#belle dubois

[soffecoeur]

PWHL Montreal during warm ups, TOR at MTL, April 20th 2024, Bell Center

[bitter69uk]

Forty years ago (4 March 1984) on this day in show biz history the made for TV adaptation of Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire premiered on ABC. This interpretation – starring Ann-Margret as Blanche DuBois, Treat Williams as Stanley Kowalski, Beverly D'Angelo as Stella and Randy Quaid as Mitch – was green-lit during Williams’ lifetime, but he didn’t live to see it. “Ann-Margret looks too healthy to portray Blanche DuBois, the physically and mentally fragile Southern belle protagonist of Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire, but we forget this discrepancy five minutes into her marvelous performance,” AllMovie concludes. “The 1984 Streetcar Named Desire is less a remake of the 1951 version than a companion piece - a praiseworthy alternate version of the same sturdy material.” John H O’Connor of The New York Times, meanwhile, raved “Ann-Margret transforms [Blanche’s] disintegration into a journey of incredible pain and heartbreaking beauty. Her performance keeps building in intensity until, by the final scenes, she reaches a pitch of vulnerability that is almost unbearably riveting.” You can watch it for yourself on YouTube.

[geraldcrich]

Decided to doodle this lovely A S STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE playbill poster ater almost 20 years without drawing. It’s my homage to my favorite play!!!

[navree]

finally able to read the my adventures with superman comic (issue 1) and not only do i love that anime slade wilson is showing up here too, the fact that he's showing up to potentially have some sort of showdown with someone who looks infinitely more like actual comic slade wilson than he does is hysterical

[practically-an-x-man]

help me I'm thinking about Nikoletta and Abner's dynamic with the Squad again

I keep thinking about how Nikoletta and Abne resort of become the outcasts among the outcasts when they're in Corto Maltese. Him because of the dots and the outbursts about his mom and all that, as the movie goes, but her because she's cold and reclusive and never comes within a few feet of anybody (plus, all of the lingering impressions of her from back in Belle Reve, the prisoners generally tolerate but do not like her). The only person she lets get close at all is Abner, and even that starts out slow and awkward.

So they're the outcasts of the group. And while Nikoletta (who's survived the past few decades only because she's learned how to read people and manipulate social situations) is aware of this from the very beginning, Abner (who doesn't have much socialization outside his siblings and a few bullies in Belle Reve) is very much not.

Now Nikoletta's on edge, both for her own safety and for Abner's - even at that point, she had a bit of a soft spot for him, and the whole reason she was in Corto Maltese to begin with was because she worried someone would try to off him at some point during the mission - and it only keeps growing as the mission goes on. And of course, she's also constantly on guard to avoid spreading her shadow-touch to the others. Abner's having a good time, making friends with Cleo and getting his hair ruffled by Flag in la Gatita Amable and all that, but Nik is more stressed than ever. And she's so emotionally repressed that she probably doesn't even realize why she's more on guard than usual, she just assumes it's from the upcoming danger of the mission.

And then there's the matter of the two of them. They start getting closer from the plane ride (technically even a little before, with their interactions in Belle Reve itself, but the plane is really the catalyst), and while there's nothing particularly romantic about it until la Gatita Amable, it's still enough to attract a bit of attention from the others.

It starts with DuBois. Just a few comments here or there, dry and ironic teasing that maybe comes out a bit too sharp but is really harmless in intent, get a room and leave space for Jesus and other sarcastic little digs like that. Abner doesn't quite catch onto what he's getting at, not yet, but Nik does.

Then they meet up with Rick, and he sees DuBois' teasing and starts to play along. He's... well, not quite heavy-handed, but his Southern sarcasm is a little different from DuBois' dry British wit, and Abner catches onto the joke. Again, though, it's all harmless, and not nearly as bad as the flak he normally gets - and he and Nikoletta both seem to realize that if they let this fracture now, when she still can barely convince herself to hold his hand, it might not ever come back.

And then we get Peacemaker. Now he's the Saint Bernard of the bunch - always a little late to the joke, but rambunctious to the point of being destructive to try and make up for it. He takes it from harmless teasing to something a little more antagonistic, and as we see in The Facts Are These, this results in a few close calls for Nik and Abner.

So that just places them both in this really strange spot, at least at the beginning - they don't quite fit it with the others but can connect one-on-one, though that connection itself opens them up to more scrutiny, and at this point Nikoletta is still so tightly-wound that she hardly even processes it as anything more than an assessment of social power dynamics. It's not until she saves him from Starro, or maybe even until she wakes up in the hospital after that, that she realizes she's made an emotional connection with him at all (and even then, she's not entirely sure whether it's platonic or romantic or some mix of the two).

[fleetling]

Yes, yes, magic! I try to give that to people.

Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Name Desire

[downthetubes]

Bitmap Books launches “The Art of the Box”, celebrating four decades of video game box art

Bitmap Books latest, massive 500-plus page book, The Art Of The Box, celebrating some amazing video game box art, is now available for pre-order

Bitmap Books latest, massive 500-plus page book, The Art Of The Box is now available for pre-order, featuring 26 artist biographies and more than 350 pieces of cover art from across four decades of video gaming. Before the days of brand awareness campaigns and digital marketing, a game’s only source of advertising was often limited to the box artwork you’d see on high street shelves. With early…

[strangewomanactuallylargebass]

Julien DID NOT just mock Maurice like that

[2nd-mushroom-circle]

literally nobody is gonna know what i mean by this but i need it on the record that juliet capulet and stella belle reprieve have the same gender and i have illegally downloaded it and am wearing it like an oversized men’s blazer

[butchmarner]

Who is the gayest PWHL Team?🌈

(Based on my extensive and unprofessional research of players' instagrams lol)

Minnesota: 3 confirmed

Michela Cava- dating teammate Emma Greco

Emma Greco- dating teammate Michela Cava

Liz Schepers- dating Ohio State teammate Michaela Boyle

Toronto: 7 confirmed

Brittany Howard

Carly Jackson

Allie Monroe

Jess Jones

Hannah Miller

Kristen Cambell- dating Team Canada softball player Emma Entzminger

Erica Howe

Ottawa: 7 confirmed

Brianne Jenner- (C) Married w/ 2 kids to Hayleigh Cudmore, her former teammate in Calgary

Emily Clark

Emerance Maschmeyer- married to Team Canada goalie Genevieve Lacasse

Ashton Bell

Malia Schneider

Zoe Boyd- either gay or really really really good at lesbian thirst traps and a queerbait of an instagram

Amanda Boulier

Boston: 7 confirmed

Hilary Knight- (C) dating speed skater Brittany Bowe (sorry Freddy Anderson)

Shiann Darkangelo- dating Montreal's Elaine Chuli

Jamie Lee Rattray

Samantha Isbell- exes with New York's Jill Saulnier

Taylor Wenczkowski

Amanda Pelkey- married to Finnish Olympian Venla Hovi

Erin Brown- dating New York's Savannah Norcross

New York: 9 confirmed

Micah Zandee-Hart (C)

Madison Packer- married to former teammate Anya Packer

Jade Downey-Landry

Jill Saulnier- exes with Boston's Sam Isbell

Chloe Aurard- dating basketball player Ella Bushee

Savannah Norcross- dating Boston's Erin Brown

Olivia Zafuto- dating former Boston Pride teammate McKenna Brand

Elizabeth Giguere- married

Johanna Fallman

Montreal: 9 confirmed

Marie-Philip Poulin- (C) engaged to teammate Laura Stacey

Laura Stacey- engaged to teammate Marie-Philip Poulin

Elaine Chuli- dating Boston's Shiann Darkangelo

Sarah Bujold

Erin Ambrose

Leah Lum

Mélodie Daoust- has a son with ex-wife, currently dating retired Team Canada player Hannah Bunton

Cath Dubois

Brigitte Laganiere

Notable mentions to 4/6 captains in this league being gay 🌈

(thank you @lesbianracecars for helping me in my extensive research)

[the-kr8tor]

...And The Deep Blue Sea

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Word count: 13.2k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), CW food mentions, TW blood, CW violence, TW death, CW gore, CW injury, CW guns.

A/N: it's the end.

Navigation

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

CHAPTER 15 >>>

“Hello, little birdy.” Mathias cackles like there's a pebble stuck in his throat.

He roams his sickly yellowed eyes at your body, sending shivers down your spine with every glance. “Or should I say Viscountess?” He laughs again. “You wear that gown well,” his eyes flick behind you, “Eugene, my boy!” The man beside you stiffens up. “Come get your bride and sit with me.” He drums at the table. “The Food is comin’, I heard that the bride and groom usually don't get to eat after everything is said and done. We don't want you to starve, ain't that right, lieutenant?”

The eye patched man standing in the corner nods slowly. His hands are neatly tucked behind his back like an obedient dog waiting for his master.

“You're alive?” You say breathlessly, teeth gritted, knuckles clenching tight on the skirt of your dress. Pulse rapidly thrumming, sending alarm bells to ring in your ear.

“‘course I am! No one can kill the king's flame, not even the red hydra,” he spits the name out. “or even a real fuckin' hydra.” Chuckling, scars mar his neck and hands, the only visible ones under his navy blue officer's uniform. It's still red and angry, you can tell some parts of it hasn't healed yet. You plan to add more, whether it's by your bare hands or a piece of cutlery; you're prepared to hit him where it hurts.

Numerous medals are on display on his jacket, shining under the sunlight filtering through the closed curtains. “Can you believe it? I go out to hunt the red hydra and I get myself a pretty bird.” He continues annoyingly, voice crackling, a dry cough escaping his pale mouth.

Mathias notices you still standing in the doorway, his eyes are dull, like a hurricane that's about to devastate a whole town. Eugene notices and he reaches for your arm to sit you down. You flinch away from his touch, eyes trained on the man before you.

“I said sit down!” Mathias’ booming voice rings out in the dining hall, his fist slamming on the table, champagne flutes fall over like dominoes with a harsh crack. “Fuckin’ grab her, Eugene! Don't be such a fuckin’ cock and grab her!”

“Y-yes uncle.” Your ‘fiance’ tentatively guides you towards the chair by your elbow, you brush off his touch, angry eyes gazing at his cowardly face.

Sitting down on the right side of Mathias, you intentionally choose a chair as far away from him as possible. But before you could sit, he clicks his tongue, finger wagging in front of his scarred face.

“Not there, gorgeous.” He pats the seat closest to him. “Right here.”

“No,” you stand your ground, shaking from anger, or is it fear that climbs in your stomach and crawls upwards to your quickening heart?

You refuse to get near the monster as Eugene stares across from you with anxiety in his eyes.

“Sit. Down.” Mathias enunciated, “or Lieutenant Dubois here will make you sit down.” Said uniformed man grunts, hazel eye roaming across the table, gaze boring a hole in between your twitching eyes. The sheath of his cutlass is engraved with tally marks among the ornate laurels and lions. “You already know what he'll do to you, he's quite amazing with a sharp object.”

“I am too.” You clench your jaw, still refusing to sit.

To your surprise, Mathias grins, a sickeningly hideous smile, teeth bared, tongue lapping at the gold in place of the fangs, lips wrinkling, he chuckles softly as something passes by his yellowed eyes.

“Sorry ‘bout that, you just reminded me so much of your father.” He leans on the back of his chair, hands gesturing towards you. “I literally saw him instead of you! It's fuckin' crazy innit?” He shoves Eugene by the shoulder, the viscount flinches, wincing at the ache. “Y’know, I recognized you— wait, lieutenant! Grab her and make her sit down! This story deserves to be listened to properly.”

“No!” You try to run back to the hallway, but the man is too fast for you. With the heavy skirt and weak leg, you didn't have a chance against him. “Motherfucker—!” With his arms around your torso, you kick and flail about, Mathias gives him a look and the man headbutts you from behind.

The room spins as he carries you towards the chair. The ceiling swirls, ears flooding with your rushing blood. With your muddled hearing, you swear you heard Eugene defend you, and you swear you heard a slap right after.

With a heavy thunk, the door closes behind you, your exit closes behind you. The only remaining door is across you, it's currently closed but you're sure it's unlocked judging by the draft coming from it. Head still aching, vision warbling, the one eyed man stands in front of the only exit.

“Now where was I?” Mathias continues like nothing happened. You glare at him through the corner of your eyes, your skin feels like spikes from the goosebumps rising above. “Ah, yes! I recognized you on the ship, before a literal myth came eating my crew. By the way, what the fuck was that, huh? Fuckin' weird, right?”

“Shut the fuck up.” You say weakly.

“Anywho, You looked a lot like your father but with your mother's beauty. I knew them, your father more so. Once upon a time he was my lieutenant, he was pretty good at it too. Too bad he had to disobey orders and marry above his station.”

“Why don't you ever shut up?” You lay your elbows on the table, arms flat, slyly covering the steak knife under your arm. “Are you a narcissist? Do you like hearing your own voice—?”

Mathias hurls a salad plate at your head. You dodge it in time before it shatters on the floor. You don't have time for this, you need to get to Hobie immediately, before it's too late. You have no plan, no weapons, but you'll be damned if you don't try. And you can still hear his screams echoing in your ears, as if he's already dead, as if he's already haunting you.

You need to try. Or it'll be your end too.

The monster before you clears his throat. “Don't be rude.” He points a finger at you.

You now notice how worse for wear he is, under the white paint and powdered wig lies injuries that haven't healed since the fight. You smell it, the herbs hastily smudged, and the rot in his flesh. It seeps into his bones, poisoning his body. You just wish it'll eat at him faster.

You're suddenly not afraid anymore.

“Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted. Your father, well, he fought a good fight on the Demeter. He stood his ground till the very end until a dozen or so bullets pierced his skin.”

The crescent in your palms gets deeper.

“He was smart though, smarter than you probably. You see, he rigged the ship to blow. He had the fuckin' balls to do it even though his entire family was inside. Ain't it funny—?” The double doors swing open.

The butler interrupts his speech, a handful of staff bring in an entire chicken at his plate. One pours him a glass of wine before he snatches the entire bottle and places it right next to his glass. Hot soup and meat pie is brought in also, the smell is appetizing but you place your hand over your plate wordlessly, telling them you're not hungry at the moment. How could you be when Mathias eats in front of you like he hasn't eaten in decades?

The tension is thicker than the cream placed in front of Eugene.

He munches loudly as he takes apart the roast. String of meat flies all over, the former white table cloth turns brown when he wipes his hands on it. Eugene spares you a look, eyes staring forlornly at his empty plate. His hand inching closer towards his goblet before deciding to just drink the ruby liquid.

You're on your own.

The wolves devour their fill whilst you plan your escape. Your mind screams for you to run, to run where no one can find you. The voice echoing in your ears is right at one thing, but you'll never hide anymore, not from Mathias, not from your past, not from anyone. You'd face it with fire in your veins just like your father had.

Mathias snorts, and you wish it was a choke. “He fought well, got a few of my men. How do you think the lieutenant here lost his eye?” He points at the stoic man using a half eaten chicken leg. “Your father was brilliant with a sword. A crack shot with a blunderbuss too. But, eh, it was all in vain. He shouldn't have messed with the crown and polite society.”

He continues to loudly eat, hands slick with oil, mouth full of meat. “You see, your mother was that fuckin' woman. Wealth, looks, title, she had it all. And the king wanted it too, greedy bastard he is.” There it is, the confession. But you still listen because you know something else will come after. “But your mum decided to run off and elope with the bastard son of an unpopular lord. The king was pissed off.”

Mathias laughs roughly. “But he got over it.”

Your eyes widened, but before you could hide it, the devil noticed.

“I knew you ain't as smart as your dear old dad.” He smiles, you can see the meat stuck in his golden teeth.

“He was the crowned prince,” Mathias rips open the chicken in half messily. “And he needed a wife from one of the big families.” He doused the meat in salt, “and the greedy fuck chose someone who didn't want him, just for the fun of it. Who could blame her, all he ever wanted was a brood of children to pass on his blood.” He takes a generous bite, teeth meeting flesh, the sound of his chewing makes you hasten your plan. “Thank fuck Frederick's father ain't as stupid as his son. That man sought out the opportunity when given to him and fuckin' took it. Too bad he didn't live long enough to see the fruit of his labour.”

Anger settles in your stomach, fury in your eyes and flesh, you want to damn him, and everyone involved. Especially her.

“It's her isn't it?” You say as you slither your hand towards the ceramic bowl. “The Queen, it was all her.”

Mathias smiles genuinely, “You finally got it, little bird!” He claps. “She's fuckin' brilliant, and so are her coffers. The pay,” he whistles out, “the pay was magnificent, still is by the way. I didn't even need to become an admiral for the money when I'm earning more than a fuckin’ duke.” Kicking Eugene under the table, he makes his godson choke on his drink. “See, I told you the little duchess here is just your type.”

His voice fuels your fury. Each vowel is grating in your ears, every wheezed breath he takes is a reminder that he still lives. A reminder that your knife isn't stuck in his throat.

