#arthur is shuddering in his grave

[little-diable]

One day you're gone – Tommy Shelby

Let's just ignore the fact that songs are my biggest inspiration, ok? Alright. Inspired by "one day you're gone" by "gavn!". I know this is super angsty, but I think it's a beautiful fic, so please give it a chance. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: She died years ago, and yet he still dreams of her, forced to relive their moments together every single night

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, loss of his wife (sorry for killing us off), this is sad, like really

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader (1.3k words)

One day you're here and one day you're gone, you beat to the drum but you keep movin' on, ain't nobody knows when the next name's called, ‘cause one day you're here and one day you're gone

He dreamt of her, hands trembling from feeling his fingers interlaced with hers just moments before waking, heart racing from clinging to her like a blanket made to protect his shuddering body, lips tingling from kissing her breathless, at least in his dream. 

Those were the nights where Tommy woke with a cry, unable to wipe away the tears clinging to his cheeks as he choked on his gasps. Ever since he had been a little boy, he had been forced to let go of people, a dull pain Tommy had slowly adapted to. Until (y/n) had been ripped from his side, leaving him and the life they had begun to build together. 

He dreamt of her nightly, of their moments together, from childhood memories, to their wedding day. He saw it all so clearly as if he was watching recordings, though not in black and white and without sound, but full of colour. A bright splash of life like she had been, the light in his darkness, the colour in his grey life, the guiding hand that was now one with the soil he still felt clinging to his fingers. 

“Today we mourn the loss of our (y/n), daughter, friend, wife.” Tears blurred Tommy’s vision as he stood near the coffin, hands interlaced in front of himself to try and stop his hands from trembling. He, Arthur, some of their friend’s and (y/n)’s father had carried the coffin up to the grave, unable to speak as the weight of their sadness weighed them down. 

“Thomas.” The bucket filled with soil was reached out for him to take, forcing his eyes to find the dark ones of their pastor. With a shaky exhale leaving him, he let his fingers disappear in the cold soil, taking just enough to throw it down onto her coffin, covering a small part of the dark wood. 

“How could you do this to me?” His voice carried exhaustion, speaking to those who were listening, the holy Father promising to protect those finding his way to him, people like (y/n) who had been ripped from this life too early. 

Tommy rose to his feet as his fingers found a cigarette, alighting it before making his way out his empty bedroom. One of the places that held too many memories. One of the places he couldn’t part from just yet because his nose could still pick up on the scent of her perfume, because his eyes could still see her soft frame lying next to him, even though it had been years. 

“Oh, Tommy.” She had her back arched off the mattress, legs wrapped around his middle. The two had gotten married hours ago, saying yes to one another in the company of their families and friends, finally reunited after the war. Tears had been shed that day, tears that were falling now once again, though these tears were urged on by desperation, by love, by lust. 

His hips met hers with every thrust, drawing moans from (y/n) as his cock nudged her sweet spot. Tommy couldn’t rip his eyes from her features, the beautiful face he had thought of in France, clinging to his memories as if they were the oxygen he needed to survive. 

“My beautiful wife,” his words left (y/n) moaning, walls fluttering around his cock. The scent of her perfume wrapped itself around Tommy, luring him even further into the grasp she had on his body and soul, a promise made to last for eternity, a promise broken in only a few months time. 

“I love you, Thomas, I always will.” 

Rain was pouring from the sky, as if nature was sharing Tommy’s pain, missing the one who had spent most of her time in their garden, the one who had talked to the flowers as if they were her friends, the one who had watched birds pick up the seeds she had left for them as if they were pilgrims sharing her path. A kind hearted soul who had paid the price for a life Tommy hadn’t been able to protect her from. 

Tommy didn’t know how to make it through life without (y/n) by his side, he hadn’t lived a single day without her being part of his closest circle, glued together from birth, brought together by their mothers who had been friends for years. Ever since their first days together, Tommy had loved her, first as a friend, then as a lover, then as a husband, and now as a widower. 

“Can I kiss you?” Tommy’s voice filled the evening, forcing her wide eyes towards his bright ones. 

“What?” Nervous chuckles bubbled out of the young girl. She struggled to hold eye contact with Tommy, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, unable to rip herself away from the boy. It was Tommy’s fourteenth birthday, celebrating his day with (y/n) glued to his side, chasing him through the streets both knew like the back of their hands. 

“It’s my birthday wish.” Heat flushed through her as Tommy carefully cupped her cheek. She knew that he had kissed other girls before, locking lips with those she envied, but not once had she been kissed, waiting for Tommy to finally give in. 

“Do it.” His lips were on hers in an instant, drawing a surprised gasp from (y/n). It was a clumsy kiss both had to adjust to, but once her nerves finally let go of her, allowing the young girl to get used to the new sensation, she found herself enjoying the new feeling. 

With a sigh rumbling through Tommy, he plopped down on the stairs leading up to their house, stairs she had walked with naked feet whenever she had finished her garden work. The garden had withered away with her passing as Tommy hadn’t found the strength to step foot on the grass she had cared for. 

Whatever it was that now spurred him on, it forced Tommy back to his feet. The cigarette was long forgotten as he stepped foot on the wet grass, his shirt and underwear instantly soaked through by the pouring rain. He had his bright eyes focused on the weathered flowers, coming to a halt in front of one of many flowerbeds. 

His hands started working, reaching for the dead flowers to rip them from the lifeless soil. And for the first time in years, he felt connected to (y/n), clinging to what she had once planted. Tears once again ran down Tommy’s cheeks as he kept working, only halting his movements as his glassy eyes found the rising sun painting the sky orange and pink. 

“I’m sorry it took me this long, love.” The words were whispered, eyes unable to leave the sky as he made plans to revitalise their garden. He’d never be able to bring her back, but at least he could keep the memory of his loving wife alive. 

Broken bones, you live and learn, ‘cause we don't know that a good thing ends, but someday I hope that it'll all make sense, one day you're here and one day you're gone

[olympeline]

(Second part of this!)

So the day of the trial dawns and Queen Arthur goes to face his challenger. The Garden of Thorns is part of the palace grounds and, like the name suggests, it’s not a nice place to be. Full of bad terrain, wild beasts, and a forest that’s little more than one big maze of thorns the size of knives. Arthur has seen the Garden on many occasions and he’s not afraid. He’s done this too many times to feel fear - or pity - when he faces the latest would-be-King with full intentions of sending him to his grave.

Alfred turns out to be your typical alpha knight; tall, muscular, wielding a sword, and wearing armour with his house’s crest emblazoned on the breastplate. Arthur sees the Jones emblem is an eagle interwoven with the usual Spade backing. Alfred is wearing a helmet so Arthur doesn’t get to see his face, for which he’s glad. It makes it easier to shoot a lightning bolt that should finish Alfred quickly. But Alfred dodges. Good for him. Most don’t even manage that much. Arthur tries again. And misses again. And again. And again. He’s grudgingly impressed at first - it’s been a long time since anyone has lasted this long - but it turns to frustration when Alfred just keeps escaping him. The man is obviously a stunning athlete. He moves like a panther and uses the terrain to his full advantage in a way that speaks of years of harsh training. Soon Arthur is beginning to panic because Alfred keeps getting closer and he just can’t hit the bastard. Those powerful but flashy spells are draining and he used a bunch of them straight off. Has he become sloppy or is Alfred just that good? He has no time to ponder this because soon Alfred is almost on him and Arthur throws pride to the wind and tries to run. Too late. No sooner has he turned his back (stupid! Why did he do that?!) than he’s bowled over with arms crushing his waist and what feels like a full ton of steel and muscle on his back.

Once he can breathe again, Arthur yells, spits, swears like a sailor, twists and fights like a trapped cat. But Alfred’s strength is monstrous and the knight flips Arthur onto his back and pins his arms above his head with one hand as if Arthur were no more than a child. His scent crashes over Arthur then and makes him shudder and flush with mortification as something twitches with interest in his groin. It’s a very pleasant alpha’s musk that makes Arthur’s head spin as his mind suddenly fills with images of leather, golden fields of corn, and summer meadows soaked with sun. Arthur can’t appreciate it though because he’s really panicking now. He has to get away and fast or he’s doomed! How could everything go so wrong so quickly?! But then Alfred speaks and it makes the Queen of Spades freeze like he’d been hit with his own blizzard spell. Alfred says his name and his voice…Arthur isn’t sure but that voice. Does he know it? No, he doesn’t. Does he? No! But…even so, it does something to him. Then Alfred pulls off his helmet and his face…He’s gorgeously handsome. All chiseled jaw, sun kissed, freckled skin, golden locks, and eyes like the clear, open sky. But Alfred’s good looks aren’t what keeps Arthur from moving. That voice and that face are stirring things long, long forgotten.

“Arthur, do you remember me?”

Alfred asks and Arthur can’t breathe. Alfred looks and sounds so serious in that moment and for some inexplicable reason Arthur wants to snap and tell Alfred this intense countenance he’s putting on doesn’t suit him and the prat should cut it out already. Then Arthur’s stupor turns to anger and he remembers just where the hell he is. He’s suffered a setback but he isn’t beaten yet and now the fool has exposed his most vulnerable area. Arthur only needs his hands free long enough for one good spell. He calls fire to burn Alfred through the metal of his gauntlets, but the flames gutter. He tries ice but all that manifests is a cool breeze. Lightning turns to a shower of sparks. Caustic poison doesn’t even make the gauntlets smoke. Alfred just watches his struggles, blue eyes unreadable. Arthur’s anger flares to embarrassed fury mixed with the return of extreme panic. This has never happened to him before but, for some reason, his magic refuses to obey. As if something deep inside Arthur won’t allow him to harm this Spades-cursed golden haired knight. Powers useless, Arthur abandons dignity and thrashes and struggles, even tries to lurch up and bite Alfred but he can’t reach. Alfred is just too strong and it can’t be natural. Even with those broard shoulders Arthur can see under the armour. Alfred has a grip like steel. Arthur is smaller than him but he isn’t helpless. His panic boosted thrashing should be eliciting some kind of reaction but Alfred is still as stone. No, it can’t be natural! There’s some kind of magic in this one and Arthur would be intrigued if the situation weren’t so dire. In the end his strength is exhausted and Arthur falls back, panting, grinds his teeth and screws his eyes shut so tears of rage won’t fall. It’s all happening too fast for true despair to set in yet but Arthur is getting there.

Then Alfred speaks a third time in that serious voice that Arthur knows is wrong for him without knowing how he knows. Alfred asks Arthur if he remembers him again and Arthur looks up at him - vision humiliatingly damp and blurry - and violently shakes his head. Tells Alfred he doesn’t and demands to be let up and for Alfred to fight like an alpha instead of toying with him like he has been. Alfred looks disappointed but Arthur won’t feel sorry for him. His eyes go wide with fright when Alfred raises his sword with his free hand and speaks a final time in that sorrowful tone that still will not suit him no matter how many times he insists on using it:

“Forgive me, my Queen.”

Arthur barely has time to yell: “No!” and “Wait-!” before Alfred brings the flat of his blade down on his head, knocking the mage out cold.

Half an hour later the palace is thrown into an uproar the likes of which not seen in a hundred years over the sight of Sir Alfred of House Jones emerging from the Garden of Thorns with Queen Arthur’s unconscious form cradled gently in his arms. The news spreads like wildfire, first all through the castle, and then on to every corner of the kingdom. Their long wait for a King of Spades is over: Queen Arthur has been caught at last.

(End of part 2! This is turning into a real Thing, huh? Worse luck for poor Arthur. Maybe 😉 )

[roseharpermaxwell]

RWRB FirstPrince Parental Angst Recs

Ellen and Oscar's divorce, the loss of Arthur - my faves below are for when you need some angst.

sometimes when he looks at me (i know that he needs you) by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays. NR, 1k. A letter left by Arthur Fox before his passing, addressed only to “Whoever takes care of Henry after I am gone.”

the moment i knew by @coffeecatsme. G, 1.9k. “No.” Alex’s response is shaky but quick. “I’m not blowing the candle without her.” He feels the pitiful look of his dad at the back of his neck but he doesn’t look up. If he moves at all, the spell will be broken, and Alex won’t be that kid crying at his birthday because his mom didn’t show up. 

Or, 5 times people he loves leave Alex alone on his birthday, and 1 time one doesn't.

bright, beautiful, bold by rizcriz. T, 2.2k. All these years, Henry’s sat in regret.

And his father.

He knew.

He drags in another shuddering breath, aching and wet and filled with something soft that he can’t quite place—something that eases that heavy burden on his chest. Something that unfurls from his gut and tugs on it, as it were held there by a string, and that string is currently fraying. As if every breath brings with it some semblance of relief.

Or, Arthur wrote Henry a letter for his wedding day.

Please Don’t Leave Me Alone by beckettbucket. G, 2.3k. When Henry and Alex have their first ever fight as a married couple Alex can’t help but spiral, thinking of his own parents and the fighting that led to their eventual divorce.

I've carried this song in my mind by @kiwiana-writes. T, 2.5k. Henry lays eyes on Alex Claremont-Diaz for the first time in Rio, and it sends such a shockwave of longing and terror into the universe that Arthur feels it.

Or, five times Arthur tries to get Alex and Henry together from beyond the grave, and one time two times his intervention isn’t needed.

eyes full of stars by Standinginmoonlight. G, 4.3k. On his seventh birthday, Arthur teaches Henry how to look for Orion.

Or: Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor loses his father and spends the rest of his life looking for Orion.

Fragile and Composed by SatinBirds. T, 4.8k. If Alex and Henry had met before Arthur Fox died, would that have changed anything?

Never Truly Leave by @clottedcreamfudge. T, 5.3k. "We found something in Arthur's things," Catherine says, without any preamble. "I've never really... gone through his personal effects properly, until now. It's been rather too difficult for me to face." Alex nods.

"I found something for Henry, but it's... Well, it's actually for you."

never be so polite (you forget your power) by Standinginmoonlight. M, 6.3k. The one where Arthur Fox leaves letters for his children.

Alex blinks at her.

the little shop in Kensington by @stars-hollow-sewers. T, 5.5k. “No, it’s mum's turn! You read last night, and you don't do Strega Nona's voice right.”

As a professional actor, it stings, but he’s not wrong. Arthur steps aside and lets Cat take over for the night. He sits back and enjoys the view – two of the loves of his life, heads tilted together, giggling and bonding over their shared love of books.

He loves seeing Henry get lost in a story. Loves how he treasures his books, holds them like they’re precious.

