#ash almost died!!! the first time!!! when he and arthur were fighting!!! and now arthurs dead lmfaooo

[in-a-faith-forgottenn-land]

i'm doing this thing where i'm rewatching banana fish BUT i let some spinner wheel thing decide which episode i'll be watching and i'm on ep 14

[theshelbyclan]

Angel

Summary: You cross paths with famous Thomas Shelby after killing someone he wanted dead, and you can’t help but recognise so much of yourself in this man

(Gif by @nofckingfighting​) A/N: The ever-lovely @psych0crybaby​ requested: good evening my dear. i saw that your request are open again. Could i ask for some Tommy with a total badass reader? Maybe where she saves their asses and no one knows where she is( and she just walks away) and then they see her again and ada explains to them that she mostly kills rapists and guys who harass woman because someone did the same to her when she was in the war? if you are comfortable with, if not have a good evening or day 🌺 I remember the first time I read this request and immediately being drawn to it. I did however want to do it right, you know? Like I really wanted to think about it, so I have. This comes with a warning for anyone familiar with PTSD, and some sexual abuse and assault is mentioned: this may be triggering. Sorry that it took a while to get this out, but I hope you like the result! Words: 4370 *** Breathe in. Look. See. Focus. Remember. Breath out. Throw. The first knife whooshed passed your face and hit the wall opposite you. The second followed quickly, almost magnetically. The third came after a small pause, the silence in which people feel a false sense of safety, and hit the target right in its middle. 

“You’re too pretty to be out here in the mud.” “Again,” you told yourself, “there’s four of them”. Everything comes in four, good or bad. So you moved suddenly, ducked and threw three more knives, previously hidden in your sleeves.

“You know you want it.” Like a cat you jumped up onto a roof and mid-air threw three more, taken from your pockets. But the hardest was yet to come. The last man was always hidden, always late, like that last knife. He too swished and betrayed. So from your boots, you took another knife, jumped down suddenly and planted it in the back of the invisible assailant. “Good girl…” The job was done. Now for the real work. “What happened to you?” And you told yourself, “I’m ready.” ***

“What is your concern, Tommy?” “The one minute. The soldier’s minute. In battle it’s all you get.” Thomas Shelby lived his life looking over his shoulder, but when he turned, there was nothing there. You see it happening, everything at once and there’s no avoiding it. It’s always there, right behind you. Like running through a house with the devil hot on your heels, finally finding the way out, but when you step into the garden, it starts all over again: you’re back at your starting point. You see, your body may be outside in the sunlight, but your mind is back at the house. That’s what it felt like, every day. “We live somewhere between life and death.” This is what existing is: always living somewhere between life and death, between sleep and awake. And the nightmares, they bled into the days, taking over slowly. “Is it another war you’re looking for, Tommy?” There was supposed to be one war, to end all wars. But instead, kids were sent out to die in the mud, and for what? All that blood, smoke, tears, sweat and carnage. Men blowing the whistles, boys praying and crying. Was he looking for another war? That would imply the first one had ended. “I’ll remember everything and forget nothing. I’m thinking ahead, thinking of every possibility, remembering everything that is happening…” As if he could forget. The smallest things could trigger his memories, taking him right back. When John was little, he used to be scared of a monster. Ada had told him that: that there was a witch living in the walls that you could only see in the mirrors. John didn’t sleep for weeks after her little story. And now, the monster turned out to be real, except no one believed in it anymore. Still, it was everywhere and you had to be constantly on your guard. Because it’s not just in the walls and mirrors; it’s always right behind you, creeping, slithering, crawling it’s way up your spine… And so he became a machine, no longer a human being, fuelled by whiskey and cigarettes only, always plotting. “Thomas Shelby against the whole bloody world, right?” And so he wrote, “My name is Thomas Shelby and today, I’m going to kill a man.” *** There had been five of you at home. And home was in Small Heath, though you moved house all the time. When the poverty got bad, the family was split up and you and mother went into a boarding house for women, while father and the oldest brothers went into a boarding house for men. You were alright with this, because father was a bad man, but you feared for your brothers. Mother was the sweetest woman to ever live, always making sure you ate before she did. You never noticed her withering away before it was too late. At twelve, you started working. Walking the docks and shipyards was dangerous, so your brothers tried their best to prepare you. They weren’t like the other men in Small Heath. “Take this,” one brother told you on the morning of your first shift, “Hide it, in those boots.” You’d gotten charity boots, the first one in the family! But walking in them still felt uneasy, and now he expected you to slide in a small knife as well? “When someone comes,” he continued, urging you with his fiery eyes, “you stick ‘m. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate and don’t ask any questions. When he comes, you stick ‘m and you keep on sticking ‘m!” This was the first lesson you’d been taught. Four brothers all taught their little sister and each had but one objective: keeping you safe. One gave you the knife, the other taught you how to fight and the third took the beatings your drunk father had intended for you. The fourth hadn’t any strength or knowledge to share, so he kept close. Wherever you went, he followed in the shadows, and it was like having your own guardian angel, made up of filth and smoke. When the war came, they all enlisted. Of course they did: they were good, strong and brave men. You saw them off, one by one, and after waving goodbye to your guardian angel, something inside you snapped. Inspired by their love and courage, you became a nurse and took up a post at the front. You became a guardian angel yourself. *** Tommy was looking for a war. After France, they’d taken over the Shelby enterprise again and he had ambitions of expansion. Still, there were those in Small Heath who’d forgotten about the Shelby’s and he had to re-establish their reputation. “It’s happened again, Tommy,” John said sombrely, during a family meeting. Tommy sighed and dipped his head forwards, “Will he live?” “Yeah,” his brother replied, “but what are we going to do about this?” Polly, the voice of reason, said, “You need to make an example of him, Thomas. Show him who’s in charge. We can’t have a few Irish rebels killing and beating up our runner-boys. It’s bad for business.” Tommy nodded slowly and was formulating a plan as they spoke, “He drinks at the Horse’s Head. That’s where we’ll get him.” “Are you mad?” Arthur questioned, “On any given night there’s at least fifty Irish in there. It’s like a bloody army!” “We’re not scared of some fucking Irish,” John spat. “We’re not,” Tommy looked at his aunt with whom he shared his strategic skills, “but we need to be smart about this.” “Smoke him out,” Polly added, knowing her nephew’s mind so well. “We need an incentive.” Everything was all planned out. Tommy had an explosion, a staged fight and the rum in place. The men would scatter, the police would be elsewhere and their target would run. As the pub would be set on fire, he would literally be smoked out. That’s where they would be. The plan was good, well thought out and each eventually had been dealt with.

When the night came, the first part worked like a well-oiled machine. A small explosion in the shipyards, John’s, had drawn the police away. It would take them a while too, seeing as the Communists held their meetings there. Danny Whizz-bang would be inside the pub, looking both menacingly and vulnerable enough to not attract attention among the rebels. He was doing good tonight; he’d be able to light the fire. Tommy, Arthur and a few other blinders were waiting in the alleyways. Smoke started emerging from the pub and Tommy’s head shot up at the shouts of men. As he was getting ready mentally, he thought: some day, I won’t be the one doing this work. As men started fighting and chaos ensued, he followed one insignificant figure with his eyes. This man ran, frantically, into the protection of one of the dark alleys. Tommy followed and shouted his name. The man turned and his face fell as he recognised the Shelby. He in turn grabbed his gun and pointed it at him, saying, “Don’t fuck with the Peaky Blinders.” But as Tommy was about to pull the trigger, the man fell forwards. The irritation of an eventuality not anticipated shot through Tommy and as he walked forwards, he saw a small knife sticking out of the Irish’ neck. He died on the spot. His first thought was if he could still pass this off as a killing by the Peaky Blinders, because Polly had been right: they needed to make a statement. Of course he could. His second thought lasted a lot longer and actually drove him to action: who’d done this? The angle of the knife made him look up, towards the roofs. No one was there, but Tommy still ran. As a kid, he used to climb roofs. As an adult, he dug tunnels. It’s funny how both came back to him now. Fearing whomever it was he couldn’t see, he chased the murderer. Once up, he could easily recognise the signs: someone had been on the roofs. There were bits of dust where bricks had been falling, flecks of ash where someone had been smoking and the smell of soap where someone had been waiting. Still, the killer was long gone. *** You weren’t sleeping, but sort of dreaming with one eye open. You did that a lot. Nightmares kept you vigilant, even at night. The boarding house you were living at was positively Dickensian, but you didn’t mind. You came from nothing and had little trouble going back to it. Besides, there was no money coming in at the moment, so you didn’t have the funds for any proper room.

In the dark, you thought of the men on your list. One of the best things about the boarding house was its anonymity. People who lived here were the poorest of the poorest, only surpassed by those on the streets and the working houses. No one asked any questions, no one looked at each other and shame drove people into hiding. The large room was separated into small spaces by a few curtains only, but still, there was some sense of privacy. In the darkness, you could think. The worst thing about the boarding house was the sound. It wasn’t the crying babies, children whining for food or people fighting each other, but the sound of pain. Some women wailed in their sleep and it shook you to your core every time. Your mother had sounded like that. You had too, you knew it. Early in the morning, you left. “Where are you off to, eh?” the old lady who slept next to you asked. In some ways, she was the pauper’s queen and she got away with prying. “Work,” you replied shortly. The old woman laughed a hoarse laugh, “You’re not fooling no one, dearie…” As soon as you walked onto the streets, a calmness came over you. Poverty was familiar, but it frightened you too. It was like a hand around your throat, always squeezing just a little but more. Inside, especially, it was like drowning. In Small Heath, some women had started their first shifts at the factories already and men were shovelling coal into the big machines. Sparks flew and fizzled out in your hair. Soot clung to your already filthy clothing. In other words, nothing about you looked out of the ordinary. The rest of the day was filled with you practising two skills: observing and vanishing. You listened in on conversations everywhere, while timidly looking away when anyone did notice you. Men boasted of their achievements and women complained everywhere. But you listened for any signs of cruelty and found it easily. See, in a city forgotten by civilisation, no one notices cruelty anymore. It’s part of everyday life. You, however, had decided to change that. This was your revenge, or atonement, whichever way you looked at it. One man in particular stood out to you. His eyes were cold and his shoulders broad, and when his wife came to him during his break, he slapped her without warning. Sometimes menace leaves a certain aura and you could sense it in him. When a filthy child came from the factory as well, also on a short break, you motioned the child to come over. “Hey, love,” you said softly. The child didn’t trust you, but his sunken eyes still pleaded, “What?” “Here,” you offered him a bun you’d just stolen, “I need your help.” He hadn’t eaten in days, that much was clear, and with his mouth full of crumbs, he said, “Wiff whaff?” “I’m new here in Birmingham. Where can I get a job?” He pointed, “Ask the foreman.” You smiled gently, “Thanks, love.” “Where’d you get the bun?” he inquired, less shy with each bite. “My husband bought it for me.” “You not hungry?” This child was sweet, so he’d know, “No, you have it. We got more at home.” “Okay,” and he continued absolutely devouring the pastry.   Just before he walked off again, you asked him, off-handedly, “That man, over there?” you pointed at the man with stony eyes, “You know him?” The boy fell still, “Yeah. He works here.” “What’s his name?” “Don’t know,” he whispered, “But mum told us to stay away.” “Why?” The kid shrugged, “He’s a bad man I suppose.” “Like those Shelby’s,” you tried, knowing the kid would know them like everyone around here did. It worked. “Nah,” he laughed, “the Shelby’s would never touch a woman!” “Does he?” you asked, eyes narrowing. “Mum says so. Mum says women are scared of him, because he hurts them. All of them.” You nodded slowly, “Why don’t the Peaky Blinders take care of him?” He shrugged again, “Miss? Thanks for the bun, but I really need to get back. I need my job.” “I know,” you urged him, “Go.” In France, you helped the sick and dying. This is what you had come for and you’d given up everything to do it. With the telegram of each brother found dead, you became more focussed on the work. It was like you turned into a machine, running only on adrenaline. Sometimes you would work shifts of 48 hours, simply because the other nurse had collapsed, or because the bodies wouldn’t stop coming in. Fear became second nature and fatigue had to be ignored. But being tired also made vulnerable: you learned this when one of the superior officers followed you into the halls of the makeshift hospital. Remaining on your feet after working for so long was easy, as long as you kept on moving. But when he grabbed you and you paused, your knees started buckling. Maybe it’d been the fear, maybe it was his rank and maybe it was purely that fucking bloody war, but there was no fight left in you in that moment. He had his way with you and you just… froze. Shame and guilt drove you back to England and back into the shadows you retreated. And then, shame and guilt turned into anger and the guardian angel became an avenging angel. You didn’t have to wait long. After his work was done, you followed the man with the cold eyes, watching his every move. All your fears and the kid’s warnings were confirmed in a dark corner of a filthy street. The woman never stood a chance. And so you vowed: you would end him. *** “What’s up with you?” Ada asked pointedly. Tommy’s head shot up and he stared at his sister with vacant eyes. “Thomas Shelby, the man who never eats. A rare biological mystery, he is,” Ada commented sarcastically. He grabbed a fork and picked up a potato, “I eat.” “Hardly,” Polly commented. “I have work to do, so if you ladies don’t mind…” But Ada wasn’t finished, “You’ve been lost in thought all day. Mind sharing it with us?” “No really.”

“Because we’re just women or…”

“Ada!” Tommy sighed, “Something… happened. Something unexpected and I can’t figure out how.”

“And this bothers you.”

There was something deeply infuriating about having a sister who was reading the newspaper, right next to you, but never made eye contact, and still she was absolutely right about everything. So Tommy threw his head back and admitted defeat, “Someone killed a man.”

“It’s Small Heath.”

“Someone I wanted dead, but he got there before me.”

Polly sat back down and leaned forwards, “The Irish? I though we did that.”

“Yes, that is what I had people believe.”

Ada suddenly looked up, “How?”

“I failed to take it into my calculations…”

“No. How was the Irish killed?”

Tommy blinked a few times, “A knife. Thrown from the roof.”

His sister smiled faintly, didn’t say a word and then went back to her newspaper.

“Ada…” Tommy growled, “If you know something, tell me.”

“Why? I thought you boys were taking care of business now.”

He looked at his aunt for support, almost desperate, but saw from her face that he could hope for little sympathy there.

“Fine, what do you want,” he demanded.

“Respect,” Ada said coldly.

“You have my respect.”

“Good,” she slowly flipped the page, “Now tell me you need me.”

Polly’s smirk grew into a grin and Tommy cursed all women, right there and then.

So he cleared his throat, “Ada, please, tell me.”

“It’s almost like it’s physically painful for him, isn’t it?” Polly said conversationally to Ada.

“Fucking hell…” Tommy groaned, “Ada, I fucking need your help. Please just tell me what you know!”

“Fine,” she abruptly closed the newspaper, “You need to go to that pub in Digbeth.”

“The one by the water?” Tommy frowned.

“That’s the one. Next to that boarding house that should’ve been closed years ago. That’s where you’ll find your killer.”

Immediately, he stood up. Because even though he thought he’d been subtle about it, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the incident for days now. The killer, whoever he was, had taken over his thoughts entirely. It was dark outside already, but still early enough for the pubs to be open. He’d go there at once.

“Tell her I said ‘hi’,” Ada called after him as he left.

And Tommy retraced his steps slowly, “‘Her’?”

“Her.”

He paused for a second, but when nothing else came, “You know they don’t allow women in pubs.”

“They do her,” Ada chuckled.

“Ada, stop playing these fucking games!” he shouted, as he threw down his cap in anger.

She, however, didn’t even blink and repeated, “Her. It’s a woman who killed your Irishman. All the women here know her; she takes care of a certain kind of man for us. She doesn’t want it known and she rids the world of bastards, so we leave her be. It all works out.”

Tommy turned to Polly, “Did you know of this?”

“I’ve heard of her, yes.”

“Then why the fuck has no one told me before?”

Polly sent a stern gaze at her nephew from over her teacup, “I thought you weren’t interested in women’s business.”

***

When you walked into the pub, a small nod to the man behind the bar was all that was needed. Dressing like a man had many advantages and this was definitely one of them. Still, he knew you were a woman, but after helping him out one night, you were allowed in. So you sat in the corner and became one with the furniture, drinking your whiskey in silence.

And then it happened. One man, who had no business being here, walked in. Thomas Shelby of the Peaky Blinders was considered royalty in Small Heath, so why would he be here, in this grimy little cellar pub?

The thought that he came looking for you never even crossed you mind at first. He leaned over the bar and ordered whiskey, asking a few more questions you couldn’t hear. You tried to listen more closely, but the more you did so, the more inaudible his words seemed to become.

Suddenly, he turned and looked you right in the eyes. Without a second thought, you jumped up, kicked the table towards him and made your way to the door.

“Fuck,” you heard him ground out, but still he was quick. In a flash, he had the door barricaded and a gun pointed at your head.

“Out!” he commanded everyone but you.

You felt for the reassuring blades under your clothes and relaxed a little.

“Now, Miss…” he started after everyone had left.

But you didn’t plan on being interrogated, so the first knife whooshed passed his head: a warning.

Thomas Shelby froze. Then it was like an animal awoke in him and he lunged forwards, tackling you down with him. While you were struggling, you tried to plant a second knife into his leg, but he rolled away just in time. With big eyes he stared at the weapon now stuck in the floor.

And so you were standing opposite each other, weapons of choice pointed at each other’s heads.

“Alright,” he said after a while, holding up his hands in a pacifying manner, “There’s no need to fight.”

“Spoken by a man who knows he will lose,” you replied, without missing a beat.

“You want a fight?” Tommy said quickly, “Then fight me like a man. No gun, no fucking knives. If my sister is right about you, you’ll fight me like a man.”

With that you scoffed and threw away the knives, right next to his head, into the door. It gave you such pleasure to see him shudder with each one, but your face betrayed nothing.

“Now what?” you asked.

“You tell me.”

“Fine,” you sighed and punched him in the face, hard.

As his head shot back, you noticed a flicker of surprise in his features, but he quickly recovered and his face turned emotionless yet again.

Your triumph didn’t last long. If anything, you arrogance had distracted you, so the three blows that followed from his fists came out of nowhere. One to the nose, one to the chin and the last one square in the jaw. Thank God you weren’t vain.

You took a breath in, made yourself focus and quickly jabbed him two times, before hitting him right in the eye with a mean left hook.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, “Who the fuck taught you how to fight like that?”

“My brothers,” you replied, before you could stop yourself.

Tommy held up his hands and his two punches to your gut literally took your breath away. Meanwhile, he said, “Why aren’t they here to defend you now, eh?”

“Do I look like I need to be fucking defended?” With a sudden kick you were certain you cracked at least on of his ribs.

Wheezing, he leaned over, but managed to grab your leg in the process and flipped you over onto the ground, “Brothers still do.”

“They’re dead,” you said from the floor, “the Somme,” and with one quick motion, you’d tackled him with your legs, “What about you?”

“The Somme too. Verdun…”

Before he could recover, you climbed on top of him and started pounding his pretty face with your fists. Unfortunately, he quickly bucked you off and hit you with a nasty uppercut, which made you wonder about your teeth.

You crawled back a little and felt with a hand at your mouth: blood. Tommy leaned against the wall and was still panting, lightly tracing a hand over his ribs. The chaos subdued and you both rested.

“Are we done?” he growled.

You stared at him with a look that told him you could go on for hours like this, “What is it that you want?”

“I just want to talk.”

Quickly, you started thinking out your options. Clearly, he knew who you were and evidently, you’d killed the wrong person this time. Really, it was bound to happen at some point.

“Who was it?” you asked, “the one you didn’t want dead.”

“I did want him dead,” he said as he slowly lifted his cigarette case from his pocket.

“Then what’s the problem?”

He smiled a little and the gesture was so unexpected that the feeling it gave you caught you completely off-guard, “I wanted to be the one to kill him.”

You furrowed your brows, thought back and suddenly nodded slowly, “The Irishman.”

He pointed at you with his cigarette in hand, “That’s the one.”

In the silence that followed, you watched this man, this broken boy. His eyes started glazing over and you knew he drifted off to placed in the distant past. As he smoked slowly, you recognised the signs of a flashback so well and you suddenly became more curious than ever about this man.

He saw the same thing in you evidently, because out of the blue he said, “You and me. I think we understand each other.”

“Do we?” you said in a voice that demanded distance.

He nodded a little, “We kill.”

You laughed a cold laugh, “Are you insane like me?”

“Maybe I am…”

“Or just in pain like me?” you added.

He didn’t speak for a long time, like he was thinking what to say next, but then, suddenly, he broke the pregnant silence. “Who hurt you?” he asked, in a voice so low it was almost inaudible.

You leaned forwards and locked eyes with him, fire burning inside them, “Everyone.”

Tommy sat back and offered you a cigarette, but soon realised you wouldn’t take it from his hands without expecting abuse from them. So he threw it your way and you grabbed it gratefully. When you lit it, the two of you leaned against the wall in the same manner, postures similar.

“It’s time,” he announced, looking up at the ceiling.

You cocked one eyebrow, “Is it?”

“The minute is almost up.”

“And how does it end?”

He sighed, “With names. You’ve beaten me. I’m no longer Mr. Thomas Shelby. It’s Tommy now.”

And you smiled at him softly and replied with your own vulnerability, “Y/N.”

***

Masterlist

[artemis-pendragon]

wait if you have the time would you mind expanding on the parallels between achilles and patroclus and the ships you mentioned?

OH GOD YES I WOULD LOVE TO THANKS FOR ASKING!! The English Major in me jumped out so here's an absolute novel lmao:

Hannibal/Will:

Hannibal and Will are the easiest to draw direct parallels to because they are textually compared to Achilles and Patroclus in canon. Hannibal draws himself as Achilles and Will as Patroclus, then (because apparently he’s never heard of subtlety) shows it to Will.

Hannibal says that hiding and revealing identities is a major theme in the Iliad. Will asks Hannibal to reveal himself to Jack Crawford; in the same episode, Hannibal begins to suspect that Will has betrayed him, hiding his true intentions behind a façade to bait Hannibal into being captured by the FBI. However, Will isn’t even sure himself what his real intentions and identity is, and eventually betrays the FBI and runs away with Hannibal.

After Hannibal realizes that Will betrayed him (which is also the episode after he talks about how they’re like Achilles and Patroclus), he stabs Will in the stomach. Patroclus was killed after being stabbed in the stomach.

Hannibal and Will’s blurring identities is a major theme throughout the show. Just as Patroclus takes on Achilles’s identity on the field of war, Will takes on Hannibal’s identity in many ways—both intentionally, and unintentionally.

Patroclus dies wearing Achilles’s armor. Will is accused of being the Chesapeake Ripper, imprisoned, and could have been executed for Hannibal’s crimes if Hannibal hadn’t interfered.

Hannibal is a god-adjacent character, while Will is his more human counterpart. Will is Hannibal’s tether to his humanity, just as Patroclus is Achilles’s.

Just like Achilles couldn’t stand to be parted from Patroclus, Hannibal chose to let Will pull him off a cliff to their (probable) deaths. Hannibal would rather die with Will than live without him.

There is a significant amount of water imagery in this show. Will especially has a lot of ties to water: he likes to fish (his mind palace is initially shown to be a stream); he’s knowledgeable about boats and sailing (he sails across the Atlantic to find Hannibal); his dreams and hallucinations often include water and/or blood; he pulled Hannibal off a cliff into the ocean in a last ditch attempt to kill them both; etc. The story of Achilles also has lots of water-related motifs since Achilles’s mother, Thetis, is a sea nymph/goddess of water.

Hannibal didn’t become overtly vicious and violent toward the Great Red Dragon until he threatened to kill (and then actually stabbed) Will. Then he went totally feral and (literally) ripped Dolarhyde’s throat out. This reminds me of Achilles losing his mind and killing then mutilating Hector after Hector killed Patroclus.

Steve/Bucky:

Steve and Bucky have the “legendary beloved heroic superhuman soldier” and “childhood friend turned war companion” parallel down to a T. Steve is like Achilles: he is a born soldier who wants to fight for his country, starting out idealistic and becoming worn down and jaded by war over time. Bucky is far more reluctant to go to war but follows Steve back onto the battlefield because he believes in Steve and wants to keep him safe—especially from his own reckless righteousness. This is very similar to Patroclus’s desire to follow Achilles to war mostly out of a desire to protect and guide him away from his self-destructive, hot-headed tendencies.

Just as Patroclus put on Achilles’s armor to fight (and die) in his place on the battlefield, Bucky picks up and wields Steve’s shield just before he falls off the train to his apparent death.

Steve starts out saying that he doesn’t want to kill anybody, but after Bucky “dies”, he vows not to stop until every member of Hydra is either killed or captured. This is similar to Achilles’s reaction to Patroclus’s death, where he goes mad with grief and kills everyone in his path to get to Hector, who he then violently kills.

Additionally, after killing Hector, Achilles continues to fight recklessly until someone kills him. Similarly, Steve keeps fighting to stop Hydra but ultimately goes down with the aircraft carrying the bombs, allowing himself to drown/freeze. There’s probably ways he could have gotten out of that situation, but instead he kind of just gives in and lets himself “die” (at least that’s my interpretation).

The Captain America movies also have some interesting water imagery. Bucky falls to his “death��� in a ravine, most likely falling into the frozen stream. Steve “drowns” after he crashes the plane into the ocean; in The Winter Soldier, Steve falls from the helicarrier into the Potomac, and Bucky jumps in after him. Again, the story of Achilles also contains water-related motifs due to Achilles’s mother being a sea nymph; I’m sure I could write an entire essay about these parallels before I figure out how to verbalize why this is interesting, but I’m too lazy to right now lol.

Arthur/Merlin:

Again, just like with Steve and Bucky, this is an obvious case of “famous royal golden hero of legends” and “less well-known but ultimately extremely important companion who follows him to war”. Like Achilles and Patroclus, Arthur and Merlin meet before Arthur is a famous warrior and become friends long before the “big war” that ultimately tears them apart.

Arthur and Achilles might be the famous warriors, but Merlin and Patroclus are the kind-hearted, brave, fiercely loyal companions who serve both as a fellow warrior on the battlefield, and as a moral compass. Just as Achilles looks to Patroclus for advice and as a tether to the humility and importance of humanity in the face of a great destiny, Arthur looks to Merlin.

Both Patroclus and Merlin seem at first to be ordinary men who (in the eyes of most casual observers) aren’t worthy of Achilles/Arthur’s friendship. However, they both become legendary figures of their own, without whom their legendary heroic counterparts would never have survived.

As I mentioned in the section about Hannibal and Will, the theme of hiding and revealing identities is very important in the story of Achilles and Patroclus. One of the biggest plot points in Merlin is that Merlin can’t reveal that he has magic; he doesn’t do so until the last episode, once Arthur has been mortally wounded.

Just as Patroclus always believed that Achilles would live up to his great destiny, Merlin always believed in Arthur. And even though Arthur didn’t know about Merlin’s true potential and role in his rise to the throne, Arthur believed that Merlin was one of the best, most courageous men he’d ever met. This reminds me o Achilles referring to Patroclus as Philtatos (in The Song of Achilles), meaning “best of men”.

In an inverted parallel, Arthur is the one who is stabbed and ultimately dies. Although Achilles does eventually die in war, it isn’t until after Patroclus dies. It is then implied that they will eventually meet again someday, just as Achilles and Patroclus would meet again in the afterlife after their ashes were mingled together.  

Dean/Cas:

In this relationship, Dean is very much the “reckless hero with a pre-ordained-by-the-gods destiny who is actually very flawed and carries a lot of self-doubt” and Cas is the “companion with a heart of gold who is almost embarrassingly devoted to the hero and will do anything for him”.

For Dean/Cas, there is also the parallel of struggling with a toxic parental figure who demands too much while also being emotionally absent and manipulative. For Dean, this is John Winchester, and for Achilles, this is Thetis. Cas also struggles with his relationship with his father (who is literally God lmao) and his desire to be a good soldier vs. his desire to do what’s right and to protect the man he loves.

Patroclus strives to help Achilles see that he’s more than just a weapon, and Cas and Dean both do this for each other: Dean helps Cas realize that he’s more than just another emotionless soldier of heaven, and Cas helps Dean realize he’s more than “daddy’s blunt instrument” (the phrasing of which I will still be laughing at in my grave. Thanks, CW.)

Dean’s godly destiny as Michael’s vessel is determined before he’s even born. Achilles’s godly destiny is also determined before he’s born, and neither one really has any say in it.

Patroclus ultimately dies in Achilles’s place, and Cas does the same for Dean many times. When Cas decides to help Dean escape heaven and try to save Sam and stop the apocalypse, he sacrifices himself to help Dean get away. Of the many times Cas puts his life on the line, it’s usually either to help Dean, or to save him. This is reminiscent of how Patroclus did almost everything not in the name of winning the war, or even the greater good (although he was obviously a good person), but to protect Achilles and keep him from getting himself killed.

Whenever Cas is dead, Dean’s mental health visibly deteriorates. He becomes more violent and unpredictable—a worse version of himself—just as Achilles did after Patroclus died.

Just as Patroclus acts as a tether to humanity for Achilles, Cas and Dean both act as tethers to humanity for each other. Cas pulls Dean out of Hell, restoring his humanity, and Dean helps Cas shrug off his emotionless angel identity and find some humanity of his own.

TLDR: Reckless blonde hero (or villain) with a legendary destiny/reputation and badass fighting skills + their viciously loyal brunette companion-slash-lover who's willing to die for them at a moment's notice = good shipping material

[vashak]

Eiji’s war

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Originally posted on 22 December 2019 in Turkish here.

No, I’m not done yet.

I previously wrote about how Eiji found a new purpose in life after meeting Ash and getting to know his world, which helped him come out of the depression he suffered back in Japan. But what exactly is Eiji’s new purpose in life? It’s saving Ash from his very “different” world.

In the beginning of the story, we saw how devastated Eiji was when he found out that Ash was ready to use his one and only trump card (the capsule containing the Banana Fish drug) against Golzine, knowing full well that he wouldn’t win.

Ash had risked his own life to save Eiji’s when he didn’t know him at all and now Eiji doesn’t have the heart to let him walk to his death. It’s like he’s thinking to himself, “How can a boy my age find himself in such an impasse?” This is the first time we see Eiji rebel against the world Ash’s living in.

But Eiji does more than silently shed tears, especially once things get more complicated. For example, here he’s basically telling Ash to quit doing things that would put him in harm’s way.

Later, when it becomes clear that there’s no “quitting” in this world (because they simply won’t let you), Eiji comes up with a different suggestion.

And this offer is so unexpected that Ash doesn’t understand at first. Eiji simply asks him again if he would like to come to Japan with him. He is presumably surprised that Ash was so taken aback by such a straightforward question. Ash’s surprise is telling me that he never even thought it would be possible to leave this life behind.

Eiji’s offer also means this: I forgive you. Going to Japan to start a new life means that Ash won’t have to account for all the bad things he did in the past. Ash doesn’t believe there’s such a possibility or that he deserves such a chance. So he averts his gaze and comes up with an excuse. I just realized that there’s a pattern here. When Ash makes such excuses, he always puts himself down as if to say he’s not worthy of Eiji’s offer.  But then, as you’ll see in the scene below, he realizes that this attitude only serves to embarrass Eiji, so he stops and apologizes.

What this scene inherently tells us is just how ashamed Ash feels about the things he was forced to do all his life. It is also a good example of the difference in opinion between Ash and Eiji—while Ash thinks so little of himself, Eiji thinks the world of him.

When Eiji repeats his offer to go to Japan together a second time, he can’t stay so calm.

Because by then, Ash gave himself up to Golzine as hostage in exchange for Eiji’s life, underwent an eating disorder, started a guerilla war, got raped and is still fighting against commandos as they’re having this conversation.

This time, Ash tells him what he really thinks instead of coming up with excuses. He says “My hands are dirty with other people’s blood,” implying that he doesn’t deserve a fresh start. “But you had to. Or you would be killed yourself,” replies Eiji, whereas previously, when they were quarreling before Ash’s one-to-one fight with Arthur, Eiji had yelled “You are not the kind of man who shoots defenseless people!” to his face. It seems that Eiji has learned the cruel ways of Ash’s world since then.

There is another reason why Ash is not taking Eiji up on his offer besides thinking that he doesn’t deserve a fresh start. Ash thinks he’s a troublemaker and will put those around him in danger no matter where he is (I talked more about this here). And as expected, he tells Eiji exactly that: “I’m bad news, Eiji. Doesn’t matter where I go… And you’ll get caught up in it. Like you are now.”

We know by now that Eiji never even once stayed silent when Ash said something to stigmatize himself. He always told Ash otherwise and explained why in a perfectly logical way. All this time, he calmly and patiently fought against Ash’s toxic mindset. But this time, he’s had enough.

This is the first time Eiji puts his emotions into words in such a raw way. He literally screams how much he cares about Ash. And a minute later, he indisputably proves just how much by pushing Ash away and taking bullet for him.

This incident resets all the progress Eiji’s so far made to change Ash’s self-loathing mindset. The fact that Eiji almost died because of him and later Lao’s tirade against Ash in front of all the gang members (“He ain’t human! He’s a goddamn monster!”) make Ash feel ashamed and disgusted at himself.

Then comes the wretched hospital scene… This scene is drenched in symbolism, but it actually serves to make us understand one simple fact: Similar to how Eiji can’t survive in Ash’s world, Ash will never be accepted in Eiji’s world. Eiji’s not capable of protecting himself in Ash’s world. He’ll always be vulnerable as long as he stays there. And in Eiji’s world, Ash will never be accepted by others in the way Eiji accepts Ash. He’ll ultimately be seen as a criminal rather than a victim and will have to answer to the law for what he did.

So Ash enters the hospital. He’s been reminded in the most painful way that he can never be part of Eiji’s world and has come to say goodbye to his friend one last time. Eiji vaguely hears Ash’s accented “sayounara” and crawls out of bed with great difficulty to stop him from leaving (Ash can’t pronounce the second syllable long, but instead says “sa-yo-na-ra”). But just then, Charlie and Ibe-san notice Ash and come after him. Eiji knows that even if they have good intentions now, eventually Ash will be found guilty. And, for the first time in his life, Eiji tells Ash to leave him. He screams “Go!” with all his might. The anime adaptation did a wonderful job showing us how difficult this must have been for Eiji to do.