“It ain't as bad as you think it is,” The navy man continues. “Married to my boy, you'd have a title, a home and a decent family. At least now you don't have mister Brown crawling all over you. He'd be dead by sundown, and I can't wait to see it.”

Mathias thinks his words would make you do something drastic that'll have his hands wrapped around your neck. But you've learned your lesson, so you bide your time, taking their attention away from your wandering hands.

“You're dying.” The heat from the bowl matches the fire in you. Your voice doesn't shake, nor your resolve. “Even with all the coin she gave you, you still can't save yourself. You are riddled with sepsis, I can smell it on you. A collapsed lung from the way you cough, and whatever the fuck disgusting shit you have in you. You are dying, rotting from the inside like how it's meant to be. And the world will be better off without you. They will forget you, first, your poor family, then your men, then the entire country. Even your bitch of a queen will forget you. Then the world. But Hobie will be remembered. His name will be etched in the annals of history while your name fades into obscurity.” You laugh humorlessly, teeth bared, eyes aflame. “And I can't wait to see it.”

He seethes in his seat, hand clenching around the cutlery. The devil doesn't show his anger bluntly this time, he hides it because you struck a nerve. With a grin, you promise to Hobie and to your parents that Mathias won't live to see the day end.

“Do you remember what I told you in the revenge?” You continue with a smile that sends shivers down the spine of everyone in the room. The quiet lieutenant remembers the day he lost his eye. “I intend to fulfill that promise.”

Through a clenched jaw, he coughs again, hiding his weakness from everyone in the room and how a drop of blood stains his pale lips. “I love it when women show me their claws. But I can't stay. I would love to see the ceremony and the festivities, but I can't miss the execution. That's why I came here earlier so I could pass on my blessings.” Mathias wipes his mouth clean harshly. “If you'd excuse me, I places to be—”

Before he could stand up, you quickly fling the bowl right on his painted face. The hot soup splashes on his skin, melting the white powder off his face. With his guttural scream, within a split second before his man could intervene, you take the steak knife and plunge it into his hand and into the table.

The screams he let out was music to your ears, holding the hilt of the weapon, you twist it before yanking it out of his flesh, tearing his hand in half, ripping the nerves and letting waterfalls of crimson into the white tablecloth. With a determined yell, you aim for his throat.

Mathias recovers a second before steel meets his skin, he backhands you with the same injured hand. The knife falls off your hand. Pain blooms on your face, and you go blind as your head hits the floor. His blood dirties your pristine white gown, splotches of red drenching the bodice.

Your left eye stings, cheek heated from the harsh slap. Despite your lungs gasping for air through your possible broken nose, you crawl over to Mathias. Your scorn drives you to grab his leg, pulling him down with a strong tug, he falls hard on his back, splitting the floorboards in half. Taking the crown off your head, you use the pointy end to stab his leg and his knee in quick succession. He yells and yells but you don't stop. The ichor from his wounds drenches your face and hands, you see red, and you see his untimely death in your blood soaked hands.

Climbing further up, you use the opportunity to aim at his groin. But a pair of arms stops you before you could hit your mark. Thrashing, slashing the hands around your shoulders, you mark the man with the same bloodied tiara.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” Mathias stands up, limping, he unsheathes his lieutenant’s cutlass from his hip. With a stomp over your thigh, he pushes in the heel of his boot as you let out a cry. The steel is pointed at your heart, his eyes demand blood for blood. “I should've just killed you instead—”

A shot rings out, the bullet hits the blade, breaking it in half. Mathias flinches before he smiles at the one who shot him. There on the opposite doors, stands Miguel O’hara with his gun raised, barrel aimed at his former comrade. Lyla stands next to him, her own blunderbuss raised towards the man holding on to you.

“Let her go and there won't be any more bullets flying around.” Miguel's voice is steady, back straight, eyes flicking over to you writhing on the floor.

“You better listen, cyclops, O’hara here might hesitate but I won't. Let our girl go.” Lyla reassures you with a nod, and you bite your captor's hand.

You tear his flesh open with your teeth, ichor filling your mouth as he hisses in pain, dropping you unceremoniously on the floor.

Mathias looks at you with wide eyes, disbelief in his burned face. “I guess you learned a thing or two from your man.”

You spit out the chunk of flesh whilst your eyes never leave his. Crimson dripping off your lips like rain, teeth the same colour as the wine spilled on the table, you smile at him.

“Come near me and I'll show you what else he taught me.”

The man before you laughs genuinely, yet his eyes never leave yours, making sure you stay away from him. You're more than ready to close the gap. The cutlass is still trained on you, you're about to pounce when Miguel calls your name with urgency. As if he can read your mind.

“Your girl is fuckin' insane ain't she?” Mathias addresses Miguel, like how a family member speaks about a niece he hasn't seen in years. Proud, there's a sense of pride laced in his tone. “Just like her dear old parents, eh?”

“I'm warning you, Mathias.” Miguel keeps an eye out for the uniformed man behind you. “Take your captain, Alexander, before I put a bullet in his heart.”

Mathias scoffs, legs shaking from the wounds you caused. “Please, you'd shoot me? You didn't have the balls back then, why would you do it now?”

Miguel raises his gun higher, aiming for the man's head. “Because she wasn't there,” he cocks his head towards you, “you didn't have a weapon aimed directly at my goddaughter.” Eyebrows knitted together in anger, his hand doesn't shake, eyes glowing red in the sunlight. “Now let her go.”

Mathias posture sags, “fine, but only because I've got an event I cannot miss.” He nods at his godson. “Make sure you're married to her by the end of the day or there will be consequences.” He clicks his tongue, Eugene melts into his chair, face turned away from you and his godfather.

Mathias gives you one last look. “Happy marriage, birdy.”

“You're going to die today Mathias, one way or another I'll get my hands on you.” You flick your eyes towards the man clutching his hand. “Death is coming for you too,” you say nonchalantly. “I'll finish what my father started.”

They leave with their fronts turned to you, not even twisting around to show you their backs that are susceptible to your attack. Or in this case, your teeth.

Lyla appears next to you, helping you by the crook of your arm. Pain lingers on your leg and face. “Christ, he burst your fucking capillaries.”

Sure enough, you feel the sting in your eye, a throbbing pain that leaves you nauseous. Miguel, tentatively closes the distance, weathered hand carefully holding your chin. You wince, as he moves your face.

“Fuck, you need to see a doctor.” He says whilst you flinch away from his touch.

“I'm alright, I need a horse.” You begin to walk away, Miguel and Lyla follow close behind you. “And I need my fucking knife.” I need him back, your mind whispers to you. “I need to save him.”

“His execution is in two hours.” Eugene says meekly, and you stop in your tracks. “I heard the officers talk, they're not going to hang him for his crimes, the crown gave him the ax.”

With quick steps, you take Eugene by his collar, gripping tightly as you spill venom. Miguel tries to hold you back but you blindly kick his leg.

“Delay them.”

“I can't—”

“Do you want to be under his boot your entire life? If we marry I'll be crushed with you,” You stare determinedly at his scared eyes. “because that will happen if you don't help. You said you cared about me, then help me and all will be forgiven. Please, you're a viscount, you have the means to help.”

He sniffs, lips curled into a frown. “I'm sorry, I-I can't—”

You scoff, letting him go. “If I fail, Mathias lives and that means you'd be dead too.” Walking away, leaving him cowering in his seat, your small entourage follows.

“Where are you going?” Miguel matches your stride, walking next to you, he stares with concern. “Y/N, where are you going?”

“To my room to pamper my nose.” With adrenaline coursing through you, his face flashes in your mind with every step. Save him, your mind yells, save him, save him, or it'll be the end for you too.

“Cousin?” Collette asks as you make your way towards the apartments where your chambers lie. She roams her worried eyes around your bloodied wedding gown, her hands that are clutching a bouquet of flowers shakes. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I stabbed Mathias and bit through a man's hand.” You say without stopping, she squeaks in place.

John stops in his tracks, “w-what the fuck happened?” The twins are both dressed to the nines, all fine fabrics and hair all made up. “Cousin!” He calls after you whilst you don't stop for anyone.

“Thanks for the hot tip, kids!” Lyla yells back to your cousins. “A bit of advice, tell the catering staff the wedding’s off!” She cackles. “Save me a macaroon though!”

“They called you?” You ask, your heeled feet ache but you press on. “Where were you Lyla?”

“I'm sorry, duchess, I overslept.” She shrugs. “But I'm here now ain't I? Also I got Miguel here so...”

“You should stop, Y/N.” Miguel says sternly. “You're hurt—”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

You whirl around to face him. Anger flares up once again. “You should've shot him where he stood.” You poke his sturdy chest roughly. “He's the one who killed them, yet you let him get away!”

“I know, I— there are repercussions to killing someone. Especially if they're an officer.” He falters but he composes himself. “Revenge is not the answer—”

“He killed them, Miguel!” Your broken voice echoes out into the vast hallway. “Him and the queen are the reason why they're dead, and you let him get away so he could kill Hobie.”

“It was the queen? Not—”

“Yes, not the idiot king.” You turn around to continue your trek. You curse the large estate. “I have no idea why she did it, but I'm gonna get her too. But I won't live to see that day if I don't save him.” Your tone falters as you pass by your mother's portrait. “I need to save him, even if it's the last thing I do.”

“You won't succeed.” Miguel stands in front of you to stop you, and you roll your eyes, wanting to kick him in the groin. “He's a pirate, Y/N, he won't do the same for you.”

“He has, and he would. I need to try, I can't let him die.” You choke back a sob. Reality crashes around you. What would you do once you get there? Will you be able to save him on your own? You have no one, you have no idea where the crew is, and he's going to die. You can't live with yourself if you don't try.

“Y/N.” Miguel says your name like a reprimand.

“You said back in the carriage that I can leave whenever I want, all I needed to do was ask.” You chuckle without humour. “Here’s me asking, Miguel.”

“You'll die, Y/N, I can't lose you too.”

“And I can't lose him.” Tears gather in your eyes. “If no one will save him then who will? I have to go whether you like it or not.”

“The people will,” Lyla pipes up, she casually leans against the wall, checking her nails. “there have been…whispers since they announced his execution. If you go, I'm sure you won't be alone.”

You face the taller man again. “See, I have help—”

“Rumours aren't enough! Don't you get it? You're better off marrying Thompson at this point.” You blink in surprise. He backtracks. “I–I didn't mean it that way, I meant, I'd rather see you settled than dead.”

“You might not be as bad as Mathias, but you might as well be.” You brokenly say. Miguel's face falls at your words. “You claim to love my parents and me by extension, but you're complicit,” you spit out the word full of venom. “you're only helping them by not letting me go. I don't want to be settled, Miguel.” You shake your head. “It isn't love if you make me.”

Miguel visibly shatters in front of you. None of the composure he showed to Mathias is left in his body. He hasn't seen this much devotion since your parents. He hasn't seen this much love since he felt their presence. He hasn't felt this hurt since his daughter left this world.

“You had time to grieve for them, I didn't.” You push him out of the way, controlling your sob. “Please don't stop me, or I'll fight you like how I fought Mathias.” You open the doors to your chambers.

Miguel lingers outside as you and Lyla make your way inside the familiar room. The man that has your dagger sits in front of the vanity, the large man is currently trying on a spare tiara, and is wearing one of the ruby earrings.

“You can keep those,” Your sudden voice makes him jump away, large eyes staring at you with slight embarrassment. “I won't tell a soul, just take them, give me my dagger and get out of Hazelside.”

The cogs in his head move, swallowing thickly, he nods curtly. “Can I keep the necklace too?” He asks gruffly.

“Sure,” You shrug, Lyla stifled a giggle.

Wordlessly, he shoves a ruby necklace in his pocket, then he unsheathes your dagger and places it on the vanity.

“We good, duchess?”

“Actually,” you have an idea. “You're a muscle for hire, correct?” You've noticed how he doesn't move like the other foot soldiers do, or the guards for Hazelside. His disheveled uniform solidifies your theory. The man nods proudly. “How would you like to take my entire jewelry box in exchange for you and your men's services?”

“That depends, what kind of work are we talkin’ ‘bout?”

Lyla adds to the conversation. “Murder of some pompous nobles and free a bunch of pirates. With a main focus on the red spider of course.”

“Kill the red spider too?” He asks, a thick eyebrow raised.

“No!” You say quickly, “free him and kill anyone who stands in the way.” You mutter a curse under your breath. “I don't have time for this.”

The mercenary thinks once again, he seems to be weighing the pros and cons.

Stepping closer, you practically breathe down his neck. “I'll throw in my shoes and gowns too,” you raise a hand for him to shake. “As long as you'll be there before the execution starts, and you keep my uncle and aunt distracted, scare them is all. Just don't touch my cousins or the staff.”

The scarred man chuckles deeply. “An offer I cannot refuse, duchess.” He clasps your hand, shaking it once. “Creating chaos is our main specialty.”

“Yes and I saw a glimpse of that in the barn.” You give him a tight-lipped smile, eyes lit with tamped down anger. “You better hold your end of the bargain, or you'll have my dagger in your throat instead of my necklace.”

“‘course, my lady. My men will be there.” He leaves with a grin, shoving Miguel by his shoulder.

“What just happened?” Your godfather asks as you lift your skirt to rip the metal of your petticoat off using the dagger. He turns around, closing the doors to your chambers and shuts his eyes while still turned around.

“Our girl here just used her charisma to strike a bargain. Oh they grow up too fast.” Lyla dramatically wipes a nonexistent tear in her eye. “Don't forget to change your shoes, my lady.”

You stare at yourself in the vanity, blood coats the front of your gown, a smattering of crimson coats the lace, splashes of ichor paints the front of the bodice right next to the pretty embroidery. Your face isn't any better, the makeup the handmaidens painted you with is still there, but now it coincides with Mathias' drying blood. It drips down from your cheeks down to your neck, it hides the gold underneath the crimson. Your left eye shares the same shade, capillaries burst, spreading your blood into the whites of your eyes. The gloves meant to hide the callouses and fresh scars are sticking to your skin, drenched in ruby, drenched like the floors of the revenge.

You leave it on, a reminder of your goal.

“I haven't forgotten.” Tossing the heeled shoes away, you make your way towards where you hid your old friend.

The sight alone of the weathered leather shoes would make you weep but you don't have time for that. Lifting your skirts up, still wearing the ridiculous wedding gown that has become significantly lighter, you quickly run towards the unicorn tapestry.

Dagger in hand, you're surprised to hear Miguel's heavy strides following you inside the hidden tunnels. Once the sun greets you and the grass crunches under your feet, you beeline for the barn.

A stable boy jumps at the sudden intrusion, he stutters, moreso when he sees your blood drenched form.

“Can you saddle Bernard quickly?” You ask, and the poor boy almost has a heart attack. “Please? I'm a friend of Hobie and—”

“Oh, Hobie! You should've said it earlier then. You're her! He told me a whole lot about you." He smiles at you, already picking up the heavy saddle. "You know how to ride, My lady?"

“No need for that.” You wave away the title. “And yes, perks of running away for years, you learn how to run away in different ways.”

He chuckles, yet the nervousness is still palpable in his eyes. “I'm on it, your grace.”

Smiling softly, you don't correct him anymore. Turning around, you see no one accompanying you. “Lyla?”

“She went off to get her horse,” Miguel appears from behind the barn door. “I'm keeping a lookout.” He returns to his post, acting casual while leaning on the door.

“You don't have to be here if you don't want to, Miguel.” You walk behind him, the wooden doors are blocking you from his view and vice versa.

“I…pondered your words, Y/N, and you're right. I don't want to make you do something you clearly don't want. I won't make that same mistake again, it cost me years without you. It won't make me lose another day without you, even if it means saving a damn pirate.” He chuckles, and you take his hand from where you stood. You hear his breath hitch, “I'm sorry. I think your parents would hate me right now.”

“I don't know them very well but, I think they'll be proud of you. You found me, you brought me home. You were doing the best you can with good intentions.” You squeeze his rough hand, placing your forehead against the door where his shoulders would lie. “Thank you for letting me leave. I think it's best for you to move on, uncle. They'd want that for you.” You hear him sniff, squeezing your hand back.

“Yes, I think it's best.” He lets your hand go, “starting with this,” Placing something round in your hand, he closes your palm around it gently. “They’d want you to have it, something to keep close to you when you're at sea. It helped me back then, I'm sure it'll help you now.”

“You're not coming with me?”

“Not yet, I'll follow you once I can. I'll keep your aunt and uncle here, making sure that they don't get their footmen to follow you. And I'll make sure the ruffians you hired won't go overboard and actually do what you asked them to.” Miguel tearfully chuckles, “just promise me you won't lose your humanity after you take your revenge.”

“I promise, I won't let it consume me.” You whisper your promise just for him.

Taking a peek at the object in your hand, your heart almost shatters at the familiarity of it. It's the same one your mother was clutching in her portrait. Opening the golden locket, you see a portrait of your mother on the left, and on the right, your father. They look younger in the painting, happier, more alive. They were right, you bear a resemblance to your father just as much as to your mother's features. You finally got a good look at them together, and your heart squeezes at the thought.