Arthur Fox may darn his socks rather than buying new ones; he may wear his shoes until the soles fall off; he may prefer weekends in Wales over holidays in Mallorca. But now that Henry’s reading by himself, he’ll spare no expense to keep that smile on his face.

or, Arthur and Henry's after-hours book shop visits through the years

i see you (your whole heart) by @indomitable-love. T, 7.3k. ‘I think he’s excellent,’ Arthur says, picking up a knife from the pot of jam to spread over his toast. ‘It’s refreshing to see someone be so unapologetically themselves. I think we need more of that.’ He glances at Henry. ‘I think that everybody should be able to be exactly who they are, without shame.’

---

Five times Arthur tried to tell Henry he knew (and one time Henry told him).

(if I didn't know better) I'd think you were listening to me now by @theprinceandagcd. T, 7.9k. “What are we supposed to say?” he finally rasps, and Bea leans toward him until she can rest her head upon his shoulder.

Count to Ten & Breathe Real Deep by @sparklepocalypse. E, 8.1k. Someone clears their throat behind him, and he spins around, hands still gripping the hem of his shirt. “Sorry, hi, I – shit,” he stammers as he takes in Princess Beatrice’s friendly expression and her brother’s more taciturn one. “Sorry, shit. God, sorry. Uh, hello, um… Your, uh, Maj—”

“I think…” Her breath trembles. “I quite think he would like to hear about our lives and what we’ve been doing.”

----

Over the years, Henry visits his father's grave to tell him about what's going on in his life, from meeting devastatingly handsome Americans at the Olympics to taking his daughters to meet him and everything in-between.

“It’s Your Royal Highness, but please, no titles here,” Princess Beatrice graciously says, saving Alex from himself. “Call me Bea. It looks like we’re teammates! Hen, too.” She nudges her elbow into her brother’s ribs, and he nods wordlessly.

Alex tries to replicate his mom’s politician smile as well as he can. “It’s an honor,” he says, giving them the little bow drilled into his brain before he and his mom had departed for London, through repetitive How to avoid being deported by the English monarchy lessons. “I’m Alex Claremont-Diaz.”

(Or, Alex and Henry meet at a youth charity event as teens.)

5 Times Henry Hated New Year's + 1 Time He Didn't by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf. M, 9.1k. “This is my curse,” Henry mutters, and Pez laughs across from him.

“You can hardly be responsible for the weather.”

“So the glaring fact that every single New Year’s Eve on record in my life has been an utter disaster means absolutely nothing to you?”

“We’re going to make it, so no, it means nothing to me,” Pez says with cheerful optimism despite the constant fluttering of white beyond the plane windows.

OR

5 times throughout his life that Henry's New Year's countdown has been ruined, and 1 time that it isn't.

matchmaking from beyond the grave: a guide by arthur fox by softcinnamonroll. T, 12k. Funnily enough, Alex actually liked his quirky little gift. When he could, he used it to help the spirits who asked for his help, to complete their unfinished business and move on. Most of the time, it’s for spirits who never got to do something random like… go to a bar or something stupid like that. Nothing too serious or demanding of Alex’s time.

Until he met Arthur Fox.

[or; Alex can see the dead. Enter Arthur Fox who really thinks Alex should meet his son, Henry.]

God Save the Blessed American President Mom by @zipadeea. T, 31k. ["June stopped by at lunch; she showed me a delightful channel called Hallmark, which repeats the same story every hour after they swap one round of white, straight, small-town conventionally beautiful actors for another. It was entertaining.”

“June and I used to play a drinking game with those. Take a shot every time someone goes ice skating, sledding, or leaves the big city for their tiny hometown.”

“Good lord, you must’ve been sloshed in the first ten minutes.”]

***

On December 4, 2021, an attempt is made on President Ellen Claremont's life.

Alex gets shot instead.

The Cost of Anything by clottedcreamfudge. E, 50k. "You’d give anything to have him back, wouldn’t you?”

“That can’t be a surprise,” Henry says ruefully, trying to pull himself from the brink of something a little darker than maudlin. Perhaps he should switch to water after all.

“‘Anything’ can encompass rather a lot,” Taylor says reasonably, and Henry sighs deeply, pulling his drink a little closer to him on top of the bar.

“Yes,” he agrees, “and yet.”

“And yet.”

Henry misses his father; of course he does. He'll always miss his father, because that's what you do when someone you love leaves you. He's grown accustomed to the feeling of missing Arthur Fox and, while he'd give anything to bring him back, it's possible he hadn't considered the implications of such a vague thought.

After all, it's never going to happen.

I only tag an author once per post, but I'm still figuring out firstprince author handles. If you see one I may not know or find a broken link, please give me a heads up!

Master List of RWRB FirstPrince Recs

Master List of Recommendations

[yorshie]

Man Comes Around

Red Dead Redemption

Arthur Morgan was buried on a pretty hillside facing west, and Conquest was torn from his grave, forced to ride again.

SFW, religious themes, rebirth, death of character

Arthur Morgan was buried on a pretty hillside facing west, laid to rest among the weeds and wildflowers, with a crudely bound wooden cross to proclaim his spot and a beautiful view as a backdrop.  He was buried by a friend, a brother, who laid him down in the warmed earth and hesitated when it came time to cover him up.  But in the end, it wasn’t really Arthur Morgan that disappeared under shovelfuls of dirt: it was a sickly husk, sallow skin and frail bone racked with disease, left behind after the hardened core of steel that had been the man had passed.  

Charles Smith left the shovel there when the deed was done, and rode north, back to the fleeing people he had decided to follow, leaving behind the grave of a man he had gladly called friend.

oOoOoOo

Souls are not meant to come back to their containers.  Birth is a violent, painful affair, made tolerable by the infancy of the soul entering the body. A grown man, however, that has lived and tasted life, known pain, joy, sorrow, and the tedious eventuality of death, experiences every single nuance of becoming again, and will find it just a different shade of dying. 

Arthur Morgan choked on the first lungful of air, tasted foul soil in the back of his mouth and heaved, body rebelling against the experience.  He writhed, bones shifting and catching against one another, rolled over on his side and retched, until finally his stomach contorted and spewed out the grave dirt. Again and again his frame heaved, shuddered, emptied, until the cold air could stab down his airways, rattle around in his lungs until they remembered their original purpose.

White hot pain skewered his head, threatened to burst out behind his eyelids, ran a course of liquid fire through his limbs, burning feeling back into his muscles.  His heart was a ponderous thing, thudding heavily behind his thin ribcage, slow and sluggish as it familiarized itself with pumping again. Fingers twitched, toes rubbed, and finally, he was able to unclench from his fetal position.

Gradually, the white noise clanging in his ears receded, and he was aware of his own breath.  Gasping, at first, something thin and broken and painfully familiar, but with each drag of icy cold air into his lungs the motion became easier and easier.  Pale light warmed the back of his eyelids, the once harsh and painful stimulus now bearable, and cautiously he scrunched his eyes, experimenting on how much it would hurt to open them.

He gathered enough courage to blink one, twice, flecks of grave dirt slowly sliding away as his eyelashes unstuck from each other, and he was left staring up at a pale grey sky. His breath caught at the sight, then he coughed, his body rebelling at the hiccup to his already laboring system.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

The voice, deep and sonorous, sent a shiver of fear through his nerves, rubbing fragile bone against rebuilding muscle. His head whipped to the side, brain pounding and protesting again the inside of his skull at the jarring movement, forcing Arthur to close his eyes momentarily before fighting them open again.

The man was familiar in the most unusual way, like a half formed memory slinking around the side of his mind. It was in the way his hands clasped behind his back, the easy grace in the tall frame. Arthur slowly trailed his eyes down him, taking in the immaculate black suit and matching shoes, before returning to the man’s face, carved classical features embellished with a swooping mustache. It was his eyes that held him though, twin orbs of onyx staring down at the man laid out on the ground as if this was all perfectly normal.

“Who-” He broke off to cough at the sound of his own voice, forgetting for half a heartbeat as his vocal cords twanged in his throat, raw and bruised and protesting greatly.

The man waited patiently, making no move to assist Arthur, simply standing still until the coughing fit subsided.

“Where- where am I?” There was that phantom voice again, thin and reedy, so different from the booming snarl that he wanted to hurl at the stranger.

“A much better question than your original one,” the man blinked, his face shuttering for one moment, before he held a pale hand aloft and pointed at something behind Arthur’s head. “A pretty spot, to be sure.”

Arthur slowly tilted his head, followed the man’s finger, an unknown dread building up in his gut that solidified when he saw the crude cross, the painstakingly carved words upon it.  

Feeling sick, he stubbornly looked away, choosing to stare at the sky again. “Is this hell?”

“No, this isn’t hell,” but the face still held amusement, whether at the naïveté of Arthur’s question or the question itself, he couldn’t be sure.

Arthur’s fingers on his right hand twitched, and he glanced down, bile rising up his throat when he saw the twining, slimy red flesh growing over naked bones.

“What the hell?!” It came out as a squawk, fear evident as a chill went down his spine, and he tried to jerk his hand up and away, but the appendage stubbornly stayed still. Breathless, he looked down again, and while his muddy, torn clothes hid most of his body from his sight, the fabric clung to him in a way that left little imagination to what was under them.

Another breath stuttered in his empty chest, white light blocking out his vision, the faint ringing in his ears becoming deafening once more.

The man shifted over him, pulled his mind back from the brink of total terror, and Arthur released the breath he’d been holding captive with another gagging cough.

“Takes some time, I’m afraid. You were pretty rotten by the time I got here.” His fingers tapped together behind his back, gaze trailing down Arthur’s clothes as the man became aware of more painful muscle twitches. 

Arthur’s mind caught on one word, and he parroted it back in a croak, “rotten?”

The man nodded, walked slowly to the opposite side of Arthur, forcing him to turn his head to keep him in sight.  “Yes, but you seem to be almost back together again.  I think you could sit up now, if you wanted.”

Arthur hesitated, fear eating at his gut at the casual way the strange man said those words, not yet ready to see what he meant for himself.

The man tilted his head, eyes crinkling in a semblance of amusement, though the burning within stayed. “Well, no matter. In the end, this is all about what you wanted.”

Arthur turned away from him, back to the sky, watched as a bird fluttered across, the limbs of a tree in the corner of his vision dipped and swayed. 

His brow furrowed.  No soft tickle of wind upon his cheeks, no creak and groan of a tree protesting the way the wind manhandled its branches. No birds twittering in the leaves, no whisper of the grass rasping against its neighbors.

Yet, he could hear his breathing, heard the strange man talking, heard his own answers, limited though they were.

He looked back at his visitor, tracked over the stillness of his expression, and asked, “What is this?”

The strange Man spread his arms wide, the familiar gesture tugging at Arthur’s body, arms twitching as he fought down a memory. “This, is life, friend.”

“I’m dead.” Bitten out, not examined beyond the brief flash of remembered agony, and belatedly Arthur wondered at the truth he was given. He was suppose to be dead, suppose to be gone, not suppose to be here.

“Yes, you were.” 

Arthur could read between the lines easily enough. Laying there in the cold dirt, birthing pains still wracking his body, he could feel the slow, solid build of anger in his gut. Rasping, gasping, he was finally able to snap out a weaker version of his usual growling bite: “you should’ve left me dead.”

The strange Man bent down next to him, hands hiking the fabric covering his thighs as he did so, and said, “maybe, but what’s done is done. I won’t send you back, not now, not when there’s work to be done.”

“I ain’t workin for you.”

“Hm,” the strange Man leaned further over him, top hat blocking out the weak sun as he peered down at Arthur. “But you are. You’ve been working for me for a long time.”

Clearly, he was insane. Arthur stared up at him, jaw working angrily, weighing his options, wishing he had tried to sit up when first offered the chance. He felt vulnerable, laid out on the ground like a hunted animal, those dark eyes deadlier than a snare to keep him in place. “I don’t even know you.”

“Oh, but you do, Arthur.” Abruptly the spell was broken, the Strange Man leaning back once more and looking down the length of Arthur’s prone body, gaze assessing. “I rather think you should try sitting up now.”

It was painful, even though Arthur had steeled himself for pain. His joints caught, tightened on their respective bones, his backbones rasped against one another before sliding in place. His heart protested greatly, pulling blood from his head, leaving him gasping, coughing and sputtering, leaning heavily on his left arm despite the pain shooting through it and the way it shook under his weight.

“Good, good.” The Strange Man walked around to stand in front of him, and Arthur tracked him with lowered eyes. When he turned his body to face the outlaw again, Arthur started at the hat held in his hands.

He’d given that hat to Marston, had seen the younger man stumble and slide his way down a mountain trail with the old black leather jammed tight on his head.

“Where’d-”

“Thought you’d be needing this, the Man from Blackwater didn’t anymore.” 

The Man from Blackwater, said calmly like Arthur should know who that was. But he didn’t, and his heart ached to see his good luck charm again. He didn’t dare ask after John, not from this man with coals for eyes.

Arthur craned his neck to glare upwards, asking once more: “What is this?”

The Strange Man ran his hands along the folded brim, smoothing it out and rubbing the dirt out of the cracked indents. “Some time ago, in a town far to the south and west, you killed a man. Do you remember?”

Arthur scoffed, bitterness creeping through as he rasped, “I killed a lotta men.”

“This one though,” the Strange Man held aloft a finger as he shook it at Arthur, “this one was special. You didn’t have much time, he was older, quicker, a better shot.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, unsure where this was going.

“And yet, you killed him. Shot him straight through the heart. Folks said it was almost… uncanny, how quick you were.” His eyes watched like a hawk, saw the slow realization that crept over Arthur’s face. 

The deadeye. “That weren’t- that weren’t special.”

The Strange Man leaned forward a little bit, canted his head slightly downward. “You were a deadshot, my friend. Only a handful of men in history can claim that title.” And they were all mine. It remained unspoken, but swirled between them like a dirt devil, licking at old wounds.

The Strange Man shifted the hat to one hand, held out his other, and Arthur wanted to recoil from it as though it was a snake. “Take my hand, friend. Ride again.”

“I don’t want this,” he rasped, desperate, holding his trembling right hand against his chest, spooked by the way it twitched like a living thing.

“I won’t send you back,” the Strange Man repeated, stern and cold. “I need my conquest.” He dropped the old, beat up hat on the ground, and Arthur watched the way it settled in the dirt. “This is the beginning, take my hand.”

“No.” He said it forcefully, as though to deny the way his palm ached and fingers burned the longer he held back.

The Strange Man eyed him, hand steady in the air. “You’ll live forever, be invincible, to a certain point. I’m offering you your second chance, Arthur. Take it.”

“I already got my second chance.” He just wanted to lay back down in the dirt, escape this man that looked at him with burning eyes, give in and die again. But the visage above him tightened, lips pressed together in a harsh line, and Arthur stiffened his weak spine in an effort to hide the way he trembled.