I think Eiji inherently knew that this was the last time he would see Ash. But he refused to believe it, because that would mean that he himself had surrendered to the fatalistic mindset that he was trying to liberate Ash from. So what does Eiji do next? What he does best, of course.

Remember when Eiji wanted to pass a message to Ash through his gang members when Ash tried to send him back to Japan without telling him? He asked Bones and Kong to tell Ash to “take care of his life” and that he would “always wish him luck” even from far away.

So this time, Eiji writes a letter to Ash in case he can’t see him before going to Japan. He pours in all that he feels. The letter ends up being the most earnest summary of everything Eiji has been trying to make Ash understand.

… You said to me before, “We live in different worlds” … We are friends. Isn’t that enough? … But I never felt scared of you, not even once … Actually, I always felt that you are hurt, much more than me—that your spirit is wounded … I always wanted to protect you … I think I wanted to protect you from your future … You can change your fate …

Eiji wants these words to accompany Ash while he’s away: “You are not alone, Ash. I am with you. My soul is always with you.” The one-way ticket to Japan he encloses with the letter serves as a reminder of his invitation. We know that Eiji had every intention of seeing Ash again from his thoughts on the plane. What didn’t cross his mind at all was without a doubt that Ash would draw his last breath as he read Eiji��s heartfelt words.

When it comes to Ash’s death, I feel overwhelmed with a series of unanswered questions as I previously indicated here and here. For example…

When Sing can’t get Ash to say anything to Eiji, he can’t bear to face Eiji empty-handed so he sees him off with a few made-up parting words in Ash’s stead (Aww, isn’t he precious?). Does Eiji ever realize this? Can he tell that Sing made up Ash’s parting words? I think he can. So does he ever confront Sing about this before or after Garden of Light? Who knows.

And just how much does Eiji know about Ash’s death? He knows that his letter distracted Ash, so he didn’t see Lao coming. But does he know that Ash had read part of his letter by then and started running to the airport? Does he know that Ash went back to the library after getting wounded to read the rest of his letter? Does he know that Ash laid his head on his letter and died with a smile on his face?

I really wish for a “yes” to these questions.

To me, the story of Banana Fish is more antagonistic towards Eiji than Ash. Yes, all the bad stuff happen to Ash but he’s never shocked that they do. The leopard has learned how harsh the ascent can be. Eiji, on the other hand, believes he can save Ash from this shitty world. He is proven wrong a number of times but he never stops believing that. As I mentioned in the answer to this ask, if you think about it, in the end Ash dies just like he knew he would.

He is stabbed by a street thug who held a grudge against him and dies just like that. In the end, he couldn’t change his fate like Eiji tried to make him believe. In the end, the leopard couldn’t climb down the mountain. But what’s remarkable is that Eiji never surrenders to Ash’s fatalistic mindset even after his death. Not even once. He never says things like “He was right after all and I was wrong. He couldn’t change his fate and trouble never ever left him alone.” Instead he says this:

The End

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Sixteen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: A very special shoutout to @anonymouscosmos for all of their encouragement and support! You are a god among insects. I’d also like to thank the discord chat for enduring my nonsense, as ever. Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

Part Fourteen: Dichotomy

Part Fifteen: The Litany Trial

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains graphic depictions of gore and detailed descriptions of previous abuse. Stay safe!]

Her head had been blown open, or at least it felt that way. The explosion was so close to her face that her helmet had just peeled off like it was made out of shrapnel-laden papier-mâché.

  Sergeant Shaun 'Lucky' Cathan was flat on his back hardly a foot away from her, pinned under the weight of the debris that was slowly crushing his armor. 

  She couldn't move. Her arms and legs wouldn't respond. That blow to the head had been nearly fatal. She was trapped on her stomach, inches from him.

  "Backhand-" Cathan choked, his voice wet. His gauntlet fumbled for her own, large metal fingers gripping her hand. "End of the line for me, eh Handy?"

  She gurgled something, trying to talk. One eye still worked. Barely. It felt like it was full of glass every time she forced herself to blink. It was too dark to see much anyway, even if she squinted. Her head throbbed with the beat of her heart. 

  "Save--your strength, Vega." Cathan instructed. 

  She wasn't sure what strength he was even talking about. Her armor felt like it had collapsed down on her spine. "Sir-" Vega managed to say. "S'been an honor-"

  "Don't give me that-- shit , Vega." Cathan chuckled. "I was just another dog of war. You'll get out of this. Go back to that man of yours, have a few kids, live your life." He coughed, wheezing, "my time is up, Handy."

  "No, no I'm-" Backhand tried to pull him closer, tried to get upright. Pain jolted down her back and legs and she halted, trembling. "I c-can't leave you here, Sarge." She groaned, knowing deep down that it was futile but refusing to give up .

  Cathan's grip tightened briefly. "It's alright, Handy." Her CO murmured. "It's alright. Make sure Tabitha has me buried on American soil. Or chuck my ashes in the harbor, yeah? Piss off all those Cambridge fucks." He chuckled.

  Backhand nodded as best as she could, the tears stinging painfully against the flayed skin of her face. "I will. Promise."

  The rubble overhead creaked and groaned, dust falling down on top of them. "Won't be long now." Cathan mused faintly, "Not long at all…"

  …

  Danse struggled to sit up and roll Vega onto her back. His own injuries faded to the background of his mind as she laid unresponsive, blood slowly pooling in the dirt beneath her left side. Her mouth opened and closed in a spasm; her eyes had rolled back in her skull and her fingers twitched erratically. 

  Have to hold pressure. Stop the bleeding. Danse numbly pressed his shaking hands down on her side just below her ribs, his body suddenly awash in a cold sweat as he realized just how much blood she was losing. He could almost hear Haylen rambling about the arteries, internal bleeding, penetrating damage, Worwick and Brach and Dawes and Keane and Danse felt like he was going to be sick. 

  "H... Haylen! " He yelled desperately. It was the only thing he could think to do.

  Then, against all odds, startling the everliving daylights out of him, Vega sat up . " Oh , you fuckin' asshole! " She hollered at Maxson around Danse's body while the paladin scrambled to attempt to stem the flow of fresh blood that her motion sent spurting out. "You really fuckin' shot me?! You're the worst kind of dick! " 

  Danse was flabbergasted. Her state was clearly compromised, how was she even conscious-

  "Fuck!" Vega growled in pain, dropping her forehead to rest on Danse's chest. "Oh fuck, fuck fuck you, you told me Danse was fuckin' dead, you liar! You expect me to just stand by and let you kill him in front of me?!" She continued to rant at Maxson, her voice muffled somewhat by Danse's shirt. "You dumb fuckin' prick, you stupid fuckin' dipshit motherfuck son of a cockass! This ain't exactly my first time gettin' fuckin' shot, you fuckin' fuck!"

  Danse realized that Arthur hadn't said a damn thing, possibly just as bewildered and awestruck by Elizabeth's impressive grasp of blue-streaked vernacular as he himself was.

  "Paladin Brandis, if I may…?" Haylen's voice was almost inaudible over Backhand's continued snarling. Danse jerked his attention away from Elizabeth, trying to blink the sweat out of his eyes in order to determine the field scribe's location.

  "Scribe, get the hell back behind the line!" Maxson barked. 

  Heavy footfalls heralded the arrival of Rhys and Haylen, the knight using his power armor like a shield to protect the scribe as if they were out in the field. Haylen was suddenly there , on her knees in the gravel next to Danse and Elizabeth. The paladin's eyes were now blinded with tears of gratitude and he huffed out a breath. "Danse, I'll get to you in a second." Haylen said softly, patting his hand. "Let me have her, okay?"

  "Haylen, I…" the large man didn't know what to say, his words failing him. He clutched pitifully at the scribe's hands, sure that he was gripping too tight.

  "I've got her, Danse. It's okay." Scribe Haylen soothed.

  "Yeah Danse, s'okay." Backhand said blearily, "s'Haylen, she's great. We love Haylen." Her head lolled back like it was too heavy for her to hold up. "Haylen made sure I got to eat and stuff."

  " What? " Danse rasped. 

  "The tactics Elder Maxson used during her incarceration…" Haylen trailed off, grimacing and then continuing in an undertone, "I made sure Rhys smuggled in something for her when he brought Brandis' meals."

  "Vega, Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry." Danse apologized needlessly, resting his forehead against Elizabeth's as he supported her neck. "I didn't think anything would happen to you. I...I didn't think in general, I guess." He admitted.

  Vega smiled . "Hey, I'd say whatever shit I went through was a pretty decent tradeoff for finding out that you didn't bite it after all." She slurred. "Missed you."

  " Christ , Vega." Danse muttered in dismay, fighting to untie her hands. Haylen took over after a moment, the scribe's fingers infinitely more steady than his own.

  "I need a Stim and a bloodpack!" Haylen announced after examining Vega's abdomen, looking up worriedly. 

  Not a soul moved. The only sound was the noise of Maxson wriggling in the grip of the armored knight who finally had him secured. "Listen to the scribe!" Brandis shouted to the mute crowd. "You have a sister bleeding in front of you and you would be still and silent? Where are the brave, compassionate soldiers I once knew? Knights! Scribes! Are you not Brotherhood?"

  Two aspirants finally elbowed their way through the throng, making a wide berth around Maxson. One of them bore a large canvas bag. "Good, good work. Drop it here." Haylen instructed, unrolling her field kit. "Can I get a scribe with steady hands and another knight for the opposite side?" She called. 

  A knight thundered past Maxson, the man throwing Danse of all people a haphazard salute before he took up his post at the other end of the group. Maxson practically seethed with rage. "Knight, how dare you salute that--that thing! "

  "That thing is still Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel, Maxson." Brandis growled. "He won the trial fair and square."

  "I will not allow it to live!" Maxson shrieked hysterically, struggling against the iron hold of the knight bear-hugging him. "I don't care how many of you I have to take down, Danse dies today! "

  "Maxson!" Brandis chided. "Do you even hear yourself? You sound insane! Think about what you're saying before you do something you'll regret!"

  "Not before he dies! "

  "Which would you rather be known as, Maxson? The abuser or the synth fucker?" Maxson froze at the sound of Danse's voice. The burly paladin shot the elder a bloodied sneer, his head tilted to the side at an almost arrogant angle. "After all, you got fucked by a synth." What the hell was he saying? Danse felt unhinged , words flippant, his tired limbs barely cooperating as he forced himself up on his knees and then to his feet. "You let a synth fuck you, Arthur." 

  " Abomination -"

  "You ordered a synth to fuck you." Danse reminded him, voice grating as his words came faster. "Demanded it to fuck you. Abused it. Threatened it with a certain death mission if it didn't. Then gave it that mission anyway." Danse rubbed at some crusted blood beneath his blackened right eye, grimacing. "Does it make it better if you didn't know I was a synth? Because then , you have to justify the reality that you molested a soldier in a compromised emotional state utilizing your privileged position of authority. Can you accept that , Maxson?"

  "You...Maxson, is this true?" Brandis asked incredulously.

  "That thing is clearly lying!" Maxson scoffed, looking around at the spellbound crowd like he expected everyone to agree with him. "Dammit, I am the elder -"

  "Did you hope that I would die out here, Arthur? Or did you assume that I would come crawling back to the Capital Wasteland after my inevitable failure in the Commonwealth?" Danse cut him off bitterly. "Did you think I would be easier to break once I had lost everything , Maxson?"

  "He always fights with Danse!" A tiny squire chimed in. Danse hadn't realised that Maxson had Ingram summon the damn children to watch their trial. "We heard them fight!"

  "Silence, brat! " Maxson screamed, his face purpling with fury. "I am the elder of this chapter, last of the Maxson line, and I will be given the respect I deserve! "

  "Cade's records can verify my story!" Danse shouted hoarsely for everyone to hear, his shoulders heaving with emotion. "Every time we engaged, I did not escape unscathed. Nearly every injury was documented. The dates will align with high-stress situations, and I'll stake my life on there being a long stretch of shit mood during the absence of your preferred punching bag, Elder! "

  " Liar! "

  "Abuser!" Danse yelled in reply, "murderer! You killed Cutler, through your biased orders! You killed Knight Astlin, Scribe Farris, Knight Varham! You killed my brothers and sisters!" Danse's fists clenched tight enough to ache. "And for what, Arthur? For a synth? Or for a man that had no interest in you? Either way, I refuse to accept their blood on my hands, Maxson!"

  " You killed them and you know it!" Maxson shrieked, kicking his legs desperately. "All you had to do was obey me, Danse! Was your pride worth their lives?"

  "There was once a time in my life where I would have done damn near anything you asked of me." His anger petering out, all Danse felt now was weary and bruised. "I loved the Brotherhood, Maxson. I still do. But the path we have taken under your leadership is heinous."

  "Don't you dare to lecture me about devotion, you mechanical mockery! " Maxson retorted.

  "This body may be synthetic, but my heart and mind…" Danse paused, saluting once more. " Those belong to the Brotherhood, Maxson. To my brothers and sisters in arms. Nothing can change that. Not even the knowledge of my true identity."

  "That's what you think!" Arthur flailed in the knight's grip, trying in vain to escape. No doubt so he could pitch himself at the paladin one final time.

  "Elder Maxson, through your words and through your deeds, I deem you unfit to lead our chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel at this point in time." Brandis announced abruptly. "As the senior ranking officer, I, Paladin Brandis, will function as the interim elder until we receive proper instructions from our superiors." He removed his helmet, staring down at Arthur sternly. 

  The young man was quite the pitiful sight, bedraggled from trying to beat Danse within an inch of his life as well as from his struggling afterwards. He still looked mad enough to kill, those blue eyes almost crackling with pent-up fury. "You planned this, didn't you?!" His paranoia on full display, Maxson made no attempt to maintain any sort of composure. "Just how many synths have infiltrated our chapter? Well Brandis?! "

  "Arthur, that's enough ." The senior paladin said in reply, his tone measured. "Don't make an even bigger fool of yourself. Bow out while you still have some dignity." He sighed. "Perhaps the stress of this campaign has been too heavy of a burden to bear for you. I sympathize, but I cannot permit you to carry on in this manner, Maxson." Brandis raised his eyes, scanning the crowd. "Cade! Knight-Captain Cade, please see to Maxson. He is obviously unwell."

  …

  Vega flickered in and out of consciousness. The weeks of abuse culminating in this final (though inadvertent) attempt to end her seemed to have nearly been successful. She only barely remembered Haylen treating her wound, mumbling out an apology to the younger woman for leaning so much weight on her. She caught snippets of Danse and Maxson shouting at each other, bits of the trauma that Danse had endured coming tumbling out and making Vega wish that she wasn't half-dead so she could at least flip Maxson off.

  " Rest , Vega ." Haylen had ordered. " You need rest ."

  And really, who was Backhand to refuse? 

  When next she opened her eyes, she was greeted by a canvas ceiling overhead. Vega squinted a little at the brightness of it. How long have I been out for?

  "Welcome back, General." That familiar voice snapped her out of her staring contest with the tent above her and she rolled her head to the side, unable to help her smile at the sight of Danse. Still a little bruised and banged-up, but alive . 

  Tears streaked down her cheeks and Backhand wished that she could have stopped them, sniffling loudly and covering her face.

  "General Vega, there's no need for that." The paladin chided her softly. Something bumped against her knuckles and she realized after a second that Danse was attempting to give her glasses back. 

  Vega accepted the glasses mutely, grabbed Danse's hand and used his arm as leverage to pull herself up off the cot. 

  "Wait, Elizabeth you-" The paladin began to protest, rising to his feet to stop her. Her legs nearly gave out but Danse managed to steady her, one large hand splayed on the small of her back. "You shouldn't be upright yet, Vega." He scolded.

  I missed you. I thought you were dead. The words tangled up in her mouth and instead Backhand mumbled, "I thought I missed you." Danse's brows furrowed in confusion and she hurried to correct herself, "I mean--I...I thought you were dead!"

  "I needed some time to regroup. Straighten my head out. Heal." The paladin explained quietly. "The O'Brians nursed me back to health."

  "What happened , though?"

  "What happened to you , Vega?" Danse asked instead, gripping her elbows carefully to keep her upright. 

  Backhand shrugged weakly. "Maxson thought I knew you were a synth."

  " I didn't even know I was a synth." Danse huffed, thick eyebrows raising once again. "How on earth would you have known?"

  "Maybe he was going on a witch hunt, trying to get me to confess even though I wasn't guilty of anything." She closed her eyes as she mumbled, "I missed you."

  "I thought of you every day." Danse replied bluntly. Her head shot up and she stared at him, watching as a flush crept up his neck. "I er, I...I am not good at these sorts of things," he admitted. "But it's true. I thought of you and...and of your son. Of the life you should have had. When Preston tracked me down, we realized that something must have gone wrong. So I...came back." 

  Oh . She hated the disappointed pit that yawned open in her stomach. She should have known that he wasn't thinking of her in the same way that she had thought of him. 

  Backhand rested her forehead on his chest, willing her tears to abate. "We need to get them out of the Institute." She said thickly. "All of them. Anyone that will come, Danse."

  "I think you and I should speak to Pal-- Elder Brandis. He has expressed interest in working with the Minutemen." Danse sighed heavily, then continued, "I cannot recommend that we work exclusively with the Brotherhood. There are years of prejudice that have been beaten into these men and women. The allowance of my presence is a show of good faith, but I don't know if I trust the rank and file to storm the Institute without turning it into a massacre." He gave her a wry smile. "I cannot blame them. Even knowing what I am now, it's going to take me some time to remove my knee-jerk reaction."

  "There's always something else to do." She wasn't trying to complain , but God she was tired .

  His facial hair brushed against her forehead, scraping the skin lightly. "I know. What was it you said in the Glowing Sea? 'A run ashore'?" He queried while giving her forearms a gentle squeeze, as if to comfort her.

  "I thought you were dead." She hadn't meant to say it again, watching his eyes go dark and kicking herself for bringing it back up.

  "I suppose I was, for a time." Danse murmured, his expression troubled.

  "I... please don't do that to me again." Vega begged. Her hands fisted in his fatigues, wrinkling the worn fabric. "This is going to sound really dumb and really selfish, but please . Don't."

  "When you thought I was dead, did you..." Danse hesitated. "I mean, did you really miss me? I'm not even...well, I'm not a..." He cast his eyes around, narrowing them like he was physically searching for the word he wanted to use. "Human." He finally managed to say, the admission obviously paining him. "I'm a freak of nature, Vega. A perversion of science and an example of where mankind has gone wrong--"

  "Danse." Backhand cupped his jaw, her palms smoothing over the bristle of his stubble as she coaxed him to look at her. "No offense, but you cannot be this stupid."

  "What do you mean?" The paladin asked, his confusion endearingly evident. "I'm not...how am I being…?"

  Backhand blinked. Maybe he could be that stupid. "You're probably the most human person I've ever met, Danse. The way you care about your squadron, the way you've helped me...look, I wasn't upset about you being a synth, I was upset about you being dead ."

  "Oh." Danse breathed. "Really? You... really? Me being a synth wasn't…?" His words kept faltering, uncertainty shining through with every hitch. 

  " You , Danse. I cried about you being gone ."

  "Elizabeth…" 

  "So don't you dare scare me like that ever again, got it?" Backhand leaned forward, boldly pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

  "I--yes. Understood, Knight. Uh, General." Danse stammered, his fingers absently touching the spot she had kissed. "W-We should...go speak to Elder Brandis. If you believe you can walk a short distance? I know better than to ask you to stay put and be patient."

  "Permit me the usage of your arm to keep me upright and yes, we can absolutely go."

  ...

  Please don't do that to me again .

  She had missed him, she said. She had mourned him, even. Cried over him. Danse's head was spinning.

  How could that even be possible? How could she...he was a machine . 

  No time left to consider such weighty problems, unfortunately, as he found that far too soon the two of them were approaching what had formerly been Maxson's quarters and now served as Brandis' war room.

  "Ad Victoriam, Paladin Danse and General Vega!" Elder Brandis greeted them warmly with a loose salute, gesturing around the war table afterwards. "Kells, Cade, Ingram, Quinlan, Doctor Li, I trust you all need no introductions?"

  The briefing was, as they usually were, tedious. Nothing brief about it, if he was being brutally honest. Vega held her ground though, which was all he really needed.

  "You boys aren't tyrants or fuckin' warlords. Not while I have any sort of say in the matter." She said sharply. "If you want Minutemen support, we are working as a team and the Minutemen have uninhibited access to all information as it is gathered. That means we'll need Quinlan's full cooperation." She held up a hand, staving off Quinlan's outburst. " Only in regards to the Institute. We don't want your super-secret Spec Ops sealed Brotherhood case files, so don't get those boxers in a bunch." Cade snorted and Proctor Quinlan looked absolutely scandalized, even as he grudgingly nodded. 

  "Now, General, this is all well and good but what does the Brotherhood get out of this bargain?" Kells asked pointedly. "As far as I can see, we're the integral piece in this plan."

  "' As far as you can see ' is an apt phrase, Lancer-Captain Kells." Backhand's tone was cool. This was General Vega for certain, the woman who had whipped the Minutemen back into shape. "Because what you can't see are the rest of my operations. The Minutemen aren't the only force I have at my disposal, just the most obvious." She leaned in a little, her eyes cold as ice behind the lenses of her glasses. "Do you really want to test me on my home turf, Kells? After everything that's happened?"

  "Not testing you, General Vega." The lancer-captain clarified, "simply identifying what seems to be an imbalance in the negotiations."

  "I got you Doctor Li." Vega retorted. "Without her, your Liberty Prime would still be a pile of junk. I've gotten your scribes tons of information to sift through, I've done everything the former elder asked of me."

  "Lancer-Captain Kells, if I might also interject?" Danse asked hesitantly, cringing on the inside as everyone turned to look at him like they had forgotten he was even there. Kells inclined his head after a moment. "Sir, we cannot be so quick to discredit our position. Due to our aerial location, we will be within the perfect striking distance to any sort of localized, above-ground assault."

  "I am more than aware of our position, Paladin . But that does not negate the fact that we have a much larger stake in this than anyone else-"

  "Larger than the locals who have been getting body-snatched for years?" Vega cut him off. "Let's not forget that myself and your new elder were starved and tortured for weeks , while the rest of you sat around and twiddled your thumbs out of fear and respect." She spat. "Don't fuckin' come to me with your scale-tipping bullshit . It took a synth to make you all sack up, and I don't intend to let you forget that." The woman straightened up, looking grim. "I'm not giving you anything else. You can either work with us, or you can keep pitching yourself against the Institute until they've all slipped away and you're left with nothing but an empty facility and unanswered questions."

  "She's right." Doctor Li affirmed tersely. "They won't just wait around to be pummeled. This isn't the Enclave. The board of directors will do everything in their power to avoid you and waste your resources at the same time."

  "We cannot afford to entrench ourselves in a drawn-out assault, Kells." Brandis reasoned. "When we strike, we have to do it decisively. Give it everything we've got and cut off the head."

  Kells nodded, seeming satisfied. "Understood, Elder Brandis. I meant no disrespect, General Vega."

  "None taken. I'm still recovering from getting the shit kicked out of me, so my manners aren't up to par quite yet." Vega rested her elbows on the table, steepled fingers tapping her chin. "I won't take anything from you that you're unable to give, Lancer-Captain Kells. If I can avoid using the BoS altogether, I will." She murmured, tilting her head. "I need to get in touch with some people before I can offer anything concrete, but once Lieutenant Garvey knows I'm alive I'm sure the rest will learn fast. We'll rally and plan accordingly." 

  "Well then, what are we waiting for?" Ingram asked eagerly. "C'mon Vega, let's head to the comm deck and get things squared away!"

  "Excellent plan. You two are dismissed." Brandis agreed, making a shooing gesture at the two women. Once they had departed, he turned his attention to Cade. "Do you have faith in our medical capabilities, Knight-Captain?" 

  Cade nodded. "We had been planning to attack them head on anyways, Brandis. If we're truly going in a little less 'shock and awe', we may actually tip more towards over-prepared."

  "I'm not certain how useful their teleporter will be to us once we get inside. I'm sure they'll lock it down with great expedience. However there is another possible egress." Quinlan spread the old blueprint out on the war table, fingers indicating a small service tunnel. "Now, if their measurements are accurate, power armored troops will not fit in this tunnel. But unarmored individuals most certainly will. This includes any…" he hesitated, like he was preparing himself to say it, "... refugees , or non-hostile denizens." 

  Quinlan referring to synths as anything but had Danse's head spinning. Vega was an absolute marvel .

  "It will be heavily guarded." Doctor Li warned. "They like to pretend that there's only one way in or out. Their precious molecular relay ."

  "Danse, I think you ought to take point when it comes to securing this tunnel." Kells remarked, making the paladin straighten up. "We won't be able to gauge our level of involvement until we have a full muster from Vega, but I'd like a senior-ranked soldier in the mix. And I know how much you enjoy being boots on the ground." The older man offered Danse a thin smile.

  Danse was so moved he needed to take a moment, finally choking out a ' yes sir ' with his hand over his heart. That Kells, even after all the years of growing to despise synths, would trust him with such a task-!

  Perhaps they did stand a chance, after all.

Part Seventeen

[schrijverr]