Sniffing, you look up at Miguel with gratitude, “tell my cousins ‘thank you,’ please.”

“I will. Keep the locket safe for when we meet again?”

“I will, I'll see you in the water, uncle.” He's the only person who's worthy of the title you've bestowed him. Lyla gallops her horse in the distance. “Now get out of here, or I'll end up not letting you go.” You tease, it has half truth in it. Your smile falters, "Tell my mother—"

“Come back and you can tell her yourself. She's still staying in the same town. I know she's waiting for you.” He finally turns around to face you. “Before you go,” shrugging off his coat, he hands it to you. “You'll get cold.”

You look at the fabric with tears in your eyes. Taking the blue coat, he helps you put it on. Sniffing, he turns you back around, rubbing the creases in the sleeves away.

“There, it's perfect but it's missing something.”

“Something blue, and now I've got something borrowed.” Joking, you smile at your godfather.

Miguel hands you a blunderbuss, it's an ordinary looking one, save for the purple leather handle that decorates it.

“It was your father's, he gave it to me when he named me your godfather.” He points at the silver barrel where three letters are etched on it crudely. “It's our first initials. He said that it gave him extra luck.”

“I—I can't take this.”

“Well, you've already taken my locket and coat, what harm falls on me if I gave you his gun? You're gonna need it wherever you're going.” Miguel shoves it in your hands, “just— save a bullet for Mathias and the queen.”

“That I can do.” You grin at him despite the pain in your chest.

“The party's here.” Lyla’ horse stops just outside, she exclaims with fanfare. “Ready to kill some motherfuckers?”

“Aye,” you nod with determination. The fire is blazing under your eyes, lightning in your fingertips, you wear the locket around your neck with pride.

For your parents that you've never met but came to love. For Miguel, for the crew and for all they've sacrificed for you. for Hobie, the love of your life. And for MJ.

—

You ride off on Bernard's back, flames in your chest, wind whipped cheeks, and hands clutching the reins tighter. Your father's blunderbuss weighs heavy on your hips, the smell of Mathias' drying blood stings in your nose. But the putrid smell keeps you awake, a reminder of your goal, a reminder of what truly matters— Hobie. Your love that is currently in shackles, hands bound tighter than the rope around his neck.

Lyla snaps you awake, her own horse huffing from the intense speed.

“Your eyes keep glossing over, duchess, keep ‘em clear for me, yeah?” She yells above the loud hoofbeats.

“I will, are you sure about your plan?”

“My guild consists of a bunch of sacks of shits that'll do anything for a quick coin.” You knit your eyebrows in worry. “But they're loyal to a fault, ‘sides, your captain used to be one of us, once upon a time.”

“What?” You spot the capital's sign, entering the city without stopping. There's a fork in the road as you ride towards the center of the city. The familiar smell of the sea fills you as you ride closer and closer to your destination.

“A story for another day, gorgeous.” She rides faster, her guns clinking against the saddle. “I'll ride ahead, gather as many as I can. Go to him, and disrupt the festivities.” Her voice fades as she hurries off.

Lyla heads towards the left whilst you ride on the right, trying to remember the directions she told you during the short ride.

Numerous buildings whizz by you as you ride faster and faster. Rickety stone buildings turn into elegant carved marble. The streets become smoother as you get closer to the palace. You heard the crowd before you saw them.

Bernard stops in his tracks, right at the edge of the thousands of people clambering to see the execution. He whines as you try to calm him down. Some of the common people are quiet, eyes straight towards the stage where a large man with a black hood stands. The scraping of the ax getting sharpened makes your heart stop.

The palace looms overhead, its golden terrace holds the royals, faces smug, wigs high as they look down at the crowd. Right next to them stands Mathias, hand hastily bandaged, still dripping in blood. His face contorts into pain as he clutches at his injury. You draw your father's gun out, resisting the urge to shoot at the man, but with how far you are, you know you'll miss.

Scanning the stage, you bite your tongue, preventing a pained whimper from getting out.

You've made it, and he has too.

Clad in a white undershirt with the sleeves too big for his frame, trousers too short for his legs, hands tied behind his back, face beaten. Hobie stands with his back straight despite all the red gashes under his thin shirt.

You whisper his name like he can hear you above the yells of the people. You're frozen, hands shaking, eyes unblinking at his form.

The uniformed men make him kneel, his knees slam harshly against wooden floors.

Hobie was never afraid of dying before, he avoided it a hundred times. Yet, his binded hands quiver, dull grey eyes scanning around the crowd, he tries to find familiar faces amidst all the strangers. Trying to find his crew, not for help, but the thought of dying in front of them fills him with sorrow. He doesn't see them, and he's glad. Moreso when he doesn't see your face, he doesn't want you to experience what he had seen before.

But there's a part of him that wants to see you for one last time before steel kisses his neck. He wants to feel your lips against his again, but for now, having the memory of it is enough. The pearl you gave him is cold against his chest, he wishes to hold it again.

Having you in his arms however brief is enough for him, he'll think of you when the blade strikes him down for the last time.

Even with his imminent death, he still finds the will to smile, the same smile you love so much. It's enough to snap you awake.

A navy officer yells above the crowd, scroll in hand, voice booming and commanding. “Here stands the notorious pirate Hobart Brown, he stands here waiting for his sentence. The crimes he has committed are atrocious enough that the crown has automatically given him the guilty verdict!” The people don't cheer, some even boo and hiss at the man. You inhale deeply, hand holding on to the reigns tighter, as you weave Bernard through the crowd. Surprisingly, they part for you.

“What say you, Hobart Brown?”

Hobie chuckles deeply, lips split and bloodied, he grins. “It's captain, actually!” His voice drives you to ride faster, gun raised. He twists around to look at the nobles in their high tower. “It's captain Hobie Brown, you fuckin' wankers!” Cackling, the officer kicks him down. He falls, gasping, neck landing harshly at the stone slab that still has remnants of its last guest.

Still, Hobie yells obscenities, “you haven't won! You might cut my head but two more will replace me! Just like how I replaced the emerald bastard from the south!” He tries to sit up but another man holds him down. “They'll be stronger and better than me! From my death, the people will gather at your gates and break your golden walls!”

The executioner raises his large ax, the sun bouncing off the metal.

Hobie quiets down at the glimmer of the ax shining in his eyes. Whispering the names of his loyal crew, then he softly calls for you like an acolyte prays for forgiveness.

The crowd parts for you like the sea parts for a sailing ship. Giddying up, hooves hitting loudly against stone, you aim.

It's the end, but it doesn't have to be.

“Hobie!” You scream as loud as you can before you shoot.

He blinks in surprise for a second, the man holding him down scampers away as a shot rings out. Now free, Hobie quickly moves away from the stone slab as your bullet hits the executioner's hood right in-between his eyes.

Gasping, the ax falls next to Hobie's head with a thud. The edge is embedded in the wood, missing his face just a few inches away. Eyes staring at the clear sky, he thinks he has died when your face suddenly appears in front of him.

“Scuttlebutt,” he softly says in disbelief.

“Hi, captain, I'm here to rescue you.” You smile at him, “hold on a minute.” Sitting up right, you shoot at the remaining officer. A body thuds, and you return to his side. “I've got you.” You say as you help him sit up, hands already untying his bonds.

Hobie looks at you like a sailor looks at the sea for the first time, with reverence, and awed by the sheer beauty. “You've got me.”

Ropes falling off his aching wrists, he moves to hold your face desperately. Without a second thought, he kisses you fervently. Life spreads back to him, fingertips electric as he holds your face close. Lips warm, you kiss back like it's just you and him. Hands instinctively sliding to his head, you pull away when you feel scruff under your palm.

“What did they do to your hair?!” You almost weep, hands roaming across his bare head. “Oh my god, they have to pay for this.”

Hobie laughs, still holding your face like holding on to a precious pearl. “It'll grow back.” Tears prick your eyes, mirroring his own. “I love you, you did good, scuttlebutt.”

“I did good?” You peck his chapped lips once more.

“Yeah, love.” He prevents you from looking at the military that has their weapons raised and their eyes targeting you and him. “You did very well—” tears escape his grey eyes when he hears the familiar click of a gun.

It's the end.

“I love you too,” you know it's the end. “I'll see you back at the revenge?”

“Save some of Finn's bread for me, yeah?” Hobie leans his forehead atop yours. “I'm sorry.” His voice falters.

“Don't be, I'm glad I fell in that net.” You hold on to him for dear life. Etching his warmth in your brain so you remember it until you're cold. “I'd run towards that dock all over again if I had the chance again.”

It's the end, and you hold him close.

As you embrace each other, as your love is displayed for all to see, your warmth radiates through the crowd. You burn together with him.

Fire consumes and burns but it also lights the way.

The silence wraps around the city center, then, someone yells, pushing off the officer who has his gun aimed at your head. The people follow, rioting against their oppressors.

You both stare below in disbelief, hand cradling your head, he shields your eyes from seeing the violence unfold. Just when bullets hit flesh, and knives slash at necks, an explosion booms above.

Hobie holds onto you tighter, battered arms wrapped around you protectively as debris and smoke fills the whole place. The building across the palace is in flames, and from the billowing ashes out comes a familiar face.

Gwen takes off her hood, feet precariously standing on the ledge, then another form comes out of the smoke, Miles takes his stance next to the first mate, handing her a long rope.

“Holy shit! It's them!” Hobie exclaims, letting you see them with your own eyes.

You grin as you spot them above, “it's them,” you say in shock. A second later, they jump off the building effortlessly, guns raised as they land on their feet right next to the stage.

“I'll cover you!” Miles yells above the chaos as more and more buildings around the palace erupt in a chorus of explosions.

Gwen clambers next to you, relief on her face, hugging the two of you. Embracing back, she leans away to stare at you and her captain.

“You fucking idiots! I'd slap you over the head if I didn't love you both.”

“We love you too, Gwendy.” Hobie smiles amidst the aches.

“What he said, Gwendy.” You beam at her with overwhelming love.

“Love you too, now we need to get you out of here.”

“I have a ship docked somewhere, it's called the osprey. Take it and—” You start but Hobie and Gwen interrupt.

“You make it sound like you're not comin’ with us.”

“Y/N,” Gwen warns as she helps you two on your feet.

“I’m coming with—” a gun goes off.

Blood splatters across your faces. Crimson blooms across Gwen's stomach.

“...oh” she looks at you with her eyebrows knitted together, hand pressing on her belly. You catch Gwen in your arms as you feel the fear in you spread. She calls your name weakly.

Hobie stares at you with terrified eyes as he clutches the back of Gwen's head.

“No, no, don't speak—just… oh fuck!” You try to stop the bleeding by ripping a part of your gown to stuff it inside her wound. Ichor spills out of her like waterfalls. “I've got you!” She yells in pain and you simultaneously hear Miles scream.

Flicking your tear filled eyes over to Miles, he has his back on the ground, face contorted into pain whilst Mathias has his boot on his shooting hand. Miles still fights, kicking and scratching at the man's leg.

“This is what happens when you disrupt—” Red appears on his side as Hobie uses your fallen gun to shoot him where he has his foot crushing atop Miles’ hand. Mathias yelps in pain, a throaty sound escaping from his pale lips.

Hobie is filled with rage, embers flickering in him, turning into flames and then a blaze that burns his insides into ash.

Miles coughs as Mathias runs away towards the enormous church right next to the palace. He pushes away people, blood trailing behind him.

“Miles!” You yell, in your relief, he stands back up, weaving around people to clamber up the steps of the stage.

“I'm here!” He crawls over to Gwen, gently clutching her pale face. “Oh god no, please,” Miles looks at you. “Fix her, please.” Tears slide down his cheeks. “Please.”

You look towards Hobie, not knowing what to do, but said man is nowhere to be found. You briefly spot him running around the crowd, cutting down coppers swiftly with your father's gun and a stray cutlass, following after the man who has shot at his family.

Not again, you think, hands drenched once again in crimson. Not again, not again. You've failed once again.

Someone calls next to you, familiar hands holding yours.

“Tell us what to do.” Yuri thaws you out from your frozen state. Gwen gurgles, grip around your wrist weakening. James appears next to Yuri as you see in your peripheral the same mercenary and his men shooting at soldiers. Lyla cackles near them, adding her guild to the mix in the chaos. “Y/N,” Yuri calls again sternly. “We need you.”

With a sniff, you compose yourself, for Gwen. “Keep your hands on her wound, pack it with cloth then keep pushing.” Gwen groans, you look at her apologetically. “I know it hurts, I'm sorry but we need to do this. Let us do this.”

“I saw a doctor's clinic near here.” James pipes up, “if we take her there will you be able to save her?”

“Yes, we need to—”

Pavitr runs towards the group, guns raised, eyes full of rage once he sees Gwen. “No…” he says weakly. He fixes his composure, for Gwen. “James and I will cover you while the three of you carry Gwen.” He instructs, voice steady.

“No, no, no!” Gwen protests. “It hurts— I can't—”

“You can!” Miles beats you to it. “D’you remember what I told you when we realized Y/N and Hobie weren't behind us after we got attacked?” She nods weakly, lips bitten to stop her pained whimpers. “I meant it, Gwen. I meant all of it yet I haven't shown it because I'm a goddamn coward. Let me show you how much I love you, but I can't do that if you don't let us carry you. So please, let us carry you.”

Gwen smiles, icy eyes staring fondly at Miles. They have a wordless conversation, then Miles gives her a gentle peck on her forehead.

“As long as the d-doc here follows our captain.” She says.

“What—? No, you need me.” You shake your head.

“We already know what to do,” she winces, “you're the only person that can stop him, he'll die, Y/N. Meanwhile I've got a chance with them beside me. And he's all alone.”

You look at the others, they all nod and you blink in surprise. “But—”

“We have her, wifey.” Yuri smiles kindly at you. “This isn't our first bullet wound. Go and fetch our captain for us would ya?”

You have no time to think about it, so you choose what they instructed you to do. “Keep your hands on her and support her back—” your eyes find the familiar large man wearing your rubies. “Oi!” He pauses from crushing a soldier's arm. “Get a handful of your men and help them get to the doctor's!”

“Do I have to?” He asks, shrugging.

“Yes! I paid you!”

The man sighs then he gestures to a few of his people to climb up the stage. Before you let go of Gwen, you stare daggers at the men in the fake uniforms. “Keep all of them alive and I might just give you a piece of Hazelside.”

“Say no more, duchess, we got ‘em.”

“Gwen—” You take one last look over to her.

“Go, I don't plan on dying today.”

“You better. Meet us back at the ship.” You roam your eyes at the crew like it's the last time you would see them. With a nod towards Yuri, you slide your hands away quickly, Yuri replaces the space you left with her own.

Wordlessly you turn away from them. You fight yourself from looking back. Running away towards Hobie, you hope that it's not too late.

Weaving through the crowd, dodging bullets and swords, you keep your head down and keep your eyes forward at the grand church waiting ahead. The spires are tall and sharp, reminding you of the dragons that rose up from the sea and blocked out the moon. Gargoyles decorate the roofs, all stone and eyes large, mouths agape, unmoving.

You lift the skirt of your tattered gown, it might be covered in blood but the white colour of it is a stark contrast to the dark chaos surrounding you. It acts as a beacon to the people as they see you in their ranks, a noble in their eyes that bears gold and silver around her neck and sleeves. Someone who fought everyone just to get to her pirate captain, they find it in themselves to continue fighting. A few even helps you get to your destination by blocking any guards or soldiers from laying their hands on you.

Smoke in your lungs, steel clanging against steel. Blades slashing at limbs, people screaming in all directions, both with rank and without, they all end up in the same fate. You run through the blood soaked field.

Feet sprinting across the field, people are few and far in between once you get nearer and nearer towards the church. Hands on the large doors, you push the heavy oak to no avail. It's locked, the evidence of it is the rattling noise it makes as you shake it in desperation.

Hobie's in there, and you'd do anything to get to him.

You go around the structure to find a window that's big enough for you to slither into. But all the stained glass windows are too high up for you to reach even if you try to break one. Losing hope, you turn a corner towards the back. You finally breathe when you see a wooden door. Without wasting time, you push it open with your shoulder, shoving it, the rust covered hinges creak with your strength. And finally, it bursts open with one final push.

The sight alone made you stop in your tracks. Clutching your dagger, a finely dressed man lays dead in a pool of blood. A sword embedded in his back, a cracked crown sitting next to his bloodied head. The person standing over the king is none other than his own wife, her face isn't one of sadness but of sheer happiness as she grins at her husband's dead body. Blood dripping off her royal hands, she lifts her head to gaze upon you.

“Hello, little bird, you finally made it.” Caroline stands in front of the altar, the kaleidoscope of lights from the glass windows acts as her spotlight. Her gown is in rich velvet, furs covering her shoulder. And a large tiara on top of her intricate powdered wig.

“You killed him.” Gripping your dagger tighter, you stay away from the bloody queen.