“You made this deal long ago, friend, and the terms were met. You belong to me. Now, take my hand.” His voice warped, became something deeper, the familiar accent burning a hole in Arthur’s chest as it sought to shatter his heart. 

“Damn you,” he hissed, his left arm coming up to grip his right hand, pressing against the ache that had started to eat at the bones in his hand.

The Strange Man sighed, “if only it were that easy,” and snapped the fingers of his other hand.

Arthur cried out, a spasm jerking through his arms, right hand snapping out to slap into the iron grip, and his back bowed from the burst of lightening at the contact. He writhed, the current a live wire that burned its way up his arm and burrowed into the base of his skull. 

Horse, road, gunshots. So tired, so tired. Keep Pushing, can’t stop. He relived that last awful hour, conscious of a shape hidden in his shadow, the Strange Man keeping pace behind him like muck on his boot. Always there, always there. Fire, heat, burning house. Check the stable. Desert, Prairie, Mountains, so cold, can’t stay here, we’ll freeze. He was young again, small and skinny, stuck on the back of a horse, and when he tilted his head upwards he could just make out the black, glossy hair of the person in front of him before light flashed in front of his eyes, and he screamed, body jerking at the clap that ricocheted through his entire being.

When he finally came down from the pain, he was kneeling in the dirt, warm tracks of tears running down his cheeks, and fire still burning through his arm. Wisps of smoke curled above the burnt leather of his jacket, and when he exhaled it came out as a garbled sob.

The Strange Man wiped his hands against each other, stepping slightly back. “Give yourself a minute, then we’ll see if you can stand.”

“You,” he licked his dry lips, tried again, though it came out a whisper. “You don’t own me.”

The Strange Man was silent, and Arthur knew how weak the lie was. He craned his head to the side, looked down at his bare right hand. The skin was covered in blackened, charred lines, as if lightening really had run up his arm. “What is this?”

“The birth of a horseman,” was the reply he got.

[sorceress-queen]

Arthur x Morgana [ArMor]

Arthur kills Morgana's husband, and they have a long-needed talk following his burial. This is AU + older ArMor + possessive/jealous Arthur. A bit angsty but overall happy.

Morgana does not speak to him until they are the only ones left standing by her husband's grave.

"Arthur." is the first word that passes her mouth, and it stops him dead in his tracks. She has not said his name in so long, constantly referring to him by his appropriate titles to show her spite for him, no doubt, to rub in the distance between them, and yet his heart still skips a beat.

"You should not have done this." She sighs as she turns her face towards him, her lengthy hair flowing in the wind; as the blond man looks at her now, free from the shackles of her marriage, he couldn't disagree with her statement more. In fact, he thinks that he should have done this the day the man came to ask for Morgana's hand in marriage, but he was not King then. He did not possess the powers he does now.

"Married life didn't suit you." He states simply while he tucks a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear, smiling faintly as she leans into his touch. Despite herself, Morgana shudders beneath his touch; she has spent days and nights longing for a soft touch like this, for a caring look much like the one that he gives her, for Arthur, she has longed for him all along in the solitude of her marriage.

"It won't suit you either unless you marry the right person." She retorts, implying that the man she was forced to wed for the good of Camelot (one of Uther's last wishes before his passing) was not the one for her. He was not that bad either all things considered, but he was far from the man her heart cried for.

"Hmmm, sounds like you are speaking from experience. Perhaps, I did you a favour, too, by putting an end to his life, my lady." Arthur muses as he takes a step back from her, afraid that he has taken things too far. Morgana's gaze flickers to his raised hand with longing, already craving its warmth against her skin.

"Who else benefitted from his death?" She scoffs at him; her husband was no King, no Prince. He was a wealthy merchant whose money granted Uther full coffers, while Morgana gave the man the respect that came with a noble title.

"Camelot." He grits his teeth as he holds back from saying what he truly wants to say. He does not wish to scare her off, not when he can have her back now.

"I see," She nods in understanding as she reaches out to adjust the lapel of his coat which makes him relax against her touch. "And what are Camelot's desires now?" Morgana questions him with a smirk.

"For you to come home, everybody misses you." He takes her cold hand in his own, brushing his fingertips over her digits so softly as if he fears that she would break if he touched her with more force. The King is delighted when he finds that her wedding band is not present on her ring finger until he catches the sight of a ring dangling from her neck. Could it be? He ponders to himself.

"Even you?" She asks while she stares into his eyes, into his soul, expecting a clear, straightforward answer to her question this time around, as entertaining as their games are.

"Especially me," Arthur admits as he moves her hand to his mouth, kissing each of her knuckles. "Camelot hasn't been the same without you in it." He mutters against her soft skin, heady with the scent of her, with the taste of her on his lips.

"Oh dear, it must have been truly miserable for you to say it so plainly." She teases him, pulling her hand back from his lest he manages to elicit an illicit response from her with his innocent kisses. Morgana moves to adjust the ring on her necklace out of habit, but instead, his hand is the one that wraps around the chain, lifting the ring up to examine it with furrowed brows while she waits with berated breathe for his reaction.

"This is... ." He swallows in realisation as he looks between her and the ring in his hold. "I gave it to you before you left." Arthur lets go of the ring then while Morgana moves to rest her hands against his chest to prevent him from moving away from her, not that he seems to intend to do such a thing, however, she cannot risk losing him.

"You didn't think I would forget about that night, did you?" Her mouth moves, and he recognises the playful tilt to her tone, but all he can focus on is how lovely she looks with her cheeks flushed from the cold, with his ring on her. If only he could put it on her ring finger. Perhaps marriage would suit her after all, so long as it would be with him.

"Morgana," He utters her name in a reverent whisper as he dives forward to kiss her and wrap her in his arms. Vowing to himself to never let her go away again, not to anyplace where he is unable to follow her.

[mamahex]

The Grave

Dutch stood for a long time, at a distance, before he was able to approach the grave.

Early morning mist still brushed over the land, gently stroking the earth as it passed, softening, quieting. The sun was rising, and dawnbirds were singing, and everything was still and calm and beautiful. The flowers that grew around the grave were mildly fragrant, dew glittering in the firstlight, on every petal, making it look as though someone had scattered jewells over his resting place.

He hadn't expected the sob that choked him. It accosted him, very suddenly, gripping his chest and strangling him. He gasped through the tightness in his throat, a hitching, shuddering breath that made his chest ache.

Dutch hadn't felt very much of anything since that night...so the sudden surge of feeling hit him like a gunshot.

He let out a ragged breath and scrubbed his hands over his face, over his eyes, and walked towards the grave.

The name carved onto the headstone burned into his eyes like a brand, and he knew he would never be able to unsee it.

Arthur Morgan.

Dutch sank to his knees before the grave.

"My boy..."

The sob tore through him then, and he began to cry. His tears fell hot and slowly down his face, a stark contrast to the dawn chill that had gripped him. He let the tears fall and flow unchecked; he didn't wipe his face. He spoke, eventually, once his breathing had slowed to a less ragged gasp.

"I...I didn't think it would hurt me so much," he spoke into the silence. "I knew... I knew you were gone...and it has been so long... but this...hurts."

Dutch gently touched the stone, still chilled from night. He ran his fingers along the curve and let his hand fall back to his side.

"I...I wanted to tell you... he continued, his voice sounding so strange to him, spoken with such feeling, into the silent morning, to nobody. He shook his head, and a fresh sob rose up through his body. "I need to tell you that I'm sorry."

He doubled over, then, and his grief took him. His head in his hands, he weaped, his sobs hitching painfully through his body, shaking him, choking him. Tears ran down his neck, wet his beard and flowed. There were no arms to comfort him, there were no soft words. Dutch sat alone and cried for his son.

By the time his tears began to slow and his breathing relaxed, the morning mist was almost gone from the land.

Dutch wiped his face and his nose on his hands, absently rubbed the wetness onto his trousers.

"I know I let you down," he continued, his voice raw. "I know...If you hadn't gotten sick, I would have...I could have... I saw him for what he truly was, in the end. But...it was too late. It was all just... too late."

A slight breeze had come to ruffle his hair and stroke it back from his forehead. He sighed, shook his head.

"I...I don't know how I lost my way... Everything was so clear, all my life, I was in control... but things just grew bigger and bigger, and it became harder to control. It's like being given a handful of sand...it was easy to hold, at first, it was comfortable in my hands. But it grew and grew, and it became much harder to hold...it-it started to slip between my fingers, and the more I grasped at it, the more would spill..."

Dutch let his eyes unfocous, staring into nowhere.

"It was easy, in the beginning...We had each other, Hosea..." His voice died on his lips. "Ahh, Hosea...losing him...that was..." he shook his head, pushed the thoughts aside. "When we were truly a family, at the start, everything made sense. We were good men, Arthur, we were good men, we were doing good, living free. But it started to get too much to hold..."

Dutch shook his head, even older griefs reaching out to touch him with icy fingers.

"When I lost my Annabelle... I think that's when I began to lose everything. But our gang grew, I had more mouthes to feed, more people to take care of, we took John in..."

Again, Dutch pushed his thoughts aside.

"I...I have made a lot of mistakes. That's for sure. What happened at Blackwater, that was when it all just got too much for me to keep hold of. Everything just... kept spinning out of control, and it got worse and worse, and the more I tried to pull it back, the more it spun. And Micah -" he cut himself off with a snarl.

He looked down at the grave before him again.

"I should have listened to you...I should have heard you. And Hosea... But that-that-that rat...he just kept telling me everything I wanted to hear, he kept giving me everything I needed while you and John and Hosea all just started doubting me..."

Dutch frowned, thinking back to it all.

"I lost my way, son..." he finished weakly. "I lost you..."

Dutch took a shaking breath and wiped his eyes once more as fresh tears began to prickle.

"When Hosea...died...ahhhh, he always was the one man who would make things solid and steady. Sometime it feels like I'm standing on the deck of a ship, and everything begins to bob and tilt and move beneath me...Hosea was the man who could make eveything still and calm and solid again...when things got hard for me to hold, he would help me, he would help me gather up the sand..."

Dutch shook his head. "I'm not making any sense...I'm starting to sound crazy... maybe I always was crazy."

Morning had begun to bloom in earnest then, the dawn replaced by day.

"I can't stay here for too long, son," he spoke. "I'm going to make this right. I know I can't bring you back, I know I can't turn time backwards - lord only knows what I'd give to go back, to do things differently, to go back to before Blackwater, when everything was..." he let his voice die.

"I am going up the mountain..." he continued his train of thought. "Micah Bell..." Dutch turned and spat, "I have arranged to meet old Micah Bell up on mount Hagan. I am going to put things right, I'm going to end this."

Dutch absently ran his fingers through the flowers, his hand becoming wet with the dewdrops.

"He has a gang, now, his very own gang. But they won't be his for long." Dutch smiled bitterly. "I have been corresponding with him, pretending like I want to work with him again, like the good old days." The last was spoken through clenched teeth. "He has been given the exact location of the money, Arthur... the money from Blackwater, from all those years ago. I sent him to retrieve it for me..."

He looked down at the flowers and wiped his wet hand on his trousers.

"You wanted John to live..." he said. "and I can see now, why. Your last act of kindness. Even throughout all the madness and death, you were still so very kind, my son. And for you, for him, I'm going to make things right."

Dutch shifted his weight, his legs aching.

"They might not let me live, after I kill Micah...or they might just blindly follow me, who knows. I might never return from that mountain. I don't care either way. But I want that money to go to John. Now I know where he is, and I know that he's on Micah's trail. I made certain that the information got to him, down in Beechers Hope. So I know he will be there to claim his revenge, to avenge his brother. But when he gets up there, Micah will be dead and the money from Blackwater will be there waiting for him...and John...well, John will live, just as you insisted."

Dutch smiled down bitterly at the grave.

"See, son? I always have a plan..."

Dutch's smile waverd and died on his lips.

"I miss you..." he whispered. "I miss you. You were like a son to me... you were more than that...

"Perhaps I'll see you very soon, son...and Hosea, Annabelle. It...it will be nice to come home..."

Dutch stood, his limbs aching.

Sunshine had crept over the land as he had sat by the grave, turning the world beautiful and warm and golden and bright. Birds called, the breeze whispered, and everything was calm.

A stag stood grazing, not too far away, seemingly unafraid. It looked up at him as he stood, and the two made eye contact.

"I love you, son," Dutch spoke, his voice full of tears once more. "I always loved you...and I'm sorry."

He wrenched his eyes from the animal and took one long, last look at the grave, then turned and walked away.

[etruatcaelum]

Caustic despair boils up in her throat when Arthur says of course he hears you, but for once—for once, the feeling drains away at the conclusion, and Salem lifts a trembling hand to pass across her face. “I–” a brittle exhalation. She mutters, to herself more than to Arthur, “I suppose it is only—semantic.”

Hearing, or listening. Perhaps she mistook the connotations, or the difference is vaguer than she thought, but it matters not: Arthur came to her meaning, in the end.

Still, it is a moment before she can gather herself to answer him; to wrench open the iron bars of her terror that he will not understand because no one ever does, and so few are willing to even try. Her lips part, quivering, and no sound escapes but a desolate creak. Salem takes a shuddering breath, and then another.

“You say,” she whispers at last, “that one must cultivate an environment which soothes his madness, to be close with him. I…”

Oh, it is a mistake to speak of this, a grave mistake to let it even breach the surface of conscious thought; her bitterness rises from the abyss with serpent-jaws gaping and drenched in venom. Salem halts, eyes fixed upon the floor, clasped hands pressing hard into the pit of her chest.

“I did not ask,” she snarls, “to be his goddess.”

She hisses it like a curse, all the years of hidden revulsion and scorn unchained and charring those two syllables black with hatred; for although she has enjoyed worship in the past, what Tyrian does to her is—not that. The vicious and violent storms of his fervor leave her with no safe harbor and no atlas, only a formless chaos unbounded by rite or tradition. It is veneration without regard, a pantomime lacking in prayer or ritual.

Obsession.

Eyes blazing with inner fire, Salem rounds on his partner and says in a low, tight voice: “He loves me—so he believes—and craves my approval with such desperation that even the smallest hint of my displeasure throws him into self-injurious fits of anguish; shall I tell him, then, that there is nothing I find more repulsive than sycophantic groveling? Would you have me impose strictures upon him that I do not ask of anyone else and deny him the natural expression of his feeling? Because–” a choked, bleak gasp of laughter. “—I do not like it?”

Stop.