Authentic

While writing HNOC, Jonny suddenly puts on an accent, when it isn’t well recieved at first, he gets weird. He is withdrawn and agreeble, concerned the others corner him and find out it is his original accent. He storms off and is comforted by Brian.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none really, but tell me if I missed one or if you want me to tag something!

~~~~~~~~~~

Brian had not been pleased when he had finally been freed from the core of the sun around which Fort Galfridean had orbited, but he’d cheered up a bit after the Mechs had agreed this tale was good enough to be told.

They’d started writing it. First getting a feel for the songs to see, which voice fitted where, shots had been fired, First Mates had died, nothing important. An outline had been made as well, giving a broad idea of the spoken parts and the songs.

Now they were sitting in a circle with their instruments, ready to try some melodies and tweak the lyrics. They had agreed on the beginning, mostly, the first part was written down and Ashes said: “I think we should have Lavinia Stone explain why they’re going to shoot.”

“You mean when she told them they could run the town if they killed her and took her sheriff star?” Brian asked.

“Yeah, that.” Ashes replied, “You know what she told them exactly?”

Brian thought for a second, then unsure said: “I think she used son of a bitch? Maybe tin star and rightwise sheriff of the town or something in that direction? Does that help?”

“Yeah, that might work.” Jonny agreed, “Uhm, what about something like this: Any sonnabitch can pull this tin star from me, makes ‘em rightwise sheriff o’ this town.”

He scratched his nose and shook his head as he whispered to himself: “No, needs a few more words.”

Clicking his tongue he thought for a second, then his face lit up and he proudly said: “Any sumbitch can pull this tin star from my stone cold hands, makes ‘em rightwise sheriff o’ this here town. ‘Cause she’s Lavinia STONE.”

The smirk turned into a frown when he looked at the others. All had a confused expression on their face, eyes filled with question marks. Jonny had no clue what that was about and muttered: “We don’t have to use that part, geez. Just tell me if it sucks.”

That snapped most out of it and Tim said: “No, it’s not that, just wow, that was weird.”

“What?” now it was Jonnys turn to be confused.

“Did you not hear what you just did?” Ashes asked.

“I suggested something for the song and you all got weird about it.” Jonny frowned, not comprehending what they were getting at.

Ashes facepalmed and Tim exclaimed: “The fucking accent, Jonny, where the fuck did that come from?”

Understanding appeared on Jonnys face and lightly embarrassed he shrugged: “Thought it might be fun. Brian said some of them talked funny and from his horrible impersonation, I gathered it sounded something like this. Besides, it adds a bit to the atmosphere, right?”

The others found that explanation enough and agreed that it did sound fun, before they moved on to the next part, squabbling like normal until Brian came in and Galahad was introduced.

Lyrics was as easy as it had ever been, which is to say not that easy but with years of practice they managed, and it was only when they did a quick test run that it went wrong. Jonny was in the middle of his part when Tim interrupted: “Do you have to give him the accent too?”

Jonny stopped mid sentence and indignantly asked: “What’s wrong with the accent?”

“It’s inconsistent.” Tim told him.

“What! My accent is not inconsistent, what are you on about?” Jonny exclaimed, getting offended and a bit of fear, that no one could place, creeping into his voice.

Brian tried to keep the peace and said: “I think what Tim means is that none of us are using an accent, so although it is accurate it might be weird that only some of the characters have it, you know?”

“Well, why don’t y’all do the accent too then?” Jonny pouted.

“Oh, really, letting it bleed over now are you. What are you trying to prove?” Tim snapped.

If anyone had been paying close attention they would have seen that Jonny flinched back slightly at that, but no one did.

“I think none of us can keep that up, Jonny.” Brian tried to placate him, “You already said I did a horrible job at it.”

Jonny sighed and moped: “Okay, fine, but I personally think it sounds better with the accent.”

“Sure, lets just start from the top again.” Ashes said.

They all got in position again and started again. This time when they got to Galahads part, Jonny played up his normal British accent as much as possible. He was stopped again, this time by Marius: “Really, Jonny? Just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean you don’t get to take it seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously, I did exactly what you wanted. Nothing is good enough around here.” Jonny pouted earnestly.

“Why are you so insistent on using the accent?” Marius asked him.

Jonny opened his mouth, but closed it before a sound could come out and bit his lip. He swallowed and shrugged: “I’m not, just sang like normal. But also it’s accurate? And it sounds better?”

He grabbed some notes for the next part and explained: “I mean what sounds better out of the two of these: ‘Don’t recall asking for your opinion, son.’ or ‘I don’t think I asked for you input, my friend’?”

“If you exaggerate it like that, of course it will sound dumb, but the accent you’re doing is even dumber.” Tim said, not willing to abandon his side and say Jonny was right.

Some of the others agreed and something shut behind Jonnys eyes as he relented.

The others were glad this wouldn’t end as a big fight, which would be a mess to clean up, but Jonny wasn’t the same afterwards. He kept his mouth shut most of the time, no banter and no unnecessary commentary.

They tried to go on, but with Jonnys mood it was almost impossible, so they decided to leave finishing and cultivating the first draft for later and take a break.

The moment it was decided Jonny was out of the room, yelling something over his shoulder about a smoke, despite the fact that smoking was allowed everywhere on the Aurora. No one stopped him, however, just watching him go. Tim commented: “The asshole.”

Ashes smirked and Marius rolled his eyes, but Brian was a bit concerned about their First Mates reaction. Still, he knew following him and asking if he was alright, wouldn't be appreciated, so he left him to himself, but he resolved to keep an eye on him.

It seemed to be over the next day, Jonny had shut up about the accent and everything went on as normal, he did sound more British than normal, though, but not enough to be truly notable.

There did seem to be less fighting, though. Every time it seemed a fight would’ve normally broken out between Jonny and someone else (Jonny was usually the one fighting the most), Jonny would relent and let the other do their thing.

At first, no one was questioning this sudden change of character since it made the process go a whole lot smoother. Brian had frowned at the start, but Jonny didn’t seem to mind still just grinning like normal, so he hadn’t said anything about it.

Then that changed.

They’d finished the first draft and although no one member was more important than the other, it was the collective group that made it the best. And while Jonny wasn’t always prominent in the writing of the notes you could see him reflected in the lyrics, but his presence was now obviously missing.

This became even more apparent when they played it for the first time, stopping from time to time to make notes and suggestions.

Everyone had picked up on it, everyone except Jonny apparently. He was either playing oblivious or really hadn’t noticed the others silences that he hadn’t filled when they were taking suggestions on parts he hadn’t had a say in yet.

They were a bit sick of it. Was he still mad at them for yesterday? He seemed fine, but they all had masks. Was he deliberately being an asshole in the hope they would apologize or something? No, he wouldn’t do that, well he would be a deliberate asshole, but not over this. Unless this wasn’t like normal?

“What do you think, Jonny?” Brian asked.

“Hm?” Jonny looked up, “Oh, uhm, seems fine.”

He smiled at them, but they weren’t really sure he knew what it was about with the way his eyes were a bit distant.

“What were we talking about?” Tim asked, getting a bit frustrated.

Jonny blinked and uncertainly said: “The lyrics for the song about Mordred returning to the Saxons?”

“No,” Tim sighed, “about the love song between the three Pendragons. Are you even paying attention?”

He winced and replied: “Yes, just got a tad distracted. What was the original question?”

Tim was about to get angry, so Brian intervened: “I was wondering what you thought. This part here doesn’t flow so well.”

Brain pointed at the sheet in Jonnys hand and Jonny read it out loud to himself: “Guinevere you’re my stars, Arthur you’re my night. I know we have to ride at the dawns first light. And I’m not saying that this crusade isn’t right. But first we fuel a few more sins with whiskey.”

Jonny was quiet as he thought. He seemed to come up with something, because his eyes did the light up thing they always got when he had an idea, but then they dulled and he didn’t say a thing.

After a while he shrugged and said: “I don’t know.”

Now everyone was getting worried. If there was one thing Jonny loved, it was stealing the show by coming up with something and fixing a problem. It could be annoying if it wasn’t helpful.

He did not stay silent.

“Are you sure?” Brian asked, “It seemed like you thought of something.”

Jonny bit his lip, before carefully saying: “I thought- uhm, maybe? I think I could fix it, but I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

“Why do you think that? We won’t know unless we’ve heard it, so just tell us and we’ll decide ourselves.” Brian encouraged him.

Nodding slightly, Jonny started to sing: “Guinevere you’re my stars, Arthur you’re my night. I know we’ve got to ride at the dawns first light. And I ain’t saying this preacher man’s crusade ain’t right. But first we fuel a few more sins with whiskey.”

Jonny tried to gauge their reactions and quickly said: “I know y’all don’t like the accent and think it’s dumb, but the words make it fit better. Of course, we don’t have to do it. It was just a suggestion, you know.”

“No, no, that fits.” Ashes told him.

His shoulder sagged a bit with relief and he smiled at them before he wrote the new lyrics down. He did not notice he was the only one changing the lyrics.

While he was doing that, Brain and Marius shared a concerned look that the others caught on to and made them look at Jonny again and think. Then Marius said: “Hey, Jonny?”

“Yes?” Jonny asked looking up.

“Why do you know so much about this one accent and use of language?” Marius replied, immediately adding: “Not that that’s a bad thing of course, just curious.”

“I don’t know that much about it.” Jonny dodged the question.

“Yes, you do.” Tim inserted himself into the conversation as well.

Jonny huffed and crossed his arms as he said: “It doesn’t matter, why do you care so much anyway. I thought you found it dumb.”

“Because you’re suddenly acting weird after we brought it up.” Tim exclaimed.

That startled Jonny a bit, but he yelled back: “I do not.”

“Yes, you are.” Tim frowned angrily and began to list, “You’re not making useless comments, no banter, exaggerating your British accent, you’re not giving your own opinions, you’re fucking agreeable, Jonny. You’re never agreeable, so excuse us for wanting to know what the fuck is going on with you.”

“There’s nothing going on with me, I tried something and it failed, so I shut up.” Jonny spat, “I’m fine.”

“What did you try? What on earth did you try to make you act like this when it failed.” Tim had stood up now to continue their fighting match, properly.

Brian, however, wasn’t having it and pushed him back down in his seat as he shouted: “Lets all just calm down for one second, okay.”

Both took a deep breath and just glared at each other.

Gently Marius broke the silence: “Jonny, you try a lot of things that don’t succeed, why does this one bother you so much. I know Tim wasn’t the best at telling you this, but we’re just worried about you.”

Jonny swallowed heavily and blinked heavily a few times. He tried to start a few times, but then just stopped, choosing to dismiss it: “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“The more you dodge it, the more it seems like a big deal and we’re not continuing until you tell us.” Ashes told him. From where they were resting on the couch, all sprawled out, they looked like how they’d been when they were Hades. The royal feeling rolled off of them and Jonny couldn’t help, but listen.

“It’s, uhm, I’m from New Texas.” he finally settled on saying.

When that didn’t clear anything up he explained: “It’s not the same system as orbited around Avalon, but it’s close.”

The realization dawned on everyone that the accent they’d thought he’d been putting on was his original accent and the way he spoke now could be considered him putting on an accent. They’d never realized that he could have a different accent since the rest of them, except for Nastya, had the same one.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Jonny. We hadn’t realized.” Brian said.

Jonny squirmed in his place uncomfortably and shrugged: “It’s no big deal.”

“Seems like it is though, I know you don’t like me psychoanalyzing you, but this made you more upset than anything else I’ve seen.” Marius told him.

That earned him a scowl from Jonny, who replied: “Stay away from my brain, Marius. It’s none of your business.”

Meanwhile, Tim was still thinking about Jonnys change of accent without really paying attention to what the others were saying, so he blurted out: “So where did your accent go then? Nastya still had hers, despite being on this ship for quite a long time.”

The scowl deepened and Jonny said: “That’s also none of your fucking business.”

“Does it have anything to do with why you’re so upset?” Marius asked.

Completely fed up, Jonny roared: “Yes.” and stomped off.

As they watched him go, Ashes commented: “That could’ve gone a lot smoother.”

Beside them Brian pinched his nose and sighed: “Yes. Yes, it could have.”

“Should we go check on him?” Tim asked,a bit taken aback by the reaction and feeling guilty a bit too.

“No, I think we’ve done enough for today. I’ll check up on him in a few hours.” Brian told him.

The rest of the day came and went and soon it was time for Brian to see how their First Mate was fairing. He hesitated outside his room for a second, then he knocked.

It was quiet for a beat, then he hear Jonnys voice: “What do you want?”

“It’s me, Brian. I came to check up on you. I know you don’t want me to, but just open the door so I  can see you’re at least a bit okay and I’ll leave you alone.” Brian answered.

He heard grumbling, but also movement, so he smiled at his little victory.

The door slid open and Jonny looked at the ground and said: “See, I’m fine. Now go away.”

Brian raised a brow and rolled his eyes, before he squatted down a bit and gently put a finger under Jonnys chin to raise his face to make eye contact. Jonnys eyes were shining with the wetness of tears not yet fallen, but his makeup hadn’t been smudged, which Brian counted as a win.

What he didn’t count as a win, however, was that Jonny wasn’t even fighting him about this treatment. He just stood there silently and stared at Brian, all fight drained out of his body with the opening of his door.

Brian broke the silence softly: “If you want I can leave now, but I’m happy to stay. You don’t have to talk, just company.”

Jonny worried his lip between his teeth as a mental battle waged behind his eyes. Then he quietly said: “Don’t tell the others?”

“Of course not.” Brian replied with a kind smile, closing the door behind him as he lead Jonny to his bed.

Brian leaned against the wall and allowed Jonny to crawl up beside him, before pulling the blanket over the two of them. He gently rubbed Jonnys back and sat quietly with his eyes closed and his mind calm.

He knew Jonny was more tactile than he’d have you believe. All the crew was familiar with the ways he would brush up against people, accidentally bump into them or started a fistfights when he was feeling lonely.

No one ever said anything about it, but they tried their best to pander to it. Everyone had something after all.

After nearly thirty minutes of comfortable silence Jonny said: “I know it’s stupid to be upset about. I just- never mind.”

“It isn’t stupid at all.” Brian told him.

“Yes, it is.” Jonny moped, “Just because she beat it out of me doesn’t mean that it isn’t just an accent.”

He didn’t even seem to realize what he had just confessed, instead angrily staring at Brians thigh and plucking on a lose thread of Brians pants, Brian knew he would probably offer to fix it later as a thank you or apology, unable to voice it.

Brian carded a hand through Jonnys hair and said: “You know, I don’t even speak this language.”

“What?” Jonny asked, not looking up, but leaning into the touch.

“I borrowed a book from Ivy about my own planet, it talked about the language and how it’s one of the few places that hasn’t switched to Basic yet. There was a passage in the language, but I couldn't understand a word, not programmed for it, I guess.” Brian explained.

“Oh, I’m- I’m sorry, that sucks.” Jonny mumbled.

Brian shrugged and said: “Yeah, kind of. I know I’m not that Brain, never really was, but it still hurt. I locked myself at the helm for two months to process. Isn’t that stupid?”

“No. No, it’s not.” Jonny frowned, plucking harder, “That’s upsetting to learn, you just reacted like anyone else would.”

“You’re right.” Brian agreed, for a moment Jonny was confused, but then Brian cleared it up: “So, why is it stupid when you’re upset?”

“I don’t know.” Jonny pouted.

“You don’t have to know. Sometimes a brain is just stupid, but that has nothing to do with you. You’re allowed to just be upset.” Brian told him.

Jonny huffed: “You sound like Marius.”

“Marius isn’t always wrong, even when he is an idiot from time to time.” Brian said.

They fell into a comfortable silence again after that. The rhythmic motion of Brian petting Jonnys hair soothing them both.

Then after a while, Brian said: “For the record, I liked the accent you gave Galahad, you really sounded like him. Tim probably did too, he just wanted a fight I think.”

“Really?” Jonny asked after a beat of silence.

Brian smiled: “Yeah, really. I think that if you bring it up again, the others are probably a lot more receptive. You know how they love dramatics and what is more dramatic then an album with authentic vocabulary and accents just for accuracy?”

Jonny grinned: “Not much.”

“Exactly.” Brian nodded, then he stayed silent until Jonny had fallen asleep.

The next morning the two of them made their way to breakfast. Jonny was his chipper self again and bounced around Brian as he excitedly told him about the dream he had in which it had been him against an entire army, pretty violent over all, but Jonny had won and found himself quite the badass, despite the fact that it was a dream and he had not actually done that.

He didn’t even notice how the others lost their tenseness when he’d come in. All had been afraid that he would still be upset, but it seemed Brian had been a good influence.

They all ate, before going back to the practice room. The plan was to start going over everything again, just the next draft until everything was perfect, but before they could start Jonny nervously asked: “Hey, uhm, I was just wondering if y’all’d be okay if I tried the accent again with Galahad. I think it would enrich the album and if all y’all don’t like it, we can scrap it again.”

“I think that would be a great idea, Jonny.” Marius smiled at him.

Relief washed over Jonnys face and he smiled back.

In the end they kept the accent in there and watching Jonny go apeshit every single time he got to perform Hellfire was completely worth it.

[hysterialevi]

His Name Was Isaac - Ch. 2

Fanfic summary: During a mission to avenge his mother’s death, Isaac hunts down the men responsible for her murder and kills them off one-by-one, only to discover that his last target is taking refuge among the Van der Linde gang. In an attempt to kill them, Isaac attacks the gang and unknowingly becomes enemies with his own father, who is in the process of fighting his own battle for redemption.

Point of view: third-person

Author’s note: Just wanted to say thank you guys for all the support you gave on the first chapter. I’m definitely excited to write more for you and I hope you’ll stick around for future parts :)

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This story is also on AO3

TWO MONTHS LATER

AURORA BASIN, WEST ELIZABETH

Blackwater.

It was so close.

Dutch could see it.

Somewhere beyond those trees, all the way over the eastern horizon and past the Great Plains, lay the city that started all this. The city that caused the Van der Linde gang to transform from a simple band of outcasts... into a group of killers willing to do anything for a wad of cash.

But was anyone surprised? Probably not.

After Hosea finally succumbed to his illness five years ago, any glimmer of humanity that remained among them instantly vanished. Dutch took full control over the gang and immediately started heading back out west, eager to return to New Austin. Meanwhile, his mental health deteriorated rapidly into a state of paranoia, greed, and an incessant need for power... and the fact that Marston eventually left did little to help matters either. 

At the moment, the only original gang members to remain at Dutch’s side were Bill Williamson, Micah Bell, and of course... Arthur Morgan.

Nobody ever questioned Bill or Micah’s sense of loyalty -- they rarely expressed any emotions suggesting otherwise, after all -- but to everyone’s surprise, Arthur decided to stay.

Some of the rumors said he stayed simply because he had no other family to return to. Others implied that he was waiting for Dutch to follow in Hosea’s footsteps before swooping in to become the new leader. But in reality... the reason Arthur had yet to abandon Dutch was mostly due to sentiment.

Despite everything Dutch had done over these past eight years, Arthur could still see a part of the old him lingering inside. Behind all the ravings and robbing and killing, Arthur could sense that there was something more human at Dutch’s core -- something more fatherly -- and he knew it would disappear completely if he left. So, against better judgement, Arthur stayed.

It probably seemed foolish to other people, to stick around like this. But those rare moments when the old Dutch would break through and remind Arthur of the good ol’ days definitely made it worth it. He had nothing else to care about nowadays, and it wasn’t like Arthur could just leave the gang behind. He was old now -- or at least older than before -- and even if he did abandon Dutch, he doubted he’d have enough time to start a new life for himself.

Right now, the only thing Arthur could do was accept that he was destined to be an outlaw for life... and he had.

Putting his tangled thoughts aside for a moment, Arthur returned to the task at hand and roamed down the short corridor, making his way through the derelict cabin as he went to meet Dutch in the living room.

This cabin was nice, Arthur thought, for a place that had been abandoned for so long. He and Micah found it sitting in the middle of nowhere while hunting for food at Aurora’s Basin, and decided it would be the best place to set up their new camp. At least until they finally made their move on Blackwater.

Though, Arthur couldn’t deny that he was worried for Dutch’s wellbeing. Ever since the gang first settled here, the man practically locked himself in the cabin and rarely ever came out. 

And whenever he did come out, he always looked so pale. Tired. Sickly, even. Not even close to the man Arthur knew eight years ago. He could’ve sworn that Dutch’s hair was getting grayer every time he saw him, and the way his eyes often stared blankly into the distance did nothing to help ease Arthur’s nerves.

He just hoped it wasn’t too late to bring Dutch back from the edge. He might’ve been a total madman these days, but... even then, he was still like a father to Arthur. And as his son, the last thing he wanted was to see him lose himself completely.

He just feared it might have been too late already.

Finally arriving at the living room, Arthur sauntered through the narrow wooden archway and walked up to Dutch, only to be greeted by a depressing scene.

It was completely dark in here.

All the candles had been snuffed out, the fireplace lay cold with ashes, and the lamp on the ceiling did nothing but swing despondently in the chilling breeze.

At the moment, the only source of light in the room was the one in front of Dutch himself. It was a tall, somewhat cracked window that sat right underneath a broken pendulum clock, and it had a torn bundle of curtains dancing gently around it.

There was an array of pale, white sunbeams pouring through its dusty glass currently, and with the way they embraced Dutch’s figure, he looked like nothing more than a silhouette relaxing in an old rocking chair. 

Arthur took a few steps towards the man, hoping to check up on him.

“...Dutch?” He called out quietly. “You, um... wanted to see me?”

The older man slowly glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his name, silently beckoning his friend to come closer once he saw who it was.

When Arthur was at his side, Dutch presented a used handkerchief to him and held it up in the light, making sure the other man could see the blood splatters staining its white fabric.

Arthur eyed the handkerchief with a sorrowful gaze, letting out a morose sigh.

“You ain’t doin’ too good, huh.”

Dutch coughed a few times, his voice raspy from the irritation. “What gave it away?”

Pressing his hands against the armrests, Dutch steadily pushed himself up from the chair and rose to his feet, still facing the window as he continued to talk.

“I’m... I’m dying, son.” He said, almost sounding apologetic. “I can feel it. It won’t be long now before you and Micah are the ones in charge of this gang, and I’m buried in the ground.”

Arthur was admittedly grief-stricken by the news, but did his best to hide it and simply carried on with the conversation.

“...You really think Micah would share that kinda power with me? You know how that man is.”

Dutch put his hands on his hips. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.”

“Well, with all respect, Dutch, I ain’t too comfortable with lettin’ the future of this gang depend on a ‘maybe.”

“Neither am I,” the older man agreed, “but I don’t know what else to do, Arthur. Even after all these years, you and Micah continue to butt heads like a pair of deer who’ve got their antlers tangled. If I’m gonna leave this world in peace, I need to know that you and Micah can work together. Otherwise...”

Dutch’s voice trailed off, leaving Arthur with a sense of dread in his gut.

“Well...” he picked up, “I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”

Arthur shrugged in uncertainty, leaning against the wall. “So... what d’you wanna do?”

The other man returned to his rocking chair, allowing himself to sink into the flat cushion.

“Nothing. Not yet, at least. For now, we just do things the way we’ve always done them. We head for Blackwater, and we focus on the bank. My death is a bridge we’ll cross once we get to it. In the meantime, though...” Dutch gave Arthur a pleading look, “just try to cooperate with Micah, would you? For my sake. The future of this gang may depend on it.”

The younger outlaw crossed his arms, reluctant to agree but still complying nonetheless.

“...Of course, Dutch.” Arthur replied. “For your sake. I doubt it’ll be easy, though.”

That seemed to please the older man. “Thank you, son. Thank you.”

Leaning back in his chair, Dutch let his head fall back and stretched his legs out, gazing aimlessly through the open window once again.

“Oh... I wish Hosea were here. We had our disagreements from time to time, but no one knew how to keep people together quite like that old boy. It ain’t been the same since he died.”

Arthur shook his head with a sigh. “No, it hasn’t. I just wish John was here, too.”

Dutch glowered at the mention of Marston’s name. “Pfft. That man was a traitor. We’re better off without him.”

“Maybe,” Arthur conceded, “but he was still family.”

“Family don’t turn their back on you, Arthur.” Dutch countered. “If we’re going to survive this year, we’ve got to stick together. You, me, Micah, Bill, Mackintosh -- everyone. We can’t let what happened at Beaver Hollow happen again. You understand?”

The younger man hesitated to answer, unable to deny his skepticism about Dutch’s leadership.

“...I understand.” He replied regardless. The other man managed to display a small smile.

“I knew you would, Arthur.” Dutch said, shutting his eyes in order to get some rest as the day gradually came to an end. “You was always there through thick and thin. Even after John abandoned us and Hosea passed, you stuck around. You’ve been loyal from the start, and that means the world to me. Never forget that.”

Arthur pushed himself off the wall and began heading for the cabin’s front door, letting Dutch get some sleep. 

“I won’t, Dutch. I won’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~

SAINT DENIS

GASKILL RESIDENCE

AFTERNOON

“...Gaskill...” Isaac murmured to himself, reading the small note in his hand.

He glanced up at the house in front of him, making sure this was the right place.

“Yep,” he confirmed, talking to his horse. “I think we’re here, Aldo.”

Leaving Aldo at the hitching post, Isaac said goodbye to the majestic creature and stuffed the note back into his pocket, strolling up to the front porch.

The property wasn’t as big as some of the others Isaac had seen along the way, but he still thought it looked rather cozy. It had a total of two stories and was decorated with loads of flowers, trees, grass, and a small water fountain that stood elegantly on the front lawn. There were a few birds perched on the edge of it at the moment, and they chirped happily as the cool water trickled onto their feathers, causing them to flutter their wings joyfully.

As for the house itself, if Isaac’s information was correct, then it belonged to an author by the name of Leslie Dupont. Though, according to the research he’d done, that was just a pen name. 

Her actual name was Mary-Beth Gaskill, and word on the street was that she used to be part of the Van der Linde gang... the very same gang Isaac had been tracking down for these past two months.

He had to admit, this “Dutch van der Linde” figure was proving rather difficult to find. For a while now, he had been jumping from person to person -- town to town -- just trying to get even the smallest lead.

At first, Isaac paid a visit to a general store owner named Simon Pearson who apparently used to be the gang’s cook. He talked with him for a while and shared a few drinks, only to realize that the man had a talent for speaking a lot without actually saying anything substantial. 

Afterwards, he tracked down another ex-member by the name of Tilly Pierre. She appeared friendly enough and was somewhat more willing to communicate, but Isaac hardly got a word out of her before her husband shooed him away. Didn’t want suspicious folks hanging around their family, he said.

And as if that wasn’t tiresome enough already, Isaac found himself talking to a preacher called Orville Swanson who seemed to have nothing but bad memories of Dutch, and kept going on about how much Isaac reminded him of one of the gang members.

At this point, Isaac was just hoping that this Gaskill woman actually existed. It seemed like every lead he followed up would end up with more questions than answers, and all the people he talked to so far had been less than eager to speak about their experiences with him.

If Miss Gaskill didn’t have anything valuable to give him, he had no idea where he would turn next.

Stepping up to the front door, Isaac gave it a few firm knocks and waited patiently in the garden, eager to speak with this woman. After a moment or two, the door swung open from the inside, revealing Ms. Gaskill herself. 

She was a lot more presentable than Isaac expected. In contrast to the rugged, hardened, mean-spirited woman he had been anticipating, Ms. Gaskill actually seemed quite sweet. She had a romantic twinkle in her eye and carried a very inquisitive nature, giving her the look of someone who enjoyed reading books and drinking tea as opposed to the ex-outlaw Isaac heard she was.

“Arthur--!” Ms. Gaskill greeted excitedly, only to cut herself off once she got a better look at her visitor’s face. “Oh, um...” a flustered chuckle escaped her, “s-sorry, mister. I... mistook you for someone else.”

Isaac smiled. “No worries. That seems to happen a lot nowadays.”

The woman cleared her throat. “Can I... can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, actually. Um...” the young man double-checked his note, “...are you Mary-Beth Gaskill?”

She nodded, immediately picking up on the fact that he used her real name. “I am. Who might you be?”

“My name’s Isaac. I apologize for interruptin’ your day like this, but... I was wonderin’ if I could ask you a few questions.”

“What about?”

Isaac hesitated for a second, unsure about how to broach the subject. “...It’s...it’s about the Van der Linde gang. I’ve heard that you used to run with them back in the day, and I was hopin’ you might be able to provide some answers. I’m lookin’ for them, you see.”

To Isaac’s surprise, the response actually seemed to earn him a more colloquial temperament from Ms. Gaskill, as opposed to the suspicious nature his previous visits induced. 

“Ah... I think I understand. Of course, of course. Come on in. I’d be happy to help.”

“Thank you, madam. I’ll just be a minute.”

Pushing the door completely open, Ms. Gaskill allowed Isaac to walk in as she made her way to the sitting area, preparing something for them to drink.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” She offered.

Isaac shut the front door behind him, removing his hat. “That’d be lovely.”

Mary-Beth beamed at him, gesturing to the multiple chairs that had been arranged around the room. “Please, have a seat. Make yourself at home.”

Taking in his surroundings, Isaac sat down next to a rather nice end table and placed his hat on his lap, gazing at the decorations scattered throughout the house. 

Isaac already pegged Mary-Beth for a bookworm, but he had no idea just how into it she truly was. There were numerous bookshelves filled to the brim with horror stories, mysteries, comedies, tragedies... but most of all, romances.

They seemed to occupy the shelves more than any other genre, and just by looking at the small ribbons sticking out from between their pages, it was evident that Mary-Beth was busy working her way through quite a few of them at the same time. He wondered what that said about her as a person.

“Here you go,” Ms. Gaskill said as she handed him a cup of coffee, breaking Isaac out of his thoughts. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Isaac gently brought the cup into his grasp, holding it securely as the smell of freshly-brewed coffee beans reached his nose. “Thank you.”

Giving him a smile in response, Mary-Beth retrieved her own cup of coffee before taking a seat across from the young man, admittedly intrigued by his motive for being here.

“So...” she started, “you’re lookin’ for the Van der Linde gang. May I ask why?”

Isaac took a sip. “Well, truth be told, I ain’t really concerned about the whole gang. I’m just lookin’ for a specific person who I’ve been told is with them.”

Ms. Gaskill formed her own conclusion. “So, you’re a bounty hunter?”

“In a way, I guess. Only difference is I’m not doing this for the money. My reasons are more personal.”

The young woman nodded in understanding. “I see. And how did you know I used to be with them?”

“Your friend Mr. Swanson directed me to you.”

A nostalgic look spread across Mary-Beth’s face at the sound of Swanson’s name. 

“Oh, Mr. Swanson...” she reminisced warmly, “it’s been many years since I last saw him, but he was always so kind. Lost, perhaps, but kind. How is he nowadays?”

“He’s doin’ well, I think,” Isaac answered honestly. “He’s a minister now, up in New York. I don’t know what he was like when you knew him, but... Swanson seemed to be content with his life, if a bit remorseful.”

“That’s good to hear,” Ms. Gaskill said, her expression dimming slightly afterwards. “Too many of my friends from the old days ended up dead, missing, or just straight-up insane... so I’m glad that at least someone besides Tilly turned out okay.”

She downed some of her coffee, changing the subject. “But enough about that. You said you had questions about the Van der Linde gang?”

“I do.”

“Well...” Mary-Beth set her coffee down, “what would you like to know?”

Isaac decided to start at the top, inquiring about the leader himself.

“...What kind of a man is Dutch van der Linde?” He asked. “What can I expect from him?”

Ms. Gaskill chuckled at the question. “I used to ask myself the same thing everyday.”

Isaac smirked. “He’s unpredictable, I take it?”

“Understatement of the century. Though, to be fair, Dutch wasn’t always like that. When I first joined their gang, he actually saved me. A couple of men had just caught me stealin’ from them and were chasing me over the hills until Dutch scared them off. He was so generous back then. So passionate.”

“Yeah?” Isaac noted. “How so?”

Mary-Beth leaned forward, gesturing with her hands. “Well, even though Dutch was technically an outlaw, he never really came across as one. He was more like a teacher, or a guardian. A father even, to some. He loved us all, and we loved him, but...”

A melancholic sigh escaped the young woman. “...things just... spiraled out of control. As the years passed by, civilization began to spread, the law started killin’ our people, and eventually, Dutch just... snapped. In the end, he was more akin to a tyrant than anything, and the gang fell apart within a few short months. That was when I decided to run away with my friends, but... not everyone made it.”

Mary-Beth’s expression sank with sorrow, causing Isaac to blurt out an apology.

“I-I’m sorry, Ms. Gaskill. I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She reassured. “I just wish things could’ve turned out differently, y’know? Not everyone in the gang was rotten. Some of them were actually quite wonderful... but it’s rarely the good ones who survive. I’m just surprised to hear that the Van der Linde gang is still going. I thought the rest of them would’ve scattered to the winds by now.”

Isaac drank some more of his coffee. “D’you have any idea where I could find them?”

Ms. Gaskill thought for a moment. “Well, if there’s anythin’ I know about Dutch, it’s that he probably headed back to the west.”

The young man quirked a brow. “The west? That’s a pretty big region. You have any specific states in mind? Or cities? Anything that could narrow it down?”

“Hmm... Dutch used to talk a lot about New Austin,” she suggested. “Apparently, he’s quite fond of the desert. Said it made him feel closer to the sky. I know he was always eyeballin’ that town Blackwater, too.”

“Blackwater...” Isaac repeated, mentally marking the town as his next point of interest. “I’ve been there a few times. Do you know why he’d be hangin’ around there?”

Mary-Beth shrugged. “No idea. All I know is that eight years ago, a ferry job in Blackwater nearly finished the whole gang. Perhaps Dutch feels like he has unfinished business there. Probably sees the town as a trophy he never got to win.”

“Hmm... that makes sense. And what about his numbers? How many men did Dutch have when you was with him?”

The woman conjured up a quick estimation. “Roughly two dozen, I think. Possibly a few more. But I can’t imagine he has that many people following him around these days, considerin’ how maniacal he was when I last saw him.”

“I see. So, he’s likely got a good chunk of people with him.”

The young man finished his coffee and placed the empty mug on the end table, preparing to leave.

“Well, I think I’ve gotten all the answers I needed, Ms. Gaskill. Thanks for takin’ the time to help me out. I really appreciate it.”

Mary-Beth smiled sincerely. “Anytime. It was good to talk about the old days, no matter how chaotic they might’ve been. I just hope you can find whomever it is you’re lookin’ for. Are they a friend of yours?”

Isaac chuckled. “Hardly. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Ah. So you’re trackin’ down an enemy. Well, be careful out there, then. Things may be more civilized nowadays, but many gangs still roam the country. Not to mention that Dutch himself is exceptionally dangerous. Stay safe during your search.”

The man rose to his feet, heading to the door. “I will. Believe me. Oh, and um... Ms. Gaskill?” Isaac threw a look of gratitude at her, putting his hat back on before stepping out into the sun. “Thanks for the coffee.”

[orionwhispers]

Beware Of The Dogs - Part IV

(A/N - Here she is. The final chapter of BOTD. Its been a wild ride and Ive loved every minute of it. This b!tch is almost 17k words... yeah, i know. its probably got hella errors and whatnot but i really want to get it up for everyone who has been invested in the story. thank u from the bottom of my heart. until next time!)

Part I

Part II 

Part III

The drive back to Birmingham was as painful as pulling teeth.

The air was thick with unspoken tension and your eyes were stinging with tears; your throat red and raw. Tommy occasionally glanced over to you, probably to check that you hadn’t choked on your sobs, but for the most part you both sat in silence, the low hum of the car ringing in your ears.

You didn’t go back to Watery Lane. You didn’t know why that surprised you, it had been almost two years and yet you thought that perhaps nothing had changed, but you were wrong. You knew the house was Tommy’s as soon as you saw it perched atop of rolling hills, a gloomy Georgian manor surrounded by sprawling acres, intricately designed with large windows and a wrap around veranda. Royal and mighty, just like him.

He opened the car door for you, waiting patiently as you stepped onto the gravel. The numbness you were feeling was fogging your brain and every moment was slow and hesitant. He locked your fingers, pulling you along like you were one of his frightened mares visiting the blacksmith for the first time, you almost expected him to tempt you with a sugar cube. Part of you wanted to dig in your heels and resist, knowing that as soon as you crossed over the threshold that you would be admitting defeat and once again falling under lock and key, but the stronger, more forceful side was far too exhausted to put up a fight.