“I did,” Caroline giggles, a sound that sends shivers through your spine. “You look marvelous in your wedding gown by the way. A shame that you didn't get married to that fine young man.” Her voice echoes around the large church, its ceilings are high and painted with saints. They look down at you, eyes lifeless. “Lieutenant.” She calls and the man answers, coming out of the shadows and into the pews. “Do me a favour and kill her for me.”

The disheveled man walks over to you, hand still decorated by your bite.

“Why don't you kill me yourself? Like how you killed your husband.” You address the woman, taunting her.

The queen raises a hand and the navy man stops immediately. She smiles and takes the sword out of her husband's body with ease, then she steps over his body without remorse.

“With pleasure.” She unclasps her cloak, the heavy cloth thuds against the marble. “If I couldn't kill your mother personally, I'd settle for killing you instead.”

“What the fuck—!” The queen arches her sword, thankfully you parry it with your dagger. You know you'll lose in the duel with your smaller weapon against hers and her swordsmanship. A yell echoes from above, a distinct scream from who you hope is from Mathias.

“I wasn't lying when I said you remind me of her!” She slashes, right foot pointed towards you, dodging the sharp edge, the heels of your feet hit a pew, then you fall backwards, back and elbows hitting the hardwood. “But she wasn't much of a fighter just like you!” Her eyes are ablaze as you scramble away.

“Why are you doing this?!” Your voice carries off around the church. “You said you were friends!”

Raising your dagger to shield your face when she tries to slash at your chest, she stands atop you, knee right next to your thigh, leg perching her up. Steel dangerously close to your face, wrists aching from her push, you take your free hand to grip the sharp edge of your dagger to combat her own strength. You feel the knife dig into your palm.

“Why?” The queen cackles, leaning her mad face close. “Because she's the reason why I'm here, she's the reason why that man has ruined me until I couldn't even recognize myself—!”

Lifting your legs, bending your knees, you kick her right in her chest. Making her lose her balance, face falling flat on the marble floors. You take the opportunity to crawl and stand up, sprinting away from her. As you bolt off towards the altar, and towards the door to the bell tower, the stairs are within your reach, but Caroline yanks you by your skirt. You fall off the steps of the altar, body and dagger sliding off the smooth marble.

Groaning, she points her weapon towards your neck, taking your mother's necklace by her blade. “Why did you kill them? For revenge?” You ask, vision blurring from the way your head hit the floor. Everything aches in you, but you continue to fight.

“No, for the satisfaction of them being dead.” She eyes the golden necklace and you glare at her. “She was meant to take the crown, not me. Instead she ignored her duty and ran off with a bastard, and I was forced to marry that fucking beast!” Her voice booms, the saints above look down at the chaos. “Forced to carry his children, children I never wanted but loved nonetheless. Children that I never saw grow up because they were taken from me the second they came out of me!” Her hand shakes around the sword.

You slyly inch your hand towards your dagger that's only a hair width away from your fingertips. You let her continue as the tears in her eyes fall on your bloodied face.

“I never wanted to be queen, all I've ever wanted was to see the world. Your mother took that away from me, and now her daughter is living my fucking dream! The second I knew you were alive I wanted to wring your fucking neck. To hurt you just like her choices had on me.” She twists her sword so the blunt edge is kissing your neck, torture, she's planning on sawing your head off with the blunt edge. “If she can't pay, I'd settle for making you hurt instead.”

“You want to kill me because of what happened decades ago? You're fucking mad if you think sins are passed from parent to child! I never knew them!” You fight back despite the blade near your neck. “Do you understand that you caused the same pain to me that the king has caused you? Whatever you want to call it, it's still revenge!” Caroline pushes the cutlass closer, so close that you can feel it in your throat, choking you. “You're blaming the wrong people for your misfortune, blame the people who used you, who said yes to his every whim, not the couple who only wanted to marry the one they love!”

“I’m the victim here—!”

“You are, but who points the sword towards the innocent?” She blinks, lips wobbling. “Look at you, Mathias told me you're brilliant, but you never thought this part through, haven't you? What do you think the nobles of the land will do to you the moment they hear of your regicide? Who will they blame? Me, who bears the mark of your cruelty? Or you, who has the king's blood on your golden hands?”

You distract her enough to finally reach the dagger, swiftly, you plunge it to the nearest part of her that you can manage, her thigh. She screams in agony, sword and crown clanging loudly on the floor. The once favoured queen clutches her wound that's gushing blood, seeping out of her velvet dress and spilling over the white marble.

Unexpectedly, she cries as she desperately wraps her skirt around the gushing wound. You clamber up to your feet, eyes flitting over the stoic man when Caroline calls for him to kill you where you stand. He doesn't move from his position near the confessionals.

“Are you gonna fight me too? An eye for an eye?” You ask, hands shaking while you bend down for your crimson drenched dagger.

“No, your father and I are even.” The simple words turn your eyes the same shade as the fluid pooling around the queen.

“You're just gonna stand there?” You ask while Caroline's wails echo around the expansive church.

“I'm waiting for you to leave so I can help her.” He seems to be unbothered. A scream rings out from above, louder than the woman's screams. Alarm bells trigger in your mind. “Sounds like someone needs your help.”

“Don't follow me,” you threaten, knife pointed at him as you slither towards the door. “Don't help your captain.”

“Alexander!” She screams for the lieutenant.

“You're right, he's already dead anyway, not my problem anymore.” His eye follows you, “Good luck, duchess.”

With one look towards the mysterious man, you get a glimpse of him crouching next to the woman, hands casually tamping down the rushing blood. Locking the door behind you, you run once again.

The winding spiral staircase seems to go up forever, hand clutching your dagger, you don't even feel the pain in your ankles anymore. Numbness flashes over you for a second, but you carry on. The walls get smaller and tighter as you go on, the stone scratches your hands, the small windows barely provide any light for you. The sounds of struggle get louder, so you speed off with the last of your strength.

Rushing, you make it to the top where Mathias has his hands wrapped around Hobie's neck, with no ounce of hesitation, you plunge your dagger in the devil's flesh, right in between his clavicle.

With a shriek, Mathias lets go of Hobie. Your captain gasps for air, clutching his neck. You wrap your hands around his shoulders, relief washing over you just from seeing him breathe.

“I have you!” Holding his face, you thank the stars that he holds you back with his warm hands.

Hobie utters your name softly, “You have a habit of savin’ me, eh, scuttlebutt?” He smiles at you even with his left eye swelling, even with his mouth full of ichor.

You grin, getting him back to his feet. “The others are waiting—!” A large hand picks you up, wrapping a thick arm around your waist, the other is holding your own weapon in his cracked knuckles. Your own blade is placed harshly against your throat.

A trickle of blood drips from your flesh, and Hobie has the same look back on the revenge. Terrified, the swirling greys of his eyes are mortified at the scene in front of him.

Mathias still lives despite the laceration on his neck, despite his life rushing off of him in waves. He stands precariously on the edge of the tower, his back against the sea, the waves lapping against the cliffs below. He holds you tight as a noose when the wind rushes from behind.

There's a bout of silence hanging in between, Hobie's breath hitches in his throat at your fearful face.

“Don't—” Hobie's voice is broken, pleading desperately. “Please,” Not again, not again. The words scream at him. Not her, never her. “Take me instead.”

Mathias gurgles a response. “Just like old times, eh?”

As the blade kisses your neck, you could only look at Hobie. The copper bell is hanging behind him, large and magnificent, and he stands there with his hand desperately reaching towards you, his gun holds no bullets, sword lay broken in half near his feet.

It's the end, but he declines for it to end, for your life to end at hands of the same man that ended his old love three years ago.

He thinks fate is cruel, he thinks the fates hate him. He thinks his life is a Greek tragedy that was waiting to be written for the fates’ entertainment. He refuses to give them the ending they wanted.

You know it's the end, but it doesn't have to be the end for him too.

There's no other option, no other hope but, "No more sacrifices." You whisper to him even though you know he couldn't hear you, at the same time, you whisper an apology to him.

Images of the past six months flashes in your mind. Images of the tavern you once called home, images of the ship you still call your home. Images of the people you've come to love, images of your island and the sand in between your toes, and the sun on your back. Images of Hobie smiling down at you, images of him holding you close as you cry in his arms.

Images of you learning to love him.

You love him and all his sharp edges, all his anger and all his warmth. You loved him, and that's all that matters in life. To love someone so wholeheartedly that it burrows into your bones and digs deep into your marrows, never letting go. You loved him, and he's worth it for what you're about to do. To be loved back is a gift that he graciously granted you, you intend to cherish it until your end.

You call his name like the softest of silk wrapped around your tongue. "Hobie," and you smile at him, letting your smile tell him that he wasn't born to be a knife, letting your smile tell him that you love him more than the moon loves the tides.

He whispers back your name, pleading with you, for he knows you more than he knows himself, and he knows what you're about to do.

With a loop of your foot around Mathias' ankle, you pull hard, then you let yourself fall backwards.

“Alis volat propriis” You softly say, prying the knife from Mathias’ hand.

And fly you did.

Fear encapsulates him as you fall, the same fear flows out of you like spring water as you plunge into the dark depths.

Hobie refuses to look, frozen on the spot, unblinking eyes still staring at the space you left. His heart feels like it's about to give out as he says your name over and over again like a mantra.

He's a knife meant to grieve.

Slowly, his feet move for him. Body stiff, he makes it to the ledge. Grief stricken eyes darting below, he lets out a guttural wail that carries on with the wind.

Clutching his broken heart, he falls to his knees. He keeps repeating your name as he stares at the bubbles rising up on the surface, the waves deliver seafoam on the beach below, and with it, hope still clings to him.

“No,” A sob breaks through when you don't emerge a second later. “...no, c'mon scuttlebutt, don't fuckin' leave me.”

Grief rolls over his skin like tiny pinpricks of sorrow puncturing his insides and into his scarred heart. Your face flashes in front of him, and the voice inside him asks, 'will it be bad if you follow?'

“Brown?” A familiar voice calls behind him, Hobie whirls around, grief evident on his face, Miguel already knows what happend. He shakes his bloody head profusely, “where's— where is she?”

Hobie doesn't answer, he turns back towards the sea. Agony filling his very being as he stares below.

“No!” Miguel follows Hobie's eyes. And then he screams for you. He searches for you under the waves.

Hobie lays his head on the wall of the bell tower. A minute, it's been a minute since you fell, yet no sign of a body has floated up. The sky is still calm, the sun still shines, yet, you don't resurface.

He blinks away when he sees fingers reaching amongst the waves. “Did you see that?” Praying, praying to any deity out there that is listening to him, he prays that his mind isn't playing a cruel joke on him.

“What?”

Hobie stands up, taking Miguel's face to turn it towards the waters. Something moves under the seafoam, someone moves under the seafoam.

His heart picks up speed, and he rushes down the stairs. Miguel follows close by, their feet thudding loudly on the stairs. They ignore the various pains in their body, what matters is you, and they intend to get to your side as quickly as possible.

They go through the broken door that Miguel kicked, and they run over a puddle of blood without a body. Sprinting outside, the sea breeze greets them. They don't stop for anyone or anything, even though the palace burns to the ground behind them, even though the heat from the melting golden gates sears their backs. They continue downward towards the path to the beach.

Hobie trips on a rock, Miguel helps him up swiftly.

From the tides, you rise once more.

Heaving from the swim, drenched and sore. You grin at the two men rushing towards you. Like the waves lapping at your feet, relief washes over them.

You raise your arms in time just before Hobie crashes his body to yours. His face finds safety in the crook of your neck. Arms holding you tight and comfortable, he breaths you in, taking a deep shuddering breath. You smell like the sea. He can't believe you're alive, can't believe that you're back in his arms.

“I lost the dagger,” you say against his cheek as you press cold kisses on his skin.

“I'll get you a new one.” Tears flow out of his eyes, he feels like he's dreaming, he feels like fate has finally granted him reprieve. “I’ll get you a hundred more, fuck that, a thousand more if you asked.”

“I just want one.” You chuckle.

“I'll get you one then.” Hobie peels himself off you, fingers roaming your face, the heel of his hand is placed atop your pulse, making sure he didn't fall off the tower himself. “You're alive.” He says breathlessly, “you fuckin' swam!”

“I had a good teacher.” You say as you hold him tenderly. “He's dead, it's over, Hobie.” Salty tears in your lashes, he pulls you in for another hug. Eyes closed, you savour the calmness with the sound of the rushing sea behind you, knowing that Mathias lays beneath its waves with your dagger embedded in his eye. “It's over, and I'm alright.”

Holding your hand towards Miguel who sits on his knees on the sand, eyes glowing with consolation. You flex your hand towards him so he could hold your hand. He stands up, taking it willingly, squeezing once like how he held your parents’ hands once upon a time.

Miguel nods proudly at you, gently pressing a gentle kiss on your knuckles, he gives you and Hobie space. You mouth a thank you towards the man.

—

“Shit!” James exclaims, jumping up and down on the docks. “Look at her! She's magnificent!”

“Spell ‘magnificent’, James.” Yuri taunts.

“Don't ruin this for me!” He turns towards you, grinning from ear to ear like a child in a sugar shop. “You're actually giving us this ship?”

“Mm-hmm—” before you could finish nodding, James sprints off towards the fine ship. Yuri winks at you before she follows behind James.

The sun slowly sets, bathing the waters in pink and orange light. James isn't wrong, the ship is magnificent. It's bigger than the black hellion, much bigger. Two crow's nests sit at the highest point of the masts. The body is well maintained, oak still shining in the late afternoon sun. Silver violets and hazelnuts decorate the sides, a reminder of what could've been.

Looking at your new home, you shift your gaze to Hobie, knowing wherever he is, as long as you're with him, you're home.

Your tired eyes flick over the figurehead of an osprey with its wings outstretched around the head of the ship. Hobie taps your head with his own gently.

“It needs some work done.”

You chuckle as you fix your hold on him. Still in your wedding gown, skin still smelling like the sea, you move impossibly closer to him. You're both winded, but Hobie has sustained more injuries than you and needed more help in standing up straight. “Do you think we should change the name?”

“Love,” he turns his head towards you, his smile almost makes you kiss him right there and then. “I think I've got a few ideas, for now let's get the fuck out of here.”

“Alright— wait, where's Gwen?”

“Here, worry much, landlubber?” She asks on her stretcher. Miles, Pavitr and an unknown blond man carry her.

“Well you were shot, Gwendy, I think I have every right to be worried.”

“I'm fine now, can't even feel a thing!” She smiles and you recognize her state.

“I think that's the medication talking.” You eye the stranger, “and who might you be?”

“Oi,” Hobie points at the man. “You better not cause any trouble Stacy.”

You lightly gasp, finally noticing the resemblance.

“Not planning on causing any, captain.” Gwen's father smiles and gives you a curt nod.

“Can we hurry the chit chat?” Miles groans.

“You telling me I'm too heavy, Morales?” Gwen teases but the fatigue must've taken a toll on Miles as he takes it seriously.

“W-what? Of course not!”

“You calling my daughter heavy?” Her father jokes back. They're father and daughter alright.

“No! Let's just get on the ship.” Miles pouts, you send him a smile, wordlessly giving him your thanks. He shakes his head, hiding his grin in reply.

“Pav!” You call after Pavitr, “tea later?”

He beams at you, happiness almost blinding you. “Hell yeah!” Jaunting happily, he practically skips off, to Gwen's protest, who still lays on the gurney, shakes from his little dance.

Miguel taps your shoulder, Hobie lets you go so you could hug the man.

“Room for one more?” He asks while patting your back.

Leaning away, your eyes widen, smile widening. “What!”

“I meant for Lyla, kid.” Miguel laughs, smile lines appearing.

“Oh, you're not coming with us?” Disappointment is evident in your voice.

“No, sorry. Maybe one day. I've got unfinished business” He holds your shoulders, “you better take care or I'll chase you again.”

“Oh god, don't say that!” You giggle whilst he mirrors your smile. “If you're not coming, then you can have this back.” Taking off the locket, you place it in his rough palms. “A reminder of them,” you close his fingers around the gold. “Besides, I already have his gun. You deserve something of theirs too.”

The sun shines in his eyes. “This was Gabriella’s, she gifted it to your mother when she got sick. It's a family heirloom.”

“She was Gabriella's godmother, wasn't she?”

“Yes, and your father was her godfather.”

You tap his hand. “It's back in the right hands then.”

“Thank you,” Miguel sniffs, neck craning towards Hobie who sits on a crate. “And you,” Hobie dramatically points at himself. “Take care of my goddaughter, or I'll come after you again.”

Hobie, smirks, “aye, aye, admiral.” He mocks a salute.

Miguel shoots you a look, “you sure about that one?”

You gaze at Hobie, your Hobie. “I'm sure.” He winks at you and you wink back.

“God, I gotta let you go before I get sick.” You chortle as Miguel hugs you one last time. Pressing a kiss on the crown of your head, he nods once, staring at your face, seeing his friends’ faces in yours, saying goodbye to the three of you. “Be good, I'll see you in the sea.”

