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hannahhook7744 · 29 days ago

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Where Are You Now? (Cause I'm Thinking Of You);

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Summary: The family wakes up thirteen years after Bruno returned to the family to find him gone yet again. They naturally freak out. Trigger Warnings: disappearances, premature labor, near death experiences, mention of homelessness, overworking of a pregnant woman, minor violence, guilt, fear for a loved one, etc. Encantober 2024: Return. Co-written with @igetthedisneybox .

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Bruno was gone—gone without a note.

Again.

“Oje. Has anybody seen Bruno?” Alma asked a small handful of the family. The others were out in town, but according to Dolores, she hadn’t heard him out there either.

Everyone present either shook their heads, or couldn’t hear her over the chattering of the family. Casita was getting awfully crowded these days.

Squeak.

Alma looked to her left and saw one of Dolores’ four-year-old twins, Elmira, standing there, looking wide-eyed. She definitely took after her mother.

Her and her twin’s skin was lighter than their mother's, but darker than their grandmother's and just a shade darker than their father’s. But where Princesa had teal eyes and blonde hair, Elmira had her mother’s dark brown eyes and curly light brown hair.

“Chiquita,” Alma called. “Do you know where Tío Abuelo Bruno is?”

She looked down at her feet guiltily, before quietly answering—always the more mindful twin when it came to her mother’s hearing—“No.”

Alma saddled over to the four year old. Her bones creaked with each step, and she muttered curses under her breath, glad that Elmira didn’t have any superhearing like Dolores.

“Elli, If you know something about Tío Abuelo Bruno, can you tell me please?” She looked at her great-granddaughter kindly.

“He saids he'd be back.”

“Did he say where he was going?” Panic spiked in Alma’s heart. She couldn’t lose her Brunito again.

Elmira shook her head. “He saws somethin’ bad.”

Alma felt her hands begin to shake, but she clenched them into fists. Elmira didn’t need to see her panic like this. “Thank you for telling me, Elmira.”

“De nada, abuela.” Elmira fidgeted with her skirt, looking over at her mother. “Mamá, I'm hungry.”

Dolores had heard her from the other side of the room, of course, and came over to pick her daughter up. “I think Tío will be fine, Abuela.” She whispered to her.

“I hope you're right, Nieta.” Alma sighed.

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Word got around the Encanto fast that the Madrigal’s beloved seer was once again missing and, before an hour was even up, the entire family was back at the Casita.

Panicking.

The exact opposite of what Alma wanted.

“My padres, Félix’s Papá, and the Guzmáns are keeping an eye out for him as we speak.” Agustín said, trying to soothe a crying Julieta.

“Mi vida, your hermanito will be fine, I promise.” Félix claimed, circling around a pacing Pepa who was murmuring ‘clear skies’ for the first time in eleven years.

Luisa was also having a hard time staying calm, gently cradling one of her own twins—Emilia and Tito—while her husband, Ryder, held the other and tried to comfort her.

“You don’t th-think he left the Encanto for good, do you?” She asked, addressing the elephant in the room; the question no one wanted to ask.

“What? No, of course not. Tío Bruno wouldn't do that—he loves the family.” Mirabel protested immediately. “Elmira said he saw something right?”

“He also saw something when he left the first time.” Camilo mentioned. His own wife, Yanamaria, was standing several feet away from him, sipping on a drink. Camilo had adopted her twin daughters, Amelia and Sofia, after marrying her three months ago when the pair were only two months old.

Alma wasn't sure she liked the young lady. But maybe her judgment was being clouded by his past two lackluster relationships and the fact that she privately thought Camilo’s best friend, Mina, would be a much better (and kinder) wife for him. Not that she would ever voice these thoughts to him. She had learned her lesson after Agustín, thank you very much.

Dolores elbowed Camilo, hissing. “Camilo.”

“What? I can't tell the truth? He did!”

“What I'm saying is that he probably just ran off to prevent whatever he saw from happening and once he does that, he'll be back. Because he knows he can trust us now.” Mirabel continued looking very confidently, wrangling her hands together, acting as if she hadn't heard her 'mellizo’.

Isabela nodded along. “Mira’s right. We need to trust Tío Bruno. It’s the least we can do.”

“And besides, Señor Bruno promised Elmira he'd walk her to her door. He wouldn't break his promise.” Bubo chimed in from the doorway, startling everyone because he and Miguel had left with Antonio to watch the rest of the children before the conversation had started.

Julieta sniffed and whipped at her eyes. “Dios mío, look at me. Sitting here crying like a bebé. You all are right.”

“That’s the spirit, Mi esposa.” Agustín hummed, resting a hand on her shoulder; Alma couldn’t help but be surprised by how much calmer he was being than the rest of them. That wasn't to say that he didn't care, however, because she could still see the nervousness in his eyes—unlike with Yanamaria, who seemed like she couldn't care less. At least Raimi and Rosa were acting serious, for once.

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“Mamá!” Arlo whined, immediately reaching out to her the moment Isabela stepped into the room.

Zoey was snoring in the crib next to him and Miguel Jr—who they'd named after Mirabel’s husband, Miguel Rivera, after he'd delivered them when he and Isabela had gotten lost in a storm while out in the forest—was laughing at something.

Isabela hadn't been thrilled to have triplets at first. Far from it in fact, but the older they got the more the florist grew to love them. Arlo especially.

“Hey, nene. Mamá’s here.” She scooped her baby into her arms, gently brushing his black hair from his forehead. He had his father's nose but everyone could already tell that he was going to grow up to be a mama’s boy.

“Missed you.” Arlo declared, resting his tiny head on her shoulder. His tiny fist clenched tightly around the flower plushie Mirabel had made for Zoey. Somehow, the bear plushie Mirabel had made for him and the one she'd made for Zoey kept getting mixed up—no matter how many times they'd switched them back.

If she didn't know better, Isabela would almost say that they were doing it on purpose. The fact that Migeul Jr’s wolf plushie never got mixed up with them only made her more sure of her suspicions. But it wasn't as if she could get confirmation from her children—they didn't even speak in full coherent sentences yet.

“I missed you too, mi flor. And your hermanos, obviously.”

Zoey snored louder. Chubby hands squeezing the colorful bear plushie that she was chewing on.

And Miguel Jr laughed innocently once again, clapping. Completely oblivious to the mild panic his tías, primos, and padres were feeling over his favorite great uncle’s second disappearance.

Isabela could only hope that Mirabel's suspicions over why it had happened were correct. She didn't know if she could handle losing her uncle for another decade.

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Mariano was not fond of discourse.

But when one joins a familia like the Madrigals, bad things happen sometimes.

As of now, Mariano could only hold his wife and children close, and hope that everything would turn out okay.

Oscar seemed to be able to tell that something was going on and was crying quietly—which had been very concerning in the first couple of months after he was born a year ago before it had been confirmed that he was for sure healthy.

Princesa was oblivious and looking at herself in her madre’s favorite golden hand held mirror that Mariano had gifted Dolores on their first date. Striking a pose she had seen her favorite character on the strange box that Auradon called a television do numerous times.

Elmira, on the other hand, was sitting quietly in his arms. Looking thoughtful.

Dolores had dozed off at some point.

“Oscar, are you alright?” Mariano asked his son softly.

The bebé shook his head, causing his brown curls to fall into his eyes. Causing him to frown as he clung to his madre (who thankfully had her earplugs in). “Mamá sad.”

Oscar had definitely inherited Mariano’s big heart. “I know, mijo. But she will get better, I promise.”

In truth, Mariano had no idea if Bruno would come back.

He was the head of a small ensemble of men and women who’d decided to watch over the town’s entrance, and make sure that there were no civil disputes between its citizens. Handling the few crimes that came up every now and then in whatever capacity he could. He probably should have noticed Bruno leaving, but he’d been trying to settle an argument turned physical between Abraham Cerebro de Burro and his very own brother-in-law, Ryder Nattura, over the donkey farmer’s new fence and lock. Or lack therefore of.

Which had been very hard to handle considering that an hour into the argument, Mariano had been about ready to throttle the man himself. Señora Alma had demanded a hundred times that he replace the damn lock on his estúpido fence but the cheap bastardo still refused to replace it—even when his own children pleaded with him to do it.

Mariano had lost count of just how many times Luisa had had to chase after the man’s donkeys because of the farmer’s stinginess.

The man was lucky that Luisa was even still willing to help him chase after the donkeys after the stress he had caused her during her pregnancy. Luisa and Ryder’s twins weren't even supposed to be born yet but had been anyway the last time the donkeys had got out a month ago. After which the farmer had promised he'd really replace the lock that was older than Mariano was for real this time.

Or maybe the fool was just lucky because of how apologetic his children were whenever Luisa had to fix his mess.

He was starting to get angry again just remembering the encounters, but Elmira snuggled against him, which jerked him back to the present.

“Papá?”

He pulled his full attention to his daughter. “Si, mi corazón?”

“Lo lamento...” She bit her lip, eyes welling up.

“What? Elli, you have nothing to be sorry for!” Mariano pulled her even closer, gently running his hands through her curls.

“But I saws Tío Bruno go.” The brunette sniffled. “Ands Abuela Pepa cryin’.”

“That wasn’t your fault.” He stated firmly, well aware of the fact that it was something his younger Prima-en-ley had needed to hear twenty three years ago but never had: the last time señor Bruno had left.