The inside of his house was just as beautiful. Lavish paintings were hung on the walls, the decor was a mixture of blood red and expensive gold, and every room was furnished with items probably worth more than your yearly salary. You couldn’t appreciate any of it though, and the colours faded into blotches in your eyes. Every time you blinked all you saw was the utter betrayal on Alfie’s face, the pure anger that flickered inside of him at you, and your heart broke all over again.

“Mr Shelby! You’re back early.”

An unfamiliar voice momentarily snapped you from your trance, and you looked up to see an older woman in a black dress waiting at the foot of the stairs.

“Yes, Mary.” Tommy slid your coat from your arms like he used to when you were a child, hanging it from the rack by the front door whilst you stood as still as the marble statues above his fireplace. “This is my sister, (Y/N). Make up one of the guest rooms for her.”

The woman nodded and practically flew up the stairs like a dog eager to please its master. Tommy had a maid. You wanted to laugh out loud and mock your brother for his snobbery but the ache in your gut kept your jaw locked. He busied himself in the way that Tommy did, every move calculated and strong, not even allowing himself the luxury of relaxing in the comfort of his own home. He shrugged off his own jacket, and then you felt his hand touch the small of your back, gently coaxing you to walk.

He cleared his throat as he led you through the hall, each of his footsteps purposeful and sharp.“You hungry?”

“How did you find me?”

You both faltered. You were shocked that you had managed to form a sentence and despite the shakes in your pitch you remained firm, needing to know the answer. He rubbed his upper lip with his finger, the same way he did before smoking a cigarette, a habit that you didn’t even realise you missed. You expected him to ignore you, divert the conversation to something that he deemed appropriate, but instead he looked you in the eye.

“I’ve known for a while.”

“Billy?” You asked, the name tasting sour on your tongue. All you could picture was the redhead with blood pooling around his crown and Alfie holding the gun with it’s smoking barrel.

He nodded, “I had an inkling before then, but Kitchen confirmed it.”

“What about Arthur?” You demanded.

“Johns sorting it.” He looked hesitant, keeping his thoughts private like he had always done, drip feeding you information. “Let’s get you upstairs, eh? You look exhausted.”

“I’m not some broken toy that needs to be fixed, Tommy.” You snapped, a lot harder than you meant to. You saw his sapphire eyes flicker with humour, but also impatience, the way they always did when the two of you would argue. He held up his hands in submission, the charcoal colour of his suit looking darker under the low lights as he stepped backwards. He looked at you, eyes running across the redness of your face and the tear stains that streaked onto your throat, his gaze softening ever so slightly.

“I know. Just go and get some rest alright?”

You sat in the tub with your back resting across the taps, numb to the way the metal dug into your flesh. The water had long gone cold, your skin still red from the boiling water you had filled it with, but now the icy chill was chewing onto your flesh. Your fingers were pruned and goosebumps trailed along your spine, but you remained still, watching the flame of a candle flicker. Mary had brought you up some dinner, but it was left untouched on the table. The sky was fully dark now, a long stretch of black that seemed to go on for miles. You weren’t sure what time it was, probably well past midnight and despite the ache of exhaustion and the soft, clean bed that was made up for you, sleep was the last thing on your mind.

You eventually got out, changing back into your dress that still lingered with the smell of Alfie, ignoring the fresh clothes hanging in the wardrobe, probably left from one of Tommy’s many lovers. The warm duvet looked comforting but your thoughts were far from relaxing and so you left the bedroom, feeling trapped despite the high walls and open space. You tried to be as quiet as possible, careful not to let the stairs creak under your weight as you made your way downstairs. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, you weren’t hungry or thirsty, you just longed for a distraction.

There were so many rooms in the house you needed a fucking map, but you couldn’t expect anything less from Tommy. You’d wandered like a spectre around the mansion, nosing at the few personal items your brother had displayed. You couldn’t stop the twist in your heart when you saw a photo of the two of you was pride of place on his living room table. You stood for a while in the library, looking out at the miles of fields surrounding his house, the wilderness and back woods a tribute to your gypsy roots.

Muffled sounds caught your attention, and you followed them towards the furtherest door in the hallway. The light was dim, and you could hear the faint flicker of a fire, along with the smell of oak and ash that moulded Alfie’s face in your mind. You bit your lip hard, willing yourself not to cry despite the tears already blurring your eyesight. You edged closer to the fireplace, inhaling the bittersweet scent, until you heard Tommy clear his throat behind you.

“Can’t sleep?”

You jolted, turning to face your brother. He was hunched behind his desk and scrawling on notes, a lit cigarette between his fingers. “Sorry, I...” You said, wanting to apologise for disturbing him.

“It’s alright.”

You noticed he was nursing a murky glass of whisky, and he followed your eye line, smiling softly and walking towards his bar cart.

“What do you fancy?”

Despite your current state of mind you snorted, raising a brow as Tommy shot you a look. “You’re offering me a drink? Of alcohol? Who are you and what did you do with my brother?” You sat on one of the plush sofas, curling your legs under yourself.

He filled a glass with the same liquor lacing his, sliding it across the table and towards you.

“Sorry,” he said, looking you dead in the eye,“I don’t have any rum.”

“That’s not funny.”

A moment passed, and maybe it was the overwhelming sadness and shock of what had happened or maybe it was the blow of being reunited with your brother but you couldn’t help but let out a laugh. Tommy immediately smiled at your reaction, a sight so rare that it made you laugh even louder, but just as quickly as they came the chuckles died in your throat, and once again the misery rose to the surface.

“I’ve really, really fucked things up, Tom. With everyone.”

He walked around the table, one hand shoved in his pocket and the other fondling his glass. He sat next to you, close enough that you could smell his distinct aroma of expensive cologne and sweet mint but also far away enough that you didn’t feel trapped.

“Ay. I think that’s called being a Shelby.”

You didn’t reply, downing your drink like it was water, loving the burn at the back of your throat. Tommy observed you, that overprotective big brother feeling clawing inside of him, but your sad eyes and obvious heartache made him swallow the reprimands inside of him. Instead he pulled you close to him in a rare moment of weakness, letting you cry into his shirt once again, his hand running through your hair. There would be time to find out what exactly had happened in the years you had been gone, to scold you for leaving the way you did but right now he just held you, the fire roaring behind you both, drowning out the muffled sound of your sobs.

When you awoke the sun was beaming onto your skin, and you were no longer curled up on the sofa, instead under the thick down duvet in the guest room. You were still dressed, but your clothes were creased and covered with mascara stains, so after you took a warm bath and scrubbed yourself clean you reluctantly put on a spare dress from the wardrobe, already missing the comforting smell.

The house was just as confusing in daylight, but you managed to find your way downstairs eventually. You were looking for the kitchen, hoping to brew a cup of coffee and make it Irish before Tommy could see and scold you for drinking so early. You stepped around the long, glossy dining room table, shining so brightly you could almost see your reflection, but you paused as you heard the hum of rivalling voices below you.

“I don’t fucking like this, Tom.”

“Look, I don’t like this anymore than you but..

“She’s a grown woman, she can make her own choices.” A feminine voice interjected, the sincerity in her tone so familiar that you could tell it was Ada without even seeing her face.

“How do we know that she isn’t being used as some sort of fucking puppet? Solomon’s is fucked in the head, do you really think he hasn’t hurt her? Isn’t using her?”

“All I’m saying is that maybe she has an insight to how he thinks.”

“So you want her to be a fucking spy? You think that she’ll be safe?”

“That’s not what I said, John. I don’t trust him anymore than you do.”

“Boys, she hasn’t been back twenty four fucking hours, can’t this wait?”

By the time you reached the bottom step the room was so thick with tension it felt like a scalding summer day. Nerves pooled in your gut, knowing that around the corner was the family you loved and loathed and ultimately abandoned. You didn’t want to talk to them about Alfie, the year you had shared together had been so intimate and personal, and you knew that they would never truly understand what had transpired between the two of you.

Regardless, as you stepped into the kitchen, your body frigid with anxiety, one look at the familiar faces gathered around the table was enough to thaw the stress in your veins.

“Hi.” You wrung your hands together, pulling the sleeve of your jumper over your fingers. Your voice was small and quiet, almost drowned out by the kettle boiling on the stove, steam billowing into the air.

“You’re back.” It was Finn. He looked taller and his hair was much neater, shaved at the sides and slicked on top. He was wearing a suit, a blue tie around his throat and cuff links on his sleeves and an expensive looking watch on his wrist.

He looked like a Blinder.

Despite being surrounded by the older men he wished to impress, neither of you could resist the urge to clamber into one another’s arms. You pulled him against you, his head now higher than yours, his hands bigger and his torso stronger but he still smelt the same as he had always done; sweet liquorice and fresh hay.

“Hiya, Finnegan.” You said, breathing into his shoulder. You could feel your eyes brimming with tears once again and willed them to stay put, not wanting him to see you cry. “I missed you, kid.”

“Missed you too.”

You held him in your palms, taking in his warm brown eyes and the softness of his skin, evidence of his youth against his harsh bravado. There were a million things you wanted to say, a hundred different apologies at the tip of your tongue, but none of them felt right.

“C’mere you.”

It was John. He was still so playful and irreverent and boyish, the way he slung his arm around your shoulder and kissed the bottom of your ear. The way his actions seemed casual and nonchalant but his hands clasped around the bone in your wrist, as if checking you had been properly fed. You relaxed into his touch, his body was always like a furnace, and you let his warmth engulf you.

“John.”

“Not been the same without you around,” He said, his voice murmured by your hair. “Every time Esme yelled at me for something it reminded me of you, never stop bloody nagging.”

You elbowed him in the ribs, smirking at his sharp exhale before he chuckled and kissed the heat of your temple, and you gave in to the softness of his touch. You could feel eyes on you, and you stepped away from the embrace of your brothers. Tommy was sat at the head of the table in what you assumed to be his pantry, he held a lit cigarette and wisps of smoke danced around his face as he moved. His eyes softened ever so slightly at the sight of you, but you still felt increasingly on edge, especially as you could imagine what they had been talking about.

The click of heels on stone made you turn, wafts of rich jasmine and soft vanilla hitting your face and you instantly knew who was behind you. Ada smiled, her lips the colour of blood red jam and her eyes sparkling like diamonds. You felt a bubble in your throat, your body aching with sadness but relief at the sight of your sister, still so young and beautiful. She pulled you into her arms and the silk of her blouse felt like running water against your skin, she squeezed you tight, her smell bringing back memories that you had pushed far away.

“God.” She held you at arms length, her pupils darting across you, determined to take all of you in. “Look at you! You’re a real fucking woman, you’re...!” She stumbled over her words and playfully dragged you back into her arms, anchoring you down as if you would run at any moment.

“Course she is. She’s a fucking Shelby.” The thick voice like sharp liquor and expensive cigarettes cut right through you, and you felt a hand clasp around your shoulder. Nausea pooled in the pit of your stomach, the woman you feared and admired and loved still managing to make you anxious after all these years.

You met Polly’s line of sight, her makeup was perfect and she somehow looked younger than she had when you left, her skin luminous and her clothes lavish. Her fingers were covered in jewels and a fox was wrapped around her throat, it’s tail bushy and thick. Without hesitation she covered your face with her palms, the coolness of her rings making you pull away slightly, but she held you firm. Her eyes met yours and her stare was intense, you could feel the magic practically running through her veins, the whimsical gypsy queen wanting to look right through you.

She opened her mouth to say something, her gaze unwavering yet filled with emotion but the door swung open and heavy footsteps echoed around you.

“Well that was a fucking waste of time, I swear these - Oh, shit, you’re awake!”

“Hi Michael.” You said, secretly grateful for the intrusion, you didn’t want to know what Polly had seen inside of you, and facing your family was making your blood run cold. All you wanted was Alfie. All you wanted was to feel him beside you, his hands so much larger than your own, his touch so comforting and safe. You missed him completely and wholeheartedly, you knew that he could never be next to you, the lines drawn between him and your family felt so much stronger now you were reunited with them, the difference between those you loved unbelievable.

You let your cousin pull you into his arms, feeling the fabric of his expensive tailored suit rubbing against your neck. He smelt like his mother but with a tang of rich spice, and his smile was contained as he looked down at you, able to mask his emotions better than Finn. Whilst you, squeezed his torso, you could feel him above you, mouthing something to your family across the room. You spun around in his grasp to catch the end of the conversation, but as soon as you did, the whispering faltered.

“Is this how it’s going to be then?” You grumbled, sucking on your tongue.

“How what’s going to be?” John replied, sipping on a mug of steaming coffee.

“This. Everything. It’s all going to go back to normal?” You said, unable to stop the fire building in the pit of your stomach. “I’m going to be left out of fucking everything.”

John snickered at your cursing and Tommy rolled his eyes, making a spectacle of pouring himself a cup of tea, adding milk and sugar and stirring it three times before answering,

“You’re not being ‘left out’ of anything. Talks about the business don’t concern you.”

“If they involve me or -,” You stopped yourself from saying his name, hating the way it prickled in your mouth like you were swallowing razor blades. “If they involve me then it is my concern.” You paused, thinking back to the snippet of conversation you had heard. “I’m not going to tell you anything, if that’s what you think.” You said, “I didn’t tell him anything about your business and I owe it to him the same.”

Tommy opened his mouth to speak, but your sister got there before he could.

“Look, (Y/N). You just got back.” Ada stroked your arm gently, shooting her brothers a look that could calm even the roughest storm. “Take some time out, you look exhausted.” You wanted to protest but she cut you off before you could, “Come and sit with me and Karl, he misses his Auntie. Let the boys deal with this for now, OK?”

You let her intertwine her fingers with yours, tugging you along softly, knowing that promises of seeing your nephew after so long would melt away any objections you had. She directed you towards the door, nodding silent agreements with Tommy, communicating with him in the way that only she could as she walked you away from the impending argument you could tell was about to start.

The living room was dark, the sky was clouded and gentle rain splattered along the windows as you sat on the floor with your knees tucked under yourself. You played checkers with Karl, the game a mundane distraction and you lost every round, your mind occupied with greater things. Ada watched from the sofa, nursing a glass of port and picking gently at her manicure, her eyes never leaving you.

“You know, if you want to ask me something, you can.” You said, feeling your sisters gaze burning holes in your back.

She clucked her tongue in thought and then called out for her son, “Karl? Can you go and ask Mary to make us some tea and bring some biscuits? The strawberry ones we like, yeah?”

You ruffled his hair as he passed you, your heart lurching with love for the small child that you had missed so much. You both waited to speak until his footsteps faded to gentle thuds down the hallway and the clock ticked softly above the mantle.

“Why didn’t you come and see me? Why didn’t you tell me you were in London?”

You sighed, “It didn’t seem as easy as that.”

“But it is as easy as that (Y/N)! You’re my sister, you should have come to see me, we were worried sick about you.”

You shifted so you were facing her, your knees stiff and you inhaled sharply in preparation for what you were about to say. “Would you have told Tommy where I was?”

She hesitated, but her silence told you more than words.

“It’s Ok, Ada. Really. I don’t blame you.” You chewed on the flesh of your lower lip, getting onto your aching legs and settling beside her, clasping your hand over hers in comfort. “I’m sorry I hurt all of you, but I had to leave or I was going to go crazy.”

Her eyes softened, and her brows furrowed. “I know the boys can be... difficult but - ”

“No buts, Ada. They were controlling my life, some weeks I never left the bloody house.”

She didn’t reply. All though you were standing firm on your reasoning, you didn’t want to see your sister upset. The truth was, Ada could have done more to protect you and she had felt guilt gnawing inside of her since the day she had discovered you were missing. You were her little sister, so close when you were both kids and then she had let the business pull you both apart, and she never regretted anything more than leaving you in Birmingham to face the lions alone.

You could tell she wanted to explain but you both knew that words couldn’t mend the blood that had spilled. You wanted to express yourself, you so badly wanted to tell her everything about Alfie, how meeting him had turned your tiny world completely on its axis, but you didn’t know how. Instead you levelled with her on the one thing you could both relate to, Tommy and his over controlling meddling.

“Do you remember how it was when you were dating Freddie?” You said, “How Tommy went ballistic when he found out? Remember how much you hated that? That was how Tommy treated me for years. I didn’t ever get a chance to grow up, he never saw me as anything but a child.”

“That’s because he loves you.”

“And I love him. But I’m not a child anymore, I haven’t been for a long time.”

You felt her squeeze your fingers, her wedding ring cold against your skin. You leant into her touch, the soft rumble of rain echoing around the two of you. She stroked your crown gently, the both of you settling into silence whilst you battled thoughts of the person you missed the most.

“Does Alfie make you happy?” She said, her voice so soft you almost missed it.

“Yes.”

He did. He made you happier than you had ever been and that terrified you. You felt as if you had stepped off a cliff when you told him you loved him, but he caught you effortlessly and held you close to his chest. But now you had ruined everything. You loathed the idea of him hating you, wishing more than anything that you could speak to him one last time, but his last words rang around in your head. He couldn’t bare to look at you, he didn’t deserve the pain of seeing you again, and you had to face up to your actions.

“I’m glad.” Ada murmured, not noticing you lost in your own head. “You deserve it.”

You buried your face into the crook of her shoulder, feeling her drag you closer and tut softly. Tears prickled painfully in your eyes and your throat was thick and swollen, but you managed to gasp out a hoarse sentence.

“No, Ada. I really don’t.”

——————————————————————-

There was blood staining Alfie’s boots.

He could see it out of the corner of his eye, a rich crimson, dripping slowly onto the floor. He didn’t know whose it was or where it had come from, only the ache in his knuckles and the knowledge that it wasn’t his was just enough to ease his aching mind.

His brain was fogged, his insides coated in liquor and his lungs thick with smoke. He was in his office but he had no idea how he had got there, and any memories of the past few days let alone few hours were clouded.

He glanced at the spot his phone was usually sat, exposed wires dangerously staring back at him and the headset completely shattered on the ground. He had lost his temper, that much was certain, the carnage around him a reminder of when he thought about calling Tommy and demanding to know where you were, but not even getting to the second ring before tearing the console from the wall and ripping it to pieces.

He could feel the bags under his eyes, but sleep was the last thing he wanted. How could he return home, get into the bed he shared with you - the woman he loved, and fall asleep? After he had told you to leave, his mouth salivating with anger, he regretted it. In that moment, as much as he was disgusted with you, as much as he felt like throwing his fist through the wall and finding out every last dirty little lie you had spun him, watching your face pale and your eyes water he knew he was still completely and hopelessly in love with you.

It took him a few minutes to get his breath back, he wasn’t that young anymore, he wasn’t as quick and as nimble as you. He made himself calm down, forced himself to inhale and exhale the rage out of him, clenching his fingers until his hands turned the colour of snow. He was going to chase after you in the street and bring you back, he was going to command the truth out of you, no matter how monumental the outcome would be. He needed you off the streets, he needed you safe, and he needed to know how you could be next to him, under him, kissing him, and still deceive him. He needed you with him, his brain rattling in his skull as he reached for his coat, ready to find you and take you home. He had barely took two steps forward, his hand just twisting the brass doorknob when the shrill sound of his phone ringing cut through the night.

Any other day and Alfie would have ignored it, but something inside of him told him to pick it up. The only people that had access to his home number were his closest confidants, the men that he employed to watch over everything and tell him if anything or anyone slipped out of line. His heart was beating like a steel drum underneath his still stained shirt, his skin tingling from the ghost of your fingerprints. He knew what the call would be before he even held the receiver to his ear, but the words still made him throw a kitchen chair at the wall, the wood splintering into a thousand pieces.

“It’s Rosie, boss. She, er... she got in a car with that Shelby bloke.”

——————————————————————-

You spent the rest of the day feeling as if glass was under your feet, shattering loudly with every step you took. You could read the anticipation on everyone’s faces, the way they would glance at you, brows furrowed, desperate to ask you a million questions. Something was awry, you could tell by the murmurs and intense looks shared between your family, but you were far too exhausted to bother prying.

You sat curled up on the window seat, watching the rain drip down into puddles. The rest of your family had scattered around the house, occasionally the door would open and Mary would bring you tea, but other than that you were left alone. You were desperate for a distraction, all you could think about was Alfie and it was driving you mad. You wanted to sneak into Tom’s office and call the bakery, you wanted to cry and scream and explain yourself until your voice gave out, but all you could think of was the pain of Alfie putting the phone down on you.

Over the rolling hills you could see a horse. Despite the rain it was grazing, a big black smear moving against the picturesque surroundings. It felt like it was taunting you, so beautiful and so free, whilst you had ended up back where you started. You didn’t have long to stay in your pity party, because you heard the squelch of boots behind you, and three long exasperated breaths.

“Fuck me. This house is massive.”

You looked back and saw Finn, looking tall and handsome as he stood holding a plate of assorted desserts with wobbling hands.

“Tommy will kill you if you fuck up his nice floors.” You said.

Finn sniffed and looked down, mud caking his patent leather shoes and grass sticking to his ankles. He shrugged playfully and hopped over the rug in the middle of the room, landing messily on the other side before squashing down beside you. He inhaled a jam roly-poly, sucking crumbs off of his thumb before replying.

“Eh. He has a maid, he won’t care.”

You watched him, noticing how his freckles had faded and the colour of his hair had deepened.“You look older.” You muttered, tilting your head to the side at your observation, the light dancing off his newly sharpened jaw and nose.

Your youngest brother wrinkled his nose, scoffing slightly. “So do you. You need a new night cream or something.”

You elbowed him, grabbing a treacle covered cake and taking a bite, feeling the velvet softness on your tongue. “Tommy got a sweet tooth?” You asked, gesturing towards the array of puddings in your brothers hands, the plate piled high with sugar.

Finn shook his head sheepishly, his gaze flittering away from yours, watching the same horse trot along the meadow. “No. I asked Mary to make some, cause’ I knew they were your favourites.”

Your body flicked like a furnace and you smiled, resting your head on his shoulder, knocking into him gently to show your appreciation. Silence settled over the both of you like a wave but it wasn’t long before Finn spoke up.

“I missed you, you know. Wasn’t the same without you.”

You inhaled, clasping his now larger fingers in yours, anchoring him to you. “Finn.” You said, regret and sadness washing over you, you so badly wanted to apologise and right the so many wrongs you had caused, but you didn’t know how.

“I’m not looking for an apology.” He spoke, his voice deeper than you remembered. “I get why you left.”

“I had to.”

“I know.”

You chewed on your upper lip, still tasting sugar on your tongue. The horse had gone by now, probably to seek refuge from the rain in his stable, and the fields suddenly looked awfully big and empty.

“What’s London like? I’ve never been.”

You paused, not knowing what to say. Finn had always been in an awkward purgatory, forced to grow up too fast in a family that was constantly rife with danger, yet never fully respected as a full fledged blinder, always regarded as the youngest boy. You dug your head into the crook of his neck, squeezing his fingers and holding him close.

“It’s big, and loud, but it’s... beautiful.” You thought back to the towering buildings and the street markets and the expensive cars, all of the things that shone like diamonds, but none of it compared to the man you were picturing in your head. “I’ll take you one day. Not just London.” You said sincerely, wanting to show Finn the world he deserved to see. “Anywhere you wanna go, London, Paris, Rome. Tokyo?”

He smiled softly, such a kind contrast to the frown that graced his face far too often. “I’ll hold you to that.”

There was a brief pause, but soon the silence was shattered by ripples of voices on the other side of the house, voices raised and words curt. You sat up suddenly, your spine going rigid. You shared a glance with Finn as the arguing continued, and you both winced as something loud and metal clattered onto the floor.

“Oh shit. I think they got Arthur out.”

—————————————————————————

You could smell the sour, coppery, tang of blood as you both ran into the hallway. You heard him before you saw him, his accent and deep, throaty voice so distinctive that it gave you goosebumps. The paintings on the wall were practically vibrating from the disruption and Tommy was trying his best to wrangle his brother who was bucking around the room like a feral stallion.

“I get my fucking hands on him - if I even see him in the fucking street, I swear to God, Tom. I swear to God I’ll put a bullet in his fucking skull.”

“Arthur.”

“They were gonna make me fucking hang, Tom!”

“Look...”

You gasped as you rounded a corner, the state of your brother sending shock waves through your flesh.

“Oh, Arthur.” You murmured. His face was bruised and swollen, deep purple patches dotted across his skin. His hair was matted and thick with blood, and his fingers were torn and scraped raw. His hard eyes softened at the sight of you, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding and grabbing you intensely, enveloping you in his arms and holding you close. You started to cry, completely overwhelmed with seeing your brother in pain, and the knowledge that it was the man you loved who had caused him to almost have a noose around his throat.

He smelt of sweat and tobacco and he was so much skinner than your remembered, but his arms still felt the same way they always had, as if he could cradle you through the roughest storm. Sobs escaped your mouth and you dug your head into his shoulder as his hands clung to your hair, you could feel your family gathering around you both but you ignored them, focusing on nothing but the man holding you. The reunion didn’t last long because before you knew it Arthur was holding your face between his palms, his eyes boring into yours.

“John told me everything in the car. Everything that that fucking cunt has done. I swear when I get my hands on him (Y/N) I will fucking tear him apart. He won’t get away with what he’s done to you.”

You faltered, your knees buckling and you struggled against his grip. “Everything he’s done to me? What are you talking about?” Your eyes darted around at the faces circled around you but no one met your line of sight, more focused on calming Arthur who was cursing like a sailor.

“Fuckin’ hell! The way he’s manipulated you, the way that he’s fucking used you!”

“Used me?” You said, shaking your head adamantly “He never used me.”

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, blood sticking to his forehead and beads of sweat pooling at his crown.“You really think that fucking Jew feels anything for you? Look at what he did to me!”

You inhaled sharply, pushing Arthur off of you. He was broken and battered and bruised but you would not have him speak about Alfie as if he was the devil, not when you knew the side of him that was gentle and loving and kind, the side that baked bread and laughed loudly and kissed you until you couldn’t breathe.

“That’s bloody rich coming from you! How many men have you killed, how many men have you left for dead?”

“(Y/N).” Tommy’s voice was stern, it was meant to make you submit, and a few years ago you would have, but not anymore.

“No, Tommy! Alfie isn’t like that! Yes, he’s... he’s done wrong and I’m disgusted by it, but I won’t let you paint him as the villain!”

“Don’t be so naive! The mans a fucking psychopath! You hardly know him!” John stepped forward, riled up with anger and ready to join Arthur on his rampage. He was determined to make you see the way they all saw Alfie, so certain that you had been manipulated beyond control, but they knew nothing.

“I love him!”

Three words were all it took to silence your family. You saw the way that they stepped back, faces filled with sympathy and disgust. Tommy stood centre, standing tall and dignified as John scoffed and Polly frowned and Arthur clenched his knuckles till they turned white. Ada took a step forward, your brilliant, beautiful sister ready to fight alongside you like she should have done all those years ago, but you wanted to be alone.

You took a step backwards,“I know that you’ll never understand it, and you’ll probably never accept it, but I love him.” Your voice was wobbly but you willed it to settle, not wanting to sound like a child. “And you don’t have to worry about ‘protecting’ me from him, I already fucked up enough that he’ll never want to see me again, so.” You awkwardly wrung your hands together, moving towards the grand staircase. “And now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go to bed and pretend that none of this ever happened. Good night.”

Finn reached for your hand as you darted up the first step, and you squeezed in response. His eyes met yours and you nodded slowly, letting him know that you were okay, or rather, you weren’t, but you would be. You avoided the prying eyes and the heated stares keeping your head down as you ran up the steps, holding in your tears until you had locked the door and slid down onto the carpet, wrapping your arms around yourself for comfort.

A few hours later and the voices had stilled. You had watched the cars disappear one by one down the driveway, expensive black tyres crackling along the gravel. Finn, Ada and Polly had both come to say goodnight, pulling you close and saying they’d see you tomorrow and that the boys would cool off eventually. Your cheek was crimson from where your Aunt had kissed you and your body was moulded to the shape of Finns gangly frame, but you felt hollow.

You knew that Tommy was still home, you could feel him in the house, his presence as obvious as the thunderstorm that still lingered in the air. By now it had well passed midnight, the moon full and round, a beacon of light against the darkness. You huffed, getting to your feet after hours of doing nothing, trying to find a way to occupy your racing mind. You had been putting off what you needed to do for too long, but you couldn’t wait any longer, and so you shrugged on a house coat and made your way downstairs.

You could hear the rhythmic tap of the typewriter, and the air was thick with tobacco as you walked down the hallway. You pushed open the study door softly, watching Tommy’s face illuminate in the moonlight, and you smirked at the unfamiliar round glasses perched on his nose.

“I thought you had an assistant? Shouldn’t she be the one staying up all hours working?” Your words were teasing and entirely untrue, you knew that Tommy would never fully hand the reins over to someone else, control ran through his veins.

“No rest for the wicked.” He said simply, rifling through papers on his desk. He glanced up at you momentarily, a gesture for you to speak.

“I need to borrow some money.” You said, clearing your throat. “I don’t have any on me, but I’ll pay you back as soon as I have my purse.”

He pushed away from the typewriter, flexing his fingers and his cobalt eyes watched you carefully. “You don’t need to pay me back.”

“Yes I do, Tom.”

He sighed like an old dog, and you wondered when he had last slept. “Alright, what are you buying?”

“A train ticket. Tomorrow morning I’m going to ring work and apologise for missing a few days, and then I’ll take the train back to London. Well, after I’ve said goodbye to everyone, properly this time.”

The room stilled. Tommy rose to his feet, his hands massaging his temple, his clipped fingernails stroking the crease above his brow.

“London isn’t safe.”

“Neither is Birmingham.” You countered.

He took a few cautious steps. You watched as he moved to his bar cart, running a finger over the ridges of a whiskey glass, pulling gently on a cork. He glanced back at you, moving one hand from his pocket, gesturing towards his lavish armchair.

“Sit.”

You bristled, stiffening ever so slightly. “No.”

His eyes flickered with annoyance and you resisted rolling yours. The room had suddenly become unbearably warm and you shuffled on your feet, like a deer sensing danger. “What have you done Tommy?”

He lowered himself into a chair and crossed a leg over his knee. He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and holding it between his lips before you could even blink. You paused, growing increasingly agitated as you waited for him to speak.

“I’ve already rang your boss.”

You hurtled forward, your blood running red hot and ice cold at the same time. “Tommy!”

His face remained impassive, but he held up his hands, signalling for you to calm down. But you didn’t want to and instead paced up and down the length of the oak flooring, muttering under your breath.

“I’ve already spoke to him. Told him that you were having some time off.”

“Told him? Tommy he’s my boss! You can’t just tell him things!”

He cleared his throat, “He didn’t have a problem with it, sends his love.” He looked down at you over the rim of his glasses with a hint of amusement and you resisted the urge to throw a satin pillow right onto his skull.

“Right, well, that’s awfully kind of him but I don’t need anymore time off, I want to go back in tomorrow.”

Whatever playfulness that the two of you had shared was long gone, and you watched the all too familiar look of authority wash over your brother.

“No.”

“No?”

“London is not safe.” He repeated, as if echoing his earlier statement would somehow make you agree. “You can’t go back there, not for a while at least.”

“That’s bullshit!” Your voice was getting increasingly higher, and you swore you could see flames flickering behind your pupils. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, Tommy.”

He huffed, getting to his feet and walking behind his desk. He rummaged around the drawers before pulling out a thick folder and dropping it down, the pages fluttering open.

“I don’t want to fight, (Y/N).”

You opened your mouth to snarl something back but his stern look made you falter, and instead your gaze dropped to the files beneath you.

“I’ve got you another job, with a publishing company just outside of Birmingham. The pay is good and I’ve found a house for you, all you need to do is sign a few papers and it’s yours.” He flicked through the documents, stopping to pull out a small black and white photo and thrusting it towards you. It wasn’t a brilliant picture, but you could tell that the cottage was beautiful. It looked almost exactly like the fairytale ones you used to dream of, and you could tell that Tommy knew that, but the problem was that your dreams had changed.

“Tommy. No. Thank you for everything, but I cant.” You moved towards him, your features softening from his actions and from the hazy glow of the moon. “I have to go back to London, it’s my home.” The words tore like a knife slicing your gut, because it wasn’t true. London had never truly been your home, not when you lived in a tiny flat and not even when you were sprawled next to Alfie in bed in his big house, the summer sun dancing in your skin and Cyril snoring at your feet.

Home had never been a place to you, it had always been a person. Home was Alfie. You knew that he hated you, but you couldn’t go another day without seeing him, without attempting to mend the hurt you had caused. You were tired of running, you were tired of lying, you just wanted to be with him, and even if he refused your apology, at least you wouldn’t spend the rest of your days wondering what could have been.

“You’re not going back to London. It’s not safe.”

“You can’t stop me, you can’t...”

“Damn it, (Y/N)! Listen to me!” His hand slammed against his desk, the noise making your body jolt from shock. “It’s not safe for you. Sabini knows where you are, he knows that you had been hiding in London. He knows that you were with Alfie.”

His words burnt you like gin at the back of your throat, but you weren’t backing down without a fight.“Why would he hurt me now? He has no reason to!”

“Just.... stay.” He said, clenching his knuckles in sync with his voice, trying to control the adrenaline rushing through his veins. “At least until we finish with the races, then Sabini will be off our backs.”

“That’s how it starts, Tom. I stay for a few weeks and then suddenly I’m moving back. I can’t stay.”

“You aren’t leaving.”

You inhaled sharply, unable to stop the anger rising in you.“What the hell is wrong with you, Tommy?”

“What about Solomon’s?” He said, standing straighter, noticing the way his name made every muscle in your body tense.

“What about him?”

“You can’t really think that things will be the same? That he won’t be angry with you?”

There was a certain venom to his tone, and it made every hair on your body stand on end. “What the hell are you insinuating?”

“I’ve done business with him, (Y/N). I know that he’s impulsive and violent. I know that he’s a fucking murderer.”

“You know nothing. He would never lay a hand on me.”

“Are you sure?”

“He loves me!” You could hear the crack in your voice like a dam ready to burst at the seams. Any second you could expect tears to flood from your eyes and your whole body to drown in sorrow.

“He loved the woman you were pretending to be.” You felt like you were going to vomit. Not only from Tommy’s harsh words but more so that you were terrified that they might be true. You had barely slept, hardly ate, because your mind was rife with worry, that Alfie would never love the woman you truly were. It’s true that you never faked your personality around Alfie, you and Rosie were just as fun, as kind and as playful, but the truth was now everything you had said was stained with lies, and you could no longer hide your family. “This isn’t a game, (Y/N). Take the job down here. I’m done for tonight,” He said, silencing you like a child, “Go back to bed.”

The hurt was surely evident on your face, and you guessed that was one of the reasons Tommy’s eyes drifted back to his work, he always had a soft spot for your sweet, sad, eyes. You blinked back tears, sucking on your tongue as if it would help ease the pain of the words you wanted to spit back. You turned, sick of looking at your brother, and moved towards the door.