“Looking forward to it, uncle. Don't get caught by the coppers.” He lets you go with a laugh, unhitching his horse and then getting on, he rides off.

Lyla suddenly appears from the dust with a big grin on her face, she carries suitcases upon suitcases in her arms. “Where to, captain?” She asks you.

“Not the captain, he is.” You gesture towards Hobie who doesn't even correct Lyla. He just waves at her with a small shrug.

“I thought whoever owned the boat was the captain, anyway! Off to adventure!” She cackles into the sunset, feet thudding loudly as she hurls all her luggage on the ship. You vaguely hear someone yell ‘who the fuck are you?!’

You ignore it for now, how could you not when Hobie stares at you so sweetly that you prefer this than chocolate?

“She's not wrong y’know.” He says whilst you saunter towards him. Stretching his legs, he gives you space to stand in between them.

“Are you planning on giving me your title, captain?” You tease, sliding your hands up and down his arms. His own is wrapped around your middle, staring up at you with endearment.

“You're already a captain,” you raise an eyebrow, tilting your head. He sighs, so full of love for the woman in his arms. “of my heart—”

“I knew you would say that!” You laugh, feeling like the weight off your shoulders has finally turned into dust. And he feels like the fish bone stuck in his throat is finally gone.

Hobie smiles softly at you, heart shaped grey eyes full of life. “Are you sure about this? Stayin’ I mean.”

You squeeze the back of his neck, already missing how his hair would tickle your palms. But you love him even with his scruffy head. He looks handsome with or without it, you'll never tell him or his ego would implode. At least now you get the pleasure of seeing it grow, you can't help but press a sickeningly sweet kiss atop his head.

The sound of the anchors getting lifted up fills your ears so you lean closer for him to hear your words better.

“I'll stay as long as you want me too.”

“Forever then?”

“Forever.” You kiss the tip of his nose. “Until I'm cold, you can't escape me.”

Hobie has a lopsided smile on his lips, grey eyes aglow with affection. “You're still in your white dress,” you raise an eyebrow. “Y’know what that means—” Lifting you up like a bride, he carries you towards the ship as you yelp and giggle in his arms. “Off to our honeymoon then!”

As the sun sets, you set off to new beginnings. You've found where you belong, you've finally found home.

A/N: And it's done!! Thank you all so much for reading, interacting and genuinely showing your support whether it's by making fanart or sending your thoughts, I'm forever grateful for all of them!! Love you ❤️

Already missing the crew? They'll be back for Between the Devil and the Sea Book 2!! You can check out my ☕ page for a lil sneak peek!

[liaromancewriter]

I Thee Wed…

Premise: Ethan and Cassie are ready to say, ‘I do,’ but they forget one important step.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Words: 1,560

A/N: So, I first did Ethan and Cassie's wedding in June 2021. In all that time, I've never written their wedding vows. Maxenna's vows were easier to write. Well, I finally cracked this nut! Yay, me 🎉

Submission for @choicesaugustchallenge prompt "summer wedding"

Cassie Valentine updated the patient chart and mentally crossed off another item from her seemingly endless to-do list. In just nine days, she would stand in the garden of her family home and marry her soulmate.

She couldn’t contain a small, excited scream, a dreamy smile spreading across her face as she imagined Ethan’s awestruck expression when she glided toward him at the floral-decked altar. But, she thought with a smirk, she couldn’t wait to knock him over on their wedding night with what she had on beneath the layers of tulle.

All in good time, Cassie reasoned, turning her attention back to work.

“Marlene?” she called to one of the regular nurses on her floor, handing over the tablet with the patient record. “Keep an eye on potassium levels for Mr. Dubois in 504. Page me if there’s any change in his condition.”

“Will do, Dr. Valentine,” Marlene nodded, scanning the chart quickly to confirm the orders.

She flashed Cassie a friendly smile. “Are you excited about the wedding? You and Dr. Ramsey make such a beautiful couple.”

“I’m counting the minutes,” Cassie grinned. “I have a final fitting for the dress next week, but otherwise, we’re all set.”

“Summer weddings are the best,” another nurse piped in. “Flowers are my favorite part.”

“I love hearing the couple’s vows,” Marlene said. “Are you and Dr. Ramsey writing your own?”

Cassie nodded in response, keeping her expression smooth even as alarm bells blared inside her head. Crap, crap, crap!

Between work, packing up her things at the apartment for the move to Ethan’s and coordinating with Sienna and her mom on the wedding, she had forgotten entirely about the vows.

She and Ethan had negotiated a hybrid ceremony, honoring her Episcopalian beliefs and his agnostic ones. He had agreed to have a priest officiate and receive a spiritual blessing in exchange for non-religious but personal vows, no Communion, hymns or readings.

Writing their own vows had sounded so simple before. A few words of promise, a declaration of their love, exchange rings and you-may-kiss-the-bride. End scene.

But now she realized it was anything but easy. Worse, she had no idea what she would say on the most important day of her life!

The pen dug into the paper, leaving dark, jagged lines on the legal pad as Ethan scratched out yet another sentence. His handwriting, usually neat and precise despite the doctor-like scrawl, had turned into a chaotic mess of crossed-out words and half-formed thoughts. Frustration simmered in his chest, his mind spinning as he tried to wrestle his emotions into something coherent.

He sighed, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his temple. Sitting through a room full of demanding board members was a walk in the park compared to this. How was he supposed to find the words powerful enough to capture the depth of what he felt for Cassie?

Each attempt felt clumsy and inadequate, the words slipping away from him no matter how hard he tried. Irritated with himself, he muttered a curse under his breath, tearing the paper from the pad and crumpling it into a tight ball. It joined the other pieces of crumpled paper balls scattered around him.

Why had he insisted on their own vows? Should’ve just taken a template and been done with it.

He had been working on them all week and was no closer to the finish line. He had tried writing at home, in his office with the door closed and on a bench in the serenity garden at Edenbrook. Eventually, he retreated to Derry’s Coffee Shop in the hope that a place special to them both would inspire him.

The wedding was a week away, and he did not relish the idea of standing at the altar with nothing more to say than “I do” while Cassie no doubt recited something meaningful about him being her soulmate.

“Tough case?”

Startled, Ethan looked up to find Cassie standing above him.

He had been so absorbed in his frustrated scribbling that he hadn’t even noticed her enter the coffee shop, place her order and walk over to him.

“You could say that,” he hedged, hoping she wouldn’t press for more.

“Maybe I can help,” she suggested, sliding into the seat across from him.

Before he could stop her, she reached for the pad, and he blurted out, “No!” even as she read the words out loud.

“Cassie, my love for you is like an unspecified virus that I couldn’t shake….”

Ethan saw the look of shock on Cassie’s face. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly. For a moment, they just stared at each other in stunned silence.

“Wait, are these your wedding vows? And did you just compare me to a virus?”

Ethan quickly tried to recover, realizing how the words sounded when said aloud. “I—I didn’t mean it like that. What I’m trying to say is that my love for you is something I never expected, something that took hold of me and changed everything.”

Cassie blinked, and then, to his relief, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Babe, I appreciate the on-brand medical analogy, especially since I diagnosed Naveen’s bacteriophage, but maybe we can find a less…clinical way to describe it? This is our wedding, after all, not a keynote at the AMA annual symposium.”

“A keynote at the AMA would be easier than these damn vows,” Ethan muttered, running an exasperated hand through his hair.

He picked up his coffee and looked at her over the rim. “I suppose you’ve already written a masterpiece?”

To his surprise, Cassie blushed and looked away. “Not exactly. If you must know, I kind of forgot about them.”

She waved one hand dismissively. “Anyway, this isn’t about me. If you’re struggling, just focus on us, our relationship—what makes me the one for you? How you see our life together. Things like that.”

Ethan narrowed his eyes. “That’s some solid advice.” He reached for his phone, unlocking the screen. “In fact, it’s almost identical to the advice I got from another Valentine just a couple of hours ago. Ah, here it is.” He turned the screen to show her the text from Max.

Cassie’s eyes widened in disbelief. “That cheat!” She snatched the phone from Ethan’s hand, scrolling up to check the time stamp. It was from earlier in the day before she’d texted her brother. “He totally copy-pasted his response to me!”

Ethan chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Looks like great minds think alike…or at least steal from each other. When did you speak to him?”

Cassie gave him a sheepish look. “Maybe half an hour ago. ”

“Isn’t it the middle of the night where he is?”

She rolled her eyes and made a face. “I know. Max wasn’t thrilled, which is probably why I ended up with recycled advice.”

She straightened in her chair, a hint of frustration in her voice. “I can’t seem to find the right words for our vows. At least you managed to compare me to a virus—I’ve got a completely blank page.”

Ethan chuckled softly, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand gently. “How about we work on them together? We always did our best work figuring out diagnostic differentials as a team. Why should wedding vows be any different?”

Cassie’s smile widened. “Just promise you won’t tell my mother this is how we wrote our vows, or I’ll have to call you a big, fat liar!”

“Deal.”

Nine days later…

Ethan faced Cassie, a deep contentment settling over him, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. As he held her hands in his, the words that once eluded him now flowed as naturally as breathing.

“Cassie, when I first met you, I had no idea we’d end up here, but from that moment on, you’ve captivated me in ways I never imagined. You’ve challenged me, frustrated me and inspired me to be a better person. And I've fallen in love with you again and again, even though I didn’t believe love or family were in the cards for me. You opened my heart to more. I promise to support and encourage you, embrace the unexpected with you, and always work on being the best version of myself for you. I vow to hold your hand and cherish your heart, loving you always and forever.”

Cassie flashed a mischievous grin, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she held Ethan’s gaze, recalling the day they wrote these vows. Her voice was light and playful as she began, making it clear she was savoring every moment.

“Ethan, from the moment you walked into my life—full of arrogance, calling me an amateur—everything changed in ways I never could have predicted. I told you then I was your biggest fan, but that barely scratched the surface of my feelings for you. I can’t imagine a single day without you, and I hope I never do. I promise to stand by your side, to love you fiercely—even when you’re driving me a little crazy—and to choose you every day, no matter what. You are my partner, my soulmate and my greatest adventure. I vow to cherish your heart with all that I am, always and forever.”

And then they lived happily ever after…

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

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @jerzwriter @lady-calypso

@mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16

@justyourusualash @tessa-liam @liaficreplies @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @cariantha @custaroonie @youlookappropriate

[pedrospatch]

i really need a fic where reader is like an obnoxious snooty little southern belle like blanche dubois style and joel’s like this rugged guy who’s always getting his hands dirty so she’s like ew gross and he can’t stand her prissy ass but also the sexual tension is insane

[samgirl98]

Mending a Family 44/?

Prev | Next

Two days after Tim left, Jason regretted giving him his phone number. Not because the kid was trying to convince him to return to Gotham but because he would text him at the most random times with the most innate things. Seriously, did he ever sleep? Why was he trying to find out who robbed a store and took only the left socks?

Okay, the last one was interesting, but why was he doing it at 2:42 a.m.? Go to sleep!

Jason rubbed his eyes and continued setting up the snacks for the first book club meeting. Ghost Writer was literally glowing at the prospect of the first meeting. Jason constantly reminded him to stop lighting up if he didn’t want to freak people out. After telling him the sixth time, Jason wondered if meeting in Ghost Writer’s bookstore was a bad idea.

He sighed, “Too late, now.”

Jason had used the bookstore’s website so people who signed up could also vote from six choices. It had been a close call, but most people chose Sense and Sensibility. Jason couldn’t overstate his happiness that the first book would be an Austen novel. Jason might not have read it in a while, but he had it almost memorized and found himself more engrossed than usual in the novel. They only had to read the first five chapters for the first meeting, but Jason couldn’t help but finish it in one sitting while Jazz had had the kids.

Jason looked up as the bell over the door rang. A middle-aged woman entered the bookstore. Jason recognized her from the school and greeted her warmly. Then, an older lady entered. She had curly, short silver hair and thick glasses that made her eyes look huge. Jason greeted her and pointed her toward the snack bar. Next was a couple who bickered with each other. It wasn’t loud, but it felt overwhelming in such an enclosed space. Jason hoped that they wouldn’t continue arguing with each other the whole time.

Next, a young woman who looked to be college-aged showed up. Her hair was in a bun, and she was dressed as if she were going to an interview. Jason looked down at his ratty T-shirt and holey jeans and suddenly felt ragged. A few minutes later, a guy with a bushy beard and covered in tattoos entered. He looked like a biker.

Jason couldn’t help but be excited as he talked to the people who had entered. Barring the couple, everyone seemed happy to be there. Jason heard the bell ring once more. His smile fell when he saw the person who had entered.

Avril fucking Dubois. Fuck.

Jason ignored Avril as much as he could. He refused to let her ruin this for him.

They went around and introduced each other. The couple, Henry and Vanessa, went first. Halfway through introducing themselves, they started bickering. Jason quickly went to the next person.

The older woman was Agnus.

“I’m so glad this book club started. I love literature, and most of the people I used to talk to are gone now. I hope being around you young people will give me new perspectives.”

“Welcome, Agnus,” Jason said. He had a feeling he would get along with her. Next was the college student.

“My name is Charlotte. I’m here to find like-minded people who enjoy reading as much as I do. I can bring new insights and hope to learn from other people’s points of view. I hope to be a good asset to this club.”

“Um,” Jason had no idea what to say in response to that introduction. “Well, welcome; just having you here is awesome.”

“Hello, Jay. I know you know me, but for everyone else, my name is Carrie. I love to read but have very little time to do so with my children. I decided I needed some ‘me’ time, so I joined. I can't wait to discuss literature with other like-minded people.”

“Name’s Jerry,” Biker dude said, “I’m here to broaden my horizons and to see more of the world through books. Happy to be here.”

Jason smiled warmly toward him. He loved that Jerry didn’t fit into the stereotypical bookworm category. It made Jason feel validated somehow. Of course, Avril had to ruin by sniffing at Jerry’s introduction and haughtily introducing herself.

“My name is Avril Dubois. I’m the president of the PTA at my children’s school.”

Why would anyone care about that?

“I studied literature and English in college, so I thought this club would be a good way to continue my love of literature and help spread what I know. It’s certainly nice to meet such a…interesting band of people.”

Jason gritted his teeth at Avril’s blatant insult and decided to introduce himself.

“Hello, my name’s Jay. I started this book club so I can talk and discuss with others the books I read. I am so glad to have so many people here who share my passion for the written word. I would also like to thank Mr. Edwards for letting us use his bookstore for this little club.”

Ghostwriter waved a hand and sat by Jason. Thankfully, he looked like a very pale man and wasn’t glowing.

“I put a little poll online, and Sense and Sensibility won. I’m excited to talk about this book. Austen is one of my favorite authors. So, did everyone read the first five chapters?”

The discussion started, and Jason had to admit (at least to himself and not Roy) that this was a good idea.

Jason couldn’t help but feel joy being in a group of people arguing whether or not it was Mrs. Dashwood’s fault that Elinor had to have sense and had become a parent due to Mrs. Dashwood’s habit of letting her emotions take over.

Even the couple stopped bickering with each other to gang up on Jerry and Agnus. At one point, Jason and Avril were on the same page. Well, weirder things, he guessed.

When the first meeting ended, Jason felt his core humming with happiness.

Jason personally saw everyone out—even Avril.

“Well, I was pleasantly surprised, Jay. Who knew you had some knowledge of Austen? Don’t be late to the PTA meeting tomorrow, if possible.”

Even Avril’s backhanded compliment didn’t bring Jason’s spirits (ha!) down. He couldn’t wait for the next meeting.

Quick disclaimer: I have never read Austen.

I tried to read it for this chapter, but it's not my cup of tea, so I did something I have never done before: I used cliff notes, lol. I kinda wish I could've gotten into it because I see so much of Jason in Marianne. For example, Jason uses his emotions to live his life, and it has caused him problems with his family

Likewise, I see bits of Jazz in Elinor. But since I can't really go into it I decided to put it here on the notes.

anyway, enjoy

@itsberrydreemurstuff @idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit @skulld3mort-1fan @theauthorandtheartist @emergentpanda-blog @jaggedheart11 @fisticuffsatapplebees @booberrylizard @fantasticbluebirdfan @thegatorsgooseoose @cyrwrites @kjoboo91 @crystallicedart @amaramizuki666 @spekulatiusmuffin @meira-3919 @kilasmess @bubblemixer @lexdamo @wonderland-daisy @mj-arts-n-stuff @amyheart19 @dolfay @the-church-grimm @undead-essence @aph-mable @lizisipancardo @purrloin77 @writer-extraodinaire @charlietheepic7 @sinfulloccultist @nootherusernameworked @coruscateselene @chaoticchange @itsberrydreemurstuff @gmkelz11 @feral-bunny31 @paroovian @thatonegaybitch68 @d4ydr34min9 @overtherose @fandomwandererer @vipower001 @thordottir45 @blackrabbitt3t @rosecinnamonbun @bianca-hooks123 @epilepticnerd @dat1angel @consouling @flamingenchiladadragon @all-mights-asscheeks @ender-reader @fuyu-bitch @ravenswife @randomafterthought @chaos-and-wtv

[applepiesupreme]

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 38

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/153076498

Savigne sat, drawing designs on the table, thinking that there were surely peaks and valleys to life. And the valleys of her life were long and deep. In front of her, the newspaper of last week and an empty glass of water with laudanum - courtesy of Ms. Grimshaw. First time, about a week ago when the older woman had shown up with it by her ramshackle wagon, she had known there were bad news in tow because Sadie had informed Ms. Grimshaw that the laudanum was to be used sparingly now. So Savigne drank the water without further ado and after that, stared at the newspaper that was placed in front of her.

