, but the rogue had moved in too close for comfort, and Emiri cranked her hammer into his shoulder first. She heard and felt something break under the impact as the blow sent him stumbling to his knees. With a moment’s breathing room on that front, she could focus on the wizard.

Only, she didn’t need to–Edér had come to help at her pained cry as well. He slammed his shield into the wizard’s back, then as the pirate wheeled in surprise, slashed open his throat. The pirate dropped both spellbook and wand to instead grasp futilely at the gaping wound as he collapsed.

Alright, then, Emiri thought, and turned back to the rogue–

Just as Aloth–or was it Iselmyr, she couldn’t tell–hollered a warning and the rogue’s stiletto drove into the fleshy part of her already-injured bicep. His foot lodged behind her ankle, tumbling her to the ground. Emiri yelped as her wounded arm dragged against the rough stone wall on the way down. She tried to focus on making the man recall the pain of his likely-broken shoulder, but her own pain was too distracting, she couldn’t manage…

Edér charged past her as she struggled and ran the rogue through before Aloth could get a spell off, his sabre easily piercing the leather armor.

As she tried to regulate her breathing and fight through the pain in her arm, Emiri was dimly aware of the combat ruckus tapering off toward quiet. That was good; she was basically useless and Hiravias hadn’t sounded good and what about Pallegina and Kana–

“Miri.” Edér stood next to her, sabre sheathed and hand extended to help her up.

She took it gratefully and let him assist her undignified scramble back to her feet. “Thank you,” she murmured breathlessly, meaning for more than just the hand up, and pulled him into a hug with her good arm.

“‘S what I’m here for,” Edér chuckled, hugging her back. “You alright?”

“Thanks to you,” Emiri confirmed, glancing toward Aloth, who’d relaxed and moved closer to check on her with the battle winding down. “Both of you.” When the elven wizard was close enough, she dragged him into the hug with her other arm, muttering apologies for getting blood in his hair.

Careful of her injuries, Aloth circled an arm around her waist. “A small–and worthwhile–price to pay to be sure you’re alright,” he promised. “And not one I’d pay long, in any case, considering where we are.”

Emiri laughed and hugged the both of them tighter. “Good point.” Dyrford Crossing had no shortage of streams to choose from in the event you needed to wash out blood and grime. Which she was fairly certain all of them now did. She gave Aloth and Edér one final squeeze before letting go. “We should check on the others. And I need some sort of proof we killed Brynlod.”

“I’ll take care of that, Mir,” Edér offered with a wink. He headed for where Brynlod had fallen, leaving her free to make sure the rest of their group was alright, or at least alive.

Even that proved a near thing–Hiravias looked decidedly woozy when she’d circled enough of the wrecked mill to lay eyes on him, perched on a rock so Pallegina could examine the gash carved through the blood-matted fur over his good eye.

He grinned fiercely–if slightly dazed–when he saw her staring at him. “Watcher! One of these rot-brained thugs thought to relieve me of my other eye, but I showed her the folly of that decision-”

“Yes, by nearly skewering yourself on the same rocks that skewered her, and then promptly passing out from the effort,” Pallegina interrupted dryly, her hands moving from the gash to lightly grip his head. “Stop moving, postenago.”

“Don’t ruin my tale of heroism,” Hiravias groused good-naturedly. “And you try casting something that powerful with your face sliced open.”

“I stand corrected,” Pallegina deadpanned, then met Emiris gaze. “I am glad you are alright, Watcher”–her gaze drifted to the blood running down Emiri’s arm–”for the most part.”

“Oh, it would be much worse if not for Edér and Aloth’s intervention,” Emiri said. She glanced around, brow furrowing. “Where’s Kana?”

“He was worried for you, I believe,” Pallegina said, golden eyes gleaming with something that wasn’t quiet mirth before her attention returned to Hiravias. “We all heard you cry out, but were… occupied with the rest of the pirates, ac?”

“Oh.” Something in her chest squeezed. “Maybe I should-”

“Stay right here so the two of you don’t wind up chasing circles around what’s left of this mill,” Aloth finished for her as he joined them. “He’ll make it back here sooner or later. It’s not that big a building.”

“You’re right. Of course.” Of course that made more sense. Emiri wiped blood off her arm and examined the new slice through her sleeve. “If this keeps up, I’ll have to replace this shirt much sooner than planned.”

Aloth’s brow furrowed. “Usher’s scythe, Emiri, I didn’t realize…” He started to reach toward the bloody sleeve, then hesitated. “May I?”

“‘Course,” she nodded, and gingerly rolled up the sleeve, hissing when it stuck to her skin.

He winced at both the gash and the puncture just above it. “We should stop the bleeding, at least. Stitching these up may require a surgeon with more skill than any of us can claim.”

Edér appeared while they were in the process of using her ruined shirt to do just that, raised an eyebrow at Emiri in just her undershirt, and held out one hand toward her. “Only better proof’d be choppin’ off his head, an’ we have a little far to travel for me to wanna go that route.”

Emiri examined the sweat-stained leather cord hanging off his finger. The low end of its loop was weighted by an amateurly made pewter ring and decorated by a pair of feathers–cormorant or albatross if she remembered her sea birds.  “Lucky charm and his signet. I’d say that’ll do.” She held out her hand, palm up, and Edér lowered the talisman into her grasp. “Thank you.”

Just as her fingers closed around the leather cord and Aloth finished tying off the pressure bandages, there was a loud sigh of relief from back near the corner of the mill. “Hylea’s wings, there you are!”

Emiri half-twisted, her face heating a the fact she was sans shirt, and flashed him a smile. “Sorry, Kana. I came to check on you all, but Pallegina said you;d gone looking for me, and Aloth suggested staying here was better, ‘cause you would make your way back eventually-”

“And so I did,” Kana chuckled, his smile fading slightly when he caught sight of her shirt wrapped around her arm. “You’re hurt?”

“It looks worse than it is,” she assured him. “All this is just to make sure it stops bleeding until I can get it stitched up. I’m fine. Much better off than Hiravias, anyway.”

“Ah, if a stelgaer couldn’t do me in, a piddly little shit of a pirate sure won’t,” Hiravias retorted, squirming as Pallegina finished bandaging his wounds.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Kana pressed, his gaze firmly on Emiri.

Her heart fluttered a little at the concern in his voice. “I am. Thanks to these two.” She pulled Aloth and Edér into another hug. The two of them hugged her back again their angles slightly awkward but still heartfelt.

“Just glad we were close enough to be a help,” Edér said, which Aloth seconded.

“And glad I am to hear it,” Kana smiled.

It didn’t take much longer to finish cleaning up, searching bodies for anything of value, and confirming all the pirates were, in fact, dead. Once everything was taken care of, they headed for Dyrford Village, in hopes of finding someone to stitch up Emiri and Hiravias, and certainty of a comfortable place to sleep.

Emiri’s gaze darted between her friends as they walked, silently thanking the gods for all of them, and that they’d all survived that fight, with how tough it had been. She knew sooner or later she’d lose them to adventures or duty, but for now, she was very grateful to have them around.