“You know,” You started, glancing back over your shoulder. “Whenever Alfie came back from a meeting with you, he always spoke so highly of you. Sure he thought you were a bit of a prick, but he also thought you were so clever, and so brilliant, I could tell. I wanted more than anything to say that you were my brother, to tell him about all the amazing things you had done. I used to always look up to you, but not anymore, all you are is a controlling coward.”

You saw a flicker of emotion in Tommy’s expression, but you didn’t stick around for him to say anything, darting out of the study and slamming the door behind you, as fast and as powerful as a gust of wind. By the time you reached your room, hot tears were sliding down your face and onto your collar. You crawled into bed and hid under the covers, moaning at the unfamiliar clinical smell, your entire being aching with the want for Alfie. Your sobs were muffled by the goose feather pillows, but the tear stains that remained would forever be a mark of the heartbreak you endured, a sight of your sadness.

You wanted to hide away until morning, until the gentle sunrise would warm your shaking skin. You wanted to cry and wail but you also wanted to sleep, recover some energy so you could properly fight Tommy’s decision. You sat up with your back pressed against the headboard, trying to regulate your breathing, when the night breeze rumbled against the large window to your left. You looked through the glass, at the crescent moon outside and the long stretch of black, so reminiscent of the night you left Birmingham, so long ago. A tree branch swung and scraped across the window, leaves rustling in the wind, and you got an idea.

——————————————————————-

The thing that broke Alfie, was a photo of the two of you.

He had returned home, off his face from rum that tasted like petrol and his stomach filled with sadness that hung like an anchor in his gut. Ollie had snapped and demanded that Alfie leave the office, the older man had roared back, telling Ollie to fuck off and that he was fired, but they both knew they would see each other again on Monday.

The house smelt like you and he hated it. His kitchen was filled with the blush coloured tulips he always bought home from the market for you, and he swore he could hear your squeal of happiness ringing in his ears, feel the weight of you in his arms, taste the honey on your lips.

The bedroom was the worst. He could see the indent your body had moulded onto the mattress, and he imagined long soft hair sprawled across the pillow, your strawberry shampoo filling his senses as he pulled you into his body, feeling like he was the one place he was meant to be.

He couldn’t sleep there, not with the memories of you haunting the room like a spectre determined to make him weak. He rummaged through his drawers, looking for his long pyjama bottoms because he knew the spare room was cold, and he would no doubt long for the furnace of your skin against his. He mumbled under his breath, rifling through the lace and silk that had somehow made its way into his drawers. He refused to look at the pastel colours and the sundresses that were always so dizzyingly short, he refused to think of you, barefoot and loose haired in a skirt that made you look like an angel, made him ache with the uncontrollable need to touch you and make sure you were real. He didn’t want to think of you with your hair tied back with a satin scarf, showing off every inch of the most beautiful face he had ever seen and would repeatedly tell you so, even when you would turn red and disagree, pointing out the flaws that he would never, ever see.

He snapped his hands out far too quickly and angrily, the chest of drawers heaving and wobbling, and he swore as he tried to keep it from shattering on the ground. Shirts and vests and trousers spilled onto the floor and he rolled his eyes in frustration, sending a sharp kick against the edge of the wood, undoubtedly breaking his toe if he wasn’t wearing his steel capped boots. He was so fucking angry. So fucking irate that he almost missed the small square in the ground, the corner barely peeking out from under a pile of grey. He hesitated, guessing what it was and knowing that the pain would slash against this throat like a blade, but he was a masochist and before he knew it he had picked it up and turned it over.

It was from Margate, when the two of you had been walking along the pier before you had spotted a man talking photos. Alfie had flat out refused, but he was a goner when you battered your eyelashes and tugged on his hands. He stood next to you, so much larger and broader and rougher but you pulled him close, pressing your lips to his cheek as the flash went off. The result was a rare genuine smile you had managed to coax out of him, the twinkle in his eye evident even in black and white, the tug on his lips so endearing. You looked so beautiful next to him, your hair filled with sand and smelling like ocean water and the wax of your lipstick no doubt leaving a mark on his face, but he swore it was the happiest he had ever been.

He fell to his knees, his body giving out from exhaustion and heartache, his massive hands swallowing the photo whole. He was still so angry, he could feel it coursing through him like red hot blood, but he still loved you, he loved you so much that it made his brain fog over. He was furious with you and he felt betrayed, but all of that was eclipsed by the overwhelming knowing that you were the love of his life. His soulmate. Something he used to roll his eyes and scoff over, but it was true, you and him were meant to be together.

He didn’t give a fuck who your family were, couldn’t give a shit if they didn’t want the two of you together. He needed you back beside him, and he didn’t care who got in his way.

——————————————————————

You hardly slept, and by the time the sun rose at six, you were awake to watch the sky light up. You dressed quickly, running your fingers through the knots in your hair and across your aching limbs. You were perched by the window, waiting to catch Tommy leaving for his morning ride, a habit he didn’t break no matter whether he was in a manor or in the shit filled streets of small heath. No matter how rich or busy Tommy got, you knew that he loved his horses more than almost anything, and the thoroughbreds in his stables were a physical reminder of his climb to the top.

It didn’t take long for you to hear the creak of the front door, and the gravel crunching under his heavy footsteps. You saw him exhale the chilly morning air, watched as it whipped around his face and saw the peaked cap on his head bounce with his movements. You stood still as you watched him disappear around the side of the house, towards the stables perched atop of the rolling fields behind his mansion. You counted to thirty, and when you didn’t see a three piece suit strolling back to the house, you jumped to your feet and thundered down the stairs.

In a marble bowl by the front door, next to a brass horse figurine and a vase with Chinese letters adorning the side, were an array of car keys. You’d spotted them the very first day you came back, the silver and gold twinkling under the low lights, probably a million pounds worth of cars parked outside, and Tommy just left his keys scattered in a bowl.You fished out the biggest one, checking your left and rights in case Mary was waiting in the shadows, but the sound of clattering dishes and running water was an indication that you weren’t going to get caught; not yet at least.

The front door was heavy, but your body was pumping with adrenaline and as you heaved it open, you felt sixteen again. Memories blurred your vision, sneaking out of your bedroom window, climbing down the guttering and scratching your arm raw on Polly’s thorn bushes, walking down the street barefoot, clutching your heels in your hands. None of that mattered anymore, not as y reached the first car and twisted the key in the lock, and then the second and then the third, and then finally felt the satisfying click from the fourth, and clambered onto the leather seats. You didn’t have a license, your only driving experiences had been when John given you a lesson in Johnnys field, and you had smashed the wind mirror on his caravan, and when Michael let you drive for a few miles when you were both on your way to the races, but hey, you were a quick learner.

You started it up, the engine humming and purring and you swore you could feel Alfie underneath you, your back pressed against the steering wheel, his hands in your hair and his teeth biting your open lip. You ignored everything though, focusing on the gear stick and the pedals at your feet, and squealing as you messily spun the car around, smacking into another one and then jetting down the driveway.

You weren’t going to London in the car, you would most definitely end up overturned in a ditch or on a stretcher for a months stay in hospital, and there was only one place you could think of. You and Isabella had kept in contact over your year apart, ringing each other whenever something significant happened in either of your lives, like when she met her boyfriend, or when you first kissed Alfie. She was the only person you trusted with such sacred information, she had held her own amongst your brothers since she was a teen and you knew she would hold up in an interrogation, one that she told you that they had given her the very first night you left.

You followed the signs to Birmingham, the journey taking much longer than it should, and giving yourself whiplash multiple times when a bird flew too close to the wheels. The plan was to visit your friend, borrow some money and then take the first train back to London. You needed to see Alfie, your desperation was reaching critical levels, and you longed to see his face, even if it was plastered in hurt. You needed to see him.

Isabelle lived in the back streets, near the cut, and you parked along a road just far away enough from the public eye. The sky was a muted, milky blue and the soft darkness of night still blurred at the edges. Your heart was thumping like a freight train and your blood was rushing in your ears, the noise almost deafening.

Which was why you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you, not until a hand was clasped over your mouth and your head slammed into the concrete, blood dripping from your crown.

——————————————————————-

Alfie swore he was driving into a cloud of smoke, he swore that the sky was tinted with blood as he drove further north. He’d been driving through the early hours of the morning, and his eyes were blurry from his lack of sleep, but the adrenaline inside of him was stronger than any expensive coffee he could buy. He knew where Tommy lived, he had sent over a barrel of rum after their first meeting, as much a taunt as it was a token of their partnership.

Of course Tommy Shelby had flown from the narrow streets of central Birmingham, and Alfie was forced to resort to his old and faded map as he attempted to navigate his way. He thought of you, as brambles scraped over his windshield and he passed a small stream, he had no idea what he was going to say, what he was going to do, but he knew that he had to get you home.

He had no doubt that your brothers wouldn’t let you go without a fight, and his gun shrugged against his stomach as he moved, a reminder of just what he was willing to do to have you back in his arms. He had no intention of killing your brothers, but he was certain that they would be more than happy to put a bullet between his eyes. Ollie had called and told him that Arthur had been released, and he knew that the oldest Shelby would be on him like a rabid dog if he didn’t keep his guard up.

He saw a large manor and scoffed. The chimneys looked like they were in the clouds, and the house was reflecting gold under the low sun. His fingers were twitching with anticipation, his body was still filled with uncertainty and deception, but the knowledge that you were only a few yards from his was enough to make his blood bubble and his toes curl.

The car skidded across the gravel as he pulled it to a hasty stop, so small under the massive house looming above. He hesitated, only momentarily, collecting his thoughts and clasping his cane with his hand, stroking the brass lion to ground himself. His fingers toyed with the handle, ready to pull open the doors, but before he could, the front door swung open.

—————————————————————-

You blinked. Once, twice, three times. You were surrounded by darkness, black seeping into your eyes and blurring your vision. You were cold. There was no breeze and the air was steady and stagnant, and you could feel the goosebumps rising on your flesh. You went to run your hands over through your hair and inspect the wound that you could feel, but your wrists were bound.The ache in your skull was intense, a rhythmic thumping that made your eyes water and your fingers wobble. You glanced around, letting your eyes adjust to your surroundings. You were too exhausted to feel panicked, and your wrist was throbbing as you moved it. You winced as you flexed, barely able to stretch out without yelping in pain.

The floor was heavy concrete, and you were sitting on some kind of tarp, thin enough that you could feel the indents beneath you. You strained your eyes for some kind of clue as to where you were, everything smelt stale and empty and the chill around you made you think that the place had been vacant for a long time.

You had no suspicions as to who had taken you, the unfamiliar Italian words still ringing in your ears. You felt nauseous, not just from your head wound but from the feeling of their hands on you, fingers bruising into your skin, grasping at the root of your hair and slamming you into a wall. You remembered trying to fight back, biting down on a palm and kicking with all you could muster, but you were shouted at, and punished with a sharp slap across the face.

There were no windows and you couldn’t tell how long you had been out for, but all you knew was that you were desperate to fall back asleep. You thought of the nights when Arthur came home from the ring, battered and bruised and bloody. Ada holding a damp cloth to his head as you cleaned his knuckles, your sister reminding you that he had to stay awake, he couldn’t fall asleep.

You were too tired though, to tired to try and fight the fatigue that was taking over your body. You felt so tender that sleep was the only thing you wanted, the pain in your skull overtaking everything else in your body. You groaned, the rope cutting into your wrist and burning your skin as you moved, so you tried to stay as still as possible. You could feel your eyelids growing heavy, and the room was spinning around you.

All you thought of as you gave in to the overwhelming exhaustion, was that Tommy had been right all along. You choked out something between a cough and a sob, the pain so intense that you were begging for sleep to take over. You thought of your family, happy memories playing like a lullaby in your head. The last thing you saw before you drifted off was Alfie, the two of you laughing and dancing in the surf at Margate, pure unadulterated bliss.

————————————————————-

The room was thick with palpable tension, and usually Alfie would be the one to fill the silence with some kind of joke or sarcastic remark, but right now all he saw was red. Tommy was on the other side of the room, and for once he looked... disheveled. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned at the top, and his hair was slightly askew. He might go as far as saying that Tommy looked upset, and his concern for you was the only thing stopping Alfie from throttling your brother.

“How could you have fucking lost her?” Alfie said, chewing on the words and spitting them out.

Tommy sucked on his lip, stepping forward with intensity in his eyes. “I didn’t lose her. She stole a car.”

Part of Alfie wanted to smirk at your escape attempt, but worry was taking over all of his emotions. He ran a hand over his face and shifted his weight, thinking back to the way you ran when he had his first meeting with Tommy, suddenly all of the pieces falling into place. He felt unbelievably haggard, his body begging for you wrapped around him and the sweet embrace of sleep. He swore that when he found you he was going to drag you back to his house and keep you in his bed for at least a week.

“How could you be so fucking stupid? Not keeping an eye on your own fucking sister?”

Tommy’s face flashed red. He was always civil around Alfie, and the two of them had even become somewhat dysfunctional friends, but he wasn’t fond of this sudden ambush. Tommy thrived on his family’s safety, and he was splitting hairs the second Mary had quivered and told him that you were missing.

“Well she was in a bit of a state, wasn’t she?”

Alfie choose to ignore the comment, for both of their sakes.“Right well, where do you think she’s gone? She doesn’t even have a bloody license.” Alfie said, trying not to picture your beautiful body sprawled on the road, glass and blood sparkling all around you.

Tommy ran a hand over his eyes, feeling exhausted, you always had a way of making him feel a hundred years older than he was. “London.” His voice was muffled by the cigarette he had put in his mouth, desperate for the relief of nicotine if he wanted to get through this little chat with Alfie.

Alfie put a finger to his ear, pulling it mockingly. “Eh?”

“London. She asked me for money for a train ticket before she ran off.”

“Well that’s fucking good then isn’t it, at least she’ll be out of this shit hole.” Alfie’s heart was thumping in his chest. You wanted to go back to London, you must have wanted to see him, and his stomach twisted into knots at the thought. He grasped his cane firmly, getting ready to walk to the front door. “What the fuck are we doing standing here then?”

“I didn’t give her the money.” Tommy said, facing the large windows behind his desk, the ones that showed the magnificent grounds all around his house.

Alfie hesitated mid step. “What?”

“This is her home.”

“Ha. Not anymore.”

Tommy exhaled through his teeth, turning to face the taller man, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Tommy’s arrogance and haughtiness about the situation made Alfie’s fingers twitch over the top of his gun, but he waited for him to speak.“And what? You think her home is with you?”

Alfie almost bit through his tongue. “Listen mate, its not a good time to fucking piss me off, right.”

“She was heartbroken when she came home. Because of you. Although I’m sure this isn’t the first time.”

“Well she always seemed fine sleeping next to me.” Alfie said, hoping the idea of you and him tangled under his cotton sheets would be enough to make Tommy fume. He smiled at the flicker of emotion in your brothers eyes, loving that he had gotten a rise out of him.

“You don’t expect me to believe that this was anything more than a “fling”. She’s my fucking sister and I won’t let you treat her like dirt. I know you, Alfie.”

Alfie felt his stomach bubble, he felt physically sick at what Tommy was insinuating. The idea of hurting you in anyway was unthinkable and he was filled with rage at Tommy’s insult. “I wouldn’t lay a fucking hand on her.”

Tommy looked him up and down, “You’re a good business partner Solomon’s, but that’s all.”

“Fuck this and fuck you.” Alfie spat, “I’ll find her and take her home, with me, where she belongs. Why the fuck do you think she left, eh Tom? Maybe because you and your family are fucking poisonous.”

“You think that you can protect her? That you won’t hurt her again?”

“I’m not some stupid fucking gyp. I know how to take care of family.”

“We’re her family.”

“Right. You just let her fuck off to London and get in bed with a gangster. You may not think I’m much, Tom, but I would never hurt her.”

“She’s not going back with you.”

“Who the fuck are you? Her fucking dad? I just think you’re pissed that she doesn’t think the sun shines out of your ass anymore Tommy boy, I think you’re upset that she’s being looked after by someone who isn't you.”

“Solomon’s, I swear to God - ”

The shouting was cut off by a flurry of footsteps and gasps for air. Both men turned to face the door, where a pale faced Finn hurtled across the threshold. Tommy furrowed his eyebrows at his youngest sibling, his blood cooling at the sight of his grey skin and wide eyes. Before either of them could speak, they noticed the crimson stained fabric in his hands, and the wobble in his voice.

“It’s (Y/N!)”

————————————————

The stains marking the material were deep and black like spilt gasoline and that was enough to send both men into overdrive. The bickering stopped, instead the room was filled with mutual wrath and worry, the men rattling around like wasps trapped inside of a beer bottle.

“Regards, Sabini.” Were written crudely on a label attached to the seam, the simplicity of the message just as effective as if he had written a long ransom note. Finns face was devoid of all colour, and yet he seemed to appear translucent as Alfie held his cane to the teens neck, the wood pressed harshly against his jugular.

“Where the fuck did you get this?”

Finn scrambled to breathe, loud choked gasps escaping his throat. He tried to push Alfie off of him, but it was impossible, the older man filled with such rage that it had boiled his blood, his need to find you stronger than it had ever been, possessing him like a beast.

Tommy’s hand wrapped around Alfie’s shoulder, hoisting him back and snapping at him to calm down. The room was spinning and red hot, and Alfie had to clench his fingers so tightly that he thought they might snap in half to resist slamming Tommy’s head through his desk, watching his brains splatter across his fucking expensive floral curtains.

“Calm down? Calm fucking down? Your fucking sister has been taken by the wops!”

“Sabini won’t hurt her!” Tommy roared, not able to control the anger in his pitch. Alfie wasn’t listening to him, and he hated when people didn’t listen to him. “Not unless he wants to die. He’s smarter than that, this is just a threat.”

He watched the baker pace back and forth with such vigour that he was surprised the wood didn’t spark and catch alight. Tommy liked to keep his emotions private, he liked to analyse things in his own time and Alfie’s obvious rage was making his skin crawl. He was going to find you, there was no doubt in his mind that he would bring you home, even if it meant burning through the streets, striking every man who stood in his path. He was worried about you, he loved you and wanted you safe, but the thing that was making him feel ever so slightly uncomfortable was that he could see the same emotions flickering on Alfie’s face.

“She’s going to be alright, Alfie.” His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, and in another scenario Alfie would have teased him relentlessly about it; made a joke about him going soft. But Tommy knew what you were like, he knew that you had a way of worming you way into someone’s head and blurring the rest of their thoughts. Everyone who knew you felt the same way, entranced and infuriated and enamoured by you, a desire to protect you and keep you safe, no matter how irritating you could be.

Alfie didn’t appreciate the sentiment though, holding his cane to Tommy’s face like it was a cocked rifle. “You better fucking hope so. If there’s one hair out of place on her fucking head right, I’ll kill you myself.”

—————————-——————————————

They found the warehouse an hour later.

Tommy had sent Blinders round the streets, threats on their life if they came up empty handed or without the blood of their rivals staining their skin. Sabini only had a few lock ups in Birmingham. Tommy had made note of them the first time the two of them had crossed paths, he liked to keep his eye on his opponents. He knew Sabini was no fool, despite his disdain for the Italian he was sure that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to lay a finger on you.

The largest one was a few streets away from one of the factories that the Blinders owned, Sabini was using it as storage for “livestock and agricultural goods” but Tommy knew that was a front for stolen guns and illegal gambling. He’d been on the phone to John and Michael before Alfie had arrived, and they were tearing through the streets on a rampant search for you, their mission was to put the fear of God into any of the Italians, send a warning about what happened when you messed with a Shelby.

The car lulled to a stop as Tommy steered round an alley. His eyes flickered to the rear view window and spotted Alfie mirroring his actions, their cars parked side by side. Tommy had wanted to find you alone, but even suggesting that to Alfie was sure to get him a knife in his gut. He could feel the apprehension steaming from Alfie’s skin like boiling water as they silently made their way to the side door, both of their hands hovering over their weapons.

Right as Tommy reached for the metal handle, their eyes met, a silent consensus taking place. Despite their disagreements, their business rivalry and current hostility for one another, there was one thing they had in common: They would both do anything to keep you safe.

There was a man watching you. You couldn’t recall when he had arrived, but you could feel his eyes on you in the dark, two orbs of emerald green as striking as a cats’. You had been asleep, but suddenly awoken to the clang of metal and the tangy smell of stale bread. You chewed softly, the dough turning to crumbs in your throat, and you drank as much water as you could muster, sipping from the jug you had been handed greedily. Your wrist was throbbing and so was your head, and with the ache of hunger subsiding a little, you closed your eyes once again.

You drifted in and out of sleep for a while, and jolted awake due to the pain in your skull, you winced as you felt hot, wet, blood seeping from your wound, and that was when you noticed the man. You tried calling out for him, asking for some bandage or a cloth to use as a tourniquet but he simply scolded you under his breath and looked away. You swore, giving him the middle finger despite the darkness around you both and your bound hands. You reached for the end of your skirt, trying to tear the hem, but your hands were so wound so tightly that you could hardly move and wriggled desperately in protest.

You searched for any kind of friction to loosen the rope, running your hands along the cement in hopes that it would fray the knots a little, but it was an almost impossible task with your snapped wrist. Your struggled grunts and pained whimpers alerted the man on the other side of the room, and he stood up from his chair, his eyes darkening when he realised what you were doing.

“Piccola cagna.” He spat, his footprints strong and heavy. You looked him in the eye as he approached, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you scared.The veins on his forehead were strained and you could see the nastiness residing in him as he came closer, no longer hidden in the shadows. He reached out for you, his hands grazing against yours but a loud bang stopped him in his tracks.

“Take one more fucking step, right, and I’ll blow your fucking brains back to Rome.”

You froze. That voice. You know that voice. You’d heard that voice in your ear, rich like dark chocolate, you’d heard it breathless and filled with bliss, you’d heard it mixed with laughter that made your whole body tingle.

“Alfie?” You called, your own voice so raspy and weak.

“Pet?”

Your heart stopped.

There was a sliver of light down the end of the room, but not enough so that you could see anything more than the Italian about to throttle you, but you clung to that voice like it was a life raft. The man before you held up his palms, wrinkling his noise in distaste as he backed away from you ever so slowly.

“Alfie, grab him.” Another voice added, so cool and calm and collected. “Let me go to her.”

Tommy? You almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation.

“Yeah, not gonna happen, mate.”

You heard the scuffle of feet against the floor, figures moving in the dark. You tried to crawl forward slightly and locate the noise, but you were stopped by the silhouette in front of you. It only took a second for him to move his hand slightly into the waistband of his trousers, before you heard the unmistakable bang of a gun. Something hot and wet splashed onto your face, droplets spraying across your skin. You gulped on air, watching as the man sunk to his knees a few feet from you, a hole in his chest.

You fell backwards, off balanced by your tied wrists and momentum. You could hear shouting in the distance, outside of the room, the gunshot obviously drawing a crowd.

“Ah, fuck. There’s more of them.” It was Tommy, but his voice sounded as though it was underwater, your ears were still ringing from the sound of the bullet slicing through flesh. You heard footsteps, muffled voices, all fading to static in the background. You wanted to call out to Tommy, tell him not to leave you, that it wouldn’t be safe and you didn’t want him to get hurt, but all your words died in your throat.

You let out some kind of noise, sitting up as much as you could, pulling at your restraints. You huffed at the welts marking your skin, and you tried to scramble forward, but a figure emerging from the darkness made time stand still.

He looked so familiar. He looked like home. He also looked exhausted. There were bags under his eyes, and bruising on his skin, but he still was the most beautiful man you had ever seen. His beard was longer, salt and pepper hair sprouting under his lips, you fingers missing the feeling of running through it. His eyes were wide, frantic and desperate, but they steadied like a calm ocean when they locked on you, relief evident on his features. You were hesitant, wondering if this was some kind of mirage, some kind of final punishment before you died, the man you loved dangled in front of you before you were taken away.

He sunk to his knees like the man he had shot, but this time he had been taken out by the sight of you, not a bullet.

His eyes ran across your face, drinking you in like water. His face hardened at the sight of your face, battered and bruised, and his whole body caught alight. You could see the clench of his jaw, the pure unbridled fury in his eyes, the way that he inhaled sharply, the darkness not even showing the worst of your injuries.

Your eyes met, and everything that transpired was forgotten, he was still upset, still felt betrayed, but none of that compared to seeing you before him. He had to grab you, had to feel you under him and hold you so close, he couldn’t go another day without you. He bent down and wrapped a gentle hand behind your neck and stepped closer, resting his forehead against yours. He breathed you in, needing the closeness of your bodies to calm the fury that was rushing through him, the pure anger he wants to take out on those who hurt you. He’s careful but forceful, pulling you close. You can’t wrap your hands around him like you want to, and there’s a bitter tang of blood and sweat between your bodies, but you have never felt safer.

“You came.” You murmured, voice muffled by his body.

“Of course I did.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and to him it was, he would follow you to the end of the earth.

He was so close to you, his lips brushing against yours, his large hands cradling you into him. He was desperate to get you home and get you safe, but the tantalising distance of your bodies was making him drunk, and you’ve missed him so much you feel like a hopeless addict. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone and his eyes darkened quickly, his teeth clenched.

“Did somebody fucking hit you?”

“I’m fine, Alfie, I’m fine. Let’s just go home.”

He doesn’t want to drop it, he’s furious and fired up and tempted to unload his gun into the body lying still next to you both, but the urgency in your voice keeps him calm. He touched the top of your head softly, frowning as you winced and his fingers felt damp and sticky. He’s thinking that you’ve lost a lot of blood, but he doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t want to scare you and also doesn’t want to scare himself. He worked on loosening the rope around your wrist, trying first with his fingers before using his knife,terrified of accidentally nicking you in the dark. Outside you heard a crash, and your heart hammered wildly. You tried to stand to get a better view but Alfie held you down firmly.

“Tommy.” You gasped, trying to catch a glimpse of your brother.

“He’ll be fine.” Alfie said, his voice like warm honey. “Your brother might be a class A dickhead, but he’s a fucking pit bull.”

You smiled faintly, a wave of nausea crashing over you. Alfie noticed your grimace and his pace quickened, moving onto the tightest knot. He huffed, as his fingers refused to prise it open and reluctantly reached into his pocket for his knife.

The action took barely ten seconds but it’s enough time for a door to open behind you. The light illuminated the dark, and you could see a flash of horror across Alfie’s face.

“Fucking hell. Get back.”

Alfie reached out for you, but someone grabbed the rough of your collar, dragging you to your feet. You yelped, kicking out your legs as hands grasped the root of your hair, the pain instant and making your wound throb harshly.

“Get your fucking hands off her.” You could see Alfie scramble to his feet, any softness he had for you replaced by pure fury, his hand dragging out his pistol effortlessly. You felt a hand clasp around your throat and tighten, the feeling so awful and foreign as you tried to gasp for air.

Alfie wanted nothing more than to shoot the bastard, but you were too dangerously close to him, and he couldn’t risk the bullet accidentally hitting you, it would kill him. He tried to think as fast as he could, his eyes flittering from the mans knees to his elbows to his throat, determined to find an open target.

You struggled in the mans grip, the pain shooting through all of your nerves, and you did the only thing you could think of. You lifted your heel, striking him in the groin with as much strength as you could muster. He howled in pain, his hand digging into your throat, slamming you into the ground.

“Don’t look.” Was all you heard as your head hit the floor and you closed your eyes. Alfie wasted no time, firing a bullet through his skull, the sound making the walls vibrate around you. You were splattered with more blood, but you kept still, trying to stop the pounding in your head.

You felt hands all over you, cradling you close, whispers and murmurs of comfort in your ear followed by strangled cries to someone else. You tried to stay awake but you couldn’t. He smelt like home. Like warm bread and sweet mint and overripe peaches. He felt like home, like kisses at midnight and watching the stars and dancing in the kitchen to the lull of the radio. You didn’t want to die, you didn’t want to leave your family and you didn’t want to leave Alfie. But if you did, wrapped in his arms with your head in his neck, at least you would die feeling him one last time.

————————————————————-

The sunlight was soft on your skin when you woke up. There was a needle in your arm, tight and prickly in your flesh, and you felt as though you had been scrubbed raw. Your throat was dry and your lips were so chapped that you could taste blood, but at least the pain in your skull had subsided a little. There was a jug of water by your bed, and you gulped greedily, loving the feeling in your throat.

You swung your bare feet onto the carpet and tried to leave the bed you were trapped in. You were in one of Tommy’s guest rooms, judging by the excessive decor and thick duvet practically suffocating you. The room was empty, save for an abundance of flower arrangements and chairs facing the bed, evidence that you hadn’t been alone. You called out, your voice thick with sleep but there was no answer, the house eerily quiet.

Despite your arm wrapped in a sling and the aches of protest every time you moved, you were desperate to find someone, anyone. There was a chill in the air, or maybe it was just the stiffness of your bruised bones, and you shivered as you tiptoed down the stairs. You could hear the soft chime of the grandfather clock and the gentle hush of running water and you wondered sadly if you were truly alone, until you heard a low rumbling roar.

“Oh, fuck that!”

You smiled, recognising the voice instantly. You followed it down the thin hallway like a lighthouse luring you to shore, not even flinching when you heard another rivalling shout.

“Don’t fucking start with me.” Arthur.

“I’m not. I’m finishing it.” You pursued the noise, following it down the corridor into the kitchen like you had only a few nights prior.

“You’re a fucking psychopath.”

“Is that the best you’ve got? Fucking pathetic, mate.” A hearty laugh.

“She’s not leaving.”

“She’s coming home. With me.”

You pushed open the door to the kitchen, listening to it whine on its hinges. “Does she get a say in any of this?” You asked.

Eight pairs of eyes snapped towards you. All of your siblings were crowded around the table, as well as your cousin and Aunt, but stood at the head, looking entirely out of place and burly and beautiful, was Alfie. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his eyes burning holes in your skin as you made your way further into the room. His hand tightened ever so slightly over his cane and his jaw was clenched, but there was a certain softness to him, an ease of calm washing over him at the sight of you.

“What the bloody hell are you doing up?” John asked, putting down his tea and storming towards you. You rolled your eyes and pushed him away, slightly embarrassed by his overprotective fussing.

“All the bloody shouting woke me up.” You teased.

“Ah. Right. Sorry.” Arthur sounded awkward, his eyes not meeting yours. You could see the faint bruising on his skin and your heart tore. He had been through so much.You could tell he was avoiding you, so you moved by his side and squeezed his shoulder, wanting to bury the hatchet. He smiled at you, softly and kindly, and you leant into his touch.

“You should be in bed.” Finn strode over to you, a cautious grin on his face as he looked you up and down. “You look like shit.”

You scoffed, holding him under your good arm. “Aw, thanks. I love you too.”

The room was quiet and awkward, the conversation you had interrupted still hung in the air like a bad smell and the silence you were receiving from Tommy was unnerving. You felt a hand on your shoulder, and a waft vanilla perfume drifted around you as you leant into Ada’s touch, grateful for her stepping in.

“We were all worried about you, (Y/N), but you’ve always been a fighter.” She said, running a gentle hand over the sling cradling your arm. She looked around at her family, her eyes darkening slightly at the obvious tension. “Shall we go and sit down?”

You smiled and shook your head, your eyes drifting to the man anchoring you on the other side of the room. “I���m alright, really. Can I... Can I be alone for a moment? With Alfie.”

“No.”

“Shut up, John.” Ada snapped, as your older brother huffed in annoyance. “C’mon, let’s all go upstairs and have some lunch.” She prompted, trying to corral your reluctant family members out of the room. Her voice deepening when they all stayed rooted to the spot. “Now.”

One by one they shuffled out, giving you tender hugs and empathetic glances, and you didn’t miss the death stare that Alfie was receiving, even though it merely made him smirk. Last to get up was Tommy. He had a faint scratch on his throat, but he shook his head when you went to question him. He stood before you, holding you at arms length as he looked you over. “C’mere you.” He said, pulling you close. You melted into his arms like butter, breathing in the scent of cigarettes and sweet gin. “I’m glad you’re alright.” He murmured into your hair, pressing a kiss to the tender spot on your scalp.

You hugged your brother tightly. The warm comfort of his body and the affection he was showing you in front of Alfie was more than just a hug. It was an apology. You had been taken when he should have been looking after you, and even though you adamantly disagreed that he was to blame, Tommy craved control and order, and almost losing you had upset the balance that he had painstakingly created.

He still didn’t trust Alfie as anything more than a business partner, but he had seen the way that Alfie had torn through the streets looking for you, he had seen the pure carnal fire that flickered in him when he realised you were gone. He knew that Alfie had sat by your bedside for the entire two days you had been unconscious, not leaving the room as you had an emergency blood transfusion or when the Polly ordered him to rest. He watched the way he didn’t even pick a fight with Arthur, didn’t tease John or mock Finn, instead spending all of his time and energy on you, his hand in yours as you slept.

He’d ordered a family meeting that morning, and that was the only time Alfie had moved from the chair he was practically moulded into. It was also the first time Arthur and him had been in the same room, and Tommy had to hold his brother back by the scruff of his neck as though he was a rabid dog. Arthur and John were adamant that you were to staying in Birmingham, and Alfie had laughed for the first time in a week, telling them that as soon as you woke up, he was taking you home. Tommy had been watching him like a hawk as the argument unfolded around him, controlled and calculated, and for the first time in years, he wondered if maybe he had made a mistake.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, a thumb stroking your hand before he turned and left the room. His eyes flickered to Alfie’s, the two of them connecting like they had before they stormed the warehouse, and after a moment, he walked out of the door.

The silence was deafening. Alfie watched you, his stare as intense as a blazing fire. You were on opposite sides of the room but it felt like miles, and a tight ball of nerves knotted in your stomach.

“Hi.” Your voice was weak, and yet it almost bowled him over.

He grabbed a chair, sliding it out from the mahogany table and glancing up at you. “You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sit.”

You sat. You kicked out the chair next to you, beckoning him to join you and he rolled his eyes, settling down beside you. There were a million things you wanted to say, but the words were trapped in your throat like cotton balls, so you settled for the only thing that seemed right.

“I’m sorry.”

He opened his mouth but you wouldn’t let him speak. “No. I need to say this. I...I never meant to hurt you, I swear. I wanted to tell you, more than anything.”

“You should have told me.” He said, after a moment of silence. “Why didn’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you Alfie. But losing you would have killed me.”

“You wouldn’t have lost me.” His voice was smaller than you had ever heard, and it broke your heart in two.