Sister DuBois had been wrong after all, because the shoes kept dropping.

Saint Denis had been shaken by the bank heist and the newspapers had talked of little else since. Even speculation about Ecco’s demise had been pushed to the fifth page. Pinkertons had immediately revealed the identity of the Van der Linde gang. A few days later big news broke: a ship had rolled into the Saint Denis harbor and the captain had contacted the authorities. His vessel had passed another that had departed the city few days prior and this ship had alerted them via lights and Morse code that the Van der Linde gang was on board and had bribed their passage to Cuba. Pinkertons, frustrated that their search in Shady Belle had come up empty, then had focused their efforts on contacting the authorities in Cuba. There was no extradition between the two countries but when the authorities heard of the bounty amounts, they said they would gladly pick the outlaws up at port to deliver them back to the US.

That seemed to be the end of it - the gang was stuck on a ship, seemingly unaware that the captain had double crossed them and heading straight to Cuba to be arrested. Alas, things went sideways again because after a prolonged radio silence, the news printed in last week’s paper sitting in front of her was that the cargo ship had sunk before its arrival, still a good distance away from Cuba and the gang had perished. 

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Ms. Grimshaw had rapped her knuckles on the table as she dropped the paper. 

That had been last week. She thought it was last week, anyway. Because since then she had had a few more glasses of bitter water and had stared at the same paper day in day out.

Arthur dead. Dead forever. She couldn’t even remember the last thing she had said to him. Probably something sharp and hurtful. Maybe it had been something rudimentary like “turn off the lantern” or “your boots are muddy”. Her mind was a maze and all the doors led to weird places. Here, reality and fantasy were indistinguishable. Had they really gone treasure hunting or was that a fantasy she had cooked up? Had they spent the night on that island she had rowed to or had they returned? Had they strolled through cabins as prospective buyers or was that just her daydreams? Memories branched off into alternative paths and forked into other trails and sometimes it was hard to tell what had actually happened and what she had conjured in her head.

Laudanum was a hell of a drug.

But at least it soothed the sharpness of her grief and wouldn’t let her linger on it for too long before it led her mind astray. Every time she thought of the warmth of his body behind her and her heart pierced, laudanum said “Hey, how about that time you sledged down the snowy hill with your friends when you took a field trip to the mountains?” Every time she missed waking up next to him, laudanum said “Do you remember Christmas at the orphanage? You used to love listening to the choir.” Every time she pictured the intensity of his gaze on her, laudanum said “That trip to New York was amazing, wasn’t it? You whipped that meringue like a true professional”.

On and on, her mind chased Arthur and laudanum chased her mind. In a way, she was grateful. Without it she would surely have had a breakdown. In fact, arguably she had. In the weeks she had been here, she had barely done anything but sit here on a chair and wait for nightfall and then go around to the other side of the wagon and lie in her bed. The times of an orderly, clean tent and the semblance of normalcy were in the past. She hadn’t even unloaded the crates - they were stacked up in the back and every time she needed something, she just rummaged through them and retrieved what she needed and put the lids back on. Her wagon - their wagon - sat close to the cluster of huts that served as camp now. Sadie wouldn’t allow her to camp far from everyone else like she used to, but at least she got to sleep alone.

People came and spoke to her and tried to console her, but nobody could understand the depths of her grief because nobody was in her shoes. Except perhaps Molly, who sulked around and drank and stumbled through her own head maze. "Sláinte to both of us fools!" she had raised her bottle at Savigne one day, on her way out of camp. "What we deserve for lovin' these men." Savigne had felt compassion and a strange kinship for her then and had nodded. This surprised Molly who was used to being pushed around and dismissed and she gave Savigne a long look, swaying on her feet. "At least yers loved ya back," she had mumbled before she had disappeared among the foliage.

She blinked and picked up the paper again. Every time she tried to reread the news, her mind detached a few sentences in. 

“You okay, Savigne?”

She looked up to find Charles standing over her. “I don’t think so,” she said thougtfully.

He pulled out the other chair and sat to her right. “Been a rough few weeks,” he sighed. They didn’t speak for a while. Charles was one of those people with whom silences were never awkward. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s dead.”

She played with the corner of the newspaper, folding it, then unfolding it as he watched her patiently.

“I’ve seen that man walk away from worse odds,” he continued. “Please don’t give up.”

She folded the corner, unfolded it. Folded it, unfolded it. She observed the letters straighten and flip upside down, straighten and flip. “Did you bury Hosea’n’Lenny?” she asked, her speech a little slurred.

In the corner of her eye, he nodded. Another thing nobody had disclosed to her until later. The pregnancy nobody but herself was shocked by, the scandalous heist and the demise of Hosea and Lenny. All secrets and lies. Why should she trust anything they said now?

“I know this upsets you,” he guessed her thinking. “Not being told. But we were just mindful of your well being.”

“Everyone’s lyin’ to me ‘bout ‘vrything.” the sticky words tumbled out of her mouth. Another thing laudanum removed was that filter between your head and your mouth.

She startled when his hand folded over hers, stopping her from the folding and making her look up. “Not everything.”

It was all he said, but the way he locked eyes with her and the way he said it somehow soothed her heart. He looked at her a long time and she looked back. Eventually he removed his hand and she sighed and sat back.

“He’s strong. And stubborn. No lies,” Charles added.

As if it mattered to be strong or stubborn or whatever the fuck else when a ship sucked you to the bottom of the ocean. Often she was glad for the gang’s confidence and optimism. But when the drug wore off, she thought it pathetic. Like they were all clinging to a lie. Like even here, at their most miserable low point, sleeping among gators and water snakes, they stubbornly pretended that their glory days were yet to come. Like this was just a small setback. Like Arthur and Dutch would return and then they would roll their wagons to a breezy overlook so they can go back to robbing people’s heirlooms and inheritance to buy more whiskey.

“My valley is so long,” she drawled, pulling the shawl over her shoulders. 

Charles didn’t ask what she meant or look at her strange, just sat with her. “I’m sorry,” he said what felt like much later. “Wish I could do something for you.”

“What happens now?” she asked, wiping her hands over her face.

“We hang tight until we hear more. Well...you do. Me and Sadie will try to break out John.”

She nodded and waited for the meaning of the words to float down to her. Like a seesawing feather, it eventually did. “Of prison?”

“Yes,” was his simple response.

“That’s good,” she sighed a minute later. She felt a stab of hurt and realized that she resented John being rescued while Arthur was gone, possibly dead.

“Lucky Abigail. Guess family was meant for her,” she blurted before she could stop herself. “Not for me.”

“Savigne…” He waited until she locked eyes with him again. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Doubt that,” she snorted and giggled a little. “But that’s fine!” she waved her hand at the expression on his face.

He looked at her a moment, then rose to his feet and squeezed her shoulder. “Rest.”

It took her a while to realize he had left and she stupidly looked at the newspaper again, eyes growing heavy. Luther must be worried, I haven’t seen him in weeks, she thought to herself.

Nobody worries about you, silly girl, her inner voice scoffed.

Hands pulled up the shawl around her shoulders and she realized she had fallen asleep sitting there because the light was different now. 

“Hey,” Abigail sank into in the chair Charles had vacated a minute ago…an hour ago? Time was fluid now; sometimes it stretched on for eons, other times it blinked by in a heartbeat. 

“Is John back?” Savigne sniffed, wiping her sleeve under her nose. The laudanum had worn off and her mind was clearer again.

“No. They left a few hours ago, ain’t back yet.”

They hadn’t spoken since Jack’s return which felt like years at this point. The other woman was twitching restlessly with worry. At least she had something to worry about. All Savigne had was the desolate landscape of hopelessness. The resentment flared up in her again and she looked away. 

“Did you need something?”

“Came to ask if you did,” Abigail’s eyes flicked up at her.

“So you’re not here to brag?”

“Brag?”

“I’m sure you knew about the child. I’m starting to think everyone knew but me. And possibly Arthur, because he was as dumb as me.”

Abigail bit her lip and shifted in her chair. “Course I knew. Not cause ‘m smarter, mind you, ‘m not. Cause I been there myself.”

“Another thing you didn’t tell me,” Savigne chuckled bitterly.

Abigail exhaled with frustration. “Really Savigne? We wasn’ even speakin’, did you expect me to drop by and tell you I think yer with child?”

She shrugged and hugged herself. She knew she would have been supremely upset and would have dismissed it as a cruel lie if Abigail had done that, but the flame of pettiness was burning hot in her gut.

“I’m sorry,” the other woman said carefully. “For not tellin’ the other thing. Or this. I am. Didn’ think was my place. Seems like whatever I do, I lose.”

“What exactly did you lose?” Savigne snapped. “They’re going to bring John back, then what are you going to cry about?”

Abigail was taken aback by that and looked guilty for a moment. “Arthur is comin’ back.”

“Will people please stop pulling this nonsense out of their ass?!” her voice rose and kept climbing. “No he won’t! He’s DEAD! And I’m FUCKED!”

Heads turned their way. She buried her face in her hands and shivered with righteous anger. Abigail was trying to make peace. But that was easy to do when your man wasn’t floating in the bottom of the ocean, wasn’t it? It was easy to be kind and generous, easy to preach hope and consolation when the winds of good fortune were filling your sails.

She remembered the rich families that used to visit the orphanage for adoption gliding around, smiling at the children like beatific deities. She remembered her friends brushing their hair and practicing their smiles in hopes of being noticed. She also remembered sitting in a corner, scowling with pride, watching these couples stroll around as if inspecting wares in a store.

Savigne, stop scowling, the Sisters would say. Why did you mess up your hair? What is this stain on your dress? Don’t you want to have a family?

One by one she had noticed the pretty girls leave. The taller ones with fair skin and nice eyes. “I have a family,” she would growl. “They’re dead.”

But don’t you want a new family?

“No.”

Savigne, everybody needs someone.

She had observed the men hoist up a child and grin with approval while their wives cooed and brushed the girl’s hair. 

“Not me. I don’t need anyone.”

Every week she had messed up her hair and brushed dirt on her dress and every week she was passed on. A self fulfilling prophecy of her own making. In her grubby little heart, both righteous pride and something else - a hurt she couldn’t quite name. Pride and hurt, all those years her loyal shield and her trusted sword. Until that fateful day in the Bayou when she had let Arthur disarm her. Now her shield was cracked and her sword was broken, and in her heart: a deep compulsion to mess up her hair and muddy her dress.

“Please,” Abigail spoke up. “Let me help. I wanna help.”

“I don’t want your help!” she shot to her feet. “Go enjoy yourself! Go be with your family!”

“Young lady!” Grimshaw hollered from somewhere and she quickly fell back into her chair. 

“You got to rub it in, congratulations,” she hissed and looked away. “Go away, leave me alone.”

Abigail’s eyes flared and her jaw muscles worked but when she spoke, her voice was careful and soft. “I know you don’ believe me but I’m your friend. Wanna be, anyway. I ain’t celebrating and I ain’t rubbin’ nothin’ in. I been where you are. I know you don’ wanna hear it but I’m very upset about Arthur, too.”

“Well that at least I can believe!” Savigne spat, but quieter, so Grimshaw wouldn’t march over.

“Ain’t like that! That was years ago. You wanna judge me for what I did, go ahead, ‘m used to it. Yes, I was a whore. Slept with men for money - the horror! But I been with John for years, I been loyal for years, and it hurts ya sayin’ ‘m lustin’ for another man! Behind John and Jack’s back! Shame on you!”

Savigne defiantly wiped her tears and looked away. She was jealous and every time she was jealous, she turned petty. Old habits died hard.

“I know yer head screwed on wrong right now. ‘M tryin’ not to hear yer poison but it’s hard Savigne! Really hard!” the other woman's voice wavered and she flattened her lips and sat back in an attempt to gather herself.

They sniffled quietly in their chairs for a while. Savigne fished out her stack of clean handkerchiefs and when Abigail held her hand out, grumpily slapped one into her palm, too.

“I been where you are. Lemme help. Least I can do to make it up to you. And least I can do to repay Arthur.”

“There’s nothing to help,” Savigne quipped. “I’m just waiting for this thing to go sideways like everything else in my life.”

Ms. Grimshaw came out of the hut and gave them an even look. They remained composed under her scrutiny and Abigail waited for her to glide away before she continued: “Don’ gotta be that way. You’ll have a kid, ain’t the worst thing. Jack is the best thing I done in my life.”

Savigne rolled her eyes. Abigail just didn’t get it. She was riding with outlaws and her biggest career ambition was to become a better pickpocket. And if John married her one day, Jack was set. Her own life was over. Her ambitions, dust. Her plans, ruined. An unmarried woman with child was a death sentence to all her dreams. Sure, she would survive - she could find the odd job here or there and put the semblance of a roof over her head and food into her stomach. But an illustrious career in a city? That was done. No respectable restaurant would hire her. Everywhere she went, women would look at her with disdain and hurry their husbands and sons away and men would treat her like an easy lay. Never getting married - that was manageable for a woman these days. But a child out of wedlock? Certain ostracism. And what would happen to the child? Rejection by nurseries and schools. Endless teasing and stigma for being a “foundling”. If it was a boy he would climb down chimneys for a living and if it was a girl her highest aspiration would be to become a maid.

“Also, like I said, Arthur is coming back.” Sometimes she wondered how John put up with Abigail’s one track mind. The woman just thought what she thought and nobody could convince her otherwise. 

“Then what? You think we’re going to ride into the sunset after this bullshit he pulled?”

“You knew this what he does when you shacked up with him,” was the defensive response.

“And so did you with John. Didn’t stop you from complaining my ears off!”

“I complain he won’ leave this life, ain’t nothing the same! I ain’t blind, I know Arthur don’ feel that way about the gang no more.”

“Just spare me,” Savigne huffed. “I’m sick of the whole thing. I’m tempted to go to New York and start all over.”

“New York?! Why there?”

“Why not? They’re more open minded over there, I can pull it off as a single parent. More work, too.”

Abigail gave her a side eye. “Ya gonna pack up and go to a big city in yer condition? Where ya gonna be all alone? Don’ know a soul?”

Savigne knew how dumb it sounded and truthfully, had very little ambition or money to make such an upheaval right now. Hell, she hadn’t even gone to work in weeks, the notion that she would rise up like some glorious phoenix and relocate to New York was preposterous. But she shrugged anyway. “Might,” she said curtly. “I’m alone. No ties to anyone. I might as well start new. Could pass as a widow with a ring on my finger. Might even find a good man who’ll stick around.”

The other woman shifted in her seat. “Yer underestimatin’ Arthur’s-.”

“You know what - I don’t give a shit!” she spat. Then hastily looked around for that black bun and adjusted her tone. “He left me. He lost his vote by doing that.”

“He ain’t left you. He went on a job, things gone wrong. Don’ ya think you should wait a little?”

“For what? A horrible, irresponsible man to come back? What’s he going to do? Save me?” Savigne snorted and crossed her arms, “Let’s face it: he’s more likely to hate me.”

“The hell?!”

“A child he didn’t ask for? Because I was stupid? Sound familiar?”

“Absolutely not!” Abigail gasped. “That was very different. He gonna be crazy happy!”

“Any other glowing defense of Arthur you need to throw my way while you’re at it?!” growled Savigne. “Touching how protective you are of him!”

“Stop it! I owe him a lot, that’s all. I have no feelings for yer stupid man.”

“If you have no feelings, stop fucking defending him.”

“Okay fine. Wanna make sure you sein' all your options, is all. Just a few weeks, Savigne. Charles said that what they discussed - sail off a few weeks and return. Hasn’t changed.”

“The ship at the bottom of the ocean disagrees!” Savigne clutched the paper and waved it in Abigail’s face.

“I ain’t a well traveled woman but even I know those have life vests and boats,” was the infuriatingly stubborn dismissal. “A few weeks, and if-”

Just then two horses rode into camp - Sadie and John on one and Charles on the other. The gang, hungry for any good news, erupted in a big pent up hooray. Abigail scrambled out of her chair and ran to meet John. Savigne watched them embrace and kiss as people flocked around them. The resentment, the jealousy that had been percolating in her before flared up so hot and bitter, it took her breath away. She shot up to her feet, swayed for a moment, then walked to the back of the wagon and fumbled with the single sheet of fabric of the tent that remained now. All the pillars had been left at Shady Belle so she just had a bed and a drape of fabric for privacy. She untied it and hurriedly hung it over like a mosquito net, then sat down on the bed, shaking with fury and dejection. She kicked off her boots and lied down, listening to the greetings and exchanges and hating everyone and her own jealous, spiteful, petty self most of all. It’s unfair, she cried silently. Unfair he’s back and Arthur isn’t. Unfair they’re happy and I’m miserable. Unfair they’re a family and mine is dead forever. Unfair, unfair, unfair!