“¿Promesa?” Her big brown eyes met his own as she stuck her thumb in her mouth. A nervous habit they hadn't gotten her to shake yet.

“Promesa.” Mariano kissed her on the forehead.

“I'm tired.” She yawned quietly, resting her head on his chest.

“Then why don’t we all go and take a siesta? Maybe Tío will be back when we wake up.” He got up from his chair, still holding Elmira.

Princesa didn't pay either of them any mind.

“Okay papa.”

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“Any word on Bruno?” Ryder asked his cuñado, worrying his lip as he replaced the ice pack he'd been holding to his black eye.

His suegra had offered to cook him something to heal up his injuries that morning when she saw him (after she had found out where and why he'd gotten them) but the reindeer herder had refused. If she healed his minor injuries, then the donkey farmer would find out and demand she heal his minor injuries which could very well spiral into the town once again taking advantage of Julieta's kindness. Something Ryder refused to allow to happen.

And no, it wasn't just because he wanted the donkey farmer to suffer for as long as possible for harassing his wife into doing the very job that could have cost them their children.

….

Okay maybe part of his reasoning did have to do with that. But given the situation Ryder thought he was allowed to be petty.

“Socorro thought she saw him…but it turned out to be a homeless guy.” Miguel Sr sighed as he plucked on the strings of his guitar.

“Honeymaren hasn't seen anything either but Kristoff said that if Bruno isn't back soon, he'd be willing to ask Grand Pabbie for help.” Ryder offered, uncharacteristically frustrated.

He hated seeing his wife cry—she’d been stressed enough with the early arrival of the twins and the more…stubborn and selfish… townspeople (the number of which had thankfully dwindled over the years) who still asked her for help with every little thing. She hadn't needed this.

Miguel rolled his eyes. “You mean the pile of rocks?”

“The trolls, yes.” Ryder didn't blame Miguel for his reaction—he didn't trust Kristoff's family very much either.

Miguel wasn’t in the mood to poke Ryder further, so he let the subject of the ‘trolls’ drop. “Anyway, how far do you think Bruno could have gotten? He’s what, pushing sixty?”

“He’s closer to pushing seventy.” Ryder snorted. “And I honestly don't have a clue. I don't think he's ever left the Encanto alone before—and well, the Madrigal family genes are crazy. I mean his bisabuela is still alive.”

Despite falling off a cliff on her wedding day, getting near drowned by an octopus, being bitten by a venomous snake, getting electrocuted after sticking a fork in the socket, and having her parachute fail after going skydiving.

Pedro and Benito's mother sure was something.

“True.” Miguel huffed and placed his guitar away, unable to focus. He was worried about the familia, especially his Mirabel. She claimed she was fine, but he could see right through her.

“All we can hope is that he'll return safely and that our in-laws don't kill him when he does.” Ryder couldn't help but smile at the thought, though he knew it wasn't exactly an appropriate thought to have at the moment.

It was true though, Bruno would be lucky if he made it past Pepa and Isabela alive.

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“Clear skies, clear skies, clear skies.” Antonio muttered to himself as he anxiously paced, two nervous habits he'd picked up from his mother and was trying to shake.

It wasn't often the wild child got stressed out enough to use the mantra or pace but considering the situation, the eighteen year old wasn't sure anyone would be able to blame him for it. Tío Bruno was missing again and no one knew where he'd gone.

He wasn't in the walls.

Antonio had checked six times and Casita said he wasn't.

No one in the Encanto other than his little violín had seen him go.

“Clear skies, clear skies, clear sk—”

“You okay, Tonito?” Camilo had been walking by, when Casita had gotten his attention, and showed him Antonio, about to have a panic attack.

Antonio nearly leapt across the room, not having heard his brother approaching. Which, at any other time, might have been amusing. But given the situation, it was only all the more worrying. “‘Milo, ay dios mío, don't scare me like that!”

“You better watch your mouth, or Mamá’s gonna zap you.” The barest hint of a smile crossed Camilo’s face.

The animal whisperer rolled his eyes, waving him off—heart still racing. “Don't be a Soplón.”

“I won’t…for a price.” His eyes glinted with familiar mischief.

“Oye! Blackmail? After all I've done for you? I should let Parce eat you.” He wouldn't. He knew it and Camilo knew that it was an empty threat, but it was still a fun one to use.

Camilo snorted. “I’d love to see Parce try.” His smile vanished. “But seriously, hermanito. Are you okay?”

Antonio thought about it for a moment. Thought about whether or not the little thing he had noticed was enough to worry his brother about. Then, he remembered what Mirabel had always told him ‘If it's big enough to worry or upset you, then say something.’ He bit his lip to give him courage and looked around before biting the bullet and answering. “I can't find Tío Bruno's rats.”

Camilo raised an eyebrow. “Did Parce finally eat them?”

“No, I asked around. Nobody is fessing up and I haven't seen them since he left.” He wrangled his hands, trying to reduce some of his panic.

“So, you think Tío brought them with him?”

“Sí.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I don't understand why he'd take them if his leaving is temporary.”

At Camilo's silence, Antonio’s nerves only grew. “I know, I know. It's a pequeño thing but it's just—it’s big enough for me to worry about whether Mirabel is right or not.”

“She’s right. When has Miraboo ever been wrong?” Camilo placed a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. “And look, whatever reason Tío had to bring the rats, I’m sure it’s a good one. Está bien?”

“Está bien.” Antonio let out a shaky breath. “Gracias, hermano.”

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Mirabel had said what she’d said. And she believed it.

Sort of.

She could lie to her family, but she couldn’t lie to herself. She was worried about Tío Bruno. Very afraid, in fact.

There was a tug on her skirt.

She looked down, and saw Dolores’ oldest, Princesa. “Hey, ‘Cesa. What’s up?”

“No sad.” The little blonde glared, clutching something behind her back. Something that looked very familiar.

“I’m not sad.” Mirabel immediately deflected. Then she remembered she was talking to a four year old. “Whatcha got there?”

“¡Mentir!” The four year old wasn't fooled and was not amused as she held out one of Bruno's vision tablets. Just where had she gotten that?

She grabs the vision from Princesa. “Wha–where did you find this?!”

“Da Wall. Tío Parce showed me.”

“You went into the walls without adult supervision? Miércoles, Dolores is gonna kill me!”

Princesa shook her head, stubbornly. “No, Tío Parce is a adult. And he went in da wall.”

“Parce is a jaguar!” Mirabel stopped herself before she could argue semantics with a toddler. “Nevermind.”

She looked at the vision tablet, and immediately blanched at the sight: there was a little girl, around Princesa and Elmira’s age, cowering in a closet filled with crosses on one side in one part of the vision.

On another, there was a little boy standing in front of a younger girl and a baby as a giant of a man towered over them.

In a third, there was a boy covering his eyes and screaming as an older boy tried to calm him.

And in the last part of the vision, there was a boy bruised and bloody holding a rosary.

So, in short, it was a horrifying vision that a four year old should not have been able to get her hands on.

“Mierda.” She whispered. “Princesa, go find your Mamí. I need to talk to your Bisabuela right now.” Tucking the vision tablet under her arm, Mirabel tapped her foot on the tile floor. Casita responded, and moved her downstairs to Abuela Alma, who was with Julieta, Pepa, and their husbands.

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“Abuela!”

Alma looked up from where she was comforting Julieta, and saw Mirabel speeding towards them with the help of Casita. “Mirabel, what–”

“Princesa found the vision that caused Bruno to leave.” Mirabel held the vision in question close to her chest with one arm, clutching her skirt in the other—it didn't look much different from the one she made shortly before Bruno came back. It was a similar teal color with the family’s different symbols on it, but symbols representing the new spouses and children had been added as well.

There was a reindeer to represent Luisa’s husband, Ryder Nattura, and a skeletal guitar to represent Mirabel’s own husband, Miguel Rivera. There was a bear costume to represent Isabela’s husband, Bubo. There was a mamabear with a baby bear to represent Camilo's wife and a quill to represent Dolores’ husband, Mariano. There was a violin to represent Elmira and A mirror to represent Princesa, and she had the names of all the ones who were too little to show any clear personality traits sewn into the skirt too.

Just another not so little detail that showed just how much Mirabel loved their family.

“What?” Alma stood up. “Let me see.”

“Clear skies clear skies clear skies CLEAR SKIES!”

Thunder rumbled.

Mirabel handed the glass tablet over.

“Dios mio…” Was all Alma could say when she saw the vision.

“Who are those poor ninos?” Julieta had her hand held over her mouth as she took in the grisly sight.

Augustín pointed. “They’re wherever Bruno is now, I’m sure of it.”

“You think he went to find them?” Félix was clutching Pepa, who was starting to hyperventilate.

Alma let out a shaky sigh. “Knowing my Brunito…most likely.”

“Tío Bruno will likely return when he gets them somewhere safe.” Mirabel would have smiled or sighed in relief at the not quite confirmation that she was right about Bruno not being gone permanently if the vision wasn't so horrifying.

“You think he’ll run into trouble?!” Pepa squeaked. “That man in the vision…Brunito can’t fight! He is too skinny!”

“I don't know.” The seamstress could only hope that her Tío wouldn't do anything too risky….but, seeing how often everyone compared the two of them, she knew that that hope was a fruitless effort.