Salem whirls away to press her face into her hands, breathing jagged and shallow, shoulders drawn high. “I am so,” she forces out, “selfish, Arthur. I try not to—I try. I do try. I try. I don’t like to hurt people. But I–”

(so lonely)

“—I do try,” she says again, voice small, and then: “Whatever kindness I offer him inflames his devotion. When I am am reserved, he becomes yet more desperate; if I acknowledge any disappointment, if I make even the gentlest criticism—if my tone is too curt for his liking, if I am preoccupied with other concerns, if I am tired, if I am—uncomfortable—if– if I do not—perfectly anticipate what he wants to hear, then he unravels—and should I remove myself because my presence clearly distresses him, then I am punishing him with isolation and he takes it upon himself to administer his own torture—it is– it is like—walking upon knives—I am nothing to him but an implement of his self-destruction. It is different for you—”

Her voice fractures.

“You,” Salem says heavily, “are a person.”

She is staring down at her hands, she finds, when the red haze clears from her sight: ashen skin threaded with crimson, tar-black claws crowning her trembling fingertips. These are not, she thinks as she clasps them together again and holds them tight against her midriff, safe hands.

The backdraft of her vituperative outburst is scorching. Not daring to face Arthur again, Salem offers him only a flinching glance before she resumes her course along the corridor. she wants to cry. She mutters, “I– I’m—I should have more patience. I know. It isn’t his fault.”

“He got some sleep after we left the garden, too,” Watts murmurs, “but despite what he’d say if asked, he’s far from well. I can count his ribs, he's cold, he can't eat too much or too quickly if he doesn't want to get sicker, his natural tail is in rough shape-"

A sigh.

"But he will recover. He's - recovered before, and from worse. And he knows to listen to me on matters of health."

(Indeed Tyrian had, and indeed Tyrian did.

And as Salem lapses into silence, so too does Watts - equally weary, equally reluctant to make this trip, now - the issue of Salem's seeming guilt, of Tyrian's belief in his own failure, of whether or not abandoning Tyrian to his grief in Vacuo had been intentionally done, of whether or not she meant to hurt, because he saw the burn marks on Tyrian's collar...

Watts can't address any of it, because he wonders if she is lying when she says she isn't trying to hurt Tyrian, or if she is merely oblivious.

Watts hadn't been told, right away, when Tyrian's tail was amputated. The gods only knew how long Tyrian had been left like that. And when Watts had come back to Evernight, he'd been shocked to find Tyrian bedraggled and hiding, afraid to approach him, babbling about how, "I can't have you, Doctor, hating me for my failures, too."

The poor Faunus incoherent with infection, the wound site not properly cared for, half-starved.

Arthur had never told Salem this, but he'd removed a bit more of Tyrian's tail himself, and then added the metal cap over top of it - to keep leaking venom contained, to help the chitin heal properly. Tyrian had sobbed, but understood. And Watts had run a course of antibiotics, had slowly introduced Tyrian to a normal diet and a meal schedule, had slept at Tyrian's side and coaxed him through breakdown after breakdown.

The man's physical resilience...To survive in such extreme conditions was as medically fascinating as it was deeply troublesome - as if these periods of neglect were something Tyrian was not just accustomed to, but built for.)

"Of course he hears you," Arthur finally says, carefully. "I understand he is - a challenge. Tyrian is sick in a way that I cannot fix. He enjoys what he does - killing, tormenting. He is unstable and gleeful in it. I am not blind to that. But part of being close with him is being able to create an environment where his symptoms are alleviated. He calls me his quiet."

A sigh.

"But he does hear you. The violence - outside of that, he is needy, desperate. He wants for approval. He is terrified of disdain. The devotion he feels is as strong as any other emotion he's ever felt - and I have never known him to feel in a small way. If he is hurt, it will gnaw at his soul. But- I think you shoulder more blame than he gives you."

How to - phrase this.

"Being left alone, feeling as if Cinder got away with what she did - undoubtedly, it played a part. Undoubtedly, he sees it as punishment. But you could have killed Cinder and brought Tyrian with you to Vale, and his deterioration would have still happened. Just- slower."

(I mourned you, Arthur.)

"In a way, it's grief, that does this to him. The amputation of his tail, my apparent death, the thought that you or - well, or I - will not be able to stomach the sight of him. He grieves, and the rest of him shuts down. I- have learned to navigate it, when he feels like this. So he will recover."

And then - "What is it that you worry he cannot hear? Because," and a sort of wry smile, "I wouldn't put it past him to fail to listen, if he's looking to hear a certain meaning. He is remarkably good at that, too."

[thediscsystem]

Hello, so here's a sample of a rough scene from a thing I'm writing. Do enjoy, although it is slightly long for a sample.

-

"So, Francis, what happened to you to make you so, starved seeming?" Arthur Longmire asked with a curious glance. The 3 plates and 3 glasses from tonight's raided dinner and drink laid empty in front of Francis.

"They encased me in this earth, Arthur." Kojot started with a dark chuckle. Arthur turned his full attention to the other man. This was going to be interesting.

"They threw me away as easy as anything. They saw me as a pest to be exterminated. They thought they were doing my people a favor." The man's breath shuddered as if he was feeling the cold earth around him again. "I thought it was a joke that they had no clue what they were doing. But then their priest came out with the nails. As I turned to the sky for the last time in a long time, I laughed at how wrong I was. The Catholic priest spoke of a God I definitely wasn't on speaking terms with, and he pushed me into the grave they had dug for me. The earth closed around me against its will. I felt it apologize and cry out. He drove the nails into the earth. Rusty and true. My eclipse ended, and I could no longer move." Kojot then began to properly shake. Arthur placed a reassuring hand on the man's head and idly scratched. Arthur would later wonder why he did this. He wanted to comfort the strange man he was beginning to consider a friend, but this seemed like an odd gesture. He would later find that occasionally, when Francis Kojot was upset, people had the urge to comfort him in the ways that he wanted to be comforted, no matter the person's original inclinations. Arthur did not consider this at this time as Kojot continued to speak. Arthur just idly pet the man.

"I didn't sleep. I don't think it would have been easier if I could sleep, but I didn't sleep. So I laid there awake for, what, 60 years? Kept alive only by people on their porches yelling at coyotes and people trying to observe the eclipse. My true name was not spoken and it was never written down. Bad luck, yknow? But anyways, eventually this guy comes along. I feel his feet scrape the dirt above me and I hear as he begins mumbling something. He starts… chanting. My name. My real name. Not the one I told you. He takes the nails from the ground with his bare hands. They cut his right hand as he squeezed it shut around the nails. This fella really knew his stuff. The earth opened up around me. Releasing me and allowing me to breathe and cough again. I was still beastly when I rose. Fur and claws and teeth, the whole nine yards. But I still looked human enough. I saw him for the first time and nearly wanted to crawl back in my hole. Surrounded by the crosses the priests had left over the years to keep me there, was a man in a charcoal suit. The man from the Railroad. I owed him everything for raising me from death but I never asked for this, and I don't think i could pay whatever price he had in mind. He looked at me and smiled and said, your death was unjust, friend, a trick. See the light of day and the light of the moon as one yet again. And call me when you get the chance. He then dropped the rusty nails, coated in what appeared to be mortal blood but was certainly not, and he walked away. I stood there for a while. Unsure of what to do or even who I was meant to be anymore. But I got the hang of it again. But, yeah you got me rambling. Does that answer your question?"

Arthur stared in shock at Kojot as he attempted to process everything he had just been told while still scratching behind Francis's ear, eliciting a small, pleasant noise and a smile.

"Yeah, definitely tells me why you've got beef with catholics, but what does that have to do with how hungry you always are?" Arthur asked.

"The point, is that I went hungry for a long time. In both a literal and metaphorical sense, and that never really went away."

-

Hope you enjoyed that little thing.

[camelotreign]

just want it on the record that i hate jousting 

[dathen]

“Lord Godalming?”

Mr. Harker stands in his doorway.  He looks awkward and uncertain, more like to the shy but determined young man he’d met barely a week ago than the hollow-eyed specter of rage from yesterday.  In his hands Harker clutches, of all things, a briefcase.

“Please, just Art,” says Arthur, then lets out a shaky sigh.  “For the love of heaven, not more paperwork.”

Harker’s grip tightens on the briefcase’s handle, his knuckles going as white as his hair.  “It--  I--  I hoped to discuss with you your planned means of succession,” he says, voice growing stronger as it slips into the formal cadence of a solicitor.  “As regards to...a last will and testament.  I’ve already spoken to Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris.”  

At this, he set the briefcase on a table and ducked his head as he busied himself undoing the clasps.  “I drew mine up this morning.  I am leaving everything to Mina, of course, and--  If you’ll forgive the presumption, I wanted to offer my help should any assistance be wanted in...settling your affairs.”

Arthur was grateful the rest was left unsaid:  Because you didn’t expect to inherit so early.  Because you’ve been so swaddled in grief that you haven’t spared a thought to the fortunes left you from your father and your bride.

Harker seemed uncertain how to take his silence.  “I know you already have solicitors in your employ, but I thought--  Since we leave so soon--”

Arthur cuts him off.  “No, no--  Thank you,” he says with all the sincerity he could muster.  He tries not to shudder at the thought of speaking with the solicitors that assisted with his father’s testament, or Mrs. Westenra’s-- who spoke with grave cheer about how simple and fortunate the matter of succession was, while Arthur sat strangled with unshed tears.

He stands and goes to Harker, laying his hand over the other’s as if he’d known him for as long as Jack, or as deeply as Quincey.  What was time compared to  the bond of what they now faced together?  “I’d be very grateful, my friend.”

[neoncrowpen]

Hey Crow, can you write male reader as Tommy's younger brother again? Maybe something which revolves around Tommy being abusive and harsh? He'd slap his brother, yell at him, pull him after himself if he's in a hurry, etc. And Ada's not around to step up for him or keep Tommy at bay since they're not in London. And the rest of the brothers don't do anything about it. It doesn't necessarily have to be another part to the story where Tommy and Arthur cut him for speaking with the police, take it wherever you'd like. I just really enjoy your portrayal of him when he's like that. Angry, scary. Dangerous. Maybe he likes taking out his anger on reader because he reminds him himself before the war? Or maybe he has no reason.

(This imagine is a continuation. Read Part One Here.)

Author Warning: Contains mentions of suicide, physical sibling abuse, and death threats. Tread lightly, friends.

Thomas dragged you by your shirt collar into his office. He threw you forward, making you lose a few steps. You heard the slam of the door behind you. You flinched hard, but kept your composure.

“How many times am I going to have to teach you the same lesson, Y/N? People talk.” Thomas said. He was too calm for your liking. His targeted glare on you waited for the right answer. You knew what the right answer was. However, the right answer and the right thing to do were two very different things.

“I’m not going to apologize—

“I’m not looking for an apology. Or an explanation.” Thomas explained. He took a step towards you. “You see, I’m done explaining how things work to you. And Ada’s not here.” In the privacy of his office, Thomas kicked you into his chair. The chair toppled, making you fall sideways. You landed on your hands. Thomas rested his foot on the side of your face. He pressed down, limiting himself. Your cheek felt the burn of his plush carpet.

Your breath shuddered. “Ada knows men in the government. They can come after you.”

“You think Ada is more powerful than me? Are you that stupid?” Thomas increased the weight on his foot. You groaned as he pressed your face into the carpet more. You could smell where the whisky spilled in the fibers. “Give me their names, Y/N.”

“No—

Thomas swiftly kicked you in your gut. It took all air out of you, all agency, so when Thomas pulled you up by your hair and threw you forward again, you had no chance of catching yourself. Your body crashed into the small bar cart. Glass shattered in your right hand. Thomas took your wrist and slammed the injured hand onto the top of his desk. The glass shards cut deeper into your hand. You cried out in so much pain, you felt your gag reflex triggered.

“Did you see what you’re doing this to our family?” Thomas slammed your hand onto the desk again and again. Every time he listed off another time. He sent another shock of pain into your hand. “You selfish bastard. Every time you talk to one of Ada’s friends, or your American friends, or the police this is what you’re doing to all of us.” He let you go. Your breath shuddered as you bravely looked at your hand.

It was covered in so much red that your own skin tone couldn’t be seen through it. The pain seared through you so much, you wondered if you were ever going to feel anything or use this hand ever again. You gritted your teeth through the pain.

“So, go ahead. Keep talking. Soon enough, you’ll be the only Shelby left and we’ll all be rotting in graves. You’ll be all alone. The last Shelby.”

“I’m not scared of being alone,” you said, standing up to him. “You are.” Thomas froze in front of you. A switch flipped in his eyes. In seconds, he pushed you into the wall. Fear kept any normal reaction stuck inside your throat. The cold metal of Thomas’ gun brushed the inside of your ear, and every bone in your spine rattled.

“I will break you. I will take you apart brick by brick until you are hopeless enough to contemplate suicide. And when you do, I will shoot you down like we do with broken horses, and then everyone will be at peace again. Do you hear me? No one will know peace until you are shot through your fucking ears.”

Thomas lowered his gun. He turned away from you. Your eyes darted towards the door but then quickly back to him. Thomas sat in his chair comfortably.

“I’m not going to kill you today, Y/N. Go back to Ada.”

You sprinted out of his house and towards the car. Driving away would be difficult, but you were still breathing. As long as you could breathe, you could get away from him. As you jumped into the car, you pulled at your tie. You wrapped it around your hand, wincing in pain. It wasn’t perfect, but it had to do. Your car skidded onto the road. You muttered a prayer to God, something you hadn’t done in years, thanking him for watching over you.

[lyallblacklupin]

Just like fire.

After years of regrets and sorrows, Remus tries to apologize to Sirius for his own mistakes, despite the fact that he has been hurt by the very same person who he wants to say sorry to. The years of damages has passed, should they give each other a chance, or start fresh with new people in life to forget their old wounds?

Tags: Heavy Angst, Fluff, Post-Azkaban, Angst with Happy Ending.

Sirius walks in the kitchen, completely heedless of Remus’ presence—or he pretends to be heedless after he catches the sight of Remus. He walks promptly, not limping but flinching at his aching bones. This is how Sirius Black has become: broken. And he has not just broken out of thin air, it has taken fourteen years which includes the twelve years of unjust imprisonment and two years of being a prison escapee, and Merlin knows how many more to go.

Half of Sirius’ time is spent in thinking about death and longing for it. Remus can tell because he has witnessed the hunger of dying in his eyes when he’d sit alone with himself, and the other half is always occupied in worrying about Harry Potter who is last person keeping him from dying out of misery; his dear godson only. Otherwise, he’d have been free.

He stops at the stove and boils the water on the kettle. He doesn’t have his wand so muggle way it is. Muggles have been growing on him, a lot. He keeps talking about them with Arthur. Remus is glad that if there is anything Sirius is looking forward to the order meetings is for the conversation with his new friend Arthur Weasley, who also attains the equal amount energy for the same subject. It makes Remus happy to witness that they have any reason to—even temporarily—lit up in the times of war. However, Sirius never smiles. He nods, or makes a funny face. He only smiles when Harry visits.