Steps scrunched her way and she stilled, shuffling closer to the wagon. Leave me alone, she screamed in her head. I hate you and I don’t want your pity!

Whoever it was paused in front of the lowered drape for a while, then finally receded. 

She inhaled the smell of the Bayou. I can’t be in this muck, listening to frogs and gators. What the fuck am I doing? I used to work a distinguished job. I have money. I have a friend. Instead I’m here, sinking into the damn swamp. Sleeping in this barely put together tent. Everything is dirty and ugly here, I haven’t bathed in weeks, I can’t even cook. I’m lying here waiting for a man who didn’t give a shit about me. Not enough to stop and wonder what was going to happen to me anyway.

There was a flutter in her stomach and she froze. “Sorry,” she mumbled and splayed her hand on it. “I’m sorry. You must be boiling in pure poison in there.” Shame washed over her. All her life she had missed a mother like an absent limb, and now, when the responsibility was laid at her feet, it was all “woe to me!”, and “what about my career?”, and “what about my dreams?” Doctor Polleux was right - ignorance was no excuse. Arthur didn't do this and the baby certainly didn't either. This was her doing and consequentially, her responsibility. 

“Sorry I haven’t been a better custodian. But that’s all over now. No more laudanum.” she whispered to her passenger. “I was…sick, but I’m better now. Tomorrow we're going to go see Luther.” The thought calmed her heart. “Luther is my friend. Our friend. We’ll ask him what to do. If he’s mean, just ignore it, you hear? He just pretends to be mean.” She sighed and listened to the music of the Bayou for a while, gently tapping her belly. “We're climbing out of this hole. I put us in this hole and I will climb us out of it. This is not a fairy tale, no hero is coming to save us, and that’s fine because we don’t need one. It's easy, you'll see. All we have to do is put one foot above the other. And not look down.”

Hercule crouched next to Arthur as the other man watched the camp below with the binoculars. The moon shone full and bright tonight as voices of banter and ease drifted up to them. If the cowboy was distressed about the number of their enemies, he didn’t show it. Behind them, the rest of the gang was quietly inspecting the crates that Hercule’s men had smuggled over in the cover of dark. A few days from now, when the last reinforcements arrived, they were going to storm the camp and try to flush Fussar out. It had sounded like madness to Hercule, but as he was wrestling with indecision and doubt, Arthur had looked at him and had said “Run with me,” and to his own amazement, Hercule had found himself shaking hands.

When he had returned to his men to translate, they too had balked at this proposition.

“Hercule, how can you trust this blan, this white man?”

“A wolf is not black and a wolf is not white. A wolf is grey.” he had told them.

This had fazed them none, because even though there were no wolves in Haiti, there were wolves in America and this man was American, and his people were intuitive and knew that some things were meant to be understood with the heart, not the head. Their dark eyes had judged the cowboy up and down, had weighed his measure as they mulled on this between themselves.

Then they had said “Okay, we will run with this American wolf. But this plan crazy. We are few and Fussar is many.”

Hercule had shrugged. “Bondye fe san di. God acts and doesn’t talk. We did the talking, now we do the acting.”

So here they were, scouting the camp below them and fine tuning their plans. 

“Bill,” Arthur mumbled, concentrated on the activity in the distance. “Ya remember where?”

“Sure.”

Arthur rose from his haunches and gave him a suspicious look. “Where?”

Bill shifted uncomfortably on his feet and glanced back over his shoulder to the camp below them. “There,” he pointed at the barracks, “…there” - the gun shack, “…and…and…” The slap on the back of his head startled him.

“The fuckin’ watchtower!” hissed Arthur. 

“Was just about to say that!” was the sullen response.

Arthur stepped closer to him, “Listen here ya lumberin’ fool, you do this wrong, don’ bother comin’ back, cause ‘m shootin’ yer useless ass.”

“‘M just tired. And cooked. And hungry.”

The blue eyes blazed at him. “You do this wrong, ya gonna be dead, too.”

“He’ll be fine,” Dutch spoke up. He lifted a rifle out of the crate and checked the scope. 

“Where you need us?” Hercule asked Arthur.

“How about you go ahead first?” Micah drawled. “Draw their fire.” Hercule didn’t engage with him. He didn’t care for this man. This man was lougarou - a skinwalker who dressed like a wolf, but he was no wolf. His heart was the wicked heart of men. He looked at Arthur and waited. “Hey, you deaf or what?” Micah pushed, annoyed that he was being ignored.

“You want us to draw fire?” Hercule quietly asked Arthur as if Fat Belly hadn’t spoken.

“Not you,” Arthur said, testing the sharpness of his blade on his thumb before he notched it on his belt. “You come with me. We gonna go in quite and kill the men aimin’ the gatlins.”

“Since when are you leading?” was Micah’s frustrated protest.

“Since always,” Arthur said, eyes cold as they shifted up to him.

“You okay with this, Dutch?”

“Arthur knows what he’s doing,” was Dutch’s distracted response.

“Wouldn’t know it by the job that landed us here,” was the muttering.

“What’s that now?” Arthur turned to him, voice deceptively mild and Hercule curiously observed the other big man, Bill, flinch and go white like someone had dunked his head in bleach.

“Hey!” Dutch hissed, stepping between Arthur and Micah. “Enough! You can handle your differences when this is done. Until then…” he gave Micah a side eye, “…Arthur leads.” It was obvious to Hercule that there were problems between these three. If he had to guess, the two younger men had a long standing issue. The leader liked Arthur and looked extremely pleased that he was back in the fold. No, more than that: Dutch acted happy and proud, as if his long lost son had returned to his side. Eager to reward him for his choice to return, eager to have his right hand back. This didn’t please Fat Belly who looked disgruntled for being asked to vacate his spot. Clearly there was a simmering power play here but one that only Micah was engaged in. Arthur filled the role naturally, organically and easily and didn’t even seem to be aware of the competition.

“Tell yer men to gather to the North,” Arthur told him, finger jabbing at the spot on the crude map. “When the dynamite goes off, they shoot and draw back. We’ll crawl in from behind and turn them gatlins on the fools chasin’. Tell’em to circle and come join the fight when they hear that.”

Hercule nodded and turned to translate what was asked. The men’s dark eyes shifted to Arthur as they muttered their “wi patron”s.

“What about us?” Dutch asked.

“You push Fussar to the beach. Micah and I will block his way out and meet you there.”

“Why the hell am I going with you?” Micah sneered.

“Cause what we doin’ more dangerous.” Arthur gave him a look. “And I figure if anyone’s gotta die, should be the worst of us.”

The blond man chortled as he reloaded his twin guns. “I like the way your mind works, cowpoke.”

Three days later and twenty minutes after Bill, Javier, Dutch and their guide had left to plant the explosives, Hercule lead the two Americans quietly to descend through the jungle towards the camp. They had waited for lunch to finish because these lazy bastards liked their fiesta and got all sluggish after eating and were prone to nodding off at their stations. Fussar ran a tight ship, but one man couldn't overcome generations of ingrained habits or the lulling power of the heat. Besides, not even the craziest of them would expect an attack on their camp. Given the small number of men he had at his side, Hercule had always resorted to terrorist tactics - a quick nibble here and there before they withdrew to the safety of the jungle. A full head on attack on the camp was crazy but he couldn't argue with the fact that at the very least it would catch the enemy off guard.

He glanced at the cowboy. Fussar was clever and had more firepower, true. But Arthur was really determined to get back home and Hercule had learned long ago that the steel resolve of determination far outweighed cleverness or a superior force. This other man he didn't trust at all because he knew the type. This wasn't a man to turn your back to. Arthur might not be loyal to Hercule's cause or the people of this island, but Hercule had no doubt that he was loyal to something; loyal to what he valued. He suspected that this man, this…skinwalker didn't even know the meaning of the word.

The gatling guns were on high ground and Hercule knew exactly how to get there. He knew the layout of this camp like the back of his hand. He guided the other two men around the low wall and behind the food hall. They carefully looked through the dust smeared windows and spotted a party of four inside: two cooks playing cards at one of the tables and two soldiers using the other cafeteria tables for an afternoon nap. Arthur doubled back and slunk to the backdoor of the kitchen. When he carefully parted it, there was just one guy washing dishes by himself. Hercule followed him in and marveled how quiet he was despite his size. Micah trailed as the third and gently closed the door behind them. When Hercule looked ahead again Arthur had the man in his clutch and his knife did a subtle slash across the throat. A spray of blood misted as the cook struggled to dislodge Arthur's big hand off his mouth. The dishes he had been washing colored red. There was a long moment of mumbled resistance, but ultimately he slumped in the American's arms and was gently laid aside. 

"Go through the other door and take care of them cooks," Arthur whispered to Micah. Then added: "Don' do that shit you pulled in Strawberry. Quietly."

"I got it," was Micah's annoyed huff before he exited the door they had come through.

The kitchen was connected to the food hall with a set of swinging double doors, inlaid with two small windows. Arthur motioned for Hercule to stand behind it before he grabbed one of the dishes the man had been washing and threw it on the floor. Hercule peeked out and saw one of the soldiers stir when the plate shattered. A moment passed and the soldier called out:

"¿Qué pasa Antón?”

When no answer came he huffed with disgust and sat up. "Antón!"

It took some back and forth between him and his sleepy colleague to sort it out, but eventually the soldier slid off the table and trudged over to the door. He banged it open and walked in and Arthur gave him a skull cracking punch in the face and pushed him into Hercule's arms to be immediately wrapped into a choke hold. Before the door could even swing back shut, Arthur had smoothly slid out and was crouching towards the other soldier. Only when he jumped up to impale the other guys heart with a smack did the cooks startle and look up in his direction. They scrambled out of their chairs and inhaled to scream but by then Micah was behind them and stabbed one in the neck from behind. The other one turned at the sound and that was the last thing he did because when looked back again Arthur's blade was in his gut. He gurgled something unintelligible in Spanish and sank to the ground. 

Hercule came out of the kitchen, panting. "The guns close by?" Arthur asked as he wiped his blade on the cook’s shirt before reholstering it.

The black man jabbed his head north. "Just up the steps there. But they'll spot us if we go now."

"We wait here 'til the dynamite goes off," Arthur said. "Then we make a run for it."

They didn't have to wait long. Minutes later the dynamite did go off and it sounded like the ammunition depot because the explosion was massive and shivered the ground under their feet. Hercule heard the splatter of mud and stones against the building they were in and thought they might wait for all three explosions or even wait for his men to engage first, but to his surprise, Arthur pulled his guns and was out the door, so him and Micah scrambled to follow. The camp exploded into action around them. By the time the barracks went off, all three had arrived by the gatling guns and had disposed of the soldiers guarding them. Hercule had a moment to marvel at the gunslinger's speed - Arthur's hands were as fast as bullets themselves and his shooting magnificently true - before he was told to man the gun. Despite never having used one in his life, the concept was pretty basic, so Hercule took over one gatling while Micah approached the other and Arthur guarded their back. The gun was like a bull under his hands - bursting and jerking with power as he swung it around and pressed the trigger, mowing down running soldiers and etching holes into the buildings. It had a deafening cough and the vibration quaked his spine but Hercule clung to it and tried his best to aim true. Just then the base of the tower went up and the metal of the structure screeched like a banshee as it leaned, tilted and tilted and tilted until it smashed to the ground. 

A gust of sand erupted around them and billowed like tan colored sheets, making the camp momentarily invisible as Hercule tried to shoot through the dust storm. He pulled up his bandanna to breath and squinted as sand pecked at his eyes and settled into his hair. He glanced behind him and saw Arthur ducking low behind a barricade, killing anyone who was dumb enough to move through the streets or attempting to come up the steps for the gatlings. His hands were firing and reloading so fluidly, it was an uninterrupted stream of motion. He heard Micah to his left holler in joy as he fired his own gatling, bullet casings erupting around him and pinging off his legs and arms like fireworks. How long this went on he couldn't tell, but he startled when Arthur's hand smacked on his shoulder.

“Saw Fussar run off, ‘m gonna follow.”

“I’m coming with. Out of bullets anyway and the ammunition depot is blown, these guns are useless now.”

They sprinted from building to building as slugs ricocheted around his head like a hailstorm. He ducked behind the crude stone wall and tried to hear anything other than the sharp bark of bullets as he reloaded. His ears were roaring with the noise, his breath short from the running and the dust in the air. 

“Come on!” Micah yelled from ahead of them, “I’m covering.” Hercule heard Dutch holler, pinpointed a direction and stumbled from behind the wall and ducked low, running alongside Arthur as Micah covered their advance. He crouched behind some crates and peeked up. A bullet whizzed by the crate but he got a clean shot and took it. Then another. 

“Be sharp now!” Micah yelled and Arthur jumped up a little to rain a volley to cover the other man. From the corner of his eye he saw Micah run onwards and sit behind a low wall to reload.

“Arthur! Micah! This way!” was Dutch’s increasingly distant call.

Just then a man jumped over the low wall and got tangled up with Micah. He pulled a big knife, the size of his forearm and went for Micah’s throat but the blond man tussled him to the ground and slapped the knife away. The man wrestled his way back up, hands clutching at Micah’s guns to point them away from himself. Arthur reloaded and checked quickly over his shoulder to make sure there would be no fire from behind before he aimed and shot the man in the back of the head.

Micah barked a triumphant cry and pushed the body off himself. He scrambled to put his back against the low wall again. Hercule ran to squat next to him and peeked up quickly to see if anyone else was coming over. When he turned to urge Arthur to sprint on, he was startled to find him sitting on Micah’s lap, their faces so close that their noses almost touched. He saw Micah flinch with surprise, those flat blue eyes widening for a split second before he spat “Cowpoke…”

But he couldn't finish the sentence as he got distracted and dropped his head to look between them. He blinked at the hilt of the dagger he had slapped out of his assailant’s hand a minute ago sticking from his gut and his eyes followed it up to Arthur’s hand, his arm, all the way up to his face. When their eyes locked, Arthur looked on and gave the hilt a sideways push. He coolly watched Micah gasp. 

“Shot that guy,” Arthur said quietly, moving closer still. “So I can do this.” 

He jerked the dagger further right and despite the mayhem around them, Hercule somehow heard the wet tearing of flesh. Micah just blinked on in confusion and his only reaction was a small cough. A few more bullets rained around them, singing against the wall but most of the fight was following Dutch, Bill and Javier and those men sounded even further down the beach.

Hercule’s eyes widened at the scene in front of him.

“Help me you idiot!” Micah sneered at him. “He’s gone mad!”

There was no madness in Arthur’s eyes when they flicked up to Hercule. But he did look very dangerous.

“Patron?!” Hercule stammered.

“This man assaulted my woman,” Arthur said calmly, his blue eyes boring into Hercule’s. His hand jerked again to the right and the blond man he had pinned against the wall moaned. “And means to, again.”

The Fat Belly’s low chuckle drew his eyes to him. “You need…me you…idiot,” Micah's eyes bored into his over Arthur's shoulder. “Gonna risk…Fussar…gettin’ away over…some whore?”

Hercule’s face distorted with disgust. It didn’t surprise him what Micah was accused of. And neither did it surprise him that a man of such low character would think the same of him. He spat to the side. “I’ll cover you, patron,” he growled to Arthur and peeked up to shoot.

A flash of movement as Micah’s right gun came around. He was fast, faster than he should be, but Arthur was ready and gripped it with his left hand before it could turn his way, his other hand on the blade handle seesawing across the belly. The gush of warm, sticky blood was followed by the ropes of intestines.

Micah snarled with renewed vigor and tried to bring his left hand around. But it was caught under Arthur’s knee and wouldn’t budge. He moaned with frustration as his guts boiled out of his stomach and unfurled like glistening coils. Arthur set his cool eyes on the blond man whose gun started to shake with the futile effort to turn. “Think I forgot 'bout ya, you filth?” Arthur drawled, watching his eyes flutter with the loss of blood. “Think ‘m gonna let you loose so you can do what y’aimin’ to do?”

Micah’s right hand unfurled from his gun and gave a weak slap at Arthur’s cheek. “Fucking…coward,” he hissed. “I paid…for what…I done,” was the hiss as the blade serrated on and scraped a rib bone.

“Not to my satisfaction.”

Arthur threw Micah’s released gun over his shoulder as he watched the the pupils wavering, wrestled the other one of his weakened grip from under his knee and checked the chamber. The commotion had moved further east. “Should 'ave done this after Jenny. Should 'ave done it in Strawberry. Should 'ave done it after ya touched my woman. Well…” he sighed, eyes crawling over Micah’s rapidly blanching face, “…’m doin’ it now.” 