Que Dios tenga misericordia de él.

Félix tried to calm Pepa down again. “Bruno is smarter than he seems, eh? He’ll stay out of trouble, especially when there’s children involved.”

Pepa kept taking deep breaths, as Julieta chimed in. “Félix is right. Bruno…he wouldn’t risk the children.”

“What do we tell the others?”

Alma cleared her throat. “We tell them that Bruno is off doing a heroic act. That he is saving children. But, ah—let’s not mention the state of the children.”

“That's probably for the best.”

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“Tío Bruno’s back!” Antonio whooped as ran back into the Casita, a couple of his animals on his shoulders.

“What?” Everyone in the sitting room leapt to their feet.

“Cecila said she saw him enter not that long ago! She says he got’s a few people with him.”

Alma and her daughters looked at each other. More people?

“Anyone my son brings into the Encanto is most welcome.” Alma said, albeit hesitantly.

“But what do these people have to do with the children?” Mariano asked, tilting his head. Oscar, in his lap, mimicked him.

“Children?” Antonio looked at his cousins, their partners, his Padres, his tíos, and just basically everyone older than him in confusion before something clicked. “Wait is this about that vision Bruno had that you all refused to show me?”

“Sí.” Alma nodded. “And we did not show you because its contents were much too disturbing for a young man like yourself.”

Antonio did not pout. He did not. But he did shoot Mirabel a betrayal look because honestly, he would have thought his favorite prima would know better than to still treat him as a bebé by now—before Pace tugged on his pants’ leg. Trying to drag him outside, to remind him why he came rushing back to Casita in the first place.

“Is he close, Tonito?” Camilo asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’ll admit, he missed his Tío and his telanovas.

Antonio looked at Parce questioningly, getting a growl in return. “Si. He's outside.”

Alma rushed the door. She needed to see her son.

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Alma stared.

And stared.

And the rest of the family stared with her. None of them quite sure whether or not what they were seeing was real.

"A little help would be nice." Bruno chuckled awkwardly, a blonde haired toddler in one arm and an even blonder baby in the other. A little red toddler covered in rats clinging to one of his legs anxiously and a grumpy boy with black hair who couldn’t be any older than four or five on the other.

A teenager and two boys not much younger behind him—arms full of pugs and bags and one boy—one with horrible burns around his milky white, pupiless eyes—even had a frog in his pocket.

It was quite the sight.

And that wasn't even covering the fact that the baby was wearing a bag as a diaper and the littlest of the children burlap sacks (or a box, in the boy's case), as clothing.

“...Bruno Pedro Madrigal Botero where THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?! ” Was the first thing out of Alma’s mouth.

“...Uh, well, you see—remember that place the Auradon folk tried to send me before you set ‘em straight?” Bruno smiled nervously, well aware of the fact all of the kids were cowering behind him.

“Si?” She shifted nervously, as she continued to take in the state of the children.

“Imayormaynothavebeenthere.”

“YOU WHAT?!”

#encanto #encanto next gen #encantober #bruno madrigal #the invisible truth #disney descendants #encanto x descendants crossover #original madrigal family members #fanfiction #one shot #fan edit #encantober 2024 #descendants #melissa de la cruz #disney #descendants au #wicked world #disney descendants au #etc

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jjk-anime-horray · 4 years ago

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A Call in the Night

Dazai Osamu x reader x Oda Sakunosuke

Series Summary: While Dazai finally gets over the death of his friend and moves on with his life, he has to watch him unnaturally return into the world, and now he has to watch him turn twisted and into everything he hated in a way.

Chapter Summary: The Armed Detective Agency gets a call about an warehouse incident that happened in the middle of the night, and send two detectives to respond to it.

Notice: This fic series is going to have some dark themes in it so be warned, and in this AU Dazai and the reader are members of the armed detective agency, and this is a spiritual successor to “Late Night Tickets, and Meeting Him.” So I recommend reading that first even though you don’t need to. This is going to be a series!

Trigger Warnings: Blood, mentions of extreme violence, and description of illegal activities.

Getting a call about a mandatory and emergency investigation in the middle of the night, to be specific 2:32am, was something no one at the Armed Detective Agency wanted to do. So what's the most logical solution? Draw straws and the two people who draw the shortest are forced to go.

Unfortunately for you, you were one of the two unfortunate souls that drew a short straw. At least the other person who drew the short straw was Dazai Osamu, your coworker but most importantly the first friend you made in this city, so maybe you would be able to get a kick out of the bad situation at hand.

But when the two of you emerged from an alley to meet the crime scene at hand, that would by no means be the case because by the sight of the horror that layed out infront of you two it was enough for the both of you want to hurl.

Crime scene would describe the atrocity in front of as much as the phrases bloodbath and massacre would. No wonder this was an emergency for the ADA there were probably more than 30 people dead killed in various atypical ways.

First walking into the warehouse the most out of the ordinary sight would be a round wooden table with a duffle bag on it, but once someone took a closer look the rest of the ware house was completely empty other than the congealing crimson liquid that was pooling everywhere.

The five chairs around rickety table were matched with four bodies of executives of some sort laid face down on the table or dangling of the chairs.

But the most appalling sight was what was inside the duffle-bag, you were wishing it would be something tame like left behind money, however, much to your displeasure, they where severed off human heads. That by the looks of it were cut off with some sort of serrated knife my the edge markings.

"What are you thinking (Y/N)?" Were the words that Dazai spoke to snap you out of your spiraling train of thought. "I sure as hell am thinking this isn't the way I would have wanted to go."

"I'll have to agree with you on that one, this shit is something right out of a cheesy crime or horror movie.The only thing I can think of is the heads were a message of some kind to the people who were sitting at the table, and either the person at the empty seat with accomplices who killed everyone or are the only survivor, but it could be either. Were you able to identify anyone bodies or do you recognize anyone?"

"I don't recognize anyone, and most of the bodies are too mangled to be identified, but everyone at the table is wearing a customized Rolex, so I suspect that they were all executives of a organization of some kind, probably an illegal on based on all the gun men that were probably guarding the meeting before they got taken out."

"The only lead we have is the Rolex I guess, so Daz, will you take one for reference, we can visit all of the watch makers in the city to try to find out who was the person who commissioned these watches to be made, and then maybe through that we kind find out who the soul survivor was."

"Agreed."

Honestly the two of you would have been a little more playful and chatty if the events that took place tonight weren't so gruesome. The two of you were used to having to see and do brutal things, but Dazai had this gut feeling that this wasn't the typical violent act, and things weren't as the seemed.

The brown eyed detective just wanted to go take a nap after this, which was something you also wanted to do after see all the blood. Deciding to leave the true start to your investigation for a decent time the two of you swiftly communicated with the responders about the potential situation at hand. Then left to go deal with is mess the next day.

Timeskip........

After a horrible night's sleep and about three cups of coffee you were finally able to be semi-functional, so then you decided to grab your partner Dazai after dressing to impress and make for the horrible mood you currently were in from multiple factors. Dazai was even in a worse state than you where, you found him at the trying to convince Kunikida to go on the investigation for him, which was ultimately denied by the blonde haired man. Also leaving you to drag the genius yet idiotic maniac out of the office.

Walking down the streets in-between visiting different watchmakers and jewelers, you noticed some was off each time your boots hit the ridged pavement. In particular something about Dazai, his face was contorted into a being in deep thought, not to be disturbed for any reason. It was so out of character you were going to ask what he was thinking about, but then opted out.

"I know you were going to ask what I was thinking, I am a detective you know." He said his face morphing into one not of deep thought but of cockiness with a smirk. Damn, sometimes you really loved and hated that smirk, but right now you didn't know what to think of it. "I was just thinking of how now I know exactly who made the watches, and where is is for your information."

"Really who would that be? For my information."

"His name is Opāru Shokunin, he's done a lot of custom jewelry for Elise-chan and the port mafia in the past, but recently he's been doing a lot of foreign commissions for gangs and syndicates outside of Japan my word of mouth. When I first saw the watches I was initially reminded of how it looked like his handy work, but since the first three places we've visited were a bust, i'm confident it's him."

"Alright Mr. Mic-cocky, lead the way by all means." You scoughed lightly.

Unfortunately for the two of you, your desired destination was all the way across yokohama, so you had to hail a taxi which you knew you were going to be the one paying or it. The icing on the shitty cake was that you got stuck in rush hour traffic, so, the total time until arrival was three time longer than it should have been. At least you got dibs on the radio choice.

When the two of you arrived at your desired destination you now witnessed a normal looking office building, unfortunately, there was no elevator so the two of you had to work your legs up three flights of stairs to make it to Opāru's workshop.

Before you went in however you whispered to Dazai "how do we know he's even gonna be willing to talk to us?"

"He's going to be willing...."

"Why?"

"Simple you're gonna pay him."

"Um no you're going to pay him because I payed for the cab!"

"Um no."

"Yes!"

"No."

"Yes!"

"You realize I can hear you two bickering right?" was the raspy voice of the man you were looking for that ended your whisper argument. He was actually younger than you expected, about 38, but he looked older than his body by his eyes, the eyes of someone very worn out. Which would explain the smoking. "He's right i'll talk if you pay me, just come in before ya give everyone else a headache."