“But I didn’t want to take that risk.” You sighed, “After you told me you had a meeting with Tommy, I just - I just couldn’t cope. That’s why I stopped speaking to you. You’re too good for me. I thought if I told you, then you would push me away or make me leave, and I was more afraid of losing you than I ever was of my family.”

You tentatively moved from your chair, your brain on autopilot. You stood in between his legs, a homage to the very first time the two of you had kissed in his office.“I was an idiot and I was a coward. I’ve never had someone that I was scared of losing. I’ve never fallen in love before.” You moved your hands so that they brushed his, and his arms snaked around your waist, tightening and pulling you into him. You rested on his lap, and he ran his eyes across the bruising on your skin, taking sharp, rapid breaths.

“I understand if you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.” He touched the purple swelling below your eye, wanted to kiss the scars and the dried blood that stained your beautiful face, touching you as if you were made of glass. “I was fucking fuming, but I almost lost you, and that was a hell of a lot scarier than my fucking bruised ego.” His lips ghosted over yours, he was drunk on the feeling despite not even having a hit, you were so fucking intoxicating to him.“You’ve had me wrapped around your finger since the day we met, right. And call me a fucking fool but I don’t think there’s a better place to be.”

You pulled him into you. He wanted to be gentle, not hurt you and your wounds, but you were insatiable. The kiss was clashing teeth and biting lips and your bodies reacting to every single touch. It was overwhelming, both of you needed to feel each other, needed to know that the other was there and that they weren’t leaving.

After a moment he pulled away, tugging on your bottom lip with his teeth, claiming you as his. He rested his forehead onto yours, a swirl of protection and love coursing through his veins. “Come home. Can’t fucking do any of this shit without you.”

“No.” You felt him stiffen under you, and you bent down, grasping his chin and tilting his head. “Not yet. I need to be with my family,” You looked into his eyes. “I need all of my family around me. I can’t leave them the way I did, not again. We’ll go back to London in a few days, but right now, I want to be with everyone I love.”

“Ok.” He breathed.You kissed him again, feeling him smile into you, his beard scratching the softness of your face.

“You know your family will never fucking trust me right?” He murmured. You adjusted your sling, manoeuvring your body so that you could wrap an arm around his neck. 

“They just need to get to know you like I do. You’ll fit in just fine.” 

“I’m not sleeping in a fucking caravan.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, dragging a finger down his open lip. “Don’t be a dick.” He laughed, his eyes filled with love. He dragged you in for another bruising kiss, so passionate you moaned into his mouth. 

“Yeah, thats not going to give off the best impression.” You giggled, pulling away from him as he pouted like a child.

“Fuck it, they wont mind, we’re family now.” He wiggled his eyebrows and bent down, moulding your bodies together in the way that they should be, tied with an invisible rope, never apart. 

You knew that eventually you would have to leave your bubble. You didn’t doubt that the rest of the day would be filled with vicious arguments and hostility, but you were reunited with your family and the man you loved, and you couldn’t be happier. The two of you were a train wreck waiting to happen, especially given your differing families and business’, but you knew that you didn’t want it any other way. You were the soft in his world of sharp, and he was the bright white light in the darkness that followed you. He would do anything or you, even if that meant faking a smile around your brothers or buttoning his lip when he really wanted to start an argument. 

You had found one another, and you weren’t letting go. 

You were sat with the windows open in the guest room. The sun was setting and the fields below sparkled an emerald green. Your legs were intertwined with Alfie’s, your feet playfully touching his and making him squirm. You both drank strawberry wine, and picked at the cheese board you had stolen from downstairs, sharing a makeshift picnic inside the mansion. Alfie’s hand was wrapped around your waist, the scent of your hair and skin keeping him grounded, the feel of your body next to his almost biblical. Your pulses were synced, and every time your skin brushed against one another it sparked like a match. You rested your head on his chest, listening to the magpies and the crickets and the steady thump of his heart. You jumped however, as Alfie started wheezing uncontrollably.

“This bread is fucking shit. Way too much flour. Fucks sake.”

You laughed, “Take it up with Mary!”

“Oh I fucking will.”

“What should I call you?” He pondered after a moment of quiet, breathing in your smell like it was the finest perfume.

You blinked at him, confused.

“Can’t fucking call your Rosie now can I? That’s not your fucking name.”

A wave of heat rose to your cheeks and you stiffened, all of your past lies making you cringe. Alfie sensed your discomfort and squeezed you playfully, pinching your inner thigh.

“(Y/N)”

He looked at you, wrapped in his arms, with your big eyes and gentle smile and his heart skipped a beat. He leant down, his lips claiming yours and he tasted the berries on your tongue and the sweetness on your soul, feeling as though he was in heaven.

“Well. It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N)”

Tag List : @itsfatherjoy​ @fire-treasure-iii @biba3434​ @ladynightmaredressedasadaydream​ @solicitedtax-blog​ @beautymark21​ @minetticatinwonderland​ @shadowsinafadedlights​ @omgbethanyy​

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 87

Well, it had to happen.

SOMEONE had to call Sophia on her bullshit...

I stifled a moan as I felt the tension easing from the muscles in my legs.  Tyche and I - after much negotiating - were spending some quality time together for the first time in weeks.  Rather than our usual meet-up over a meal we had agreed to some yoga and a light workout.  At the moment, we were moving through a series of beginner level poses, me following her lead.  With the increasing gravity on the Ark, the movements were much more difficult than I had recalled, and I was already sweating.

Then again, that had been the point of the workout, I guess.

“Keep breathing, Soph…” Tyche warned as we moved from child pose to cobra pose.

“Trying,” I grunted. Was I this out of shape, or was it just that much harder?

Somehow, I survived finishing yoga. I sat on the floor for a moment, taking a breather.  We were in one of the communal spaces - I think it had originally been intended as passenger quarters, but was currently opened up and being used as a sort of gym.  We were currently debating what we wanted to do next to finish off our workout, when a red-haired man I didn’t quite recognize approached us.

As we jumped to our feet, the man scowled when Tyche stood slightly in front of me. “Weak,” he spat, and I realized he was one of the people I had noticed acting suspiciously early on.

“What do you want?” my sister asked in a carefully-neutral tone.

“I don’t want anything from the likes of you two,” he answered in a disgusted tone. “But you,” he glared at me, “need to stay away from the Leader.”

The bitter laugh that came out of my mouth sounded like a bark. “For starters, he approached me. I don’t know what his issue with me is, but I’m sure as shit not hunting him down to give him a second chance at a sucker punch.”

“The Leader would never - “

“Bullshit,” I cut him off. Tyche was still in front of me, but seemed content to let me speak.  “He would and he nearly did. I don’t know what the hell he told you and your buddies, but I was minding my own business when he tried to lure my friend away, and when I stopped him, he started talking about a situation he has no real clue about. If she hadn’t shoved me to the ground, his punch would have landed in my kidney instead of her side. You want a copy of the recording? I’ve got that, too.”

“You aren’t worth his attention,” the nameless man sneered.

Tyche snarled and stepped forward, brandishing her finger under his chin like a knife. “Your so-called leader isn’t worth the air he wastes by breathing, much less the poison that drips from his mouth.”

Surprisingly, he outright dismissed her, instead focusing on me. “You won’t have your precious guards around you forever.  The Leader will strip away everything you have, leaving you nothing.”

I managed to convince Tyche to step aside. “Look. Whatever Jokull Bjornson wants, I don’t have it.”

“Don’t you dare say his name!”

“Is this guy fucking Voldemort or something!?” I asked Tyche incredulously.

Her laughter seemed to be the opportunity he was waiting for. He stepped toward me aggressively, hands raised...

...Only to find himself flat on his back, me sitting on him, one forearm across his throat. I found myself absolutely furious, and tired of people treating me like I was some dainty, fragile thing. “Yes,” I hissed in his face, “the people who care about me put a lot of thought into keeping me safe. And yes, most of them are more willing to fight than I am. But that doesn’t make me helpless, you brainless fucker.  I don’t know where you or your precious leader got the idea that I can’t defend myself, but it may be one of the bigger piles of shit he’s selling you.”

Some vague glimmer of intelligence flickered across his face, and he nodded.  He didn’t even spit in my face, despite the fact that it looked like he really wanted to.  Satisfied that he got the message, I carefully let him up, keeping a watch on him the entire time as he left.  As soon as the door closed behind him, I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I had been holding, every ounce of willpower I had focused on not letting my legs collapse when the adrenaline just drained out of my body.  I managed a weak smile as I turned back to face my sister, proud of myself.

Needless to say, I was entirely unprepared for the blow that knocked me on my ass, pain blooming from my mouth.  My fight or flight response tried to find a target, only to see a seething ball of blonde rage standing there.

Tyche had decked me. Right in the teeth. “You foolish, stupid bitch! Now they know you aren’t helpless! We were counting on that!”

All I could do was stare at her, mixed with looking at the blood on my hand - and shirt, and the deck - before trying to speak “Da fug?” Ow. That hurt.

“When are you going to get it through that brilliant skull of yours that you don’t have to fix everything yourself?! Jesus, fuck, Sophia! Someone has it out for you, badly enough to try to assault you in clear view of everyone on this fucking ship. Which, in case the math escapes you, means they have more followers than we even realize, if he’s that confident.  He wasn’t trying to take you down, it was a fucking test. He wanted to see if you would fight back, and he never found out, because Charly didn’t let him.”

“Tyg - “

“No. You do not get to speak right now. You get to listen. When Charly took that hit for you? Yes, it made you look helpless, but it protected you.  Bjornson won’t attack someone who won’t fight back.  But, guess what? You just tore that protection to shreds, set it on fire, and pissed on the ashes.”

“Dis in’t deh fuss die sowwuh has had it oub fuh me.” Maybe she had a point about me not talking. That hurt like a bitch.

“AND YOU NEARLY DIED!” she roared. “For three weeks, I had to watch you try to figure out if you were going to live or die! Conor had to watch you. Derek had to watch you, the closest thing he has to a mom, almost die for three. Gods. Damned. Weeks.”

Her words hit me harder than the punch, and all I could do was gape.

“Yeah. That never occurred to you, did it? We all had to sit there and watch you die. Every day, every hour, every minute, we hoped you wouldn’t.  And this time, yeah, he’s got more people, but we thought we had the advantage, right? Because we knew who they were, we knew what they thought, but nooooooo.  Fuck all that to hell, because Sophia Moira Reid has to fucking save everyone!”

No. None of this occurred to me. I felt so small and guilty as I realized the truth of what she was saying. I had been so selfish.

Tyche’s eyes welled with tears and, if anything, that made her even angrier. “I can’t keep losing you, mon coeur. Three times! Three times in my life I’ve had to lose you. When you went to college, when the End happened, and when we ended up on the Ark, I thought ‘Finally! I finally get to have a sister! We can be in each other’s lives like siblings are supposed to be.’ But then I had…. I had to see you… She was tangled in your hair, killing you…”

I reached out one hand, wanting to comfort her but at a complete loss for what to do.  She was mourning me, the person sitting in front of her.

Tyche swatted my hand away and kept talking. “I love Conor and Maverick, but there is this part of me that just says ‘my sister has the self-preservation of a koala’, and I can’t be around all the time to protect you. It’s killing me. And I can’t exactly ask Arthur and GK to chain themselves to you around the clock.  If it were up to me, you would be confined to quarters, indefinitely, preferably sedated.”

“You would keep me prisoner?” I enunciated carefully, wincing slightly.

“Haven’t done it yet, have I?,” she sighed in defeat.  “Didn’t even ask anyone if it was possible, for that fact. And it wouldn’t be holding you prisoner, per se. More like….. Protective custody.”

“To protect me from Bjornson.”

“To protect you from yourself.”

“I’m not the one who busted my lip,” I pointed out, gesturing at the evidence. Tyche was trying to pull herself back together, and I wasn’t going to stop her.  Even if it did mean she was back to calling me an idiot.

She rolled her eyes and reached down to help me off the floor. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’ve seen you do worse to yourself washing laundry.”

“That stair was broken,” I argued, checking to see if my lip was done bleeding.  Almost.

“Yeah, and so was your ankle.”

“Does this mean I get out of weights today?”

“Nope,” she casually dashed my hopes. “You get to do fencing now.”

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[tired-college-student-writing]

From the Ashes

Summary: It wasn't supposed to end like this. Merlin was supposed to protect Arthur until he united all of Albion, not be burned at the stake by his sadistic father. He was supposed to serve him until the day both men died. How did it end up like this?

___________________________________________

The twisted look on his father’s face just made his stomach swoop.

Arthur was no stranger to executions of magic users. They were almost routine now, and he couldn’t remember a time more than two months passed in between a pyre being lit. As he grew older he felt more numb watching the events than anything else, even if before and after his heart clenched in sorrow.  

This time, however, numbness refused to take him. How could it when Merlin was being led to the stake?

The goofy moronic servant had gotten close to Arthur over the last four years, always standing by him, always lending an ear when he needed it, never afraid to offer up a quip or insult when the royal needed to be brought back to reality. It wasn’t always a welcomed truth but Arthur found he grew fond of the unhesitant words of rebuttal and clumsy actions of the other man.

He may not always be the nicest to Merlin, berating him and throwing things at him when he’s mad but he never wanted him dead. Let alone burned.

But Merlin had magic, it was undeniable the way his eyes had lit up a blazing soul-piercing gold as the assassin was pulled from the rafters after nearly taking Arthur’s head off.

Anyone with eyes could see that he had only been protecting his prince, but as the gold faded Arthur could see his servant pale and begin to shake as he realized what he had just done, trying to sputter out apologies even as Uther yelled for the guards to seize Merlin.

There was no exception to the ban on Magic after all, not even for saving the crowned prince.

He was let frozen as Merlin begged not to be taken, vows that he only ever used his magic to help Camelot, to help Arthur, how he had been born with the spark, using magic before he could even speak, how he had no choice in the art, begging for Arthur to understand, to not hate him.

He struggled to remain in the throne room, to beg at Arthur’s feet, but he didn’t attempt to escape from the guards hold, didn’t attempt to flee.

He didn’t want to be saved, Arthur realized later, as he threw up near the stables. The only thing Merlin had wanted was for Arthur not to hate him.

Arthur couldn’t even give him that much as the guards caught him trying to sneak down to the cells that night. His father had been worried he had been enchanted, and now that Arthur had done what his father would only expect from an enchanted prince. He had been confined to his rooms until the execution.

He heard from a haunted-looking Leon who was ordered to stand guard on the Prince that Gwaine had been arrested for attempting to break Merlin out of the cells along with Lancelot. Eylan and Percival visited Arthur, uncertainty weaving through their words and movements.

Magic was hated by them all for its corrupting quality, they had seen how Morgona had been twisted so easily, but Merlin was… Merlin. He was The Round Table’s younger brother, a kind and loving friend to all. They protected him with a ferocity that only was matched in the intensity that they teased him with. He, in turn, treated the knights as equals, caring for them passed what was appropriate for a servant to do, but he just rolled his eyes at them with a sarcastic “Of course, sir knight,” before returning to his normal behavior.

But they had seen the good in Magic, hadn’t they? The light that had guided Arthur when Merlin was poisoned, Merlin’s friend Will saving them all from the invaders, and recently Dragoon the Great had healed Uther, pulling him back from the brink of death, though he had almost killed him before finding the charm placed on him that changed healing energy into harm. Arthur had been relieved each time, even when Uther had screamed for the guards the moment he opened his eyes.

Gaius also visited, grief and sorrow making the old physician look frail. Arthur accepted his gruff words about not knowing his ward had been practicing magic under his nose, even though he knew from the way his eyes teared up and his hands shook that he was lying. He was already losing his best friend, he wasn’t risking losing Gaius as well.

Now here he stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard next to his father, he wished he had tried harder to get to Merlin. He was the only member of the Round Table here, the only one to see the hollow look on Merlin’s face. He was moving stiffly as if a puppet being pulled along against its will. Even from where he stood Arthur could see the dried tear tracks on his face and the red around his eyes.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe as his father’s speech bounced around the silent crowd, not hearing a word of it as the fire was lit. He wanted to yell at Merlin to fight, to use his magic to break free and run, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. His father had warned him harshly as he pulled him to the balcony that if he tried calling out to Merlin, to encourage him to escape, that Uther would have the man tortured before being burned. Arthur refused to cause his friend any more pain.

Merlin didn’t move as the fire licked higher,  didn’t even cough as the smoke overtook his form. Arthur could tell that he was burning, his best friend was burning, but he was as lifeless as a doll, but Arthur knew he wasn’t dead yet. It took at least an hour before the fire would die down and Uther would allow for the guards to put out the fire, certain the sorcerer was dead. At thirty minutes the cries were usually the loudest, but still nothing from Merlin.

There was sudden movement as they neared the hour mark, and through the haze, Arthur had let himself fall into he saw his father’s eyes narrow.

A crack sounded from the pyre and the crowd gasped as lightning struck the center of the fire. The intensity of the blast jarred Arthur to the very bone as the castle shook around him, knocking him to his knees. By the time he scrambled to his feet the fire had been extinguished, faster than should be possible by ordinary means.

In the center of the smoldering remains was Merlin, clothes singed badly and ash covering his skin but he was there and seemed unharmed, and he didn't quite fight back relieved laughter. Suddenly Merlin’s face snaps up to him and his father, revealing the blazing golden eyes that were burned into his memory. The sorcerer's face was unnaturally blank as Uther barked to the guards to seize him.

They didn’t get the option as Merlin lifted into the air without a word, floating elegantly to land on the railing of the balcony, looming over the Pendragons with an unrivaled authority Arthur never would have paired with Merlin but seemed so natural.

“What sort of trick is this, Sorcerer?” Uther barked, fury rolling off of him in waves.

“Oh Uther,” Merlin sighed, words echoing unnaturally through the courtyard, “You truly don’t see how ignorant you’ve become of Magic, and how hypocritical.”  

“Merlin was no Sorcerer,” Merlin told them, “He was a Warlock. you know the difference, Uther, but for your son’s benefit, I will explain. Warlocks are blessed with their gifts from birth and they develop somewhere between their early teens and twenty years old as Morgana did, but Merlin was special, he’s been using magic since the moment he drew his first breath. No, that it mattered, you had him burned for something he couldn’t control any more then you could decide what color your hair is. ”

Arthur felt his heart squeeze, “Why are you referring to yourself like that Merlin?”

The golden gaze turned to him, and almost seemed to soften as it spoke the words that sent ice through his veins, “I’m sorry Arthur, but Merlin is dead.”

Uther raised a brow, “Who are you then?”

“I am a being of legend,” Mer-The thing wearing Merlin’s skin explained, “Magic coursed through Merlin since the moment he was conceived, been at his disposal since he drew his first breath, using magic for him was instinctual as breathing and blinking is for you. His destiny laid out a path that magic had carved for him, he was to be the most powerful magic user that ever was. I was his magic, the connection he shared with the Old Religion that would allow him to protect the Once and Future King. I was meant to just be an aspect of him, but now that he’s gone Magic refuses to let the Once and Future King remain unprotected before his destiny can be fulfilled. So I have been awoken, and will remain at Arthur’s side until the day comes that he no longer needs a protector, or until Magic can convince Merlin to return from Avalon.”

“I’ll have you put to death if you get near my son,”

The being let out an ungodly laugh that sent fear down the spines of those gathered.

“Poor Poor Uther,” It cried, edging on pity, “You never learned your lesson. You can kill as many magic users as you wish, you can hunt them for sport, but you can’t rid the world of Magic, and you can’t avenge your wife because it’s not Magic’s fault that you did not heed the warnings.”

Arthur sucked in a startled breath, eyes flying to his father, “Morgause spoke the truth. You used magic so that I could be born, even though you were warned that someone must die.”

“Yes,” The being confirmed, “Your father ignored the warnings about how balance must be kept, he believed that the one that died would be a peasant or knight, someone with whose life he saw as forfeit compared to a prince’s. Only when it was Ygraine did he realize the true nature of what he asked, and chose to blame Magic and Nimih instead of his own choices. The only thing the vision lied to you about is that your Mother would never have blamed Uther for her death, nor would she have wanted for you to slay him in vengeance.”

“Why lie?” Arthur whispered, fists clenching, “Why not tell me the truth?”

“Because Merlin did not want to see you hurt in such a way,” The being explained, “He cared for you enough that he would allow your hatred of magic to remain so that you would not slay your own father in cold blood. It’s why Merlin broke the enchantment between your father and the troll, why he had Excalibur made, why he took the form of Dragoon and healed your father. It is also the reason I will not lay him to rest myself, even should you request it. Even so, he can not harm nor kill me.”

“Don’t be so cocky,” Uther seethed.

“Against you, Uther?” The being said, face blank as a slate, but full of promises, “It’s not being cocky, it’s stating fact.”

The being stepped down to the balcony and walked through the door behind them, not even flinching as Uther pulled his sword and tried to stab it through the being. The sword didn’t even make it close to it as a golden shield appeared and shattered the steel blade like it was an icicle.

Arthur took off after ignoring the calls from his father. He caught up to it after it had run into Percival outside Arthur’s chambers. The bear of a man was trembling, white as a sheet, staring at the golden-eyed being with fear that seemed more befitting a young maiden. Arthur would have found it comical if it had been any other circumstance, but right now he just felt empathy.

“Merlin…” The man spoke, “You’ve…”

“Merlin is dead,” Arthur spoke up before the being could, “This isn’t Merlin.”

The knight stared at him as if he had grown three heads, “But sire, it’s clearly-”

“Gather the Table, Sir Percival,” Arthur ordered, voice low and harsh, “I- We’ll explain once we have everyone. Break Lancelot and Gwaine out of jail if you have to, just get everyone here as soon as you can.”

The knight sprinted off with speed uncharacteristic of the large knight.

“What should I call you?” Arthur asked once the door shut behind him, “If you’re not Merlin if you’re simply his magic or whatever else you are…”

The being gazed at him in confusion, his eternal golden eyes, “I suppose Emrys is the best name for me. It was the name the druids created for the protector of the Once and Future King.”

“Alright, Emrys then. You’ll need to explain more about that Once and Future King business once the others arrive.”

“Of course, Sire.”

Arthur felt odd stripping from his court clothing with the be- Emrys simply stood like a statue by the bed, seeming to not even breathe, but he had a feeling that this was going to be a long talk.

The door crashed open unexpectedly before Arthur could finish changing, a sober and pissed off looking Gwaine, followed closely by the other knights, Percival hanging back, eyes vacant with fear. Gwen and Gaius were hanging near the back, tear streaks still evident on their faces.

Gwaine let out a sob as he saw Emrys standing there, crossing the room instantly to pull the being into a tight hug, “Thank the gods! How did you manage to escape?”

“I am not Merlin,”

Gwaine pulled back and stared at the being in confusion, “What do you-”

“Gwaine,” Arthur said as he pulled on his shirt, “We all need to sit down while Emrys and I explain… explain what happened at Merlin’s execution.”

Leon let out a slight gasp looking to the being for the first time since he entered the room, and Gauis looked like he might be sick, but no one could muster up a word as they tensely circled the room.

Arthur turned to the still statue-like Emrys, “Tell them everything you told my father and I at the execution site.”

The being didn’t move even as Gwaine pulled back uncertainty, didn’t even seem to acknowledge the others in the room as they slowly formed a circle around the room, but after being prompted he quickly started to recount the events of the morning. Arthur wasn’t sure listening to the emotionless factual retelling was better or worse than the real events. Everything was so... detached from Emrys as if the being could care less about Merlin's death outside of what it meant for it existing. A completely blank expression and a dull monotone didn't fit Merlin's face and voice, least of all when telling them about how the licking flames and suffocating smoke had driven the very essence of the man they all called a friend from his body, leaving a corpse behind before magic decided to create its own consciousness to stand-in.

“So Emrys,” Gwaine pushed, anger boiling just below the surface, “Why don’t you tell us everything Merlin did for Camelot? All the things that he did for Arthur that the princess couldn’t even be bothered to save him for?”

“Oh really?” Arthur snapped, “You want to say I did nothing? I argued and fought with my father but he was convinced the only reason I would still care for a magic user is that he enchanted me and reassured me that once Arthur was dead I would see reason. Then I couldn’t even speak up at the execution because my father warned me that if I even spoke a single word before the hour was up that he would burn all of Merlin’s friends. After all, clearly, one of them was also a magic-user and keeping the enchantment up! I was already losing my best friend, I didn’t want to lose any of you as well!”

“Stop this now,” Gauis cried, looking worn and tired, “None of this fighting is going to bring back Merlin, we’ve all failed him!”

The knights fell silent, frustration and sorrow oozing from all as they gazed around the room at each other, daring someone to speak.

“Odd,” Emrys said after a long moment, head cocking slightly to the side, the first real movement he made since entering the room.

“What?” Arthur snapped, glaring at the golden eyes that should be blue. Emrys simply looked between the knights before gazing back at Arthur.

“You really do care for him," Emrys stated with the barest hint of wonderment in his voice that caused Arthur's heart to wither, "even though Merlin left this plane believing that you despised him. Even Magic didn’t account for all of the knights siding with Merlin when Uther was still alive. Gaius, Lancelot, and Gwen were always going to stand by him but the rest of you...You all are very odd.”

[wickedsrest-rp-archive]

Storm Front || Season 1 Finale Chatzy

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Dark Score Lake (opposite of Undertow) PARTIES: @exorciseyourspirit @bountybossier @cryxmercy @bemyfriendplease SUMMARY: Squidward meets his makers

“Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.”

― John Milton, Paradise Lost

Mercy wasn’t sure how long she’d been waiting in the agreed upon spot when the others finally showed up. It was dark, the thick trees filtering out most of the moonlight, and almost eerily quiet. As if the forest around Dark Score Lake - which lay further into the forest - was holding its breath. The air was muggy and thick, and smelled stale… like old, rotting things long-molded beneath the damp earth.  It smelled like a crypt.

The irony was not lost on Mercy.

Sitting on the hood of the old Jeep she’d rolled out of storage - much quieter than her bike, and with more room for transporting the other things she’d do quickly pulled out of the unit - she methodically worried the delicate silver chain around her neck. The two rings that were usually there were absent, safely secured in a thick manila envelope in the glove compartment of the Jeep, along with a short letter written in Mercy’s hand. The name ‘Prof. Arthur Drake’ was written on the envelope. She’d tried to call him several times on her drive over, not wanting to do this without telling him, but had ended up having to leave a message.

So the envelope and it’s contents were just a few simple measures to make sure certain things wouldn’t be left unsaid. Just in case.

Because while the odds were in Mercy’s favor to walk out of this alive and mostly unscathed, she was very aware that she wasn’t completely infallible. Especially since it had been over a century since she’d been a part of taking on something quite as large and dangerous as what this… thing had turned out to be. Some tentacled, demon-fucking, pseudo-deity with a massive cult of brain-washed followers that had already killed in the name of their ‘god.’

But killing was easy. Mercy was more than ready to find out how many of them were willing to die for this ‘god’ of theirs.

She didn’t know all the details - it had all been put together so quickly - but she did know they only had one real shot at this. Even now, there were others working towards the same goal, so their window of opportunity wasn’t a big one. The Fury looked up as footsteps approached, her normally riotous hair braided back out of her face, and a band of black ash wiped across her eyes. She gave the unfamiliar face a crooked smirk and sat up, tucking the chain beneath the protective vest she wore across her chest. “Hey there stranger. You lookin’ for the same puny demon squid-god as me?”

Patience was often a virtue, but Rebecca moved through the world today with a heavy sort of impatience that weighed on her soul. There was little time. Theo had not made it, Theo did not know what she was about to go do. No one did. No one, except the ones who she’d asked to meet her there. Nicodemus had agreed, and had said there would be another waiting for them as well, to help, because this task could not be done by one man alone. And there others, in farther spots, helping as well. Whatever awaited them at this lake, it wasn’t going to be easy. And that’s, as she looked in the mirror, her eyes glowed a moment. No going back on our deal now.

When she reached the lake, the stench was that of death. She knew it was because of the rotted fish and dead foliage, but the foreboding omen still sat in the air like a warning sign. When she approached, she found a woman, tall, slender, pale skin and pale blue eyes, greeting her. Nicodemus was not here yet, but she supposed he’d arrive soon. This was one event no one wanted to be late to. “I only believe in one Higher Power, and a demon squid is surely not it,” she said with a whip to her tongue. This ritual was hers to perform, which meant she was in charge here, and she wanted her voice to convey that in one go. Even as she gave the other woman a smile in greeting.

Anxious energy ran through Nicodemus. He had made a time of avoiding the lake like nothing else but that time was gone. Drowned. The hunter supposed he would have to return to it one day and with the intent to kill burning in him, it was a better day than any. Maybe it was the pilates that had Rebecca consider him for help. Regardless, he answered quickly and scribbled a short note to Skylar. Given that it was a big fuck off squid they were going to be tangling with, they might need a harpoon. And he knew one person that was ready and willing with one.

The hunter rolled his neck as he walked away from his truck. A death smell hung over the lake and he waded through it as he approached the gathered two. Guns, knives, ammo. He brought it all. If any of them died, it wasn’t going to be because they didn’t burn through every possibility of killing the fucker. He grunted a greeting as his eyes looked to the dark water. A cold, slimy feeling crawled along his spine.

“Guess it’s a fine evenin’ for squid killin’,” he muttered as he rested his lever-action against his shoulder. He looked between the two before he nodded to Rebecca. “What’d you need us to do?”

“I can agree with that,” Mercy said. Because whatever the hell this thing really was, it wasn’t a god. Mercy believed in the old gods, and not in any singular creator. She had seen them with her own eyes. But that was irrelevant. This woman - this exorcist - believed. And it was her power that would get rid of the entity that inhabited the creature she and the hunter were there to kill. Speaking of… Mercy looked over at the man as he approached. She gave a tip of her chin in greeting, noting the weapon he held with practised familiarity. It settled a few of Mercy’s nerves to know that there were no amateurs here tonight. Her own arsenal of weapons - including a wicked-looking harpoon - was in the back of her Jeep. “Guess it is,” she nodded at Nic before turning her attention to the other woman. The hunter asked the pertinent question, so Mercy stayed quiet and waited for marching orders.

Rebecca didn’t bother with greetings. Once Nicodemus arrived, she turned and headed towards the lake. “At the moment? Keep your eyes peeled. Once the ritual starts, I’ll need energy from one of you.” Her skin prickled, hair standing on end. A sense that she was sure she could ever rely on, but knew not to ignore. Magic. A disturbance in the ether. Ever since she’d contact the astral plane, she’d been able to feel it more deeply. Moving past that, however, she turned to the other two. “I doubt whatever this thing is is going to go down easy. That’s where you two come in. You’re up for a fight, right?”

Nicodemus glanced toward the water. Whatever had happened before, when he had killed the stranger amongst other strangers, he hadn't fought. Couldn't have. It was different now. The fire in him burned hotter. He looked back to Mercy, then Rebecca. "Do what you have to. We got the rest," he muttered as he loaded a round into his rifle. "It ain't over until it's dead." Or they were. He didn't like how quiet it was, or how still the water seemed. As if something were waiting. He supposed something was.

Mercy snagged her things from the Jeep as they started walking towards the water. She gave the exorcist a glance as the woman mentioned the ritual needing energy. Of course it did. But Mercy didn’t bother with worrying. Magic couldn’t drain her completely. It might weaken her, but she would bounce back. She always did. Mercy checked the clip of the one firearm she’d brought before tucking it back in it’s holster at her hip. She preferred blades, and had brought plenty. Mercy shared a glance with Nic before turning back to Rebecca as well. She nodded in agreement with the hunter before pulling her straight sword from the sheath across her back. The sound rang quietly across the stillness of the lakeshore. Mercy squatted down, pressing her fingers to the earth and whispering words in her native tongue. After a moment she was quiet, and fell still. Waiting, just as whatever was out there waited.

Penelope had said that the ritual need be completed by the time the moon was high in the sky, and Rebecca wasn’t eager to rush anything. She hoped the others would complete their rituals on time, but she had to bring herself away from worrying about that-- there was nothing she could do for them, except be ready when they needed her to. She went about setting up her area, clearing a small patch of grass, and setting down the pentagram mat. Pressed a hand to it and watched it burn its imprint into the ground, before pulling it away and rolling it back up. Set a candle at each star point. Wrapped the red scarf (there to replace her missing dagger) around her opposite wrist, the Kabbalah string bracelet on her other, and looked back at the other two, poised for the fight. “Here goes nothing,” she said, before turning back to face the lake. Closing her eyes to concentrate on the energy vibrating through the air. It was now or never. “Remember the deal,” she muttered quietly. When her eyes opened next, one was red and one was blue, and when she spoke, she spoke with two tongues.

The hunter spat to the side and rounded towards the water. His senses were eerily still. Still as black water. The blonde woman had pulled out a sword. Nicodemus glanced at his rifle. Hell, one or both of them were certain to work. As Rebecca spoke, the atmosphere seemed to change. Damn near like a pressure shift. The surface of the water tensed and then broke as a clenched hand lifted out of the water. Then another. The fingers lifted one by one to reveal eyes that first rolled white and then dark, black pupils fixated on those that gathered at the shore. The hunter fired into one of the exposed hands. Blood flowed from the meat as it slipped back into the water. It wasn’t long before more bodies pulled themselves from the water and crawled along the shore. A crawl turned into a run and he grinned bitterly as he looked to Mercy. Fired off another round. “Keep your sword sharp, huh?”

Mercy could feel the heaviness in the air as well. It was an uneasy feeling that made her skin want to crawl away from her bones and hide itself somewhere safe. Somewhere that wasn’t here, by the still, black mirror of water stretched out beneath a sky that was almost as dark. But leaving wasn’t an option. Especially as the water rippled, and something rose from beneath the surface. Followed by another, and another. Black eyes peered out from where eyes shouldn’t exist, and as Nic’s shotgun blast drew first blood, Mercy stood, noting the position of the others in her peripheral vision, and tightened her grip on her blade. The bodies rose quickly after that, black water running down their forms like oil. Mercy gave Nic a grin of her own, though hers wasn’t bitter. It bordered the edge of what some might call madness. “It’s always sharp,” she told him before turning towards the bodies that were streaking in their direction. The first one lost the left side of it’s skull, and staggered a few more steps before falling in a heap. The second lost it’s innards in a steaming pile before it slumped over in the path of the others.

Shotgun rounds found their mark as well, and the smell of copper and rot and gunpowder soon filled the air… air that continued to grow heavier and heavier and heavier…

Nothing except the ritual mattered to Rebecca now. As she spoke, the lines below her glowed, engulfing her in an unearthly blue light, speckled with other vibrant colors. It swirled and shimmered and wavered under the pitch of her voice, and as her voice grew, so did it. A wind whipped up around her, as the light climbed higher into the sky. The surface of the lake rippled. Rebecca could not see through the light to know what was coming, not until a figure was appearing in front of her-- but as soon as it touched the light she was bathed in, it screamed. Erupted into blue flame, and crumbled to ash. “Oooh, neat trick!” Said her other half. But Rebecca kept her concentration on the ritual in front of her, waiting for the signal from the other two, waiting for their beams of light to show.

It was only when a loud, low rumbling, from the direction of the lake, did Rebecca give pause and squint through the light. Without really being able to see even, she knew whatever was coming next, was big. And it was angry.