Micah growled in anger and twitched about. A shudder shook his frame and he panted and coughed blood when Arthur took a crouched step away.

He placed Micah’s gun against the man’s chest and waited for those dead fish eyes to flutter up to him. “Let’s find out if ya got a heart in there.”

When he pulled the trigger, Micah convulsed and his eyes rolled up in his head. Arthur released him and he keeled sideways, dead weight.

Hercule watched the cowboy reload his own guns before their eyes met. “Couldn' risk him returnin’ home if I die here," he explained calmly. "But Fussar ain’t gettin’ away. Gave you my word.”

Hercule nodded in understanding. Some things were clear to all men. "Tell me when.”

Arthur cocked his guns. “Go.”

They seesawed through a rain of bullets, covering each other. Hercule’s heart was beating against his rib cage and his lungs burned. But he wasn’t nearly as worried as he should be. Because the man next to him was like death incarnate, shooting people so rapidly, that they fell with their faces twisted in surprise at their own demise.  

By the time they arrived at the beach, he was nauseated from the adrenaline and the running, his chest heaving in the humid heat. Arthur spat to the side and sank to his knees next to Dutch.

“He’s stuck behind those rocks,” Dutch said, looking haggard and worn down himself. Arthur managed to nod, hands reloading reflexively, without thinking. 

“Where’s Micah?”

“Dead.”

The leader’s head snapped around, eyes big with disbelief. “What!? How?”

Arthur’s cool orbs flicked up to him, then around the rock they were hiding behind. The other two Americans froze with this news.

Dutch’s gaze shifted to the direction they came from, then back to Arthur. Hercule could tell the man was suspicious by nature. A man who moved pieces on the board just to see all happenstances so he would never be blindsided. Obsessed with thinking his way around corners. Hercule could see the clockwork in his head spin and tick.

“He took a bullet to the heart,” he said to Dutch and made certain not to flinch away from Dutch’s scrutiny.

Dutch looked at him for a very long moment and Hercule stared back. No doubt Dutch was clever, but the art of staring back at white folk and hiding what’s in their heads was second nature to his people.

“I’m sorry for your loss. My people will honor him when this is done,” he lied smoothly.

Just then there was a call from behind the rocks:

“Americans! Amigos! Let’s talk.”

A short silence ensued.

“Unless you want to talk about where to be buried, I don’t see the point,” Dutch called back with a lilt of amusement.

“How about we talk about money, eh?” was the response. This surprised everyone, but not Hercule and his stomach dropped. “I got lots of it. No good to me dead. We can come to an arrangement!”

Hercule glanced at Arthur’s unreadable face, then at Dutch’s which was an open book.

“What kind of arrangement?” Dutch sang.

“No talking!” Hercule hissed. “This man must die! He killed and tortured hundreds!”

Dutch gave him a look that twisted his gut. “Don’t worry, he will pay.”

“Quite literally, it seems,” Javier chuckled. It turned Hercule’s stomach that only weeks ago Javier had been tortured and imprisoned by Fussar, and yet here he was, tempted to make a deal with the man.

“I promised a boat for his death. We had an arrangement!” he pleaded. It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did but when Dutch’s gun swiveled to him, he was startled anyway. Because a man could live a hundred lives and still not learn treachery.

“How about we take both?” Dutch mused. “Tell your men not to shoot,” was the cool addition.

Hercule squared his shoulders and pressed his lips together.

“I don’t want to shoot you my friend,” Dutch reasoned amicably. “But we are pretty short right now. I need this for my people. You’re young, if you’re smart and decide to live, you can kill this bastard next time.”

“You will never get a boat from me or any of my men if you do this.”

There was a long standoff. Hercule glanced at Arthur but his face was as unreadable as stone, the gears in his head well hidden.

“Don’t be a hero, son,” Dutch urged and cocked his gun. “Live another day.”

He hated these men, but more than them, he hated his own treasonous heart that saw the logic, that shriveled at the idea of saying no. He fought himself for a full minute as Dutch watched, eyes calm and curious. A better man would say no and die here. But what would happen to his men? If they got into a gunfight with these Americans, surely they would perish, too.

”Pa tire!” he shouted out. Disgust tore through him and his shoulders deflated. A patronizing “Good man,” was his reward for this treason. A jab with the gun to throw his weapon down. He complied. What was another betrayal after the first one?

“Come out, Fussar!” Dutch called. Then to Bill: “Keep your eyes on our friend here.”

Fussar hesitantly stepped from behind the rocks and cringed as if expecting a hail of bullets. When it didn’t come, he blinked at his luck and walked out further, arms raised. Seeing him right there after chasing this man for so many years singed Hercule’s heart. Dutch rose and holstered his weapon.

“Where’s this money?”

“In America of course,” was the pompous response. “You think I’m keeping it in this shithole? Or in Cuba? It’s in dollars, my friend.”

“You have a boat?” Bill yelled over his shoulder, eyes locked to Hercule.

“Not at the moment,” admitted the other man. He wet his lips and pushed his chin up to Hercule. “But I bet your friend here does.” He did a flimsy twirl with his upturned arms and a smile tugged at his lips. “You give me some time with him, I'm sure I can convince him to hand it over. Then we can all-”

The gunshot that ruptured a hole in Fussar’s face made almost everyone jump. Everyone but Arthur, who was the source of it. There was a long moment of stunned disbelief as Arthur calmly holstered his weapon and his compatriots and Hercule gaped at him with slackened jaws.

“What the fuck…!” Bill started, eyes as big as saucers.

“I ain’t kill a hundred people so this man gets us to fuck over the very same folks we promised to,” was Arthur’s calm explanation.

It was hard to argue with that and Hercule’s heart bloomed with hope and renewed respect. The stares of the other Americans, however, turned sullen and angry.

“You can’t make that call for us, Arthur!” Javier moaned with frustration.

“My bullet in his head says differently.”

“Son...” Dutch’s voice quivered. It was obvious that he was shocked by Arthur’s rogue behavior. The pleasure he had shown just days ago for having him back by his side dissolved in front of Hercule’s eyes. Hercule was proud to notice that for all his cleverness, Dutch had a blind side: He thought he knew Arthur well, was confident in this, but he hadn’t seen what Hercule had: that Arthur was his own wolf. Maybe now more than ever. “...we needed that money.”

Arthur notched his hands on his gun belt, gazing back at him. “We always need money. But ‘a man’s word is his bond’ - that sound familiar, Dutch?”

“Of course,” the hands waved softly in placation. “Of course! I know I taught you that, but we could have-”

“Wasn’ you.” Arthur interrupted him, eyes hard. The distance between them was merely a few feet, but to Hercule, they looked miles apart.

“What?”

“Wasn’ you.” Arthur's sharp gaze was unflinching. “Was Hosea.”

There was another long pause as the leader searched for words that never came. Arthur’s eyes shifted to Hercule. “We good?”

“Wi patron,” he nodded firmly. “Boat be here in few days.”

He received a grunt of acceptance as the man walked past him the way they came.

Hercule lowered his hands. When he bent down to pick up his gun, nobody objected. His men gathered around him and they threw the other three Americans baleful looks before they turned to follow.

“Your friends not happy.” Hercule said when he caught up to him.

Arthur strode in silence for a while as Hercule’s men fanned ahead to check for survivors.

“But you are,” was the late response.

“Sure,” he chuckled. “More than happy - I’m grateful! But I’m just a stranger.”

Arthur inspected his shoulder that had the shallow streak of a bullet on it. “Someone once told me ‘bout this kid who bullied a town. Bad kid, rotten seed all around. Like me.” He sighed and squinted ahead as they approached the ruins of the camp. “But, came a day, he did right by just one person.” The blue eyes flicked at him, then away. “Guess I gotta believe sometimes that’s enough.”

They arrived by the low wall behind which Arthur had dispatched of Micah and walked on. Neither looked in that direction but Hercule spat the grit in this mouth in remembrance.

“Bet your woman is gonna be happy when you return.”

“For a minute, if ‘m lucky,” the cowboy snorted. “Then she gonna be whole lotta mad.”

Hercule grinned up at him. “Well you have to stick to her tight anyway, patron.”

“Why’s that?” was the amused question.

“Because everybody know this: sticking with your family is what makes it family.”

[lorei-writes]

Chevalier x OC (OC Chart: Esther), Leon x OC (OC Chart: Viva) Angst-adjacent (wholesome) Prompts: Tradition + Falling Leaves ~ 1.6k This work deals with the topic of commemorating the dead.

My entry for Falling for Fall CC hosted by myself and @violettduchess and From harvest to hearts hosted by @mitsuhideswifey ! Thank you for coming up with such a lovely prompt list, Luna! >:3 I can't wait to finish my next entry!

Content Warnings: none

A lonesome thread floats in the air. It billows, a flutter stolen from the butterfly wings, tugged in all directions by the currents of winds, and it descents, falls oh so slowly among the golden maple leaves. The gossamer is not destined for the ground, however. It’d rather cling onto an old, wooden cross.

A lonesome thread floats in the air. It billows, a flutter stolen from the butterfly wings, tugged in all directions by the currents of winds, and it descents, falls oh so slowly among the golden maple leaves. The gossamer is not destined for the ground, however. It’d rather cling onto an old, wooden cross.

Dry rustling sounds in the cemetery. Father Joseph brushes the dust off his cassock to then settle down on a bench.

“It’s been some time, Ignace,” he sighs. “Your girls will come visit you again soon, old friend.”

Father Joseph stares ahead, at and past the brass plaque with the birth and death dates of Ignace Dubois.

***

Esther is pallid after making the journey – a total of two hours in a carriage followed by another thirty minutes on foot have left her rather starved for rest. Nevertheless, it is still a victory. The same wouldn’t have been possible just a year, no, half a year ago. The cemetery gate welcomes her in a shrill voice, old hinges whimpering in disuse. Fallen leaves line the paths between the graves, metal, stone or wood crosses protruding through various wind-swept heaps, yellow, red and orange entwined. None have avoided being gnawed on by time.

The bench is familiar with the weight of Esther’s bag. It is always the same two lanterns that she brings, together with a few personal belongings of hers. Esther herself cannot sit down, however, not until her father’s grave is tended to. As such, she collect the leaves, back bent and hands pushing them into her skirt, so that they can be set at the foot of the old maple growing by the chapel; as every year, she briefly thinks of a proper rake, to then notice the weeds that have grown into the soil and that the mound has been misshapen. Neither of those is acceptable.

It is only once the work is done and she has uttered her silent prayer that Esther can settle. Sweat covers her brow, her hands are dirty, and her breaths are rather shallow. She takes a long moment to compose herself.

Esther forces the air down her windpipe.

“Dad… Vivi, she…” Her voice cracks. “We really could have used your help here. I got asked to be the Belle and she went to the palace, pretending to be me, and the war almost broke out and she almost got herself killed and —” Esther purses her lips, the dates on the plaque growing blurry. Wind cools off her tears. “I was so scared, dad. I still…”

The leaves crunch a short distance away. Perhaps that is why Father Joseph has never bothered to procure a new rake. The few that still come to his desolate chapel… they need peace. And privacy. Esther wipes her cheeks dry with her sleeve.

“It’s been some time, child. Aren’t you cold?”

“Only a little bit.”

“Muriel has made stew, it’ll warm you up.”

The glass lanterns plink. “A moment. Let me just light them.”

Cast-iron rakes herd the unruly leaves, the old maple curiously gazing at the people in the cemetery. Viva blows a strand of hair out of her face, a wheelbarrow poking at her leg, jaunty despite the quiet of the place. It wants to be loaded, surely, and she’d rather not wait either. It isn’t long until the paths are all cleared, a wreath of colourful heaps sitting around the chapel entryway. But that is not why they’ve come there.

The bench strains its spine. Two people? That it has not bore in a long time. They put their hands together in a prayer. Viva closes her eyes. Her lips move: Give them the eternal rest, oh Lord, and may the perpetual light shine upon them.

A moment passes before she is ready to talk.

“So… That’s my dad.” She clears her throat. “I wish you could meet under different circumstances. I think you’d like each other.”

Leon nods. Something shimmers in his amber eyes, briefly clouded by a shadow of an unwarranted remorse. His elbows resting on his knees, he leans forward, still staring at the wooden cross.

“I remember him. He was there when I arrived.” His gaze drops to the ground. “And later, when we needed to go anywhere. He’d apparently asked to be our – my and Leon’s – coachman.”

It is met with silence. After all, what could be said? It buzzes in his ears, the absence of sound a heard of flies feeding on the carrion of his own, involuntary, making. He was worth a single coin and far too many lives, and —

A wave. A tsunami. An explosive, scorching, erupting laughter raptures the air.

Leon straightens his back at once, and he can swear that all the crosses around follow suit, shivers spilling over the bench as elder oaks and birches shake their branches in disbelief. Who dares…? Who dares to — to — Where others have wept? Where others still silently weep?

“It does sound like dad,” Viva forces out of herself, a brighter than the sun smile spread over her face. “You know, he worked at the estate as a stable master, but he has always been a terrific jack of all trades. One time a maid was accused of stealing the lady’s jewellery. Guess what? He found it the next day. And she didn’t even ask.”

Viva is blinding as she talks, Leon realises. His arm now around her waist, he turns away from the grave and towards her, an echo of a chuckle riding on winds.

“Yeah?” he prompts, barely a mirror to her joy.

“Yeah! Oh, I have to tell you about the candy.”

“The candy? He snuck some in for us once.”

“Just once? Pfft. You should wish he was your dad. I and Estra…”

The fire inside the chapel burns bright, as it will for the hours to come. This time Father Joseph has readied more than just a stew… although, perhaps, offering it has become a mere excuse. He, once a vicar at the sanctuary attached to the Dompteurs’ private retreat, has stories to share too.

***

There is little work left for Esther to do. Perhaps the heavens do listen, for the rake is now waiting for her by the chapel wall. However, it is not meant to be. Father Joseph grabs it first, crow feet around his eyes deepening as a smile emerges on his face. The door closes behind him.

“Why don’t you go light the lanterns?” he suggests with a wink. “I’ll occupy your companion in the meantime.”

Bambi’s – her dog’s, or her guard’s – tail wags furiously, his large body swaying alongside it. Perhaps it is the faint aroma of cured meat and sausages that has this effect; regardless, Esther finds herself unable and unwilling to refuse the offer.

Ignace’s grave is clean now, not a weed intruding on the dirt he has been entrusted to. Even the cross stands taller, firmer, as if it has found new pride in its duty. Esther sets the lanterns down.

Rest in peace. You don’t have to worry about us anymore, she thinks and wipes away a gossamer thread. Vivochka is happy now with her love. He’s…. Well, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. But you also already know.

Crows caw in a nearby oak.

I have been given a job too. It’s nothing much, but I’m compensated well enough. I actually make enough to send some money back home. Mom can finally rest… Maybe, if we save a little, we can replace the roof next year too… And if not, then I can talk to my boss. He’s a good man at heart, even if he can be… a little… eccentric.

Black wings flutter above her head. Esther looks up, purple tainting the pink clouds that descend towards the sinking sun. It is gold and it is blue, that bright azure that so reminds her of… Sudden warmth has crept up on her. Esther covers her cheeks with her hands – it must be the wind. The wind and nothing else.

I’m well, dad, really.

This year the cemetery has been tidied up ahead of time; no leaves pad the paths, the old wooden benches seem to have been repainted, and even the moss is less daring in its conquest of the graves. Father Joseph must have worked hard. Now, however, he stands with his back straight and his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back. He too has people he visits.

“Hey.” Leon’s voice is equal parts smooth and hushed, a far cry from the commanding roar he often wields. Rather than a choir of voices, he is assisted by a quiet plinking of glass and a wooden crate confining them. Father Joseph greets him and Viva with a nod of his head.

“You’re visiting Albert?” she asks. The bouquet of flowers in her arms is enormous – large enough to obstruct her face nearly completely.

Father Joseph laughs, “You can see from there, child?” He turns to face them properly. “Ignace will be happy to receive those.”

“We’ve actually brought them for everybody,” Leon explains, the solemn expression on his face turning to a grin as he glances at Viva. “But we do have some news for Ignace that he may like. We got engaged.”

Father Joseph clasps his hands. “Congratulations! Congratulations! Let me help with those, poor Ignace mustn’t wait long to hear the good news.”

The first grave they’ve visited belongs to the niece of Father Joseph Vallée, Cecilia Vallée, one of the maids serving directly under the fourth prince of Rhodolite, Leon Dompteur. The original one.

***

Esther opens her eyes. Her prayer has come to the end, but the silence of the cemetery still prevails. It is only white lilies and heather that whisper between themselves.

“What is the day of your father’s death?” Chevalier’s inquiry startles her. Esther’s forgotten that he’s offered to come too.

“December twentieth.”

“The plaque has faded. I’ll have it remade.”

Various Works: Esther x Chevalier Various Works: Viva x Leon

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