The two of you swiftly made your way into the working man's shop room. The room was a lot nicer than you thought it would be, and a lot lighter too. The man possessed a very nice view from his wall because his wall was almost completely filled with by windows. Dazai did mention something about the craftsmen liking natural light in the cab on the way here, so it wasn't too surprising and really lightened the room up.

You followed Dazai to the two chairs across from the white tufted sofa that Opāru was already occupying. Then Dazai placed the watch and a thick wad of cash on the coffee table separating the two parties of people.

"Oh, so you're here to ask who paid me to customize this for them? No surprise there they were particularly nasty."

"How where they particularly nasty?"

"I'm pretty sure that they were doing things even nastier than the port mafia, like taking kids of the streets and shipping them off."

"So, supposedly by word of mouth were human traffickers."

" Yeah, supposedly, but I didn't ask when the guy approached me."

"The guy?" You reconfirmed.

"Yeah, the guy, he had this weird tattoo on his wrist. The guy's name was Zinnnnnng, THUMP.

The two of you didn't even have time to blink or create when the bullet zipped through the head of the craftsman from. The crimson liquid from his head pooling on the couch were he was just alive a few seconds ago. The blood seeping into the fabric like the disparity of situation into Dazai and yourself.

Glimpsing out middle window now tainted with a hole you see the silhouette of the person responsible for this.

Dashing up without a second thought you sprint to pursue the culprit of the murder that just took place infront of you. Eyeing your target through the broken window.

Ahhhhhhh! Okay I’m literally really proud of how this came out! I’m really hope people like it. I’m really new to writing full fanics so if any experienced writer is reading this will you please give some pointers, that would be very helpful!

-Ellie

#anime #weeb #x reader #manga #platonic #romantic #bsd fanfic #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs #bsd au #bungou stray dogs au #fanfic #fan fiction #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu #dazai x reader #oda sakunosuke #odasaku x dazai

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superwho-am-i-kidding · 3 years ago

Text

Raise the Stakes (PART 2)

This chapter includes warnings! Major character death, as well as graphic depiction of violence. Please be cautious when reading.

(PART 1) (PART 3)

Always open for requests! Find prompts on my page, or send in your own! At work on the ones already submitted. Thank you!

Bill finally hung up his coat, rubbing his forehead in exhaustion. What was supposed to be an overnight shift turned into sixteen hours of nonstop work. He managed to text Alec a few times throughout the night, updating him as the hours wore on. He grabbed his phone and keys from the lounge and made his way to the parking lot. After locking the car doors, he dialed Alec’s number. “I’m finally done,” he said.

“You sound tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Why don’t you get something to eat on the way home?”

Bill closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “My head hurts, Alec. I just want to go home and lay down.”

“Alright. Drive carefully, I don’t want you falling asleep and getting yourself hurt.”

“I’ll be fine, Alec.”

Alec sighed. “I love you, angel. With all my heart… and pacemaker.”

Bill laughed, turning the ignition on. “I love you too, Alec. See you soon.”

“Yeah, I–” Bill heard the doorbell ring. “I have to go. It’s probably Miller with more paperwork. Love you.”

“I love you– Alec?” Bill looked at his phone when the line went dead. “Weird,” he muttered, tossing his phone aside. He began the drive home, but his stomach grumbled. Bill pulled into the parking lot of a local café. He sat down to enjoy a couple pastries and a cup of hot tea. He sighed, inhaling the scented steam before taking a slow sip.

Bill texted Alec to see if he wanted anything brought home, but there was no reply. Bill waited another ten minutes before standing and returning to his car. His headache had lessened with the help of the tea, but it was still crying out for pain medication and a good nap. Within another few minutes, Bill was turning the last corner into the neighborhood. He was more than ready to collapse into Alec’s arms and sleep for a day.

His heart sped up a bit when he saw a cluster of vehicles parked outside his home. Alec wasn’t kidding. Ellie must’ve brought everyone along with her. He parked as close as he could, eyeing all the officers that were darting about on his lawn. “Ellie!” he called.

She turned, her face pale and streaked with tears. “Bill? What are you doing here?”

“I live here… what’s going on?”

“I thought you were in America.”

“Got home yesterday. Is Alec alright?”

Ellie’s eyes darted back to the house. “He, uh–”

Bill cursed. “I told him to take his heart medication. But he never listens to me. Let me go stick the damn pill down that stubborn man’s throat.”

“Bill–”

“He hates being surrounded, especially when it involves medical personnel. Do you know how long it took him to trust me? Even when we started dating, he didn’t want to be alone with me.” Bill was marching his way across the lawn. “I suppose that he was just nervous about being around a doctor. I didn’t know he had a heart condition then, but he was right to assume I would become the overprotective doctor once I found out.”

“Bill, you can’t go in there–” Ellie tried desperately to get him to stop walking.

“Ellie, I’m a doctor. He’ll feel much more comfortable with me than with these other paramedics…” His voice trailed off when he moved around an ambulance and saw crime scene tape flanking the front door. “Ellie? What–?” He stared wide-eyed at the teams of police moving in and out of his home. “What’s going on?”

“Bill… I don’t know where to start,” Ellie looked close to tears again as she put a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Alec, he…”

“He what?” Bill prompted. “What happened to–?” His eyes widened when he read the lettering on the back of the jacket that disappeared inside the house. White block letters stood out against the black of the entryway.

CORONER

Bill scrambled from Ellie’s grip. “Alec? Alec!” An officer he didn’t know held him back as he began screaming the detective’s name. “Let me in there! His heart–”

“It wasn’t his heart,” Ellie said quietly, moving to stand between Bill and the officer. “He was working a high-profile case… He knew the risks…”

“What case? The only one he’s working on that I know of is…” Bill’s eyes widened in terror. “The Butcher! Alec!” he screamed; his voice desperate. “Alec!”

His head snapped towards a pair of officers pulling Ellie aside. “We found eleven 9-millimeter bullet casings near the body. He didn’t even know what hit him.”

“Bul–?” Bill sputtered, his knees buckling. “Bullets? Body?” He turned his head as the black jackets reappeared, a gurney between them. “No. No!” He shoved through the forensics, forcing his way next to the bag. “It can’t be him!” He tugged feverishly at the zipper, his hands shaking. Officers began to pull him away, but he locked gazes with a pair of glassy brown eyes and limp hair stained red. He screamed.

And screamed.

Ellie had to drag him away from the coroners, forcing him to sit on the grass. Bill’s body collapsed, sobs beginning to rip their way from his throat. He clung to Ellie, crying and screaming in agony. She held him, her own shoulders shaking. Time passed around Bill in waves, sometimes moving quickly. Sometimes, he could feel the hours dragging on through each passing second.

He wasn’t sure how he ended up at the town hall, standing next to Ellie as the Chief Superintendent gave a press conference. “Detective Inspector Alec Hardy was found murdered in his home this morning. He was shot eleven times.” Bill forced himself to suppress a gag. “We believe his death is linked directly to the escape of the Broadchurch Butcher. We will not rest until this man is caught and brought to justice.”

Bill was ushered to Ellie’s house, his feet moving without thinking. It wasn’t until he had a cup of tea in his hands that he realized he was in Ellie’s living room. Fred was on the couch next to him, solemnly keeping watch over the distraught man. Bill stared blankly into the teacup watching his reflection swirl in the murky liquid. He was going to have to plan the funeral.

Ellie came into the room and sat down on a chair across from him. “We’re already taking care of it.”

“What?” Bill looked up.

“The funeral,” Ellie said. “We’ve got it. He left a copy of his will in his desk at the station in case he–” She stopped, meeting Bill’s near-hysterical eyes. “In case something happened to him in the line of duty.” She swallowed. “He knew it was a risk to take on the Butcher a second time.”

“So why did he?” Bill’s voice cracked. “Why couldn’t he have just stayed home with me?” Ellie moved to hug him. Bill let himself be enveloped in her arms as he burst into tears. “I hate him!” he cried. “I hate him!”

Ellie held him tighter. “Let me get you something to eat. You need it.”

“I’m not hungry,” Bill sniffed. “I just want to go to sleep.” Ellie nodded, gently pushing Fred out of the room. Bill lay down on the couch, facing the backing. Maybe if he pretended, Alec would appear behind him at the edge of the couch. His daydream lasted for a week until the funeral. Even then, what was going on didn’t hit him until he got into the elevator in his black suit.

He stepped into the funeral parlor, trying not to show how badly he was trembling. He made his way next to the casket, forcing himself not to look inside. He didn’t care if it would be the last time he would see Alec on this planet. He wasn’t going to see him like that. As Ellie made her way to him, Bill pulled out a small, black box. “He never got to wear it,” Bill said, opening the box to reveal a detailed gold band. “Will you give it to him? He’ll be so excited to see it when he wakes up.”

“Bill…” Ellie sighed.

“I know!” Bill screamed, startling everyone in the room. “I know, okay? I know he’s not going to wake up,” Bill’s face was getting redder by the moment, “I know a third of his skull is missing because it got blown to shit in my kitchen! I know they did their best, but I know it doesn’t look like him. He wouldn’t have wanted this.”

“He requested an open casket in his will.”

“Yeah,” Bill scoffed bitterly. “Bet he didn’t expect to lose his head in the line of duty. I can’t stay here anymore,” Bill said. “I’ll head to the– Ellie!” he shoved the DS out of the way, screaming when a flash of hot pain tore through his stomach. He looked down at the knife protruding from his stomach, looking back up when he heard shouts. Bill fell to his knees the same time the man who stabbed him was tackled to the ground.