“If you want for yourself, it’s still in the kettle.” Sirius says without looking, and begins to walk out of the kitchen but Remus rises from his chair.

“Sirius.” He stops but doesn’t turn to face Remus.

“What?” His voice cut through Remus’ heart.

“I was hoping we could have tea together?” He tried, his heart hammering in his chest.

Sirius finally turns and hold his gaze. After a lingering eye contact, he nods and brings Remus’ tea with pink mug that has a David Bowie on it. He is slightly hopeful that Sirius has kept it because Remus gave him on their sixth year Christmas holidays. But he highly doubts that Sirius remembers it. Sirius sits across Remus’ seat. The silence is irksome.

“I want you to know that I’m sorry for…all that—“

“Define ‘that���, Remus?” Sirius’ facial expressions are blank but very grave.

“For believing the murder of Lily and James was because of you.”

Sirius scoffs, and Remus wants to scream because deep down inside he doesn’t feel he deserves it. He suffered too for twelve years. Even so, he tries to sustain the ceasefire he is trying to build between them.

“I should have believed that you would never have done anything like that to the Potters. You loved them more than anything in this world and—“

Remus pauses because Sirius is shaking his head with a manic smile playing on his lips.

“Wrong. I didn’t love them as I was supposed to. It wasn’t that I didn’t, but it was more like I couldn’t. My fucking stupid heart belonged to just one person that time as if my life would end if I stop centering my life on him.”

Remus swallowed. He knows that no kind of eloquent words are going to be good reply to what Sirius has said, so he says, “You did. Love them, that is. I know that.”

“Oh what did you know!?” He shoots up so violently that the chair collapses down on the floor that Remus inhales sharply, “You were out there kissing Dumbledore’s shoes!”

He knew that this will happen, that he will be humiliated again just like the times in the first war when Sirius would scream at him for going on the secret missions and not giving a clue about when and where he would go and come back, and for not being there for his friends and family. But in reality, all Remus did was to protect the order, and the people he loved. However, the questions still pops in his head, ‘for what? How did he not see it that they were breaking apart?’ It feels like he was watering a dead plant over and over again during the severity of lacking water, but the plant didn’t revive, and the precious water spilled into filthiest vain. Despite of that, Remus shuts his mind and chooses that pettiest way to get back at the person who endured twelve years of imprisonment for the crime he never committed.

“Don’t you dare!” Remus rises from his chair too, leveling up at Sirius, “Don’t you dare go down there again after all these years!”

“WHY NOT!?” Sirius yelled anyway, “YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO THIS NOW! YOU NEVER BELIEVED ME! EVEN BEFORE YOU THOUGHT I BETRAYED JAMES AND LILY!”

“WHEN DID YOU BELIEVE ME!?” Remus is now few inches away from Sirius. He wants to slam him against the wall and put some sense into him because he still cares about him, no matter what.

“WHAT!? You made me this way! You build this mistrust with your hands! Don’t you dare forget that!”

“I did!? Or was that you!? Who didn’t believe me when I said I was not allowed to tell to anyone!”

“I WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ANYONE!” Sirius’ voice breaks poorly that hits like a dagger in Remus’ heart. Sirius holds himself by the chest and leans down to rest his torso on the kitchen table, breathing heavily. Remus instantly feels the stinging in his eyes, and followed by the hot tears spilling from them. He comes behind Sirius, and places a hand on his back.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Shut up. Just shut up.” Remus whispers, and pulls Sirius up in his arms. He sobs and sobs, and Remus sinks down to the floor with him, squeezing him tightly in his embrace. “You are right. You were never just anyone. You were never…” He tries to put his feelings into words but Sirius interrupts him.

“You stopped loving me.”

Remus feels his stomach twist but what comes out of his mouth is a laugh. An empty laugh.

“Hell, I didn’t even stop loving you even when I thought you killed James and Lily.”

Silence.

“I was disgusted by myself. I used to feel so filthy. To want you even after believing you ruined my life by walking away so brutally, killing my friends. Killing my reasons to stay on this planet. I wanted to hate you. I couldn’t. I didn’t think that I even deserved to go to their funeral, you know…because I thought I’d be downright hypocrite to grieve for their loss when I was actually grieving the loss of you. I’d dream about you. The only thought keeping me sane and alive. Sirius, I’m not sure if this makes sense to you…I don’t even know if I’m asking you to love me back or what, but I have always loved you, mostly when I shouldn’t…”

Sirius is staring at him with his tears streaming so rapidly down his cheeks. He is trembling as sobs are racking through his body, his breath hitching every now and then. Remus’ heart breaks to see him like that. It is like Sirius is cleansing himself with all of the unwanted darkness off his soul by spilling all the expanse of pain in form of tears. Remus can see that he is not stopping himself from weeping. He seems lost somewhere, with his eyes shut and his hand on his mouth.

“I am not defending myself,” Remus whispers once he notices Sirius is just sniffling and wiping the dampness from his face, “I never meant to bring that up. I just want to let you know that whatever you went through had not even a single place or moment you deserved to be at.”

Sirius looks up with wide teary eyes, staring at Remus’ hopefully. He looks innocent and raw.

“Tell me,” His voice rough with tears but still a whisper. He clears his throat, “that I deserved all of that.”

“That is not true.” Remus says instantly, his hands grasping Sirius’ wrist instinctively, fearing he might fade away with the wind swooping in from the kitchen window.

“It is,” He says in the weakest voice, “My mistakes brought me here. For not trusting you enough…”

No words comes out from Remus’ mouth but they are caught in his throat like a lump. He can feel their prickling. The silence stretches on, smoothly breaking by the sounds of fire battling the wind filling the kitchen. There is also some faint sounds of dripping water from the tap into the basin. Someone must have forgotten to turn it fully. Huh, wizards.

“You are one celestial presence on the world, Remus Lupin, aren’t you…” Sirius chuckles softly, leaning back on the paddles of the chair to rest his back on them. Remus doesn’t understand but Sirius continues, “You are…this sacred or a saint-like wizard—half-blood werewolf whose father committed suicide because he thought he was the reason for his son’s affliction, and whose mother faded away with grief…”

Remus’ heart feels fragile in his chest, fearing it might break again after the poor mending.

“Merlin puts a very heavy price on people to pay who hurt Remus Lupin, who mistrust Remus Lupin...who thinks little of Remus Lupin.”

There is something strange in Sirius’ eyes. There is surrender and envy but Remus stares back into those glistening, and almost-silver orbs with courage to find what he wants. And he does. There it is. Love, swirling into the diffusion of grey and blue.

“I paid twelve years of losing myself and my family for mistrusting you, Remus.”

“I’m sorry…” He doesn’t expect his voice to whimper but it does because his chin is trembling and he is trying hard to gain composure. He is trying so hard with his clenched jaw, and balled fists in either sides of his lap. But Sirius put a thumb under his chin, and he shudders.

“You’re so stupid, Moony.” Sirius whispers when he is just an inch away from his lips.

“I know,” And just as those lips touched his, he feels a tear trickle down his cheek before Sirius has completely captured his mouth. They move languidly but cautiously, scared they might break each other again with haste and roughness. They don’t trust themselves to be firm either. Remus doesn’t. But when Sirius pulls back a little, he comes back and kisses him again decisively on the lips.

“I don’t know if it is still worth it,” Sirius says when both of them are resting their foreheads against each other, breathing in and out one and other, “But I want you to know that I don’t blame you for anything. Maybe I did. Just to keep myself sane by pretending to believe the lies I made within my already suffocated brain.”

Remus lets out a small laugh, which follows by Sirius’ arms wrapping his waist.

“I hope you can still accept me despite of everything, Remus.”

Remus hold his jaw, and tries to smile at him because he still feels like it is not enough. Nothing is enough with Sirius Black. It is always so much, even in this flickering flame which is almost dead. He knows that it will ignite again to fiery life once they become one. They are dangerously perfect for each other. He leans in to kiss the back of his ear, and inhales a whiff just like the wolf would do when Padfoot would return on first full moon after the summers, to recognize his mate. Sirius smells of rain and cigarette, mixing the aroma of the tea that has been sitting out in two mugs before their argument.

“I do. And I hope the same from you for myself?” Remus cringes after he realizes how lame they sound next to Sirius’ words. After few minutes which feels like hours to Remus, Sirius gropes his hands to hold both of his wrists, with his eyes still locked with Remus. He then bends down to press a lingering kiss on the right, and then on the left. Remus just looks at him, feeling utterly weightless in Sirius’ hands.

“I will not fail you again, Remus.”

“I trust you. I love you,” Remus says with all of the broken words spilling out his mouth, “I love you so much. I will not let you go. I will not let you be alone.”

They embraces each other again, just enjoying the warmth and the closeness. It reminds Remus of their time at Hogwarts when their limbs used to be wrapped around each other at every possible free period, smoking cigarettes at the Astronomy Tower.

“Don’t make such promises, my dear Moony.”

“You’re just saying that because you’ll be annoyed of me for sticking around you all the time.” Remus wipes his tears, and Sirius helps him too with his sleeve, shaking with silent laughter.

“Yeah, maybe. Just don’t follow me in the bathroom.”

“Can’t make such promises, my dear Padfoot.”

 Thankyou for reading!

[helliontherapscallion]

Shenanigans and Love (Adrenaline Junkie Part 13)

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5     Part 6     Part 7     Part 8     Part 9     Part 10     Part 11     Part 12     Part 14     Part 15     Part 16     Part 17

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: the Warden, mentions of death, phantom pain syndrome, extreme fluff

Word count: 3,226

The light glow of the redstone lamp illuminated your work space. Currently, it was about two hours before everybody was due to wake up and you were hovering over your journal containing your notes on the Warden. Not much was known about the cave-dwelling creature, but you found a couple of books about it at the library. So far, you found out that it indeed didn’t have eyes; it navigated via a mixture of hearing and a vibration network found in the blocks that had the glowing tentacles on them (you now knew that they were called ‘sculk blocks’). The sculk blocks would pick up on movement or touch, it would send vibration waves through the air, where it would reach the Warden’s own sculk stalks. Without the sculk stalks on the Warden’s head, the Warden was defenseless.

You also read about the anatomy of the creature. Known juvenile specimens ranged from seven to eleven feet tall while adults spanned from twelve to a whopping twenty feet tall. While their average lifespan is unknown due to the parasitic nature of the beast, it is known that they are out of their juvenile stage once they are approximately twenty years old. Thinking back on the one in the cave, it was about twice as tall as you were. That was a juvenile mob and it’s probably grown rapidly since then. The thing that killed you so viciously was a juvenile. You shuddered thinking about what an adult could do.

Juveniles are charted to be more erratic in their decisions while adults were known to be calculating and alert. Known weaknesses were known to be the sculk stalks and the heart. It was going to be incredibly difficult to take it down by yourself, but if worse comes to worse, you’d gladly take the beast down with you. Just in case, you left behind a small will with things you were planning on giving to your family. You were going to leave your workshop and your blueprints to Arthur, your collection of diamonds to Tommy and Wilbur, your stock of netherite and gold to Technoblade, and your wealth and life savings to Philza. You requested that Philza take care of Arthur, you couldn’t ask for a better father figure to have than Philza. Only the best for Arthur. In addition, you had a letter prepared for every member of your family. They were still in their first drafts, but they were coming along fast. In them, you detailed how grateful you were for every single one of them and reminisced on your favorite memory you shared with them. You still had about a week and a half left before you planned on attacking the cave, but you always liked to have extra time to complete things.

Your alarm clock sounded with harsh, lazer like beeps before you quickly silenced it. You didn’t need Arthur or Philza waking up so early. Sighing, you hid your journal and letters under a false bottom drawer and gently closed it. You trudged up the stairs quietly and made your way to the bathroom to shower for the day. When you took off your prosthetic, you could feel the phantom pains shoot up your nonexistent wing. In addition to that, the feathered stump and the areas around it felt stiff. The warmth of the shower did nothing to alleviate the pain.

After your shower, you started to make breakfast. Soon after, the other members of the household filed into the kitchen with differing energies. Arthur, the hyper, knowledge craving kid he was, walked into the kitchen with a bounce in his step and his head held high while Philza followed him with disheveled hair and tired blue eyes. With breakfast situated at the table, everyone started eating. You continuously shifting uncomfortably in your seat didn’t go unnoticed by the two as they eyed you after they woke up a little more.

Finally having enough of your constant movement, Philza finally spoke up, “(y/n)?” You hummed, turning to look at him, “yeah?”

“Is everything okay?”

You suddenly become hyper aware of your movements as you force your body to sit still. “Everything’s fine, why you ask?”

“You look a little uncomfortable. Are you sure everything’s alright?”

You sighed, “I’ll tell you later. Arthur did you have anything specific you wanted to learn today?”

His eyes shone with the brightness of all of the stars in the universe as he made quick work to swallow his mouthful of toast, jumping in his seat slightly as he chewed. “Yes! I was wondering if you could teach me how to work with comparators!”

“That takes a lot of time and patience to learn, we probably won’t get it all done by the end of the day today. Is that alright?” He enthusiastically nodded, shoving the last bit of toast in his mouth and running off with a mouthful of unchewed bread.

You could feel a slight worry stab your gut, “Arthur, swallow your food before you run! You could choke!”

You watched as he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, vigorously chewed, swallowed, and resumed his sprint upstairs. You dragged a tired hand through your hair and sipped at your coffee.

“Ender, now I know how you felt with us when we were kids. Kid’s gonna be the death of me.”

Your dad chuckled, sipping at his own coffee. “He’s a lot more tame than you four were. Techno and Wilbur weren’t that bad, you were just a tad bit more chaotic, and well, you remember how Tommy was. You’re just way too worried about him. Kids will be kids, they do crazy things and sometimes you can’t stop them. After the couple months of adopting Tommy, I just let him learn from his mistakes. You gotta let them learn from their mistakes or else they’re never gonna learn. It’s just something all parents have to do if they want their kid to grow as a person.”

“That’s tr- wait, parent? Arthur’s my protégé, not my kid.”

He smirked over his mug and raised an eyebrow at you, “really? Cuz you seem awfully worried about him.”

“Dad. I’m just worried that he’s gonna accidentally kill himself. What, can I not be worried about my protégé?”

“No need to get defensive, just trying to point out the obvious-”

“The obvious? Dad, I'm only twenty. I’m not adopting anyone anytime soon.”