At the speed they were coming, the hunter had a feeling that the rifle might not be the best option going forward. That worked just fine for him. Nicodemus unloaded shell after shell, took some pride in that strange smell of blood and oil. Keep Rebecca safe. See the ritual through. Take a few bastards out. That was all the reason he needed. When the rifle emptied, tossed it to the side and slid the machete out of his belt. Snapped the gun out of his left thigh holster. Ambidextrous death had its uses. He was careful not to look behind him. If he did, the blue flame might sear the night vision right out of him. Black blood coated his forearms, splattered against his face. Between bodies, he glanced over to Mercy. She seemed to be doing just fine, sword in hand and blood in her hair.

The rumble from the river resonated oppressively loud in his head. Nearly dislodged him from where he stood, but he shook his head and grit his teeth. A feeling of nausea spread through his gut. Cold like fingers seemed to reach into his head. Something was coming. He knew it and it knew him. He swallowed it down as his machete continued to cut through. “How’s it goin’ Rebecca?”

Mercy was astounded at the number of creatures… - or where they people? She wasn’t sure… - that continued to rise up from the water. The bodies were starting to pile up along the shoreline, enough that the ones still upright were having to maneuver around or over them. Which gave her and Nic an advantage. She could see him down the way, past the pulsing blue light that contained the exorcist who was the only one of them who could truly finish this. But she couldn’t look for too long, else the light became too bright.

Nic switched to a blade as the bodies outnumbered the capacity of his gun, and Mercy could hear the familiar sound of metal meeting bone. But underneath it all, something else started to vibrate. The vibration turned to a rumble that hummed in Mercy’s chest at a frequency that made her breath catch. She shook her head too as the hum seemed to crawl up her spine and resonate through her skull. A sound like war horns echoed behind her eyes, and for a moment the Fury felt like her head might split in two. But after a moment, whatever had been scraping around in her skull left when it realized Mercy’s mind wasn’t for the taking. Mercy shook her head again before righting herself and splitting open the neck of a creature that had suddenly gotten a bit too close. It fell, as did the ones that came after. But the rumbling continued... in the air and beneath her feet. Something was coming. Something old. Something angry.

She heard Nic call out to Rebecca, and moved a bit closer to the exorcist's light - willing her to hurry the fuck up please and thanks - as the water started to churn and writhe and bubble. “Stay on your feet!” she called out to him, knowing he might already be a step ahead of her. “Watch the water too!”

Focus, Rebecca told herself, stay focused. There was a lot going on, and she needed to focus. The air vibrated with energy, clashing with the low rumble from underground, from under the lake. Her voice faltered ever so as the surface rippled and split and she squinted through the light. In her mind, even he lost focus-- and shuddered. Whatever was coming, it was big, and it scared him, too. The only reason he had agreed to help, after all. This was bigger than both of them. Then all of them here. Individual distraught was set aside to accomplish this one goal, and Rebecca would make sure everyone’s sacrifice was worth it.

But through her light, as the surface split and out came a tentacle, she couldn’t help but falter. A beam of light shot up to her left. More tentacles protruded from the lake. Water rushed past them all, withdrawing for only a moment before rushing back to the shore, swallowing the dock, the boats, the sidewalk path. It rolled up to them all and soaked their shoes, their ankles, their shins, but no one noticed, because above them now loomed two glowering red eyes, piercing through the haze and darkness around the lake. Beacons. Rebecca’s circle did little to shed light onto the monstrosity, only illuminating a small portion of the massive body that now towered in front of them all. A shapeless form in the shadows, too big to take in all at once; shining with wetness as water fell from it in rivulets, a thick, black ooze joining it. Branch like arms protruded and placed themselves onto the shores, sinking in, shaking the ground. Thick as the trees around the lake. Rebecca stumbled but did not move. A low rumble, like scraping metal or jet engines starting, sounded from the creature as it leaned down to examine them all, as if they were nothing more than ants on its table. “Ya Hashem,” she mumbled in quiet prayer, “<<Protect us G-d>>.” Before swallowing her words, opening her mouth, and daring to continue.

There was a roar in protest, and then, the real fight began.

Nicodemus settled into a rhythm as he grunted an acknowledgement towards Mercy. Cutting through meat and bone became comfortable. A mechanical motion that he fell into easily. Even as bodies fell to the mud and black blood bled into the earth. After all, it was what he had come to the lake for. To cut down the creature that had forced his hand. He tried to focus on Rebecca’s voice, even the cut of Mercy’s blade, as the water rose. Through the darkness, light split through. The light split through him. It burned his eyes and when they were able to focus again, through the slightly pinpricks of discoloration, he saw it.

Red eyes looked into his own. He had felt it long before he saw it. It went beyond his senses, beyond his teachings. It simply went beyond. Those cold fingers in his head pilfered through grey matter, pushed aside what it didn’t need, crawled ever inward. As insistent as he had been to kill the creature, to set things right, he doubted. Even so, he moved. He had to strike first. If he didn’t, he feared what might happen. A tentacle crawled forward and he lashed out at it. It was tough, thick to cut through in one swing, but he muscled through. He had to, as Rebecca continued to speak and Mercy continued to fight.

He looked up at the creature again. A third eye had opened. A fourth too. And they turned slowly. Or had they? Whether or not they were in his mind, he had already lost. Fear did nothing but addle. That doubt spread through him like blood from an open wound. The roar deafened his sensitive ears to everything except for running water. Ocean breeze. The ooze of blood. The breaking of bones. Screams ancient and new. Blood gathered in his mouth from how hard he clenched his teeth. His hand lowered against the creature. His eyes shut. No matter. He could see. And he looked toward Mercy.

A sun that looked like an eyeball caused by perfectly explainable solar flares, a black ocean from an oil spill, and the eyeball prank with the town’s water pipes were just a few of the things on Bo’s mind. Needless to say, she had a lot to deal with. And with a call about strange activity by the lake, she sprung to action. There, she imagined she’d find the lunatic that filled the pipes with eyes, or maybe those pranksters who spent all their time chanting. White Crest was a lot of things, at least she could say it wasn’t ever boring. But what she didn’t expect was a mesmerizing display of artistry. A giant squid thing, actors emerging from the water as if they’d been down there the whole time---if anything, this town could be so unbelievably creative. But this was also probably...illegal, in some way. The lake surely was public domain, but did they have to be practicing for their drama routine at this time? And so loud! What was that roar? Was that what was making the ground shake earlier? That roar nearly knocked the officer off her feat, and clearly having had enough of it, she stormed into the scene. “Hey!” She called out, hand on her hip, “I got a call about---” she stared up at the animatronic squid. It was so...lifelike. So horrifying. So large. How did it fit in the lake? Its eyes glowed with impossible redness, deep like their own lake of blood and fire. She glanced around again, shining her flashlight haphazardly; did those people have weapons? Why were people still crawling out of the lake? This was the strangest re-telling of Moby Dick she’d ever seen. Or was this some new Lovecraftian thing she didn’t know about?

She stormed over to the woman closest to the squid, the lead actor, Bo assumed. Bo had no fear, no worries, nothing in her voice or on her face but awe covered by professionalism. “Excuse me, ma’am? I’m officer David! And you’re going to need to turn down the volume on your play or LARP or whatever here. It’s disturbing the nearby---Wow, there sure are a lot of people that came out of the water, huh? Are those knives? Hope they’re fake!” She laughed, glanced around, wondered why no one else was laughing and turned back. “Ma’am? Sir? Other ma’am? Several robed people of indistinguishable gender?”

There were things in this world that defied any rational explanation, other than they couldn’t be explained rationally. Magic, parallel worlds, creatures of fairy tales and myth… gods and monsters… all existed whether one believed in them or not. Disbelief would kill you all the same. And while belief could hold a power all it’s own - as the power of the exorcist within her circle of light demonstrated - it didn’t guarantee one’s safety either.

But is sure fucking helped.

Mercy watched as the leviathan rose from the black water - “Odin protect us…” -  the twin flames of its eyes burning in the formless shape that towered over the trio on the shore. The earth rumbled beneath her feet, and alongside her a tentacle, blacker than the water it emerged from and as thick as any of the trees that flanked them, slammed itself into the sand. It had barely settled before Mercy swung at it with her sword, hacking once, twice… three times to sever the massive appendage before it could do further damage. She heard Nic still fighting in the darkness nearby, and Rebecca still spoke the words of the ritual from within her still-intact circle of light, so Mercy redoubled her efforts and cut a swath through any remaining bodies that were still a threat. She didn’t stop until she was between the exorcist and the beast.

Gore coated her skin and hair and dripped from her clothes. From the edge of her blade, the blood of the leviathan ran thick and dark and smelling of rot. It was this blood that she touched her fingertips to before pressing them to her forehead, just over her eyes. Drawing twin lines  over her eyelids, cheeks, mouth, and chin… Mercy looked into the face of the monster, and spoke in a lost tongue: “1200 years I’ve walked this earth, yet still I’m left to wonder… how does an Olde One come to be inhabited by such a lesser creature?”

The air around the Fury crackled and hummed as she paced a line back and forth over the gore-covered sand. She was so focused on her words, on distracting the creature long enough for Rebecca to finish the ritual, that she didn’t notice the moment Nic’s blade grew silent. Nor did Mercy notice a fourth person amid the chaos. One who was very, very human, and running right into the fray. She continued to speak, hoping it would delay any further attacks on Rebecca.

“But I see you now… I’ve tasted your blood… and you are not Jǫrmungandr. You will not bring the end to this world. You’ve fallen too far, grown too weak… if that parasite inside you holds you captive.” Mercy shook her head. “You are no god.”

The black water lapped at her boots.

“You’re just a slave…”  

There was too much happening at once. Rebecca’s concentration was slipping-- but Amnon could stay focused. He took the moment to seize control and eyes  flashed red. They moved in unison as a hand reached out, grabbing the closest cultist and searing the flesh on his face as light followed after in a wispy trail, as if it, too, were made of dirt and fog. Someone appeared beside them-- a woman, with dark hair and dark lips and confused eyes. She was shouting something at them, but Amnon paid no mind. He narrowed their eyes, honed in on a hand ready to strike, a knife slashing in their hand. Amnon managed to snag it just before it reached the detective, and the robed figured cried out, dropping the knife, as the light consumed him. For a brief moment, Amnon turned their eyes to face Bo, one red, one blue, both glowing with a matching light to the circle. “Not fake,” was all they said, both voices coming out at once, before they turned back to the ritual.

The warrior spoke to it in an ancient tongue, one Amnon barely recognized. But her words would fall on deaf ears, this was no old one. This was a creature of its own design. Finally, the two pillars arched in the sky. Brace yourself. They clenched their teeth, spread their legs, and planted their feet as they raised their hands. And when the beams met, they crashed with a thunderous boom more powerful than the monster’s roar. And when they reached Rebecca and Amnon, they exploded with a brilliant light, pushing everything dark away, leaving her, the officer, the warrior, untouched. But not the hunter. He was filled with darkness now, too. They had no time for him, though, and with a hefty charge, Rebecca and Amnon held their hands out. “BE UNTO THIS MORTAL PLANE,” they shouted, “WHERE PAIN AND STRIFE WILL BE YOUR DOWNFALL.” And hoped the two fighting-- and perhaps even the officer-- would remember the instructions. Now was the time to strike.

Grey matter turned to darkness as the light fell away. The crash of light had nearly blown out his eardrums. In the space between haggard breaths and silence, purpose steeled him. The parts of Nicodemus’s conscious state were steadily lulled to sleep underneath chaotic, yet somehow rhythmic waves. Some of him still fought. Just as it had happened before, it happened again. It wasn’t enough. He was forced behind an immovable wall as he started to move, compelled by something greater. The mark that had been gouged into his hand ached as his fist clenched. He could hear the voices of both the living and the soon dead. The hunter focused solely on the blonde woman who spoke in an olden language. It wasn’t His and therefore, it served no purpose. A useless tongue. Fit to be torn out.

Whatever she intended to do, He would not allow it. Rend her hands from her body, silence her tongue. Scatter her bones to the under dark. One of the robed figures cut across his path and he grabbed them by the neck. A mistake on their part. Black coated his hands, his blade, as he twisted and tore through water-logged flesh. Drenched in something wicked and silent as the grave, he advanced.

Wow! These were really dedicated actors! Bo wanted to applaud, the effects were just so realistic but they were all clearly so immersed in their roles that she didn’t want to interrupt them. She could let them go, couldn’t she? As an artist herself, she could understand their passion. Of course, her art was more baking-based than theirs, but she was an artist nonetheless. She glanced around again, the strange, wet robbed people shambled towards her and the lead actress. The other woman was hacking away at something and the big, buff man was...walking towards the other woman? Even with her flashlight waving around, it was hard to make any of the action out. “You should be doing this in better lighting,” she commented quietly, not wanting to disturb the play. “I mean, it seems like it must be a health-hazard or something!” As she spoke, one of the robed people moved towards her, brandishing a knife. “T-those are retractable, right?” The robed figure advanced, grazing her arm as she jolted out of their way. Hot blood coated her arm as a sharp pain shot through her. She clutched the wound, watching the way blood coated her fingers. Bo glanced around, the woman had been hacking at bodies, hadn’t she? These so-called robed actors? “This isn’t art!” She drew her gun, firing a round into the sky. “Stand down! Stand---” But they didn’t. She noticed finally that they charged unnaturally, as if being marionetted by some invisible force. There weren’t many of them left, but the few that were seemed so interested in the woman---the actress. Bo snapped around and fired a shot at the large animatronic squid as it roared, and then another, and another. “What is this! Am I endangering protected wildlife?” She swung her baton at a sluggishly approaching ‘actor’, only to find them groan and rise with determination. “You guys should have done Romeo and Juliet! I don’t like this play!” She fired into the sky again, clipping the squid creature with the bullet.

Mercy’s words had no effect on the beast. It paid her no heed, gave nothing in response to her taunts. But it had been worth a try. Behind her, there was a flurry of motion, and the smell of seared flesh, a raised voice, and then the sound of gunshots. Mercy glanced back long enough to see a body consumed by the light of Rebecca's circle. And then the signal they’d been waiting for pierced through the darkness.

Mercy thought her eardrums would burst when the beams came together. The sound resonated inside her head, trembled down through the pillars of her bones and vibrated in her blood as Rebecca’s light washed over her and the dark-haired woman. But Mercy didn’t see Nic, and briefly wondered if the worst had happened. But there was no time. Rebecca’s voice rang out, invoking the words that would send the creature back where it came from. Which meant it was time to strike.

From the sheath across her back, Mercy pulled a short, wooden staff, the length of which was carved with runes. She ran her hand over the wood and whispered a few words. The runes glowed a bright red - the same color as the eyes of the leviathan - before starting to move and curl towards the empty space at either end of the staff. One end extended down towards the sand, creating a thick, sturdy base. From the other end, a long, wickedly curved blade formed from the ether, glowing with the curling red light of the runes. Mercy turned the great harpoon towards one of the creature's crimson eyes… said a prayer that it’s path would be true… took aim…  

And let it fly.

Rebecca and Amnon collapsed in their exhaustion, still struggling to hold together the circle of light. “You must wound it!” she shouted at the officer, her voice only. Something felt like it was vibrating inside of her, trying to burst out. She had to hold the energy, had to wait. If she released the ritual too soon and monster would stay and all of this would be for naught. Trembling, she tried to pull herself back up, even the monster inside of her exhausted of his powers. “The creature, we have to wound it enough...to send it back...I can’t step out of this light or the ritual will be ruined,” she explained, hoping that some part of this officer’s brain could register that this wasn’t fake and they needed her help. Her eyes searched for Nic, saw the spear soaring. It caught the creature in the eye and roared, rearing back, tentacles slamming into the ground, shaking the entire area. Water splashed and lapped up around them all, cultists fell in heaps. “That!” she shouted to Mercy, “keep doing that! Aim for its eyes! They’re the weak point!”

The hunter’s pace increased as the monster roared. Pain bloomed. Some unseen panic rose up in Nicodemus’s chest. Frustration grew as he tore through more of the robed figures. They had their purpose but now they were getting in the way. His was greater. Black blood flecked his face as he stepped into dim light. When he looked at Mercy, he didn’t think twice about it and instead moved. Crashed towards Mercy like an unmerciful wave, compelled by the moon and the pulsating cold in his head. He grabbed for her throat as water sloshed up against his ankles, then his knees as he advanced toward the water. His face was stone as he looked at her. Through her. It wasn’t the hunter with his eyes on her. It was him and if he bid it, let her choke on black water until her spirit caved.

Or was it a play? Bo glanced around frantically, and though she kept fending off robbed figures with baton swings, earning her bone-shattering crunches and snaps as she smacked the thing around, she wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t some new kind of immersive theatre. The lady kept saying strange things, and Bo was sure she just saw the other lady fling a whole spear-thing at the giant squid. Yes, she was bleeding...but did artists not bleed for their art? The tentacle slam seemed real, and loud, and she stumbled for it. But what else was she to think about the command ‘we must wound it’ like this was some episode of Supernatural? “Okay, but do I shoot at the eyes or does she? Like what’s my storyline in this play? Or does she just--” She gestured to the woman who was now---”Fuck! I think your actors are turning on each other! No! Please! That’s violence! That’s bad!” And the buff man looked so much stronger than the woman, or so much more dedicated. She moved to separate the two, finding her path blocked by more robbed actors as they grouped in on her and the lead actress. “Eeck!” She fired her gun up into one of the eyes, like she said, wondering if it worked or not---she really just wanted to scare these robed people away, but gunshots would not deter them, being repeatedly hit with a baton did not deter them. She didn’t want to shoot, but it seemed to be the only thing she could do to keep them from stabbing the lead actress. “Can I shoot these things!? Are these people? They don’t seem like people! AH!” Another one charged at her, cutting the other arm. She shoved that one down, firing a bullet into its head--convinced it couldn’t be a person. “I-I think y-your animatronics are evil!” But the blonde woman and the buff man were people, she knew that much. She shone her flashlight at them, firing at the rest of the robed robots. “You two stop that! Stop!” She fired a few more bullets up, into what she hoped were the eyes and not just blindly into nowhere, before she turned to the lead actress--confused and desperate for a prompt.

When the spear hit home, Mercy let out a cry of triumph. It was drowned out as the beast roared in pain and anger - a terrible, deafening sound - and its long, inky-black limbs writhed and crashed around the small group. The ground trembled in the wake of the impact to the sand, and Mercy nearly lost her footing against the suddenly shifting earth.

But still she heard Rebecca call out, heard the confirmation of the beast’s weakness, heard another voice - the dark-haired woman- asking what her role was. “Yes! Shoot it!” the Fury answered as she took up her next weapon, a longbow, and nocked an arrow tipped with a long, serrated head. She fired it into the leviathan’s eye, followed by a second, causing the monster to roar even louder as both struck true. The beach was chaos - light and dark, blood and water, sand and ash, life and death… all struggling against the inevitable - but Rebecca’s light held true, and the sound of gunshots filled the air alongside the whistle of Mercy’s arrows and the chant of the exorcist’s words.

Mercy had just nocked her third arrow when something huge and hulking bore down on her without warning. She barely had time to react as Nic’s hands latched onto her neck with an iron grip that would’ve crushed a human's throat like a soda can. But Mercy wasn’t human. Nic wouldn’t be able to strangle her no matter how hard he tried. Regardless, Mercy made a slightly pained sound as the hunter’s hands started to squeeze, and her own hands snapped up to latch tightly around his wrists. This close, the bright light of the ritual circle illuminated his face… and the blank expression of a man who was no longer in control.

Fuck.

“Nic! I know you’re in there!” Mercy yelled, using her grip against his skin to push as much of her Valkyrie influence into him as she could. “Fight it!” But the water was cold and getting deeper by the second as Nic bullied her backwards. There was no time. Using Nic’s own forward momentum and size against him, Mercy planted her feet against the sandy bottom and pulled forwards on his arms as hard as she could. She then threw her entire body weight backwards and down, dousing herself in cold, black water, before putting both feet into the hunter's stomach, hard. She pulled and kicked out with everything she had in an attempt to flip him over and onto his back in the water. As Nic fell, Mercy tried to twist out of his grip, swinging her fist at his temple once he was on his back in an attempt to stun him enough to make him let go.

“Fight back, Nic!” The water was freezing against her skin as it churned around them, stirred by the furious, wounded monster overhead. “Don’t make me hurt you!”

Her power wavered. Rebecca’s eyes flickered, the matching glow from her circle fading for just a moment. No, she couldn’t let go now. She couldn’t. Power, they needed power. She felt him pushing against her, inside. He wanted to consume, he was using her weakness against her. “We made a deal,” she hissed, buckling to her knees, thick, chilling water splashing up her thighs, her abdomen, making her shiver. Hands fell into the water as well, one clutched to her head. She needed more power, she didn’t have enough. She never had enough. Fists dug up mud and grass. Eyes searched the battlefield. The human cop would not do, the hunter would not do. Zeroed in on the woman fighting. Her power was calling to them. Infinite and endless. Yes, her.

Amnon reached out, hand bursting through the light, and called her to him. A telekinetic pull, with the last of his energies, the two fighting bodies tumbling towards them. Fingers caught at the blonde woman’s chest, and pressed. “Give me power,” they said, and in the next moment, magic swelled into their arm, their chest, lit up their eyes, burning with a fury a hundred times more powerful than before. “Let’s finish this,” they said together, eyes boring holes through the battery of a woman before turning away. Raised their hands. It was time to finish this.

The hit to Nicodemus’s gut slightly winded him but what compelled him wasn’t human. It didn’t need to breathe the way that something brokenly human did. Even if his lungs seized slightly and his throat burned. His grip on Mercy maintained even as his head smarted from the shot to his temple. She was talking to him in a language he knew and chose to ignore. All that was needed was the language of blood and water. It spoke clearly enough to him. She fought against him as he dug his heels into the dirt and twisted his upper body, leverage on his side as water lapped at his wrists. The other woman said something and then, he could feel Mercy start to slacken underneath him. Noise and light, both human and otherwise, became a cacophony around them but he remained fixated on the blonde woman. He couldn’t quite get his fingers to completely circle around her neck as he forced her underwater, the tension of the attempt clear in his neck and arms. After her, one by one, they all might become the drowned. He would not permit them escape.

Mercy knew Rebecca had warned them that energy would be needed if this was going to work.

Magic always had a price, after all.

But Mercy was still unprepared.

Thunder without sound… light and heat and burning, fathomless eyes bright as all the suns of all the realms… taking what was needed… pulling it from the very essence of what she was… it felt like her flesh was being peeled from her bones…

So as Mercy fought back against Nic’s crushing hold with everything she had - every skill, every defensive measure, any and everything that had saved her life against enemies far bigger and far more dangerous than one mortal hunter, possessed or otherwise ... - she felt herself falter.

And while Nic - or the entity that was in control - couldn’t strangle her or break her bones, Mercy was no match for him when it came down to sheer brute strength. Especially as her own strength started to fade, pulled towards Rebecca’s circle, towards the light that began to brighten even as Mercy’s light started to dim.

The beast roared again as Rebecca raised her hands to the sky, and everything seemed to slow. It was in that moment that Mercy realized there would be no escaping this time. She’d seen enough of life and death to know that her life, such as it was, was forfeit. For now. But she would not go quietly.

Mercy dug her nails into the skin of Nic’s arms, cutting half-moons into his flesh. “You couldn’t kill me if you tried… for a thousand years-”

But then there was only darkness and rushing cold and the sound of her own muted screams as Nic forced her beneath the surface of the lake…

And when the black water finally rushed into her lungs and Mercy’s struggling ended, her last thought was simply:

Forgive me…

It was time.

Power surged through them and Rebecca drew in a breath. She drew herself up to stand again, caked in mud and water, and grass and blood. Inhaled slowly as she took up position inside her circle again, held up her hands. The beams energies were perfectly aligned now, and the monster in front of her turned as if to meet her gaze. It roared again. Soldiers fell. The energy in the air shifted. Nic was pressed on top of the blonde woman, and Rebecca was acutely aware of her movements stopping. But she could mourn the life lost later. For now, they needed to focus.

Raising her hands, she began the chant again. This time in her own language, using her own power. The monster screamed. It reached out, swiping a tentacle across the ground, sweeping cultists and others alike out of its way as it swung for her. But when its flesh met their light, it could go no further. It screamed in pain, shaking the world again, sloshing the water around. It tried to fight back, but their power, the power of the rituals-- it was too strong. She turned her palms to face the demon, and with one word, redirected the light.

As it collided with the monster, it sent out a shockwave. Everyone knocked from their feet. Even them. Light consumed the monster, soaking into it. For a moment, the world was still. Then fissures, like cracks in its facade, exploded with light. From wherever it was wounded. The spear in its eye, the bullet holes rained into it. The hole in its flesh where it’d collided with the circle’s light. As the light from the rituals consumed it, it spread. Out, over the lake, over the water. It consumed the cultists and the docks and worked its way up the shore to the circle. Washed right by her, right by Mercy’s unconscious body, right by the cop. And just when it seemed like it would climb all the way up to the road and perhaps down into the town-- it stopped. And receded, sucked back into the circle, back into the lake, and when it faded, nothing but the four of them were left.

Rebecca collapsed. It was over.

Nicodemus was keenly aware of how her pulse slowed then halted. That panic swelled further in his chest and pressed against every organ, like bear-trap primed to reverse. He needed to keep going. He needed to tear them all down to build a foundation that would outlast their fragile existence. As the beams lit up his eyes and near-blinded him, he stumbled back. Pain ripped through his head and a guttural roar tore through him. About shredded his vocal chords. It was him screaming, the hunter. Not whatever the hell had taken over him. The light faded and he went quiet. Aware. He looked at Mercy, the purpling around her neck and the stillness that overcame her. He had done that. Fuck. He spat out black water. He looked back at Rebecca. Collapsed and exhausted. He couldn’t find any words for what she had done. As he swallowed, his throat burned. Then he looked at the other woman. A cop. Shit. He had to go. He needed to leave. Get away from them. Get away from everyone. Fear swelled alongside panic and he moved to gather the assortment of weapons he had brought. Make sure he grabbed his rifle. His thoughts scattered, damn near impossible to the piece together. A migraine threatened to split him. The look he sent Rebecca could hardly convey the agony that chilled him, but it was all he could muster before he ran towards the thick of the White Crest woods. He wouldn’t stop until his boots wore and even then, not until his feet bled.

There was too much, too soon and too quick. Bo whipped her flashlight around frantically, the man was drowning the blonde woman, whose struggling seemed to die. The robed people stood between her and them, and she stumbled backwards, confused and horrified as the lead actress started her chant. A tentacle sweeped out for them, knocking the robed ones away, halting just in front of her face, between the light and the darkness. The creature roared, and Bo flew back against the wet ground. The world was bright, suddenly, the way she imagined it would be when she died. She might have let it be, if her mind hadn’t thought of the woman, still in the lake, and all that she had to set right. It wouldn’t be her end, not today. As the light was pulled away, leaving their world back in shuddering darkness, she clawed her way to the lead actress first. She pulled up grass and dug dirt under her nails. Bo checked her pulse---alive---then spared a glance up to the strewn bodies of the robed people---or what should have been their bodies. In their place she found their robes, stained wet and dark with something she couldn’t see. But it didn’t matter, not now. She clawed across the ground again, picking herself up only to slip in the mud and come crashing back down. Ink coated her hands and she tried again, clawing and running, stumbling and shouting. The man was gone. She committed his silhouette to memory before she turned to the lake. There, with equal vigor, she splashed and waded through the water, grunting and heaving as she pulled the blonde woman’s body out.

Once at the threshold between land and water, her feet began slipping on the mud, her arms looped around the woman’s losing their grip. And everytime Bo faltered, she dragged her up with renewed strength, determined to see her live even if the cold stillness of her body told another story. “I need--I need---” she panted into her receiver, calling for backup, ambulance, anything. “Come on,” she begged the woman’s unmoving body. She checked her pulse--dead. She began the process of resuscitation. But each pump, each breath she tried to bring back to the woman’s lungs, was met with stillness. “Please,” Bo croaked. She continued to plead long after the woman was pronounced dead. And all that remained of the oddities she’d witnessed were the giant squid, a handful of ink stained robes and a mismatched recounting that made no sense to even her. But she begged until her voice went raw. She begged for some justice in the world, some answers that could be clung to. She wept, for the unnamed woman who drowned, for the man who left his crime to be unanswered, for the woman who cast the squid away, now alone on the floor. She wept for all the horror that this town produced, and all the pieces she was missing.

This town needed saving, but how could anyone help when these were the troubles they faced? What hope was left for White Crest?

[adorable-american]

So, I'm in the mood for vampire drama...

UKUS, suggested Franada

Disclaimer: I do not own hetalia or any of its characters.

Warning! Rape, violence, and mentions of blood.

Pt1

Alfred was a renounced vampire hunter, a name that carried well in the world of monsters and those who knew the ugly truth. Alfred had been blind from this world until the age of 19 when his twin brother had disappeared and the only trace left was a jagged tooth, a clump of unidentified hair, and blood. Lots of blood. The local police had never seen anything like it, higher ups had been called and informed of the strange findings. Whatever happened that night, the struggle was obvious and Alfred hated himself for not being there with his brother. For not being able to help him, instead he had been on a date with some cheerleader from their college. Months had passed without much as a letter or a phone call from both the police or the feds that had been on the case. It was like the world had forgotten all about his brother. But Alfred didn't. He took to the internet, quickly finding tales and lore about hideous beasts and monster that preyed on humankind. Not much longer after that initial search Alfred became engrossed with the supernatural. His obsession caused him to lose sleep, to lose track of time, missing classes and assignments. Just as quickly as he found a path with answers, he lost the life he had been building for himself. He was kicked out of the student apartment complex, out of the college, and on his way with a single motive.

Find out the Truth.

-----

It had been years later when Alfred started earning his notoriety in this horrific world. But he didn't care, he was revenging his brother. His brother who he now knew had been attacked by a vampire, razor sharp teeth that could slash open the human throat in one bite. Eyes that glowed with hunger, beauty so perfect that you were invited in by their presence, an aura that soothed the most anxious of souls, the vampire was deemed "The Perfect Hunter" because everything about them invited you in, but just as the creatures had as many abilities, they had as many weakness also. Daylight, for example, burned their cold bodies, fire turned them to ash, beheading disabled them but didn't fully kill them, a stake to the heart was highly effective but it had to be certain types of wood, etc.

Having been tracking down the vampire that was there that night was Alfred's main goal, but he had nothing to describe the vampire except for he knew the vampire to be blonde, with long curly hair. And that was such a broad detail. Nonetheless, every vampire knew he was looking for one of their kind. To the Vampires, Alfred was known to take them in and torture them in hope of answers, answers none could give before they eventually died of sun exposure or Alfred's impatience. He typically held them long enough for the hunger to drive them mad. However long that was, depended on the vampire itself, typically older vampires needed less to survive compared to new vamps.

It wasn't until after his 25th birthday that Alfred gotten his first solid lead. A happy birthday card had been left for him under his car windshield wiper and in Matthew's handwriting. "He's alive." Alfred let out a breath of relief. All this time he never felt like his brother had been gone but he felt crazy when thinking he had felt like he was being watched for the past several weeks now. It had to have been Matthew right? Why would his kwn brother stay away from him after all this time? And why not let him know he was alive?

.... the realization of answers to that last question now troubled the hunter. He felt sick to his stomach with possibilities. "I need a drink" he said aloud as he crumbled the card in his fist.

"Me and you both." A smooth accented voice responded to him but as soon as he turned, already pulling a cedarwood stake from his pocket, the parking lot behind him was empty. Knowing good and well he heard someone Alfred didn't let his guard down. "Put that thing away and maybe I can answer some of your questions... hunter~" the smooth voice called to him again but every direction he looked was empty. He couldn't fight what he couldn't see.

"Show yourself!" Alfred yelled into the night air.

There was a long pause before a cool voice whispered. "Turn around."

Alfred whirled around, his arm raising to stab whoever was behind him but just as quick as he turned the creature he expected to find grabbed his arm, bending him and his hand back until the weapon clattered against the pavement. He didn't see the figure as he was righted again and his weapon gone.

"Tut tut tut" the vampire clicked his tongue as he appeared once again behind the hunter. This time when Alfred whirled around he saw the vampire. He stood cooly behind Alfred. The vampire was obviously older as his clothing was centuries old.

He was faced with a British vampire, one who wore high waisted trousers, a wool printed vest, a matching tail coat, a cane, and a top hat that hid most of his blonde hair. Someone of great importance in that time period Alfred could assume. But Alfred couldn't look away as he was transfixed by the vampire's glowing emerald eyes. He was one of the most beautiful vampire's Alfred had ever seen. And he had seen plenty.

"Your brother..." the vampire started to speak and Alfred had felt the lull of his voice soothing him. Drawing him in. He wanted to reach out and touch this man but realization dawned on him and again he was flailing for a weapon.

The vampire watched as the hunter was so quickly eased into the false safety his kind exuded with. But as his eyes quickly became wide with the realization he took the hunter by both wrists and slammed him against the trunk of his own car. He did jt hard enough that the hit to Alfred's head caused him to lose focus.

Alfred's head hurt and his vision swam with pain, the sudden movement caused his glasses to go askew and this further blurred his vision. The vampire that was now over him was holding his wrists tightly. "This is it" Alfred thought as he swallowed hard. He could feel the vampire pressing against his lower body as green eyes were curiously checking him over. His glasses were fixed and he could clearly see the smug look on the vamps face. "Who are you? What do you want?" Alfred said through gritted teeth as the vampire moved his wrist above his head, one hand now holding him down as the other raked over his upper body.

"Arthur. Arthur Kirkland." He finally introduced himself. His eyes inspecting the hunter who was now in such a compromising position. He let his hand rake slowly down the hunter's chest and stomach until he hit the hunter's belt. His hand skimmed over to Alfred's groin. Palming the hunter through his jeans. This was going to be much easier than he thought. "If you want to see your brother, you are going to have to make the same deal he made all those years ago to another vampire."

Alfred shuddered at the vampire's touch. Biting his lip as he refused to give the vampire any satisfaction for this. "W-what are you talking about?"

"Your brother, he gave himself over to a vampire named Francis." Arthur spoke again in a cool voice as he leaned against the hunter. Nipping at his lower lip, his sharp teeth easily tearing the skin open as he had a small taste of the hunter.

Alfred hissed at the pain and headbutted the vampire over him.

The vampire, Arthur, wasn't hurt by the action but it obviously made him mad as his free hand came up to the hunter's jaw. His grip was so tight Alfred whimpered in pain, he could almost feel the bones crunching under the pressure. "Don't." Arthur warned.

Defiant, Alfred spat into the vampire's face.

Arthur remained cool as he pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the saliva off his cheek before shoving the cloth into Alfred's mouth. "I tried to be nice." He said baring a mouth full of jagged teeth and ripping Alfred's shirt as he tore open the skin over Alfred's collarbone.

Alfred felt as his skin was ripped away, blood flowing quickly down his chest. The vampire's tongue and mouth quickly lapping up the blood. His limbs grew weak, the vampire let his arms go as he now held Alfred up by his coat. His head lulled to the side as the vampire moved him so he coukd get a better angle. His legs had gave out moments ago and he couldn't feel anything except the vampire's teeth and tongue over his collarbone.