“It’s the Butcher!” someone screamed.

“We’ve got him!”

“Bill!” a couple voices called his name. He looked at Ellie, then behind her to the man in uniform with a full beard. A familiar Scottish brogue and a pair of warm brown eyes glittered with panic as the beard was torn away. “Angel!”

Bill let himself be caught in a set of lean arms. “Al…?” His breathing hitched as his heart sped up in anger. “You fucking… kilt bastard…” he muttered to the man above him before the blackness dragged him down.

#my writing #good omens #raise the stakes #ineffable husbands #illogical husbands #alec hardy #masters of sex #braodchurch #bill masters #angst!

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ageofevermore · 4 years ago

Text

What Allison Said

summary → in which you love malia, and all you want is to tell allison she was right.

words → 1.3k

warning(s) → mentions of death, angst

note → yet another entry for @stiles-o-dylan24 1k challenge! but like seriously congrats ellie!!

add yourself to my taglist

The sunset was bright over Beacon Hills on the first day of the summer season. School had let out for the long weekend, and finally you had a moment to breathe. The supernatural population had nearly doubled in the time since Allison Argent's death, no thanks to the newly awakened tree stump off in the middle of the preserve. You couldn't complain though. Not when it brought you her.

Malia Tate was a mystery amongst men. For nearly eight years she was stuck between states, mourning the death of her sister and mother and watching her father go through the five stages of unbearable grief and lonesome. You figured if anybody should hate the newly increased supernatural population it should be your girlfriend. The math-hating werecoyote had a lot to be resentful towards, and somehow she managed to move on towards better days.

It was almost covetous. You so fully wished to share that same dismissive trait as your doe-eyed best friend, but it seems that you were always stuck between a breakdown and elation. Beacon Hills had put a damper on high school, that was for sure, but you were still looking forward to spending senior year in a relationship. Malia's company always made for a lively experience.

"Mal." You whispered softly, head tucked into her chest with a fuzzy blanket wrapped tightly around you both. You didn't care how hot it got to be in California, it was always blanket weather and thankfully Malia never minded. "Malia."

She was dead asleep beneath your weight, arms encased around your torso protectively. It broke your heart to see her so stripped down to the naked eye. She was never one to sleep alone, sneaking into your bedroom window just after midnight like clockwork. Her presence was concealed from your parents by blankets of dark skies, but you knew that they knew about her.

It was hard to hide just how happy Malia made you. Everyone could see it. From the moment you found her in the woods it was like everything inside of you wanted to be beside her. You had been the one to warm her in the car, understanding that the loss of her coat left her vulnerable. It was you who had thrown a fit when you found out that she had been admitted into Eichen House. And, it was you who helped her anchor down the rabid feelings of anger and uncertainty.

Malia was hard to get along with when you didn't know her history. She was dodgy and blunt, and incredibly clingy to anybody who showed her even the smallest fraction of kindness. It came from being on her own for so long. She wanted affection and continuous praise. She wanted unconditional love, and you wanted the same.

Malia loved hard and passionately. She was completely devoted to you from the very first moment. Had you believed in soulmates, you wouldn't argue that Malia was yours. Her arms tightened around you for a moment, then the tip of her cold nose nuzzled into your hairline. She breathed out deeply against your neck, the steady stream of hot air making goosebumps rise on your arms. You had never been so madly in love with another person.

When you weren't with her it felt like you couldn't breathe, and the minutes ticked by so impossibly slow leading up to your reunion. It was everything Allison had described to you and Lydia, but back then you had turned the other cheek and rushed off, writing off the possibility that love like that existed. Well it did, and you wished on all of the stars that you could just tell Allison she was right.

Alone with Malia and the sunset her words echoed back through your memory: just for one second, just try and remember, remember what it feels like. all of those times in school when you see him standing down the hall, and you cannot breathe until you're with him. or those times in class that you can't stop looking at the clock because you know he's standing right out there waiting for you.

When Malia's nose rubbed against your hairline again, you took notice to the unusual restlessness of her features. It startled you when her arms left you abruptly and her eyes opened to flash blue. The control she had gained over shifting was slipping from her fingertips, you could see it on her features.

When her eyes faded back to brown you caught a glimpse of sheer panic. Malia wasn't easily shaken, so your heart broke with wonder of what could have provoked such a strong reaction. When she calmed, and the film over her brown eyes cleared, it was you she looked startled for. A coat of sweat covered her forehead, but still she moved to cup your cheeks and look over you worriedly.

"What are you doing, Mal?" You asked, brushing strands of hair away from her eyes. "Are you okay? You had me worried for a second."

Malia scrunched her nose up, speckles of broken light from the hallway broke across her face and showcased just how deep the worry in her eyes was. You didn't let your mind wonder about who had turned the hallway light on, just turned your attention back to Malia.

"Am I okay? You reek." Malia sniffled the air, wincing visibly when she picked up on the foul smell that had woken her from her sleep. Anxiety. Grief. Loss. Love. It was radiating off you so strongly that the wolf inside her had confused the chemo signals with it's own emotions.

"What?" You frowned, almost certain that you had put on multiple coats of her favorite woodland lotion. After a few weeks of her sneaking in through your window, you learned that the scent of pine and rain gave her a sense of familiarity and comfort.

"You reek. Like, like death." Malia winced, watching you carefully, not missing the way your nose twitched at the confrontation.

"I was just thinking." You promised, eyes welling with tears at the continuous picture of Allison dead and lifeless in Scott's arms. You had outlived a girl raised through the rings of fire.

"About what?" Malia wondered, knowing no boundaries when it came to you. Sure, you both had been working on socially appropriate commentary and reactions, but with you she was safe and allowed to be herself. You just never though Allison would be the center of conversation.

"About how it's torture being human, sometimes i with i could just turn it off. turn it all off." You didn't see the point in lying to a supernatural polygraph, so instead you laid the vague truth on the table for Malia to dissect in her own manor.

"Scott could give you the bite." She frowned, hearing your heartbeat slow at the thought of becoming a werewolf like your best friend. After Jackson, the bite was the least appealing method of ensured life and healing. With your luck, you'd grow a set of scales and kill innocents at numb-minded force.

"That's not what I meant." You sniffled, thankful for Malia's willingness to help even when she just barely had a handle on the whole, emotions, category of teenage life. "I just, I had a friend once. She used to tell me that when you find the right person it's like nothing else matters. I wish I could tell her she was right."

"Well, why can't you?" Malia frowned, the gears turning in her mind as she tried to piece together the strong scents you were secreting and the words you were saying. She briefly understood where your love was coming from, it was for her, and this unnamed friend, but the rest was still a blank page in her mind.

"Because she's dead." You sniffled, the tears finally breaking through your strengths and painting your cheeks like rivers. "She died, and there's so much I wish I could tell her."

#stilesodylan24celebrates1k #teen wolf #malia tate #malia hale #allison argent #scallison #scott mccall

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halloweenvalentine1997 · 4 years ago

Text

The Libertines: A Novella (2019)

When she died, I felt a series of perforations, hollows and bruises

about my skull. I saw her die behind static.

By the stone wall adjacent to the office supplies store, I

bewailed her, screaming,

burning myself later with the tip of a lit cigarette.

I put ash and poison on my wrist for the ones who died.

I wanted to pick a strawberry off the plant in my parents’ backyard

and once more taste its succulence. I wanted to impale my head with the

iron tip of a weathervane. Slice open my vibrant red aorta.

Seeing them all in a hole

through the light emitting

through the asylum blinds.

I myself am a corpse in a bed

in the forensics ward,

green moths on my blanket,

rotting silently in a pastel grave,

killed by medicine,

wasted by time.

If you come close enough to hear my thoughts

(like a chemically-enhanced ghost)

distort and clamor

amongst the traffic, the television,

the noise a death in a family brings,

I will let loose my hatred

like a ribbon from hair,

unraveling red Medusa strands.

I will draw more ribbons on your flesh

if you touch me,

bleed you into the wood,

hammer a nail into your heartline,

devour your fear like a shot of amphetamine

to my malevolent blood.

2013

Stacey

Some of us are the river’s current, floating through life swiftly or slowly, as if in a trance of somnambulism. Some of us are a human shell at its edge, refusing to follow its pattern and be a part of it. Why follow them when you can live on the fringes of society, away from its stigmas and scrutinizing scorn?

When Ellie married Samuel Barnes, the world was a rose-gold utopia. Three years later, at the age of twenty-nine, Ellie no longer felt that the chemistry they had once remained. On a windy September afternoon, when she returned to the red-brick bungalow she shared with Samuel on Hillsam Avenue, Ellie heard moans and sounds of sexual ecstasy emitting from their bedroom. Another woman was there. Ellie’s eyes instantly began to burn like hot coals in a campground grill. She examined her wedding portrait on the wall of the hallway as she moved in slow motion through it. They had been photographed in front of the church’s stained glass windows, a spectrum of color radiating behind the couple adorned in black and white.

She ran her fingers through her long brown hair, blinking through the lake of sorrow in her dark eyes, and suppressing a sob, pushed open the bedroom door at the end of the hall. Another dark-haired woman Ellie didn’t recognize was riding Samuel, and when she registered the door slamming open, she turned around wide-eyed with a cry of alarm, her brown nipples in full view.