“I adopted Techno when I was twenty three,” he pointed out with raised eyebrows, “besides, I think you’d be a great parent. You’re already a parental figure for Arthur anyways, so nothing would change too much.”

You were silent for a moment as you stared at him blankly. You never viewed yourself as a parental figure type before. Your current lifestyle of never leaving your workshop would never be able to accommodate having someone that depended on you. You could hardly take care of a goldfish (you still had Bubbles’ grave in the backyard at your house in L’manberg), let alone an entire human child. Sure, you babysat Fundy when Niki was too busy to, but that was your nephew and it was only for a day at a time. You planned on taking Arthur with you back to L’manberg (only if he wanted to of course), but you didn’t think that far ahead. He was probably going to have to stay at your house. You weren’t cut out to be a parent, you wouldn’t be good enough for Arthur.

Philza, noticing your slightly panicked zoned out state, quickly reassured you, “you don’t have to make a definitive decision right now, you have time. Just- just consider it. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to come to me. I think I’ve raised enough kids to know what I’m doing,” he chuckled to himself.

Your feathered wing dropped in relief as you gave him your best smile over your coffee mug. “Thanks Dad, I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you, you’re a lifesaver.” Right after that, a particularly large burst of pain shot along the length of your nonexistent right wing and loitered in the area around the base of your wing. You bit your tongue at the sudden pain as you felt the muscles twitch.

“It’s no problem, I’ll always be here to help ya.” He smiled at you before his eyes snapped to something behind you. His smile dropped as he eyed you concerningly, pointing behind you. “Is- is it supposed to do that?”

You followed his eyes behind you to your prosthetic wing. The metal was twitching in sporadic bursts with varying intensity. You could hear the slight scratching of the metal clashing lightly against the wooden chair. Though it was very inconvenient, you supposed you should be glad that it was moving with the muscle impulses of the muscles you used in flight. Suddenly, you could feel a muscle directly on the base of your wing twitch as the metal moved in tandem with the impulse. The entire wing extended to it’s full length and knocked over the chair next to you. It stood erect for a bit before another twitch caused another spasm that worked its way throughout the length of your metal wing. This time, the wing reared back to your body and almost smacked you in the face. If you didn’t move, your eye would’ve probably been plucked out by one of the metal feathers.

Your flesh wing puffed up slightly in embarrassment as you turned to look back at the blond man in front of you, “technically? I mean, it’s just the sensors picking up on the twitching. I-I’ll get the chair.”

As you stood up, you grunted in pain as another spasm hit you. This time, your wing extended fully perpendicularly to your back causing the muscles in the base of your nubby wing to be pulled unexpectedly. Hissing, your hand shot to rub at the base of your wing. “Fuck that was a bad one.”

You heard the screech of wood on wood as Philza stood up and hurried over to you, dodging a couple of swings from your wing. His hands were hovering indecisively in front of him. “Tell me what I need to do.”

“Take it off. Just- hhh, just take the sensors off. There should be seven of them, all on my back and shoulders.” You bent over with your hands gripping the table with each spasm of your muscles. You could feel the fabric of your shirt being pulled slightly from your body and the warmth of your dad’s hand brushing against your twitching skin as he hurriedly ripped the sensors off your skin.

Once they were all off, the metal wing drooped limply downwards, occasionally being moved slightly when what’s left of the flesh stiffened. “Good, can you unfasten the belts? There’s three of them, they’re a little- ah, a little tricky. After that, carefully pull the metal out through the slit in my shirt. Make sur- sure the sensors don’t rip.”

You sighed when you felt the wing being taken off from you and pulled through the slit in your shirt. Slumping back down into your chair, you reached a hand around to nead the skin on your back. You could feel the twitching slowly decrease in intensity, leaving a sore feeling in its wake. Your wing was placed gently onto the table in front of you, some parts hanging off the side. “Goddamn, I haven’t had an episode that bad since I grinded out making weapons for the War.”

You could hear water running before a glass was placed in front of you and Philza picked up the chair you knocked over and pulled it up next to you. He started to rub circles around the muscles around your wing. You sighed in content, feeling the knots in your back being relieved, “thanks. That feels good.”

“(y/n)?” A small voice said from the doorway of the kitchen. You shot up and bit back a groan when your sore muscles were moved. The young boy was leaning into the doorway with his hands on the sides and his mop of brilliant copper hair hung downwards. He looked worried and slightly scared.

“Hey Arthur, we can start your lesson soon, I just need a sec.”

“Are you okay?” His wavering tone and small voice combined with the tears slowly filling his eyes broke your heart. Eyes softening, you stood up and walked over to him, pulling him into a soft hug. “Of course I’m okay, you don’t need to worry buddy,” you deepened your voice and spoke dramatically, ‘(Y/n) Minecraft the Great, Conqueror of the Unknown’ will never be taken down!”

He gave a watery chuckle against your shirt and burrowed his head deeper into your shoulder, gripping you tighter. You reached up to stroke his hair and wrapped your left wing around him loosely, shielding him from the world with a protective feathery barrier. You could hear Philza picking up dishes from the table and quietly start to do the dishes. Despite the occasional twitch in your back and the phantom pain shooting down your wing, you directed all of your attention to Arthur. Eventually, he pulled away and wiped at his blotchy face. “Are you still up for the lesson?”

Just as Arthur opened his mouth, Philza interrupted him from behind you, “you’re not doing anything until you feel better (y/n).”

“Dad, honestly it isn’t that-”

“Don’t say it honestly isn’t that bad, we both know that’s not true. You’re on bedrest for today.”

You grumbled to yourself as you stood up and handed your glass of water to Arthur, who sipped at the contents giving you a small “thank you.” Nodding, you were escorted out of the kitchen by Philza and ushered to the couch. Once you were laying down on your stomach, he handed you a book and placed a hot water bottle on your back. Before you could stop it, a pleased hum left your lips as your body relaxed on the couch. “You’re staying here. I better not find you anywhere else when Arthur and I come home.”

You lifted your head up and stared at him with an eyebrow raised, “where’re you taking him?”

The corners of his mouth twitched and his eyes lit up slightly before he put on his stern facade once more. “Just to the village. I need to pick up a few things.”

“And you need him why…?”

“Well, I can’t go without someone helping me! I’m an old man after all.” He started to nudge Arthur towards the door and slipped his shoes on.

“You’re only thirty six, but whatever. Arthur, be good for my dad.”

“Alright (y/n), feel better soon!” He gave you a bright smile before he was pulled out of the house by Philza.

You tried to read, but the nagging worry for Arthur in the back of your mind never allowed for you to be immersed in your book. You knew Philza would never let anything happen to him, but you couldn’t help but worry whenever Arthur wasn’t in your line of sight. You supposed that it was a part of being an avian hybrid; you needed to constantly know if the child was alright. You tried to force yourself to go to sleep, but the pain prevented you from doing so, so you ended up mindlessly watching the seconds tick by on the clock. Before you knew it, your eyes closed and you were put in a light slumber.

You were awoken by the front door opening and laughter filling the house. You cracked open your crusty eyes and groaned as you sat up. You looked at the two with bleary eyes. Arthur was laughing at something Philza said as the blond looked over at you. “Hey hun, you feelin better?”

“Yeah a bit. What’d you get at the village?”

“Just some things for dinner. Arthur, wanna help me cook?”

Arthur, being the walking ball of sunshine that he was, nodded vigorously and started to drag the older man to the kitchen. Furrowing your brow, you called out to them, “do you want me to help?”

“No, stay there. Don’t come in!” Arthur’s excited voice shouted back to you, making you raise a brow at his words. You couldn’t lie, you felt nervous at his words. Just what did he have in store for you? Occasionally, you could hear yelps and bangs, which made you want to go into the kitchen even more. But you held off, trusting Philza.

About an hour and a half passed before you were summoned to the kitchen by an overly excited Arthur. Once in the kitchen, you were in slight awe. Spread out on the table was your favorite meal with the addition of fresh cookies left to cool on the stovetop. “All this for me?”

They smiled at you as Arthur ushered you to your spot at the table. “I… don’t know what to say. I- thank you guys.”

“Don’t thank me, it was all Arthur’s idea. I just helped.” Philza looked over at the blushing boy with a smile.

You reached over to ruffle his hair, “well, thank you Arthur. You know me too well, these are all my favorites!”

The boy bashfully smiled at you, “there’s something else too, but that’s for after dinner.”

You put a hand against your heart, touched, “Two surprises in one day? Ender, you’re spoiling me!” Arthur laughed at you.

Dinner went by fast with light-hearted laughter bouncing throughout the kitchen. The dinner and cookies tasted amazing, your taste buds felt like they were in heaven. After dinner, Arthur drug you to your room with an excited Philza following you two. On your bed sat your wing, but it had colorful things attached to the surface. Furrowing your brow, you looked closer to find various magnets sticking to the iron surface.

They ranged from the nonbinary flag to small mobs to little puns (your favorite ones were ‘olive you’ and ‘bird puns fly right over my head’). You could feel your smile widening at every magnet you saw, your wing fluttering in happiness. One of the magnets made you stop completely though as you stared at it with wide eyes. It was simple, but oh did it make your heart sing in joy and your eyes fill with tears. On the magnet, in big, bold letters were the words ‘world’s best parent’.

“Arthur…” You looked at him through blurred vision. He looked nervous, looking anywhere but at you and shifting on the balls of his feet. You lunged forward and pulled him into a tight hug and wrapped your wing around him, making sure he was as close to you as possible.

Philza watched the exchange with a soft smile before he decided to let you two have some privacy. His heart was full of happiness as he walked downstairs to clean up the kitchen with a bounce in his step and his wings fluttering uncontrollably. He was ecstatic to officially welcome Arthur to his family. Sure, he had a small hand in leading Arthur over to the ‘world’s best parent’ magnet, but it was Arthur that picked out the magnet for you. He knew you were going to make a fantastic parent.

General taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@crybabyjabby  @izzybobizzy13  @goldenstarofthunderclan  @bunnyz-pxstel  @averytiredfanfictionwriter  @dcml04  @sparkling-gayyyy  @bbigbbrainn  @thaticecreambish  @kiinokochii  @satansphatass  @bxkubitch  @bxmentchildxx

Series taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@acecarddraws @ravennightingaleandavatempus  @dirtydiavolo  @yeiras-world  @immadatmostthings  @hee-hee-haw  @jackalopedoodles  @m1lkmandan  @vanhakirja  @im-a-depressed-gay  @coolleviauchihadreamerlove  @questioning-sanity  @camisascam  @bongwaterflavoredgatorade  @kakamiissad  @jayistrash4  @lifestylesleep  @speedymaximoff  @sun-shark-tooth  @appetiteofapeoplepleaser  @lestrangenymph  @kinismanditory  @dragons-lurk-here  @rinzyx05  @the-wandering-pan-ace  @angelic-scent  @shinipii  @dont-hug-me-im-a-fander  @izzydimensional  @used-avocado  @laura--444  @wing-non  @lovely-echoo  @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual  @mysteryartisticwriter  @momo-has-a-gun  @misfortunatem00n  @w-0-r-n-n  @v-kouya  @kusuinko  @cheybaee  @dulcedippers  @jaciahbabes

[a-luran]

**sir (my badmy bad), i am still dripping and will be awaiting your post !! make it as juicy (or dry, no judgement) as you want 😤💦

thank you for your patience! and I hope you enjoy this wee thing, meaning some 1k words of smut build up asfdfjkl

--

Alasdair gets hard when he shifts.

Arthur doesn’t realise at first. Doesn’t know in truth if it’s a new phenomenon now that the wolf is starting to settle more comfortably into his brother’s bones (even if his control over it is precarious still; fraught). Alasdair pants into the ragged gag he doggedly continues to insist on, shakes and sweats and spreads his thighs trying to get comfortably in the bare corner of the basement where he is chained down… and he’s hard. Doesn’t seem to realise it, throwing back his head with a harsh spasm.

Arthur presses his thighs together tight, hoping desperately that the scent of herbs and smoke covers for him, and looks away. Looks up and is immediately caught by Alasdair’s sharp eyes on him.

They don’t talk about it until they have to. Arthur has read about a werewolf’s rut and he… he is starting to soften. To Alasdair’s pain, and his discomfort. In the quiet mornings after a full moon, when he presses a warm mug of tea into Alasdair’s hands to soothe the rasp of his voice. The evenings where Alasdair will join him in the garden and they’ll talk of all things. Spends hours talking; fighting sometimes at a shout but calling a truce on dark nights to sit together. When they are in the shop and Alasdair is being a pest like they haven’t spent the better half of their lives pretending the other didn’t exist.

He wants to be the one but can’t. Can’t bring himself to admit that there is more between them or be the first to take step closer. So Arthur offers: Francis. Alasdair has always had a softness for him; turns his head after him when he walks into the shop to poke around Arthur’s things, and who could blame him (Arthur certainly doesn’t). Francis is… eager. And, of course, says yes. He comes for dinner one night, before a full moon, to test the waters before the rut hits. See how Alasdair reacts to him while he is still mostly himself.

It goes well. Arthur watches Francis be himself in a way he couldn’t allow himself to be, lively and lovely all night. How he straddles Alasdair’s lap to kiss him deeply, like he is drinking from him. Enjoys them together too much for it to turn to any kind of jealousy. (And Francis kisses him too before he goes. Laughs against Arthur’s lips before crossing the threshold out to the quiet streets. Laughs because oh, they’re hopeless. Both of them. Francis could eat them up).

So, it should be easy. It should be safe. It occurs to them that it might not be, but then there are safeguards in place. Runes on the floor and iron as thick as Francis’ wrists pining Alasdair in place for him to enjoy. Francis straddles him like he did the night before. Letting his hips drag against the rough material of Alasdair’s jeans (half torn already, but Alasdair doesn’t like being naked before he turns. Likes to hold on to the last threads of himself to the very last). Alasdair growls, low and gravely, and Arthur tenses where he sits by the stairs. Francis rolls his hips again, feeling Alasdair hot and hard beneath him and licks a line up his throat, wanting more.

Alasdair growls again, deeper, and Arthur immediately knows.

It’s a warning.

“Francis—” he chokes out right as one of the chains snaps.

Francis is quick to jump back but trips and Arthur doesn’t have a second to think. Gets on his feet and drags Francis back up, shoves him towards the stairs and puts himself between them. Magics the cellar door closed as soon as Francis crosses the threshold in a blind panic, feet still stuck to the ground where he stands.

There are legends. Old wives’ tales without an ounce of truth, of brave souls bringing back the turned by tossing well-loved clothing at them and calling their names. Arthur is wearing one of Alasdair’s thick woollen plaid shirt like a coat—has been for weeks now, telling himself it means nothing. That he doesn’t like the way Alasdair’s eyes linger on him, or the way he brushes a hand over his shoulders when he wears it. Nothing...