"You look so cute like this." Alfred's vision was swimming again but he could hear the sneer in Arthur's voice. He was pushed up onto the trunk of the old car as Arthur moved his attention elsewhere. Undoing the buckle of Alfred's belt he slowly undid the hunter's jeans. Hoping the human could feel everything. Alfred's flaccid member was stroked to life as the vampire made more bite marks, claiming the hunter for his own musings.

Alfred hissed at each bite to his swelling member but still couldn't deny the mixture of pain and pleasure was turning him on. The biting stopped, but the strokes continued in an agonizingly slow pace. The vampire's bloody wrist had then been pressed into his mouth. At first he refused, Arthur punished him but thumping his sensitive member, it wasn't until Alfred accepted the vampire's blood that he was then rewarded. The hand around his memver stroking hard and fast as praise. "Good boy~" Arthur's voice echoed out against his darkening vision. He came for the vampire before falling unconscious to the pavement.

Arthur smiled as he gathered up the defeated hunter and carried him easily to the motel room in which he was staying for the week.

[ai-katsuu]

Forgotten Nightmares (3/3)

chapters: 1   2   3 

previous

this is probably one of the most disturbing, interesting stories i’ve written. i hope you guys like it!

----

“I’ve always been a fan of you, I have to admit.” Audrey’s voice sounded from above. 

“When I was alone I would always sing your song when working.” Gretel continued. 

“Isolation in the woods, part of me had hoped you would have arrived, that’s how desperate I was.” Briar said.

 “You were a nice story I always used to tell my Lost Boys, around a hundred years ago,” Peter spoke. 

“Who. Are. you?” The Headless Horseman questioned. 

“We want you to release the F7!” Goldie yelled, making it all too familiar to the boys who they were. 

“Goldie, remember when we said we were going to let them do the talking?” Snow gently hushed her. 

“Right, sorry!”

 The Headless Horseman huffed, “You want them? Then come get them,” he unsheathed his sword that, admittedly made everyone in the room quiver in fear. 

“Alright then, Briar, shall we?” 

“Let’s go!” Briar and Audrey dropped down from the ceiling platform. Briar devilishly smiled as the horse revved its motor with its hoof. 

“I’ll let you get started first, meet you in a bit.” Audrey told her.

 “Got it!”

 Audrey quickly disappeared as the horse charged at the pair. 

Briar hastily drew her sword and clashed with the Horseman. She was able to jump on the horses head as she fought him. The horse had reared up in panic, causing the Horseman to fall down. “Audrey!” 

The latter quickly dashed forward and gashed deep slits at the Horseman's body with her sharp water swords. He tried to reach for his sword but it was quickly grabbed by Briar who pointed it at him. He grunted in frustration as his head came to attack Audrey with its flames, however it was quickly put out as she blasted gallons of water on it. 

“Your turn!” she yelled as the Headless Horseman started to make a quick recovery.

 Briar and Audrey jumped back up to the ceiling only for three more individuals to drop down. “Peter, why don’t you take the first one, distract him for us.” Gretel said and Goldie smiled as she twisted her axe on her fingers. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Peter flew to his direction and picked his head up, throwing it up and treating it like a volleyball. “You’ve got some major anger management issues, my guy.” 

“Put me down, boy!” he yelled.

Peter looked sideways for a bit and smiled, “If you say so,” he let his head drop and as soon as it reached the ground, the Horseman heard a voice soon after from above. He looked above and saw Goldie yelling a battle cry as she had her axe ready to smash his head. To his luck he rolled away and her axe hit the floor. 

Stuck on the ground for a brief moment, Goldie grunted, “Urgh…” her eyes were dark as she freed her axe and said the following words, “You’re making me work!” and successfully swung his head to the wall.

They were too preoccupied with the head that he didn’t notice that his body was being planted with bombs by Gretel. “We’re out of here, give it thirty seconds! Snow, Gwen, finish it!” she yelled as they jumped back up.

 The mentioned fell down, “Ready?” Snow asked Gwen who nodded and turned into her Werewolf form. 

The Headless Horseman saw the transformation and frowned, “Oh, it’s you. You know the original Werewolf would’ve loved this.” 

Snow grabbed the head and immediately crushed it with her bare hands before he mumbled something soon after. Gwen gashed the body with her claws as much as she could and threw it to the side, far from the F7 as she reverted back to human. 

The rest of the group jumped down once more. Audrey moved her hands forward and created a wall of water around the body. Once she did she nodded at Gretel who pressed a button on her remote, and a violent explosion shook the walls. The Headless Horseman was no more. 

Audrey removed the wall only to see ash left on the floor. The Fearless Seven were finally able to breathe again, as their backs hurt from all the tension and nervousness they felt. Their partners immediately tried to free them. 

“Merlin!” Snow broke his chains with her hands. 

“Snow-ohwoh-I wasshk, and i ashuf.” Merlin started rambling gibberish as Snow comforted him. 

“Are you alright?” Audrey whispered as Jack hugged her, 

“Thank heavens you’re here..” he mumbled gratefully. 

“Told you my tracker was useful,” Gretel told Pino as she freed him.

 “Yeah, you’re right.” he forced a chuckle, still shaken up. 

“Did you see me?! I missed at first but then I hit him like I scored a home run-” 

“Yeah, yeah, I saw...” Noki collapsed on Goldie’s shoulder out of exhaustion. 

Kio was oddly quiet as Peter freed him, which made him feel awkward “Hey..so..are you like, okay? Or-” and Kio threw his arms around him as he lightly sobbed. Just lightly though. 

“You think I should keep this?” Briar referred to the Horseman’s sword as she cut Hans loose with it.

 “No, could be cursed.” he laughed, although like Pino, slightly forced. 

“You alright? You had no trouble transforming?” Arthur worriedly asked Gwen.

“I’m fine! It was easy.” she grinned. 

As the group made their way back home, the F7 was still oddly quiet. 

“Geez, you guys are still that shaken up about it?” Peter frowned.

 “You weren’t there when he first appeared! It was terrifying, like the stories but much worse!” Arthur explained, 

“Yeah have you ever had his head up close to you?” Noki exclaimed.

 “I literally just knocked his head out like he was a golf ball like, thirty minutes ago.” Goldie said. 

“Well, on the bright side, we’re passing by a beautiful sunset now.” Gretel smiled as she looked to her left. 

They were passing by a road that overlooked the sea, to their right was a large field that would’ve been perfect to have a picnic. Gwen made a mental note in her mind that she wanted to come back here. 

“Well, it is beautiful indeed,” Hans noted as he looked at the reflecting ocean. 

“Pretty if we had a camera,” Kio said. 

Briar raised her eyebrows, “Hey, what time is it?”

 “4:13, why?” Pino told her. 

“It’s just, why are the clouds so dark and gloomy? And it’s getting pretty cold..” she shook her arms. 

“Would this be Frost again?” Snow White asked.

Jack shook his head, “He’s in the North Pole with the other Guardians helping for Christmas, right Audrey? 

But Audrey had her head down and didn’t respond as she stood perfectly still.

 “Mon amour?” Jack went up to her and tucked her hair behind her ears. As soon as he did he almost immediately flinched back as he saw the pupils of her eyes were no more. It was as if she went blind again. 

“Audrey?! Can you hear me?” he tried shaking her but she would budge.

“Merlin!” Jack turned around as Snow yelled. He too was in the same state as her. 

“What’s happening to them?!” Briar looked in panic. 

“This is almost scary..” Gwen scrunched her face in worry.

 The clouds became darker and bright light flashed for a second before a loud boom in the sky was heard. After the thunder, rain began pouring down, softy at first, but then the droplets became bigger, and it almost hurt their skin, like needles were falling down from the sky. 

Merlin and Audrey then began to walk in sync, out of the road and into the big field.  “What are they doing?” Arthur yelled out through the raging winds. 

Merlin took his spells out, and lighting all the way from the clouds reached his hands. Audrey lifted her right arm to the ocean, and gallons of violent water came to her side.

 “No way...are they gonna fight?!” Peter exclaimed. 

Snow suddenly then gasped, she heard the Headless Horseman mumble something just before she crushed his head:

“At the sixteenth hour and thirteenth minute, one of you shall join me in my doom. I will not perish alone.” 

“The Horseman..he cursed them, just before he died. Merlin and Audrey won’t stop fighting until one of them dies.” Snow said fearfully.

 “We have to stop them!” Jack yelled.

 Immediately after he did, Audrey and Merlin disappeared for a moment, before reappearing again and caused the biggest explosion of water with electricity running through it. Trees were burnt and drowned at the same time, and the group had managed to take cover on a slope. 

“How the hell are they this powerful?” Hans grunted as he put his wok out as a shield.

 Merlin and Audrey kept throwing their elements at each other, not stopping as destruction of the ground was far from their minds. Audrey restrained Merlin’s limbs with water chains before he generated electricity, making it run across the water forcing Audrey to drop him. It was at this moment where Snow hit her head against Merlin’s, and Jack punched Audrey’s head with his ring, knocking the two out as their elements died down. 

The storm was clearing up and the group used this as an opportunity to head back to the White Palace, in fear of any other curses that might take place. 

Merlin’s eyes shot open as he sat up on his bed. “What happened-” 

“Merlin!” Snow and Arthur rushed to his side. 

“God, if there’s one thing I know now, it’s to never upset you and Audrey at the same time.” 

“Me and...what happened? We were just at the sunset- “ 

“It’s alright, we’ll tell you everything later.” Snow assured him. 

On the opposite room, Audrey slowly woke up as well. 

Isabella gasped, “Your highness, she’s awake!” she called out.

 Jack hastily came out of the bathroom and ran to his wife and her maid. “Are you alright? Who am I? Who is she?” He quickly asked her. 

“What...Jack..and Isabella...what are you talking about?” 

Jack sighed in relief, “Good, I didn’t hit you too hard.” 

Everyone else was in the parlor, eating dinner as it was quiet all around. “Are we really sure he’s gone?” Goldie asked. 

“Snow made sure of it, he could’ve only brought out one curse by the time she killed him.” Kio nodded. 

“It’s already past the deadline for that curse, so they’ll be a hundred percent okay.” Noki followed up. 

Gretel looked at her brother, “You don’t think there are other old Nightmares that are still out there, are there?” 

Hans shook his head, “We’ll deal with them when we will, if ever.”

Though all of them hoped there would never be an ‘if ever’. 

[mimir-anoshe]

💧&🔥

Just a bit of Cursed/Nimulot analysis… Cause I’m bored. And I might have found some interesting parallels/imagery watching it through for the 7 billionth time that I would love to share. If anyone enjoys writing meta… Which I mean I know some of y’all need your fix… Feel free to use anything/expand upon it. I would, but I’m a new fur-mumma and she’s taking up all my waking hours, so this little shit-post about this new hell hole of a ship I’ve dove headfirst into will have to do. The images are from a video and show produced by Netflix, I own nothing, so pls don’t be a bitch about it Tumblr.

***SPOILERS FOR THE SHOW!!! WATCH IT AND COME BACK!! OR DON’T? ANYHOO YOU’VE BEEN WARNED!!*** ⚠️  

- beware Tumblr app users, it may be your doom -

Where to begin, with the teaser? Or with…

THE SHOW! Here be just a wee few times the writers/director(s) through the writing/cinematography have mirrored these two ‘protect the kid - warriors till the end’ idiots. I’m sure others have picked up on them… Not in any particular order, here ya go anyway.

1x02 - 1x10

*Insert spiderman pointing at spiderman meme*

One scar made by an actual dark god tricking her when she was a child, the others by a very human evil tricking him when he was a child and the consequences for both lasting into adulthood.

1x02 - 1x10

Look at the years of trauma Anakin, look at it! They even use the same damn word! The phonetic tones of disgust! The outcast syndrome! Oof. (And it’s not like Nimue being called demon has to do with a general racial-slur from a human, that is a fey calling her that from her own village!) They both grew up viewing themselves as “demons”, the “abominations”. Even their expressions are the same, fear and sorrow and self-hatred. All they both want is to be accepted! (By their fathers especially). To be loved.

The two who are “cursed.”

1x02 - 1x01

*says nothing*

1x04 - 1x01

“Where to begin? With water or with fire?”

Where to begin? WHERE TO BEGIN??? *dies*

Water ☯ Fire

Sword up  ☯ Sword down

Light/Day  ☯  Dark/Shadow

Life & Death (Life around her, death in the water) ☯ Death & Life (forest fires make way for new growth)

Long bit: Both characters are associated to the elements of water and fire individually through the environment/cinematography/colour pallet/colour symbolism, and then water and fire is mirrored between them. She is overall water, he is overall fire; but they also have a bit of the other in each other.

For Nimue this symbolism is often done through her environment, showing her connection to nature as the fey queen and that she does not hide who she is if she can help it. She does not hide externally, so her elemental symbolism becomes EXTERNAL.

Whilst for Lancelot though he is often surrounded by fire, the idea of water/tears is either symbolised through the fairy tale style of the artwork or referenced for him through his name as “the weeping monk.” Hinted at in his characterisation of guilt and self-loathing, the way other characters respond to him (”the one who cries”/”you see it all through those weeping eyes”). His main conflict is an Internal fight between who he is and who he needs to become, so a lot of his main symbolism surrounding water (and even fire as pertaining to magic - ashfolk - and not killing fey) is INTERNALISED, hidden, cut off from the Hidden themselves. Symbolic of him hiding his connection to the fey and that other side of himself, the “human” (morally speaking) side, and therefore hiding who he truly is… Lancelot.

For Nimue, fire means life. Being chosen and her magic saving people. For Lancelot fire means Death, his deeds, “the fires of hell” and the destruction of the “ash” folk and his heritage. He believes hell fire is his fate, going by the “even if I am damned.”

For Nimue, water means death. In the water she takes revenge, where that Paladin almost drowned her. Into the water she falls, where they think her shot dead by arrows. The water is her fate as the Lady of the Lake. For Lancelot, water means life. Tears, emotions, taking responsibility, feeling the weight of his guilt and mourning for the things he has done/lost. For him, water - not ash -means a second chance to be better. To put out the fires and heal.

Though in the end, for both of them, water & fire most of all represent death and rebirth.

1x03

^If you don’t understand I can’t help you. ☯

1x01 - 1x07

Now this one I found quite interesting. Remember that even if Nimue directed the second one, it is still the Power/will of the Hidden at play. (Or should I say the will of the Writers/director) Chosen? Mirrors? Night and Day? Fire… Embers to Ashes? We shall see, but I think it was definitely on purpose.

^I’ll just leave that here, the fuckers kept missing each other for an entire season (WHICH WAS ON PURPOSE THE WRITERS DID THAT ON PURPOSE just as an fyi). The fact that there is this much sexual tension, anticipation, mirroring, fate, destiny and chemistry between two characters who have never even mET should be ILLEGAL! They affect each other immeasurably without ever even meeting, so imagine what will happen when they do...? *pterodactyl screech*

Whelp there ye go. Under the next gif I also did a bit on the Teaser trailer, as that just fucked me up a bit I have to tell you! Up to you whether you want to continue digesting my mad ramblings or not. *Shrug* Thanks for coming to my TED talk guys– 😂 Somebody fucking smite me down like the eldritch horror of writing I am dear god think of the children…

THE OFFICIAL TEASER TRAILER:

Arthur running for the Sword of Power, because you know, King Arthur.

“The Legend says…” The Legend of King Arthur and his Sword Excalibur/Caliburnus? The line is very meta, a reference to the in world legend that this story will create, but it’s also expecting the audience to be savvy of the actual legend of King Arthur and his knights. Both these ideas intertwined into one. Aka, the trailer expects us to have pre-decided expectations for the story we’re now being told, because we’ve already been told it before; this fairy tale of celtic myth/history. All the “spoilers” about Arthur, his lineage, Morgana, Guinevere, the Knights, even the lady of the Lake herself come with that knowledge. However…

Surprise surprise, the Weeping Monk (killer of fae)/ Lancelot (eventually Arthur’s most trusted KNIGHT) instead picks up the fae sword from it being embedded in the ground, subverting our expectation, it definitely fucking subverted mine, but not in a GOT way, in a ~good~ way. I was like, “Whosoever be this fine hooded fellow hath stole away both sword and my good sense!!! 👀”

Also harkening back to the legend of the sword in the stone (another expectation), which the action itself signifies that person be - as Merlin so eloquently puts - “The one true king.”

Ok… Symbolic wink wink nudge nudge towards his true nature (inside and out), saving Percival, potentially becoming the greatest warrior and protector of his people and eventually a Knight of the Round Table; and perhaps King of our Hearts??? Ok, sure thing “concept” trailer. I’ll bite.

Ok… *deep breath*

WHOMSt the fUCK decided to frame (fae “ashman”) ?Lancelot? with the ~SWORD OF KINGS~ (also of fae origin) A N D the line…‘the one true king’ ALL IN ONE… instead of Arthur?

‘BELONGS to the one true King?’ Belongs, hmm interesting word choice… This done in a worms eye view shot meant to make the viewer feel like the character is above/superior/basically we’re kneeling before them? (Which I mean sure? but…) Hmm??? HMMM??? I don’t understand CONCEPT Trailer what is the CONCEPT you’re trying to get across? One hand on his paladin sword and the other on “fae hope” Excalibur I get, he has to make an important decision, one that will either save his humanity (and his people) or destroy it (them), yeah yeah sure that’s F I N E…

…but what about the “KING” SHIT HMMM?? Is there something you would like to share with the rest of the class? *sips tea whilst staring straight into the camera*

it may mean nothing don’t quote me

…Anwaaaay… We all know in a fight Lancelot can kick Arthur’s ass so that’s not whats going on here. Arthur is P I S S E D. They’re not just bog standard enemies here. I mean WPM kicking him in the ribs was pretty “fuck you” and they were just enemies there. In this instance the sword is in play, Weeping Monk has taken something from Arthur that he feels “BELONGS” to him - in this case symbolised by WPM taking “his” sword - and that’s making it personal.

“You stole my sword ya bitch!” And what is the sword linked to? Power? Sure. The right of being a King? Yep. And also a certain Queen…  No no no, this is the Concept of rivalry. It shows that whatever relationship Arthur and his “Knight” will have in the future after all the “die die die” starts to sizzle down will - in its genesis - be a rivalry. Probably mirroring Gawain and Arthur when they first met to an extent. A rivalry for power? For something else? Who Knows!

*whistles innocently*

And down down down he goes. He’s FALLING. There are many metaphorical concepts associated to FALLING… Falling from “grace” (in the eyes of the Church)… Falling because he has a sky full of guilt crashing down upon him… falling for h… falling in Lo… into the Water!!!! Until he is completely submerged. Water, the idea of cleansing, of washing away who you once were/trauma/sins of the past so you may be reborn a better version of yourself. His old ideals are defeated, he submits to his true heritage and allows it to wash around him so he may begin to heal.

Though if we’re talking metaphors, water is - for obvious reasons - always associated with the LADY OF THE LAKE… Nimue. He has fallen into her world. (pss he’s gonna fall for the Chick in the Lake - I think - there ye go). Water is associated to memory/reflections and mirrors. And he is CRASHING through this mirror… This idea of reflections/mirror images is even more ironic when you’ve watched the show.  

And as he falls beneath the water with the sword of a King, she rises out of it, with the sword of a Queen… Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s in the biggest shipping hell of them all? Either these two are going to be really good at relay, or there’s some conceptual significance here. The specifics? No fecking clue, will need to wait for a season 2! There is also some interesting use of Z~oo~m in this last bit, but I’m sure it’s pretty obvious to you all. Summary: just visually in a concept “teaser” trailer, the zoom in on them both, the reverse mirroring, the literal and symbolic visual of water and the Sword (of rulers) connecting them frames these two characters together, that’s just in the concept trailer. Links their legend together. TBH IT LITERALLY LOOKS LIKE LANCELOT FELL INTO THE WATER AND TURNED INTO NIMUE  WHAT IS THIS GREEK SOULMATE SHIT I’M–

*calms down* This trailer and the show also definitely said to the original Arthurian Legend “RIP but I’m different.” I mean, Nimue is definitely not Lancelot’s mother figure in this one, that’s all I’m saying.

I think this legend might be a wee bit different 😉*cackles*

[dinoandrade]

“DRACULA”: BOOK vs. MOVIES

Part 5: The Final Battle & The Death Of Dracula

Welcome to the fifth and final part of my essay comparing Bram Stoker’s novel “Dracula” to those film versions most commonly referred to as those “faithful to the novel.” To understand why I wrote this please check out parts one through four.

BUT FIRST...

As before this essay is NOT spoiler free. And whether you love or hate any of the films being compared here is beside the point and a subject best left to posts dedicated to film critique. This essay is SOLELY about which films are the most faithful to the novel... period.

And one final reminder of those versions most touted as “faithful” that I compared:

“Nosferatu: a Symphony of Horror” (1922) aka “Max Schreck Version”.

“Count Dracula” (1970) aka “Christopher Lee Version”.

“Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1973) retitled “Dan Curtis’ Dracula” aka “Jack Palance Version”.

“Count Dracula” (1977) aka “Louis Jordan version.”

“Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992) aka “Coppola version”.

And now...

PART FIVE: THE FINAL BATTLE & THE DEATH OF DRACULA

Stoker’s novel ends with a rip-roaring chase through Transylvania’s Borgo Pass as Dracula’s Gypsy minions try to spirit the Count away in a large wooden crate mounted on a horse drawn cart. As the sun has not yet set, Dracula is still in a weakened state, thus the Gypsies are desperate to get the Count to the relative safety of Castle Dracula. However, the vampire hunters - Johnathan Harker, Quincey Morris, Dr. Seward and Arthur Homewood - are in hot pursuit on horseback with an assortment of bladed weapons and Winchester rifles. Already at the castle are Mina and an exhausted Van Helsing.

Seeing the approaching Gypsies, Mina arms herself with a pistol. As she is in the growing thrall of dark supernatural power she marvels over the fact that she feels no fear whatsoever over the coming battle she is about to join.

When the Gypsies reach the castle the final battle rages with gunfire and flashing blades. Soon the Gypsies are either dead or on the run but not before Quincey Morris is mortally stabbed.

In a state of mania, Johnathan Harker leaps onto the Gypsy cart and heaves the crate containing Dracula to the ground, then Harker and Quincey rip open the lid just as the sun sets. Dracula’s eyes glow red with triumph as his powers are restored but he’s too late as Harker slashes the Count’s throat with a vicious swipe of his blade, followed instantly by Quincey Morris who, in a final dying act, drives his Bowie knife into Dracula’s heart, which instantly turns the vampire king to dust.

Surrounded by his fellow vampire hunters the Cowboy Quincey Morris lies dying in Johnathan Harker’s arms. His final words are a quiet declaration that he willing dies in the service of saving the life and soul of such a valiant woman as Mina.

Almost every telling of “Dracula” has a more stage-production-inspired traditional ending, usually involving a final confrontation between Van Helsing and the Count, with the Professor delivering the death blow... even four of the five “faithful” versions I’ve listed here. The Count is killed by sunlight in one. He’s staked through the heart by Van Helsing in two others (one with a wooden stake, one with a wooden spear). And one uniquely ends with Harker and Quincey setting Dracula’s casket on fire in broad daylight so the Count cannot escape.

And while no film presents Stoker’s action ending with 100% accuracy, three of the films do make the attempt with varying degrees of faithfulness. I will take each one in order of accuracy.

Christopher Lee Version:

In the Lee Version there is no chase and no battle with guns and blades. The Gypsies just show up at Castle Dracula with the box containing the Count in what looks like a funeral procession. Johnathan Harker and Arthur Homewood... excuse me, Quincey Morris are lying in wait - and that’s it... no supernaturally powered Mina, no exhausted Van Helsing and no vengeance hungering Doctor Seward... it’s just Harker and Morris. The two lone heroes then “battle” the Gypsies by simply dropping huge square chunks of castle wall on them until the Gypsies run away. The rest of the action does not follow the novel at all. So, this finale is only kinda-sorta faithful but at least there was still a confrontation of sorts with the Gypsy minions so... that’s something anyway.

Louis Jordan version:

On the other hand the Louis Jordan version is the very first adaptation to include both the raucous chase and the battle with guns and blades. However composite character Quincey Homewood is shot and wounded instead of mortally stabbed. When he gets to Dracula’s cart he collapses unable to do more, so he has no hand in killing Dracula. Doctor Seward is present and fights. Van Helsing and Mina are also there but Mina is not driven by supernatural power that makes her bold and fearless and she only wields a gun because Van Helsing gives her a rifle and tells her to use it. Though to her credit she does use it once to kill a Gypsy who is about to stab Harker. The rest of the climax does not follow the novel but until now this was the closest any film had ever come to what Stoker wrote. So kudos to them!

Coppola Version:

Coppola’s also has the mad chase and battle with guns and blades. Johnathan Harker, Doctor Seward, Arthur Homewood, and Quincey Morris are all there and fight valiantly exactly like in the novel. And like the novel an exhausted Van Helsing and Mina are also present with Mina possessed by supernatural power that drives her to fearlessness. Though unlike the novel the supernatural power drives Mina to defend Dracula with a gun rather than use the gun against Dracula’s minions - which when you think about it kinda makes more sense as it’s a dark power that is gripping her soul.

But then like the novel Quincey is stabbed, Harker faces Dracula just as the sun sets and cuts the vampire’s throat and in a final dying act Quincey drives his Bowie knife into Dracula’s heart. Coppola deviates from the novel at this point in that Dracula does not die immediately and burst into ashes and Quincey Morris dies in Doctor Seward’s arms and not Johnathan’s as written. But I rather liked that particular deviation as Doctor Seward and Quincey Morris were both failed suitors of Lucy Westenra and driven by vengeance, so I found it fitting that one heartbroken suitor dies in the arms of the other heartbroken suitor.

In the end, all of this makes Coppola’s the only “Dracula” film ever made to not only include all the combatants from the novel, the heroic dying deeds of the American Cowboy, and most amazingly of all, the first and ONLY “Dracula” film to show the precise mechanism of Dracula’s death by way of a slashed throat and a cowboy’s Bowie knife through the heart just as Stoker wrote it.

Sure, ultimately in Coppola’s version it is Mina who eventually drives the Bowie knife home to end the Count, but I have ZERO problem with this embellishment. Purists may get upset, but after decades of Mina being reduced to “Damsel in distress” I say why not let the stout-hearted woman finally be the one to destroy the Count.

Winner: Coppola version

AND THE ULTIMATE WINNER IS...

After 5 days worth of essay, in the end it turns out to be pretty obvious that it all comes down to two... the Louis Jordan version and the Coppola version. As to which is the most faithful to Stoker’s work is up to you as it depends on what is most important to you as viewer and reader.

If it is historical accuracy and strict adherence to Stoker’s plot and overall authentic period tone then Coppola’s version is disqualified for the way it more or less bullet-points the plot to make room for the added subplots, its gothic dream-like tone, and all those wild embellishments this film so gleefully revels in. Thus the Louis Jordan version is the hands-down winner. No question.

However, if adherence to Stoker’s characters is more important to you then one can only favor the Coppola version. What with it’s more accurate depictions of Johnathan Harker, Dr. Seward, Arthur Homewood and Van Helsing. Being the ONLY filmed version to include the complete story of the American Cowboy Quincey Morris. And of course a portrayal of Mina that finally gives her a true arc worthy of the bold character Stoker had written. Add to that the most faithful rendition of the final battle yet filmed and the only film EVER to include the novel-accurate killing blows to Dracula and my personal choice is Coppola’s.

But that’s just me, the ultimate choice...

...is yours.

AFTERTHOUGHT

Two things:

First, here is a novel written in 1897 that ends with a raucous chase, a gun battle featuring Winchester rifles, a fearless heroine wielding a pistol and a Cowboy from Texas who kills the King of the Vampires with a Bowie knife. Frankly, I find it astounding that in the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’, jingoistic Hollywood didn’t crank out a slew of Dracula films that focused mainly on those elements, with brave American Quincey Morris as the central figure. You would think as kids we would have all grown up believing the story of “Dracula” was about a noble Gary Cooper-esque Cowboy vampire hunter vs. the Prince of Darkness. Only to then someday read the book and be shocked that Quincey Morris wasn’t the main hero.

And finally, regarding future cinematic tellings of “Dracula”... sure, the Jordan version sacrificed characters for plot and the Coppola version sacrificed plot for characters so there’s still plenty of room for someone to finally make the definitive faithful version... but, if I’m to be completely honest I am far less interested in that as I am in a version told entirely from valiant Mina’s point of view. Dracula vs. Van Helsing has been done time and time again on stage, film and television. In fact, they just did it again on Netflix. It’s time for a true MINA vs. Dracula movie. Such a film is more than 100 years overdue... and I would love to see it.

To all of you who read some or all of this essay, I say thank you. I hope you enjoyed it or at the very least found it to be a nice diversion. I truly wish I could invite you all over for a “Dracula” movie marathon. For I would then quote the Count:

“Welcome to my house... come freely, go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring.”

[sparda3g]

The Seven Deadly Sins Chapter 309 and 310 Review

Chapter 309 Review

I want to apologize for the late review for this particular chapter. With the next chapter already released, I will run down as quickly as possible. The chapter covers the awkwardness of the Sins’ awareness of Meliodas, leaving from earth forever. Not only Meliodas had to endure the sadness from his friends, but Elizabeth had to endure to keep smiling while her friends cried for her. She did fight to prevent him from being the Demon King and stay in the realm for eternity. It was almost like she lost the battle, but it is what it is. It was a bit touching to say the least.

The one part that fans have been dying to know is the situation with Zeldris and Gelda, and thankfully, this chapter unveil it; however, it’s not all good news. The good news is Gelda is freed from the seal, just as Meliodas promised. The bad news is Zeldris is missing, assumed to be gone from Earth, whatever exactly that means. Just when she is back to roam freely, he gone missing. I do feel a bit sympathy for Meliodas since he feels guilty for the mess. I am glad that this series is acknowledging the faults or flaws of the characters; in fact, the next chapter even did it better, but let’s not jump ahead.

The most amusing moment is the big news at the castle. The King Bartra proposed Meliodas to not only marry Elizabeth, but inherit the throne as King; the easiest Game of Throne battle. It was the best time for Meliodas to break the bad news, but the awkward mood continues on. The real shock comes in when Elizabeth shares her thoughts. Not only she objects her father’s proposal but decides to join with Meliodas to the Demon Realm. Well, it’s not like she has any future at Earth, so it’s fine to chase after her man. I mean it could have been worse, like chasing after a man who tried to kill you and have nothing to offer back at your hometown. That sounds insane.

This was a good chapter that is slowly resolving everything there need to be addressed, though some will be missed; at least, that’s how it was progressing. “This is building up for a sad farewell to two beloved friends and I like it. I know the final battle wasn’t that great as well as anti-climactic in some regards, but the epilogue has been nice so far. Maybe a little too happy, but it is what it is. Now that Elizabeth and Meliodas are going away forever, the ending is going to be bittersweet, but heartwarming for the two who struggled for a very long time.”

Did you notice the quote? It’s there because in my early draft, I was going to address like that. The reason for keeping it there in quotes is to give you an idea where my mind was thinking at the time. The next chapter… shattered it into zillion of pieces.

Let’s begin…

Chapter 310 Review

The series is close to the end with the chapter’s title, “Farewell.” If that wasn’t convincing enough, the magazine also indicated that the series is at the climax; strongly suggesting the conclusion. It was a fun ride while it lasted. It’s the night before the day of departure. Elizabeth is getting ready to leave for tomorrow and Elaine wish her the best. It’s nice to see more of their friendship, which I thought it’s sweet. I remember the chapter where they talk like they have so much in common. It would have cool to see more teamwork from them, but their friendship is good. Elizabeth may not be cursed anymore, but her time on Earth is nearly over. It’s better than death, that’s for sure.

I like the scene with Hawk singing to the sky; the same song that his late brother sang. I thought it was charming for what it was, though it does play a part later on. Diane is still upset that her two close friends are leaving forever. I do hate goodbyes. Merlin details the Demon Realm, which sounds like hellfire; nothing like Dragon Ball’s interpretation of hell. Luckily for Elizabeth, she can survive there for being so holy. Even so, I can’t imagine me thinking, “This is right,” while living in practically hell. The best of luck to her.

I thought the following scene from the last chapter was skipped entirely, but it turns out it was saved for a flashback, but it does help out the narrative flow. Elizabeth is pure solid on embarking the life in the Demon Realm for all eternity (not literally), and she has no regrets. Like I said in my last chapter review, she has nothing left on Earth, so this is fine. Granted, it reminded me how one character decided to hop in a different timeline for a guy forever, but you know, if you have a new path with a bright future (irony), take it.

What makes the scene heartwarming and oddly rewarding, at least to me, is Meliodas’ regrets. While Elizabeth is ready to go to her new life, a bit irony, Meliodas has tons of regrets to go over. It was amusing at first with Meliodas wishing his future child to meet with Ban’s, and Diane and King wonder what about theirs. Someone jumping ahead of Meliodas’ future. It then becomes pretty sentimental with Meliodas admitting that he doesn’t deserve the good treatment, rather belong in hell. He even admitted how he was incredibly selfish to focus on Elizabeth over everything. It resulted Zeldris’ death, which confused me, as well as Arthur’, which also confused me. It’s probably just from his thoughts. Best to wait for confirmation like a grave.

The reason why I said rewarding is because the writing acknowledged the flaw of Meliodas’ character. For a while, I was annoyed by the hard focus on the romance, despite having its moments. I don’t hate nor dislike it, but the plot could’ve have that in the background, not the foreground. It’s as if the world can’t move without them getting together. I understand it’s Romeo and Juliet influence, but it doesn’t have to brush everyone aside. That all said, the fact he acknowledged his flaw does ease up the bumpy journey. The last thing I want is everyone think this is perfectly fine. Yes, it doesn’t repair the flaw entirely, but it salvaged enough from being a fatal one.

It does help with Sins reflecting all the good deeds Meliodas has done, even when his main focus was Elizabeth. There’s ups and downs in life, so Meliodas should be thankful for not only doing some good deeds but making great friends along the way. The captain couldn’t be anymore prouder to be with them. The Seven Deadly Sins is disbanded and sadly, it’s for good. This was a pretty nice last moment with the team.  The series is really ending and although it was flawed, like what series isn’t really, I am going to miss it.

The day of departure is here with the portal to the realm placed in the isolated snowy field, and already feel like it’s truly ending. I’m expecting an epilogue (to an epilogue) such as a huge time-skip to finish the story in the next chapter, so I’m prepared for the closure of current timeline. I like the fact Hawk decided to go on a journey to Purgatory to see the life his brother lived in. It’s no wonder why he was singing last night; it’s a way to say, “His next path is set.” This is a nice sendoff.

What’s also a nice sendoff is Elizabeth’s. She smiled in front of her loved ones, but deep down, she was sad to say goodbye. It’s why she quickly turn around to leave. I respect that and despite my problems with her character, she has a good end. The whole scene feels good yet sad because once Meliodas and Elizabeth leave, the good old day is over. Meliodas says farewell and well, the series is almost over. That page got me a bit touched. It was fun while it lasted…

Now…

Imagine yourself in my position after reading my review. It sounds very crystal clear that I absolutely believe the ending is here and nothing will go wrong. This is the best place to play the theme song. Go play Pokemon theme song where Ash said goodbye to Butterfree. It has the same setup. If anything, just play the first theme song. Roll credit, because it’s over. Hell, play Avengers Endgame credit scene with awesome roll call graphic cards, because that’s how perfect the ending is. It’s set to end the series for good. You got that? Fantastic! Now then, play the song that played in that infamous episode of Game of Thrones called, “Red Wedding.” Why? Because this happens!

In my experience, I have been trolled by writers many times; whether it’s from an anime, manga, television show, etc. This has to be the best one so far; at least in the realm of anime and manga. Everyone I know bought it. I bought it. Nakaba trolled us; simple as that. He played us like a damn fiddle! I thought Ishida’s Tokyo Ghoul’s “ending” was messed up; this takes it. Kubo of Bleach, you better return with a new level of troll. Now that I have cool down, let’s go over the positive.

To begin with, it’s not over. This is great for those who wants not only a better final boss, but a better endgame path. Next, the curse being destroyed is no longer the case as Elizabeth has freaking died in front of our eyeballs. First of all, that takes kintama to do that, so kudos to Nakaba. More importantly, the idea of easily removing the curse is redeemed because it’s still on. Let’s face it, many of you have bought it and hated it. Well, we got trolled in “The Seven Deadly Trolls” episode. Lastly, I said this line after the chapter ended, “Did Nakaba redeem himself?” Depend on the path, I’ll say he has created a second chance. I’m legit amazed. That gif with that guy with his mouth wide open and then applauding is worth using it here.

So, that was the chapter; a shocking one at that. It goes to show you: go to Kodansha to pull the best level of troll. Right, Isayama and Nakaba? But seriously, I was fine with the way it was going. All the indications for it to end were there. A new anime season to end the series, Nakaba’s declaration to end under 40 volumes, and the amount of hype for the climax from magazine and the editor’s note. All the LIES! As for the chapter itself, it was heartwarming and swell until the ending. I can’t believe I fell for it. Well, many of us did. What’s next? I don’t know, but I am really looking forward to it. We’ll see soon enough. In the meantime, I could only imagine Meliodas’ mind saying this line…

Go to 00:58 - 01:18

Have a good day...