“I knew it,” Ellie told Samuel bitterly. “I knew for at least a year that there was someone else!”

Samuel looked at his wife blankly and didn’t reply, his face smug.

“Who are you?” Ellie shrieked at the strange woman.

“Lila Stern,” the woman replied. “And clearly, Sam doesn’t love you anymore. He loves me. He has for the entire year you suspected something was going on. We would both like you to leave.”

“Don’t dictate what I will do in my own house, you fucking homewrecker!” Ellie shouted. Lila, remembering her nudity, covered herself with the indigo comforter.

“I agree with Lila,” Samuel said. “Just pack your things and go, Ellie. You’ve been a nagging, paranoid pain in my ass for too long. You’re in need of a psychiatrist, but you won’t pay heed to my advice. All you are lately is a cold fish who’s no fun. A fucking schoolmarm. Find an apartment somewhere. Leave.”

“Now,” Lila said.

Ellie slammed the door shut and bolted down the hall and into the kitchen. She opened the cutlery drawer and grabbed the sharpest knife she could find. Tested its point with the tip of her index finger. A small blood-drop formed in the small pad of flesh. Although Ellie’s tears rained down like heated glass, she felt no physical pain.

I won’t pack my things, she thought. I have a better idea.

She glanced at the neon green digital clock above the oven. It read 1:11 p.m. It was September 24th. As she placed the knife into the pocket of her navy blue peacoat, grabbed her smartphone, scrawled a quick note and left the house, Ellie knew what to do. No more morning to afternoon shifts as a psychiatric nurse at St. Mary’s Medical Center’s psych unit. No more wondering when Samuel would be home from his nightly excursions. As she walked towards the river, passing the other houses, the Texaco, the railroad tracks, the boarded-up, shutdown factories, memories flashed before her. She remembered her lonely childhood, her even more tumultuous adolescence where she slept with a crowbar in her pillowcase and read The Catcher in the Rye and To Kill a Mockingbird at the edge of the schoolyard grass away from everyone.

“I wish you’d never been born,” Ellie’s mother told her, swilling red wine from a tall, dark bottle.

“I second that,” her father said, puffing on a fat cigar. Once she made it to the river, Ellie collapsed like a house of cards to the white sand, and howled the loss of her love into the godless sky. She glanced from side to side to make sure no one was watching. She couldn’t be sure if someone was for all the foliage and bushes. But she didn’t care. She sat there for the longest time, her breathing a series of hyperventilation. Samuel’s face was all she could see, then Lila’s, the two of them like a rotating holographic image. She wanted her cremated ashes bequeathed to the river. She wanted no tomb in the town cemetery. No funeral. The note she wrote with these directions was in her left pocket of her coat. Such a heavy coat for the nice weather, but Ellie was always cold. Her body, feather-boned and catatonic, slumped over a large rock and she let the tears wet it like a water nymph mourning the loss of a handsome sailor on a receding boat.

Ellie turned on her cell phone and listened to Paula Cole’s “Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?” one last time. It sounded faint above the river’s churning. Just like the woman in the song, she too had a non-devoted, careless husband. She wept hardest at the chorus:

Where is my John Wayne? Where is my prairie song?

Where is my happy ending?

Where have all the cowboys gone?

“To greener pastures,” Ellie said to herself. “To rose-gold utopias I’ll never see.“

The clock on the wall of Mrs. Sykes’s math class ticked in time to my heartbeat. The hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach that I get when I crave marijuana was there, screaming like a lacuna asking to be filled. The time for more recalcitrance (in this case, truancy and drug use by the river) was near. While Mrs. Sykes droned on like a monotonous honeybee about the Pythagorean theorem, I got up from my desk and slung my backpack over my shoulders. Her gunmetal grey eyes followed me to the door with the poster of the Power Rangers on it, all teamed up together. Always use the buddy system, the poster said.

“Where are you going, Stacey?” Mrs. Sykes asked.

“Skipping class,” I told her. “And dropping out when I turn eighteen in February. This is non-negotiable. You can’t stop me.”

Before my teacher could retaliate, I flounced out of the room, leaving the scoffing and titters of my peers behind me. I left my textbooks in my locker to lessen the load in my backpack. I unzipped a small pocket and grinned at the verdant green pot in its glass pipe.

Jimmy Stirling is the one who introduced me to pot when I was a junior a year before. He was a senior, and one of Lewis and Clark High School’s few homeless students. His dad was a cantankerous drunk and gambler who threw him out. Jimmy spent time singing songs on the sidewalk for spare change, or sleeping at the homeless shelter for adolescents. For someone who was homeless, Jimmy frequently had a remarkably full tin can of bills and change. His singing voice was a rich alto tearing pleasantly through the downtown breeze. On October of last year, he found me crying under the highway after school let out. I recognized him from my creative writing class.

“What’s wrong, Stacey?” he asked.

“My brother’s locked in the loony bin. He’s possessed. He killed Calvin, my guinea pig. Everything is falling apart, and to top it all off, Liam broke up with me this morning.”

"Man, I’m sorry,” Jimmy said. “You ever try marijuana? It might make you forget all that stuff.”

“I don’t have any money,” I said, knowing that anyone with marijuana downtown expected payment in return for it.

“That’s alright. I have some I’ll share for free. Let’s sit in my favorite place to do it.”

I followed him, listening to him sing as we walked the few blocks to an alleyway with a set of cement stairs against a condemned apartment, leading to a bolted door. He sang Skid Row’s “18 and Life” and Black Sabbath’s “Killing Yourself To Live.” We sat on the bottom step. He loaded the pot into a glass bowl and taught me how to light it, how to inhale the hit of smoke without exhaling it too soon. I caught the gist of it. Suddenly, within a few minutes, everything was funny. My mind was suddenly devoid of all negativity. I was giggly, light as a tumbleweed blown by a gale of fierce wind. I felt energetic, talkative, and happier that I’d been in a long time. Shortly after my day with Jimmy, I learned he went to jail for getting caught with Ecstasy tablets in his lockers. He was also rumored to be selling cocaine and heroin downtown. He wasn’t allowed back at school. I never saw him again. The flashbacks vanished when I approached the river and saw her. She was a woman with long brown hair. She was wearing a peacoat, jeans and pair of black loafers. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw what she was doing. The woman older than me by at least a decade, was holding a kitchen knife to the veins in her right wrist. She made no sound when she punctured them, her hand dangling over the water. I watched her bloodletting turn part of the emerald river red. It was spouting out like the slashed throat of a sacrificed farm animal. She turned and saw me when I stepped on a twig by accident and snapped it in two.

“Go away,” the woman told. “Believe me, you should be letting this happen.”

She took in my red ringlets, my sharp green eyes, my pink hoodie, my Converse sneakers. Then she went for her throat with her knife and slit it open with perfect finesse. There was a vibe coming off of this woman that insinuated I should just let her die. I could sense that her life had been miserable and mean. I sat on a rock out of sight of the dying woman and got high, thinking of her spirit rising, transcendental and free, into the sun and clouds. I thought of how the first settlers of the city I live in came here 8,000 to 13,000 years ago. Before there were cemeteries, they buried their dead in unmarked graves. I thought of all the skeletons that must be under the grass of the lawns and parks, the sidewalks, the urban streets. I thought of the days of religious fanaticism, and how had I been born then, I would have been buried in unconsecrated ground for my heathen ways. I didn’t believe in god, but I did believe in Satan.

2019

Stacey

I am not sure exactly when my family died. Before they died, I was a genuinely innocent soul whose conscience burned to a crisp. I couldn’t blame myself for it, but I didn’t know who to blame because the ones responsible for my family’s death never came out of their disguises, synthetic human skin and features made to look exactly like my family members would look if they were really there amongst you. I still hear them call to me over highway noise and wind, while I’m taking hits off a meth pipe or smoking a cigarette on an overpass with dead eyes and no ache. I’ve already ached so much. Without them I am a branch breaking off of a tree. It’s hard to explain what I mean by disguises; they look so much like my family but aren’t. They could look like anyone and they’re wearing synthetic skin designed to look like my mom and dad.

I am Stacey Galloway. I was born to a family that never loved me but that I tried to love fiercely. I may have turned into a drug-addled street kid but I still wanted them to love me, anyway. I remember when I first suspected them to be dead. I was sitting in my old apartment in the living room with a scream in my ears that sounded like my mother’s emanating from my laptop and whirling through the dusty air like a trap I would remained enveloped in. I heard a chainsaw start up and then the sound stopped. It was like an audio recording that just stayed there screaming and sawing in my computer speakers. The voices told me my parents were dead and replaced by “skin masks.”

I asked, “What is a skin mask?”

“Synthetic skin made to look like your parents. Exactly like your parents. And your younger brother,” a man replied out of thin air. “Someone else is wearing skin that looks like them now. Every feature of your family has been replicated, special contact lenses have been made, someone with the same height as them is wearing skin masks.”

I couldn’t see him but maybe he could see me. I hoped not. What he was saying was too horrible to want to comprehend. It’s humanly possible to do this, with the aid of a lot of fake skin and ways of knowing how the victim worked, how they spoke, where they lived, whom they spoke to. I will never know that world and don’t want to. It’s insidious enough just to live in the city I live in, gone and waking up with ice in my chest in a house that is now unfamiliar and rearranged. I’m living in my parents’ house again. All I want to do is get high to forget about it, and it’s worked after awhile.