It falls open when his back hits the ground, trapped under the bulk of his brother’s body. Alasdair is half-shifted, joints cracking as he bears down on Arthur, and searing hot. His fingers—his claws, dig into the soft dips of flesh between his collarbone and his shoulder, and the curve of his left breast. He almost wants to laugh, a little hysterical, at the idea that Alasdair might tear out his heart and bite into it the way he’s imagined. Only he never thought it would be so literal.

He braces for it, but Alasdair simply shudders. Tucks his jaws under Arthur’s chin… and breathes him in. Slow and deep. Then tucks himself closer, hunching over Arthur so he can press more of his oversized body into him. Arthur’s thighs were spread in the fall, now spread by Alasdair body and he can feel… he can feel…

Alasdair can’t swallow well with the gag tucked between his fangs, and every sharp exhale is wet against Arthur’s throat. The bite of his nails against Arthur’s skin eases, and even if he’s bleeding, that is how he knows that he won’t hurt him. Alasdair won’t hurt him.

Another spasm wracks his brother’s body, spine cracking under the strain of the moon and he whines, tight in his throat. Arthur brings up his hands slowly, slipping his fingers under the scruff of his neck trying to offer any kind of comfort. Freezes when Ali growls, then remembers that he’s wearing silver rings in every finger. Shucks them off as quickly as his nerveless fingers can manage before he tries again. Ali seems to sigh then, almost purring as he relaxes into Arthur’s touch.

Then he rolls his hips.

Francis is banging on the door and Arthur can barely hear him. Calls back that he’s fine, that they’re fine. Or thinks he does before Alasdair thrusts into him again and Arthur’s voice cuts off with a moan.

He lets himself be used the way he’s always wanted to, fisting the coarse hair that grows on Alasdair’s nape and rocking with every shift of his hips. Reaches between them to pull away the denim still clinging on so Alasdair can work himself against the soft fabric of his undershirt and his bare skin instead. Feels the bulge of Alasdair’s knot beneath his fingers and thinks a little faint that he couldn’t wrap a hand around it comfortably if he tried.

Morning finds them covered in cum and still tangled together. Arthur is shaking with exhaustion as much as want; thighs slick with unfulfilled desire (he’s aching to cum, hasn’t all night. Just held on and let himself be used). The scratch on his shoulder is not so deep that it hasn’t stopped bleeding but it’s starting to itch fiercely. Something in Ali’s claws maybe or his spit, from when he nuzzled against the deep grooves his claws left behind like an apology right before dawn. The door unlocks with a twitch of his fingers while he tries to get Alasdair up the stairs and then thankfully Francis is there to help them both. Alasdair passes out almost as soon as they get him on the couch, and Arthur…

He sits in a scalding hot bath, stuffs three fingers inside himself, and cums with a muffled shout as he bites into his own wrist.

[queen18xo]

May Our Secrets Remain Hidden - Chapter Two

Draco stumbles through the seemingly endless corridor, Harry's nightmare playing vividly in his mind each time his eyes blink shut. He mindlessly walks the familiar route to Professor Snape's chambers seeking the man's guidance, an unbearably heavy burden settled over his shoulders, his frame wrought with tension as he slowly trudges towards the professor's chambers.

He distantly registers the sound of his knuckles frantically pounding against the solid wooden door, he doesn't feel the sharp sting the forceful contact should cause. The door swings open, a furious Severus Snape looming threateningly in the doorway a scowl that would have most people cowering beneath it etched into his face. His features instantly softening as they take in the blondes grave expression and trembling hands. "Draco?" Snape calls, raising a questioning eyebrow at the dazed teen shifting nervously before him.

"Arthur Weasly" Draco exclaims abruptly, his sharp outburst momentarily startling the professor. The man releasing a futile huff of protest as Draco bodily pushes past him into his chambers, Snape begrudgingly pushes the door shut turning to face the frantically pacing teen.

"Draco explain yourself" Snape snaps impatiently, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Nagini has Arthur Weasly, you have to save him" Draco's pleading eyes snap up to Snapes, his eyes shining wetly with unshed tears. Snape releases a tired sigh, gently urging the boy towards a lavish armchair.

"You know I need more than that" Snape urges, watching as the teen tenses his expression darkening ominously.

"Potter was having a nightmare, I was drawn to him. I saw everything but I wasn't in control not until I was already in the Gryffindor common room" Draco runs a shaking hand through his wavy hair as he explains. " I saw him and he - he looked bad, really bad" Draco explains a shiver running through him as he remembers Harry's pale trembling frame. "I couldn't wake him so I-" Draco winces "I entered his mind - someone was resisting me and it wasn't Potter-" he shudders the icy feel of the casters magic lodged deep in his bones. "I woke him eventually, and it was stupid I knew it would be a mistake but I told him he could show me the nightmare" Draco hangs his head, his hands tiredly streaking over his face, the rough scrape of his palm leaving the pale skin pink in its wake.

"Draco what did you see?" Snape urges softly, worry curling in his gut as he takes in his godson's distraught appearance, his hair sitting wild and untamed atop his head, his sleep clothes rumpled and unkempt, his body slumped dejectedly in the chair.

"We were at the Ministry, the room of Prophecy I think" Draco recalls, the images flashing behind his closed eyelids. "Arthur weasly was on the floor - Merlin there was so much blood" Draco swallows thickly, his saliva feeling like a dense lump as he struggles to force it down his throat. "Nagini - s-she was attacking him - it was almost like she was taunting him - playing with him" Draco finishes shakily, his dark grey eyes meeting the professors worried gaze "please help him, Severus, I can't have his blood on my hands" Draco pleads brokenly.

"Draco calm down, how do you know it isn't merely a nightmare conjured by a disturbed mind, Potter has experienced more than his fair share of trauma" Snape reasons, placing a comforting hand on the teen's shoulder, giving the tense muscle a brief reassuring squeeze.

"I know Severus, I know I felt him - the Dark Lord, he was there," Draco sucks in a steadying breath "I-I think they're connected somehow, I can't explain it but I felt it" he explains gravely.

Snape lets out a considering hum, crouching down to face the shaking teen "I believe you Draco, I will do what I can for the Weasly. You must help Potter, he'll need you" Snape voices softly.

"He'll kill me - They'll all kill me Bella, dad - all of them" Draco chokes out, panic clouding his features as he pictures the outcome awaiting him should he help Harry Potter.

"They'll kill him Draco - You're strong you know how to protect your mind Potter doesn't if what you say is true how long until the Dark Lord unhinges his mind" Snape pushes, watching as horror plays across the teens sharply defined features. "Get some rest Draco, I cannot force you to help Potter but I do not believe you wish the boy dead" Snape whispers, gently guiding the distressed teen out of his chambers, giving him a soft nudge in the direction of the student chambers.

Draco settles against the comforting softness of his mattress, the plump pillow heavenly beneath his aching head, he wraps the heavy duvet tightly around his frame, holding the edge in a white-knuckled fist.

The night's events play on a continuous loop in his mind, conflicting feelings warring in his gut, his body taut with tension as he worries for Arthur Weasly, a man he was raised to despise yet wishes to save.

His mind flickers to Potter, all thoughts seemingly leading back to the initial event that led to all these other bizarre events unfurling. His mind strays to the easy trust the teen had placed in him despite their abysmal history, a warmth loosening in his chest as he remembers the relieved expression on the teens face when he realised Draco wasn't a hallucination.

Draco tosses and turns restlessly in his bed despite his overwhelming exhaustion, his eyes burning with fatigue as he forces his heavy lids to remain open. His mind a turbulent mess of chaotic thoughts, all seemingly centred around the enigma that is Harry Potter.

He slowly succumbs to a fitful slumber, his body weighed down heavily by dread and weariness as he allows himself to be pulled into the darkness, his incessantly buzzing mind finally calming as he slowly begins to dip into unconsciousness. The tension held in his aching muscles slowly dissipating as he permits himself to tumble into a thankfully dreamless sleep, treasuring the brief moment of tranquillity in his hectic life.

[the-weeping-monk]

visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)

Chapter 1

next/find on ao3 

The water pulled Nimue down, down, down, greedy in its hold over her body. She was sinking in a shroud of her own blood. Red, red, red. The pain she felt was unlike anything she had experienced before. She would scream if she could, but even that took too much energy.

She was dying. And while she should have been calm, knowing that death was inevitable—that she would be able to see her mother again—she could feel nothing but agony. There was so much she had to do. Were the Fey safe? Did they make it to the ships? What of Pym and Squirrel and Arthur? What of Morgana and Merlin?

Merlin. Her father. The man who had tried to save her despite being near-death himself. A burst of agony flashed through her. There had been unadulterated rage in Merlin’s eyes toward Iris as he had flung himself forward and caught Nimue’s hand. And when she had slipped through his fingers, there was only pain, a gut-wrenching agony that she felt in her core.

This couldn’t be the end. Her story couldn’t end here, it couldn’t.

. . . could it?

She had lived her entire life wishing to be accepted, and when that wish had not been granted, she had tried to run. Away from her problems, away from her life. But when she wasn’t running, she had been fighting. She had fought the wolves and had gained herself a name. She had fought the Red Paladins and led her people and named herself a queen. Nimue had run, but she had also fought. And now, as the water slowly stole her breath, she was fighting still.

She did not want to die. She wasn’t ready. There was so much to do, so much she had yet to accomplish.

But Nimue was growing tired and losing consciousness. She could not fight forever, it seemed.

She was about to give in to Death’s call when she felt it: the Hidden. They reached out to her, desperate in their plea. She felt their power flow through her, felt them clamber to the forefront of her mind. Their shouts of desperation pushed her into action, and she called upon the magic inside of her in a last-ditch effort.

Vines and roots alike reached out to her from the darkness of the water, grasping her limbs in an attempt to save her from this watery grave. She was barely conscious when she reached the surface, little more than a deadweight for the Hidden to pull to shore. They laid her gently on the rocks of the beach and slithered away.

Nimue’s eyes shot open and she rolled onto her side, heaving up water. The next lungfuls of air were painful, but they were the sweetest she had ever tasted. The pain meant that she was alive , that she had survived this. The air was sharp and stinging, but Nimue relished in it. Each gust of piercing wind widened her smile. She wasn’t dead.

She pushed herself off of the ground and immediately winced. The arrows stuck in her chest brought a fresh wave of pain over her, and she doubled over. Nimue squeezed her eyes shut and bit back a torrent of curses. She didn’t have any medical supplies or Fey ointments. She was alone without resources and two arrows stuck in her chest.

The Hidden bombarded her mind with unintelligible whispers once more. Nimue had not been able to use their power for anything other than destruction before, except for when she had produced fruit from a barren tree. Merlin had guided her then, but he was not here now.

Anger is your flint to the fire, he had said, telling her something she had already known. But then, There are other ways to access the Hidden. Imagine the result you want.

She was running out of time. If she wanted to live, if she wanted to see her friends again, then she had to try.

Stealing herself, Nimue called out to the Hidden.

Create an intention, and then surrender that intention to the Hidden.

She wanted to be healed. She wanted the arrows out of her chest, wanted her wounds closed. Nimue held onto Merlin’s words, felt their truth in the way the Hidden had once listened to her wishes. The whispers grew.

There were two sharp stabs of pain—one in her left shoulder, one in the center of her chest—and then everything was numb. She heard rather than felt the arrows fall and clatter to the ground. It was only when the whispers receded that Nimue reached a hand up to touch the points where the arrows had lodged themselves in her chest.

Her mouth parted slightly, amazed that instead of two gaping holes, there were only two scars. The Hidden had listened to her, had healed her.  

Unable to quench her relief and triumph, she laughed aloud. Anyone nearby would have thought her mad, but Nimue could not care less. She had been given a second chance, and she would not hesitate to fulfill it as she had before. That scared little girl who had tried to run from her destiny was dead. She had died in the lake, and was buried in its depths. Nimue would no longer hide from what she was meant to do. She was the Wolf-Blood Witch, the Fey Queen, and she would not be cowed.

Soaking wet in a mix of blood and water, she glanced around. She was alone, save for Red Paladin bodies littered on the stone bridge above. No Merlin, no Morgana, no Iris with her bow and arrows. No sword.

She frowned. No matter, she would find her friends soon enough. She knew where Arthur and the Fey were headed, knew where the ships had taken them if all went to plan, so that was where she would check first. But there was still something nagging at her, a seedling of doubt.

If the king had not been able to stop the church from interfering with her life, she doubted he would have been able to stop the church’s interference with the Fey.

But before she could do any of that, she needed dry clothes. Now that she wasn’t half-dead, the cold air was beginning to wrack her body with shudders. Biting her cheek against the onslaught of harsh winds, Nimue made her way up the mountainside and toward the stone bridge. It took her an embarrassing amount of time, but she figured it wasn’t too bad since she had almost died mere moments before.

Nimue blinked. All of the Red Paladins had lightning scars on their skin and charred holes seared straight through their robes. Had there been a storm while she was drowning? She studied the bodies closer and deduced that the strokes were too deliberate to be a coincidence. Merlin must have gained his magic back—that was the only explanation she could come up with.

She combed through the dead Red Paladins, searching for one of their robes that wasn’t completely destroyed. Once she found one that would do, Nimue carefully ripped the fabric off of the man, tearing the seam at its side. She threw the robe around her shoulders, shivering at another gust of wind.

Clenching her teeth, Nimue made her feet move toward the mountain pass where she, Morgana, and Merlin had been headed before Iris had shot her. Though the Hidden had healed her wounds, there was still an ache deep inside of her. She was exhausted from the emotional toll of the day; all she wanted to do was sleep.

But Nimue was a queen with a duty to her people. If the church had sabotaged the Fey, then she needed to save them. She would not let them suffer through what had taken her mother and her village. She would not.

Nimue resolved that she would save her people even if she died trying.

. . .

The moon rose as the Fey made camp along the shoreline and in the surrounding caves of the beach. Arthur and the Red Spear had quickly taken charge. They had gathered those left alive together and debated on their next move: they could either board the ships to the new land, as had been promised to them; or they could stay and rescue Nimue.

Though there were a few who wanted to leave, they were quickly convinced by the consensus to fight for their queen. The Fey had stuck together for a long time before Nimue had made herself their queen, and now was not the time for them to be parted.

It gave Arthur peace of mind to know that he was not alone in his devotion to Nimue, that there were others who would risk their lives for her as she had for them.

He had wanted to go after Nimue immediately, but the Red Spear persuaded him against it.

“The Fey need to rest, as do my people. We’ll figure out our plan of attack in the morning, but not right now,” she had said.