I know the police will do nothing because I don’t know how to explain it without dying or not making sense. I never wanted this.

I never wanted to lose the only lifeline I had.

So after the voices came from my laptop and told me these things, I left my apartment, locked it and went to the stone wall by the office supplies store about a mile away. I sat there in the gravel and lit a cigarette, the parking lot blurring through my wet eyes. I didn’t know why I believed what I was hearing, but I was anorexic and schizophrenic, and didn’t know how to not to believe it. Their voices reverberated throughout my walls, my silent television, my closed laptop.

“We’re going to kill your family,” said the voices. This was before the scream ricocheted through my laptop speakers.

I didn’t believe them. I didn’t reply. I thought they were full of shit.

Now I know they’re not, because although the identity thieves of my family are never in prison, the handwriting of my parents has changed, and so have the cadence of their voices. They speak in European accents now when they think they’re alone and that I’m out of earshot. But I can hear them. It’s hard to understand what they’re saying. It’s plain English, but indecipherable at the same time. My brother’s identity was never actually stolen. He is eighteen and currently going to college. I am twenty-three years old and never doing anything with my life again. I’m in the loony bin.

I stare at the green and blue in the slit in the blinds and think about the house I grew up in, a green bungalow in the middle of a golden field of grass, a porch swing, wind chimes and an attic window that never lit up. My father always told me our attic was full of asbestos and that it could cause mesothelioma to inhale it after years of exposure to it.

“But,” he said, “there is no asbestos in the rest of the house. You’re safe.”

In the backyard, my mother grew strawberries and tomatoes. There was a one-car garage and a deck, a wooden fence and a glass picnic table with chairs surrounding it. I remember days, years of smoking marijuana in my room and listening to music. Grey smoke filling the room with the scent of weed, filling my lungs with blackness and my heart with euphoria. I will do that later on, in another place, when this institution is tired of me and forces me out the door like I want.

When I went to visit my parents’ house after my tantrum by the stone wall, I noticed that my parents were still there, or they just appeared to be. I saw no blemishes, no redness, nothing but them with a synthetic look to their skin, it appeared to be fake. But there was my mother’s hair, my father’s hair, my father’s eyes, my mother’s eyes, their faces. Over the next several years that I lived in the house with them, I noticed that while they copied the handwriting of my parents well, it was slightly altered. They could do their signatures perfectly, but their notes to me and their grocery lists were different looking than a note would be were it from my parents. My “father” tried to hit me three times, but never went any further than that. I could tell he was an angry man, and though he looked like my father, I knew he wasn’t. He was wearing a synthetic skin mask. It looked like my father, but it wasn’t. Its skin is fake. It wasn’t real. Same with my mother. Whoever these people are, I know I need to chop them up and leave their remains to dissolve in a landfill somewhere. I want to leave my brother, Steffan, out of it. I know there’s a way to make them expose themselves. Purchase a gun, aim through the summer air at the targets, themselves and tell them, “Take off your skin masks! You’re not my parents! You killed them.”

They wouldn’t be able to reply, and if they were somehow compelled to reply and tell me what they did with my parents, I would happily kill whoever is underneath that fake human surface and tell the cops that they were serial killers who spied on my parents for years and stole their identities. Something I never wanted to happen to them or to myself. I hardly ever talk to “my parents” anymore and Steffan stays the hell away as well. I know I have to have them buried but for now, I think I’ll drown myself in writing. I haven’t explained what is going on to the psych ward, which is going to let me out anyway soon. I know how to handle it myself after hearing one of the directors of the facility tell me, “Your family is skin masks.” The sick fuck laughed to himself and I knew I had to flee and get those people who thought they could ever replace my parents, who were unkind to me but were all I had. I hated everyone else and lost the ones who mattered. I’m going back into their house and I’m going to dig up my gun and aim it, loaded with silver bullets, at their brains. I know they’ll unmask. I’d never wear fake skin over myself as though I could become that person. I’d rather swallow a bottle of pills and go to sleep forever. Fall asleep in a meadow of bluebells and Vicodin.

Before I ended up here, I hung out under a train bridge where I always wanted to follow the mysterious Mathilde, a girl whose surname I didn’t know to this day, anywhere and everywhere. She came there to buy meth and was always hanging out with older men, smoking a meth pipe and blowing the smoke up into the lights under the train bridge on the cement walls, watching it float, a white demon mask, in the illumination. I joined her once. She asked me, “Why are you doing meth, Stacey?”

“Because I’m miserable without it. It makes me feel like I could walk for miles and it feels like it’s only seconds until you’re at your destination. I feel like I can die alone on the autumn breeze and die happy.”

“Don’t die, Stacey. You’re the last one of them that should be killed.”

“Some of these bitches really should die. Last night, someone threatened me with a lead pipe after I threatened his friend with a lit cigarette after that cunt tried to beat me up. The both of them should burn up in a chamber underground.”

Mathilde smiled. “How did you know I love that sort of thing?”

“Because I can see through you. I’ve seen you in fights under here, too. Try to keep a low radar. I know you haven’t initiated any of those fights, but try to see there are real dangers here in town and don’t let anyone know where you live. I heard you lost your ID recently and had to get it replaced. It was stolen. I’m only saying this because I care about you, Mathilde. I don’t think they’ve done anything with your ID except disposed of it, by now. I think we should stick together.”

“I don’t have any friends except you,” said Mathilde.

And a few days later, I was shoved away into the psych ward, the loony bin, the human menagerie. I felt like a psychiatric science experiment, doped up with meds and lost in the dull, utilitarian rec room, playing ping pong, watching an episode of Intervention in drug therapy, browsing the bookshelves, learning different coping skills, watching the bus park and then leave through the glass cage of windows, learning about different behavioral therapies, making collages with magazine pictures, standing in line for more meds, staring at the ceiling light reflecting from their TV, craving drugs and wanting to cast off all purity. I couldn’t stand it here any longer. I still can’t. I’m crazier and know I won’t pay for what I’m about to do, considering how horrible what these people did to my parents is. I can’t let them live any longer and almost everyone is buying into their disguises. Their old friends won’t speak to them. A lady who lives nearby told me my mom isn’t herself anymore.

“She’s not Autumn,” the lady told me, as my “mother” walked to our front door one day. Autumn is my mother’s name.

She said nothing about my dad, but all the voices ever reiterated to me was that my dad, Roger, was killed and that I would never know where or what had been done with him. I’ll forever remember that scream and chainsaw sound on my laptop, playing through the speakers out of dead silence. What was I supposed to do with that information? Say I heard it out of thin air? I’d sound psychotic to law enforcement, mental health services and anyone listening. I can’t just ramble about this to random drug addicts, either. I can’t tell them why I’m purchasing the gun, what its purpose is, or where I’m going to kill those thieves. I am haunted by days of sleeping and screaming and all I can do is bleed Ativan and never want to wake up. But I still want to avenge my parents’ murder as well. I’m getting out soon. I will sleep under the stars for a night out on the deck, and wait until the daylight breaks to kill them when they emerge from behind their locked door and into the interior of the basement.

You’ll see. They have masks that are so fake-looking they betray themselves, they give themselves away. I can find a way to move on and I know I shouldn’t blame myself, because this destruction of the family foundation was never my doing. It was theirs, whomever is living in those disguises. I’ve told no one. I can’t allow myself to be labelled as psychotic or severely mentally ill, but I have been. I can hear the voices to this day, and four psychiatrists told me that schizophrenia is incurable. The voices can only be tapered down with medications. There is no cure alive for hearing voices, for visual and auditory hallucinations. I’ve seen things too. I’ve seen people that look ghostly and transparent appear by the river, or sitting on curbs, and they vanish into thin air just as quickly as they appeared. A cop by the river, a man in a grey hoodie on the street curb. I see black shadows above me, or white or golden flashbulbs emanating in the ceiling like there’s a camera taking my picture. The voices still talk through speakers, walls and televisions. Car radios. Computers. A speaker will transmit a voice faster than anything. All they’re telling me is that my family was bad and that they deserved it. I know most people wouldn’t agree with this or think this is okay. Nothing is okay. I will never feel like I’m wholly human again.

2016

Mathilde

In the woods, there whispered a secret I felt compelled to follow, just to discern its meaning. It could’ve been a blessing or a curse, and still I was brave enough to leave my repressive household for those screams that normally would frighten someone, but I’ve been reduced to a frozen-hearted Banshee on the floor of a seclusion room more than once. I remember the fog of those moments and feeling more broken than even the most dismantled women could get. Screaming because it was expected of me.

I dropped straight out of high school, a nightmare I never hope to relive. Age eighteen was the last time I saw a psychiatric facility. My family and me live in a Tudor mansion in the city’s most affluent neighborhood. The house consisted of my parents and my sister Sinead, who was always the opposite of me. I was the black sheep.

“Mathilde, no one is screaming in the woods,” she’d tell me when I first heard the shrill, ear-scorching girl’s shriek echo from the trees bordering the park.

I ignored her and ran, knocking a stone statue over, seeking out the source of feminine distress.

“Hello? Are you alright?”

“No matter where you go, I’ll find you,” was the whisper that fervently replied from somewhere in the foliage. As though the angel or apparition (whatever she was) could read my mind. I was thirteen.