So instead of his instinct to rush into battle to save Nimue, Arthur helped ration out food and water.

There wasn’t much to sort through; no one had thought to bring more than they could carry. They had, after all, assumed that they would be on their way to new lands by now.

The Red Spear worked beside him in comfortable silence. Ever since the battle, an understanding had passed between them. Arthur was not quite sure what that meant, but he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to fight against her. He considered himself a good swordsman, but he knew, without a doubt, the Red Spear would be able to take him down in an instant.

It was a good thing that she was on their side. They would need her skill if they were going to rescue Nimue from the king and the Red Paladins.

Nimue. He shouldn’t have let her go, should never have let her out of his sight. But he had, and now he was paying the price. If Cumber the Ice King sabotaged King Uther’s plans for the Fey, then who was to say he wouldn’t interfere with Uther’s plans for Nimue?

Arthur clenched his fists. The deal was a fool’s bargain, to begin with. He had to save her. His Nimue.

The Red Spear broke him out of his reverie.

“We should make our way to the caves. It will provide more shelter than out here,” she said once the last of the rations had been passed out.

Arthur murmured his agreement and the two made their way into one of the closest cavities. There were already a few lit fires inside, and Arthur searched for Pym. He had made certain she survived the battle, for Nimue’s sake, but he hadn’t analyzed her for major injuries.

There were not many Fey, though there hadn’t been many to begin with. It was lucky the Red Spear and her army had shown up when they did, or else there might not have been any left. The dead were left out on the beach while the injured were moved inside the caverns.

As Arthur and the Red Spear made their way through the encampment, they made sure to watch where they stepped. It was a tight space, but it was better than leaving the injured out in the open.

His gaze caught on Pym, who was sitting near the back with a group of raiders. He nodded his head in their direction and said, “Let’s head there.”

Arthur didn’t wait for the Red Spear to follow him. When Pym spotted him, she grinned and waved him toward her. He sat beside her on a piece of driftwood, while the Red Spear sat across from him with her comrades. She pulled the tip of her spear into her lap, produced a knife from her boot, and then proceeded to sharpen her spearhead.

He turned toward Pym. “Are you okay?”

“Better than Blondie, here,” she said, gesturing to the other side of her where a burly man with a blond beard sat.

The man had a gash on his temple. The blood streaked down his face and matted in his beard. Upon hearing the nickname Pym had given him, he glared at the petite girl.

“Oh, lighten up,” Pym laughed. “You know you love it.”

The man grumbled something under his breath.

“So you’re not hurt?” Arthur clarified. He had quickly realized that Pym often made jokes to avoid difficult matters or stress in general. Nimue had been good at prying information from her when she was like this, so Arthur took a page out of Nimue’s book.

Pym shook her head. “No. I stayed in here, in the cave. And even if I had joined the fight, I have this,” she gestured at an elaborate necklace, “to protect me.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Arthur said, his lips quirking up. He did not think that he could manage to produce a real smile, at least not yet. Not until he knew that Nimue was safe.

Arthur looked to the Red Spear. Her focus was on her spearhead, on sharpening its sides. It gave him a chance to study her. The flames cast long shadows across her face, making her look older than her years. Her nose piercing glinted in the light, as if it were made of liquid fire. Her eyebrows were pinched together in concentration. He wondered what she was thinking of, and then he realized that he did not know much about her at all. A thought occurred to him.

“What’s your real name?” he asked, breaking the silence.

The Red Spear glanced up at him, an eyebrow raised. “You can call me the Red Spear.”

Arthur frowned. “Yes, but—”

“I am afraid we don’t know each other well enough for me to reveal my true name to you,” she cut in, leveling him with a harsh look. “So stop asking.”

Arthur closed his mouth and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying more. But as the minutes ticked on, he had to know—

“Why would you help us if you don’t trust us?”

She stopped sharpening her spear, irritated. “Look, we may not be Fey, but that doesn’t mean our names are any less powerful. Do not fault me if I don’t tell you mine.”

Arthur raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Alright,” he said at last. “Consider that the last time I asked.”

The Red Spear met his eyes and nodded, satisfied, before shifting her focus back to her spear.

Arthur did not understand why the Red Spear refused to part the shroud of secrecy surrounding her. It made no sense. In his experience, if you were fighting together, you trusted that person with your life—there had to be no room for doubt. She was a puzzle to him, one that was getting increasingly more difficult to solve.

No one spoke for a few moments. Pym was the first to break the silence, her eyes downcast. “Do you think Nimue is alright?”

Arthur gazed into the fire, watched the flames dance. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. Nimue had sacrificed herself—and for what? They didn’t make it to the ships anyway.

The Red Spear paused in her sharpening once more. Her eyes were gentle, an expression Arthur hadn’t seen on her yet. It softened her features.

“Your queen is most likely being tortured for information. Worst case, she’s already been killed,” she said matter-of-factly.

Arthur’s stomach dropped. Pym’s eyes widened. It was not what she wanted to hear—it wasn’t what Arthur wanted to hear, either. He turned his face away, worked his jaw.

“We have to get her back,” he declared.

The Red Spear’s eyes found his. “No.” It was a simple statement with no room for negotiation.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” argued Arthur, rage flickering inside of him.

“I mean, we can’t do anything about your queen right now—we have more important things to focus on.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

“Nothing,” Arthur seethed, voice deadly calm, “is more important to me than Nimue.”

The Red Spear sighed as if she were talking to a child. “Look, Arthur, I know that this is hard for you, but until my father is dealt with, then your queen will never be safe.”

“She’ll be safer with us,” he said, leaning forward. “I know it.”

“Maybe so, but rescuing her from who-knows-where expends more resources than we can afford right now.” She laid her spear on the ground, having finished sharpening it. “Your queen is strong. She has immense power—she’ll be fine, long enough for us to take command of Cumber’s army.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose before fixing the Red Spear with a stare. “No. Not going to happen. You can deal with Cumber, but the Fey and I will be rescuing our queen.”

The Red Spear groaned. “Arthur, listen to me: you can’t go up against the king’s army. Your queen was the only one powerful enough to go head-to-head with them. Without her, you will be crushed,” she said, factual. “And then what would her sacrifice be for?”

Arthur hated to admit it, but she had a good point. He couldn’t risk everything that Nimue had done for them on a gamble.

After a moment of tense silence in which everyone in their little group was staring at him, Arthur gave a terse nod. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Alright. But you have to promise me that you will do everything in your power to get her back once you’ve bested Cumber.”

The Red Spear’s eyes were determined when she said, “I promise.”

. . .

“Where are we going to go?” Squirrel asked, cocking his head at Lancelot.

They had stopped along a river to allow their horse to rest. Lancelot had shrugged off his cloak and was kneeling down by the riverbank in an attempt to wipe the blood off of his face and hands.

At Squirrel’s question, Lancelot turned his head toward where the boy stood next to the horse. Something about the child struck a chord with him. Squirrel was too young to lose so much. Perhaps that was why Lancelot had become so protective of him. Or it had been because of something else entirely.

Does he remind you of someone? the abbot had asked.

He hadn’t admitted it, but Squirrel reminded Lancelot of himself. He had only been a boy when Carden ripped him from his home after his disciples had burned his village. Oh, how he had hated Carden for it, how he had despised him.

But as time went on, Lancelot began to forget what it was like to truly be one of the Fey. Memories of his family grew hazy and were replaced by memories of Carden and the Red Paladins instead. They were replaced by memories where Lancelot was the one destroying villages like his own, where Lancelot killed his own kind.

The Green Knight’s words had stuck with him. They had latched themselves onto Lancelot, branded themselves onto his heart.

Why didn’t you tell them? Lancelot had asked. Before . . . you could have told them. But you didn’t. Why?

Because all Fey are brothers. Even the lost ones, the Green Knight had said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Lancelot did not want Squirrel to suffer the same fate that he had. He owed that much to the Green Knight.

“We will go to the nearest village to gather supplies, and then I’ll take you back to your friends, wherever they may be,” Lancelot said, rubbing off a splotch of blood on his palm.

Squirrel frowned. “What do you mean ‘wherever they may be’? Aren’t they still at Gramaire?”

Lancelot blinked. He was reminded that this boy had probably been away for the entire time the deal was being made. “The last I had heard, the Fey were being given safe passage off-land in exchange for your queen.”

“Nimue traded herself for the Fey?” There was a note of disbelief in Squirrel’s voice.

Lancelot merely nodded, unsure what to say. He did not know how close the boy and the Fey Queen were—if he should offer words of comfort or simply let Squirrel figure out his feelings on his own.

Squirrel turned away, only to turn back to face Lancelot a moment later. “We need to go rescue her.”

Lancelot’s brows furrowed immediately. “We cannot risk it—it’s too dangerous.”

“Nimue could be hurt!” Squirrel shouted, and then proceeded to attempt to climb onto the horse. “We must go.”

“No, we must not.”

Squirrel gave up trying to get into the saddle and rounded on Lancelot instead. “And why not? Nimue risks herself for everyone else! She’s my friend, and friends help each other.”

“There’s only one of me against King Uther’s army. That won’t end well.”

The boy was indignant. “There's two of us.”

Like that will make so much of a difference. Lancelot bit his tongue against the remark and said instead, “You don’t even know how to fight, Percival.”

Squirrel crossed his arms. “You know I don’t like that name.”

“And you know that it’s too dangerous to go into the king’s camp alone and unprotected. Don’t you?” Lancelot stood from his spot by the riverbank and slipped on his cloak.

Squirrel looked away and remained silent.

Lancelot sighed and stepped toward him, deciding that the boy’s affection for the Fey Queen would only cloud his judgment. He needed to switch tactics.

“How about this: we find your friends and I teach you how to fight. Then we can save your queen. You are a knight, after all,” Lancelot said after a moment of deliberation.

A pair of blue eyes met his own. “You mean it? You’ll teach me to fight?”

Lancelot’s lips quirked up unconsciously. “I mean it.”

Squirrel grinned. “Yes!” he crowed, punching a fist in the air in triumph.

Lancelot liked seeing the boy happy and was glad his promise did the trick. But Squirrel had a fast-track mind and wouldn’t be occupied for long. Lancelot would need to stall for time in order to gather his thoughts.

Though he had promised to teach the boy how to fight in order to placate him, Lancelot knew that he would have to learn at some point. Why not now? The sun was still high in the sky, beating down upon them. They would have time to get supplies later. He searched around the riverbank for a moment, and when his gaze landed on two sticks about the same length, he gave one to Squirrel and kept the other for himself.

Turning the stick over in his hand, Squirrel asked, “What are these for?”

Lancelot had two swords on his person, but he assumed that giving a child a sharp weapon on his first lesson was not the smartest option. Especially when that child was impulsive and accident-prone.

“Lesson one: anything can be used as a weapon.” Lancelot paused, contemplating his next words. Father Carden had taught him how to first use a sword and had guided him through the motions. “Hold the stick like this,” he said, adjusting Squirrel’s grip on the stick as if it were a true sword.

When the boy was holding the mock-sword properly, Lancelot spoke. “Now, I want you to do what you think will disable me the fastest.”

It was something Father Carden had said to him when they first began their lessons. Disable me as best you can. Imagine that I am the enemy.

But Carden and his Red Paladins had always been the enemy, in a way. They had burned his village, taken him from his home. Lancelot’s imagination had not had to stretch far in order to conjure up the memory of his home in flames, of those same flames reflected in his mentor’s eyes.

At first, Lancelot had been Squirrel’s captor—his enemy—just as Father Carden had been Lancelot’s. He had bore witness to the burning of the boy’s home and had captured him for his own purposes.

Bile rose in Lancelot’s throat. Maybe he was not so different from Carden as he had thought.  

Squirrel studied him for a moment, unsure. “Okay . . .” he said, glancing between Lancelot and the stick in his hands. And then, true to his nickname, he darted forward and slashed his stick toward Lancelot’s side.

Lancelot blocked the blow with ease, causing the boy to stumble back from the momentum. “Focus,” he commanded.

The boy narrowed his eyes in concentration before running forward again, this time diving for Lancelot’s legs. The monk merely stepped to the side, and Squirrel fell into the dirt.

“This isn’t fair,” Squirrel huffed, picking himself off of the ground.

“And you think that going up against an entire army will be?” Lancelot raised a brow.

Squirrel looked away.

Lancelot’s voice softened. “Sword-fighting took me years to master. I do not expect you to get it right away.” Squirrel met his eyes, albeit reluctantly. “This art takes focus and precision. Every move must be deliberate.”

“But we don’t have time for that. I need to be good now.” Squirrel crossed his arms, indignant.

Lancelot looked out over the empty land stretching out for miles in every direction. He was not good with people, with talking. He hardly ever spoke a word, and when he did, it was usually just reporting to Father Carden or barking out orders. But with Squirrel, Lancelot had to actively think of how to handle the situation and say the right things.

After a moment, Lancelot spoke. “These things take time. No one can simply pick up a sword and instantly be a good fighter.”

“But that’s what Nimue did,” Squirrel pouted. “She’s never even held a weapon before the Sword of Power but she killed those wolves and Red Paladins.”

Lancelot hid his surprise. The Wolf-Blood Witch amazed him the more he learned about her. He was not sure what to make of her, but he knew that she was one of the most powerful beings since Merlin. He knew that she was made to be a queen.

“Your queen . . .” Lancelot trailed off, choosing his next words with care. “Your queen’s situation is a little different. She was forced to become so much in so little time.”

“Why can’t I be as good as her?”

Discarding his stick to the side, Lancelot squatted down to be at Squirrel’s eye level. The boy looked at him, brow furrowed, eyes confused. Lancelot brought his hands to Squirrel’s shoulders and said, “Stop comparing yourself to her. You may not have the skill she does, but you have just as much heart.” Lancelot’s lips quirked. “You sneaked into a Red Paladin camp, completely unarmed, in order to save your friend.”

At the mention of the Green Knight, Squirrel looked down.

Guilt caught in Lancelot’s throat, but he barreled on. “That takes strength, Percival, and I know that your friend would be proud of you.”

Squirrel froze. “‘Would be’?”

Lancelot tensed, realizing his mistake. He did not know for certain if the Green Knight had died or not, but he had assumed that he had based on the severity of his wounds. Lancelot hurried to move on, to distract the boy from his pain.

“What I am trying to say is that you do not need to prove your worth by becoming a knight and fighting in battle. You have already proven your loyalty and strength by doing what no one else did.”

Squirrel did not seem completely deterred from Lancelot’s slip, but some of the tension in his body released nonetheless. He did not speak, only nodded once.

Lancelot figured that was as good as he would get, and stood to help the boy back onto the horse. When they were both situated, they continued on their path in comfortable silence.