I was pale and whey-skinned compared to my sister, who perpetually blushed and took better care with her pretty countenance. She snagged Dale Tierney before I could get to know him; naturally someone like him would gravitate towards an extroverted floozy like my sister, Sinead. He greeted me politely but tersely upon visiting our house, as I was not the subject of his interest. My sister was seventeen, and a senior in high school, while I was in ninth grade, a razor-freak and antisocial, maladjusted misfit. Sinead pretended not to notice. My cuts bled on tiles to industrial rock music. No one could stop me.

“Mathilde-”

“Don’t speak, or I’ll excavate your heart from your chest and incinerate it while I smoke a coffin nail,” I replied. He was chasing Dale with a bat, and I remembered a brief feeling just like getting fucked with a knife. Some bat-wielding perverts had jumped me several years ago and shoved the handle in.

“Mathilde!”

“I’ll eat your heart before I burn it over the pyre,” I snapped. There wasn’t really a pyre.

In the abandoned grain elevator building made of cement, a place I pretended was a mental institution, I executed him. Lobotomized, Never anesthetized, because I wanted him to feel like hell. I always knew there was no inferno underground where bad people like myself and this man who is dying beneath a series of rope knots go. I have bound him in a length of chain as well. Years ago, long after the screaming in the foliage to the cacophonous magpies had ceased, I heard a woman or young girl wail in agony above the ceiling. The attic I never went up in because it was asbestos-ridden, and I wondered how schizophrenic I had become.

I told my father (a man who once told me “try harder” while I pretended to asphyxiate myself with a shoelace adorning the knob of my bedroom door) that I heard a scream erupt from the attic.

“Well, your intake with mental health is tomorrow,” my dad replied. “We’ll get you on the right meds.”

I hoped and prayed there was no reality behind the scream.

The house was over 100 years old; it could’ve been a benevolent or malevolent apparition.

He’s dead. The assailant from the grain elevator.

I splashed him with acid and dissolved him into the floor.

I see Dale watching me from a doorway.

“I am Hell itself,” I tell him. He seems to know the guy I offed was scum.

We laugh.

I wake up from my zoning out on the couch at 3 a.m., content, knowing I had no part in it. None of it was my fault. Tori Amos’s To Venus and Back album has played on repeat all night. I could’ve retained my innocence if the city’s pathetic excuse for a population cut me a little slack, but now all I have time for is complete, indisputable indifference. And euphoria over everything, hedonistic amusement showing at all times. So happy I could die in outer space. I wouldn’t even care. I used to put methamphetamine mixed with angel dust (PCP) into my bloodstream and it was then that I discovered a drug that could take away the fear of death itself. A man said, “Get the fuck out of here or face my gun.” I saw no gun to speak of and felt numb with nothing but mania in my head under the freight train bridge. I moved myself as far away from him as I could go. I was full of amphetamines under the bridge. A place downtown full of drama and drugs. I saw a man hold a knife to the throat of a man in his late teens or early twenties. I told the older man with the knife, “Don’t cut him. Just don’t. I don’t want police under here. I’m not calling them. Just…don’t,” I told him lifelessly. This was before the gun threat with the possibly non-existent gun. The man withdrew his silver blade and backed off the guy, who was the only one allowing me to use a meth pipe. I don’t know him to this day, but I wonder how I’m not afraid to waltz out into the insidious Spokane night. A hellhole in the eastern part of Washington state. I never liked this city, famous for its underground whoredom and criminal activity since the early nineteenth century. I intend to haunt it just like the screaming ghosts.

But I won’t scream. I’ll just make them their own worst enemies. I don’t feel I will ever really die, even when my body does.

“I hate you and I love myself, you pathetic fucking city,” I whispered to the mirror. I would place them in an underground chamber. Baths of acid dissolving useless DNA. When people like me are crossed, the night can scream and sleep will reveal what Hell can be. I’ve dreamt of being in a kennel on a plane. Jail cells on a bus with cages lining the aisle that remind me of a jail on wheels. It deserts me by the side of a road aligning a river. Sometimes I dream of treading deep water and drifting along in its waves like a damned soul. I dream of people glaring at me in dark alleys, houses where there’s nothing to watch on TV but a woman in a peach-colored dress entertaining some businessman, drinking something out of a wineglass while she does it. An abandoned asylum being haunted by myself and others. It’s like I’m haunting somewhere that is judging me as I judge it.

I made a carbon copy of Dale. A clone. I drifted away on dissociative hallucinogens to the sound of his voice in my ear. I don’t care that he’s not really here.

Whenever anyone badmouths him, I feel like they should meet the Windex I pretend to pour in their coffee.

I’ll do what I please for the rest of my life.

Colored balloons and iridescent papier-mâché dotted the walls on the summer evening of my sister, Sinead’s, suicide. I staggered home to Stevie Nicks’s “Stand Back” blaring from her room above the stairwell on repeat, a bottle of Robitussin lingering in my bloodstream. I felt high as a kite. I stared into the rainbow vortex, the littered warps of tinsel on the floor, and remembered that hours earlier, an argument ricocheted between Dale Tierney and Sinead. I couldn’t understand them through their slurred drunkenness. I remember a wineglass breaking against his car as it was tossed aside by Sinead.

I had never known her to fall apart.

I would have never done this to him, but I chose to keep out of his way and never tell him how I felt. I was like winter without him, cold as silver and bracing as the winds of the east. I could sustain the fantasy of him more than the reality.

He was somewhere in the house, probably, drunk in the kitchen and avoiding the drama of prior hours.

When the song played one more time, I ascended the stairs and traipsed down the corridor to Sinead’s room.

Do not turn away, my friend

Like a willow I can bend

No man calls my name

No man came

So I walked on down away from you

Maybe your attention was more

Than you could do

One man did not call

He asked me for my love

And that was all

The lines from the song tore through the air and were like bells of 80s euphoria in my ears. My happiness died when I found her. I saw Sinead dead with a jagged red line across her throat, torn open from a self-inflicted wound. Blood spattered the mirror of her vanity table. I never thought she had the guts to even prick her finger. I watched her white face for a moment, its waxen marble idiocy, its vacant, grey-eyed death. In extremis, she looked more at peace than I’d ever been in life.

Dale was nowhere to be found on the property. A white sheet covered my sister’s face and they wheeled her to the morgue. I would soon adorn her grave with clematises and dahlias. I would miss her soliloquies on the balcony before Dale entered our lives. She was so melancholic sometimes, but nowhere near as much as I.

The day after her funeral procession, a blur of black hearses and silver cemetery, mounds of dirt cascading over her coffin, I smoked angel dust and watched the rain fall outside as I blared heavy metal from the stereo. Tears only burned once and I allowed them to fall for two minutes. Nothing could bring her back, and when Dale rang the doorbell I only told him, “She’s gone,” and closed the door in his face. His imaginary double stood behind the closed door ready to embrace me and disappear with me into the bed.

“No one should be allowed to even reach me, touch me or talk to me,” I said. I told the silent thin air. I didn’t want a reply, and I awoke the following day to a touch on my shoulder. When I turned, I saw nothing. Not a person. Not even a trail of vapor. I’d deny anyone from knowing the monster that is me.

Something in me still laughs, despite the grief.

I can see her in dreams. I can see Dale in dreams.

I’d rather daydream on drugs and live in the ruins of my old house than deal with the heinous society around me.

Broken doorknobs and glass I can’t shatter. I swallow pills and wrap myself in blankets, dreaming of a boundless, lazy sea that carries me in its midst. When I reach land, it is steep and treacherous.

I awaken in my mirage’s arms. I am an endless realm of sadism when someone poses as a threat. I once pointed a silver crescent of a knife to the skin of one of his would-be attackers in the grain elevator. I won’t ever let go of the image Dale embellished in my mind.

I am as dead as the man in the cement left in a puddle. I am as dead as Sinead, wallowing away in a hallucinogenic reality.

I find nothing damaging although my health is rotting like the grass in the heat waves. Rotting like the relics in every yard, made of metal and plastic. I hate everyone in the world and all I wanted was to end the city.

All I wanted was to end time.

To corrupt and corrode.

To slide right out of life older than anyone had ever been.

I’m only twenty-five years old, and it took me that long to finally kill someone. It was in defense of Dale while we wandered for a couple minutes when I ran into him, discovering he also had an affinity for the abandoned grain elevator where I killed whatever his obtuse name was. I knew somehow he would grace my presence that day. The would-be attacker was quite the opposite of a graceful presence; he was a storm. A storm boiled in my blood, too, and instantaneously, I made the baseball bat fly out of his brandishing arm and struck him several times. Dale Tierney grinned as he watched me debase the humanity right out of the man’s veins. I left him there to rot by some old filing cabinets.

Months after all of that happened, I no longer cry tears or cling to a crucifix on my pillow in the shade. There is nothing more to make of myself; no one will expect anything of me for a long time. Maybe never. Isolative by both night and day, I crave no presence to sustain me through the day. My parents flit about the house, but are mostly not in it.

Yesterday I met a girl in a white dress with glittery, crimson-bleeding eyes in the foyer. She bid me follow her to the mirror beneath a chandelier and told me my beauty would wane. Then she vanished into the air like an exploding star. I didn’t care and I told her to hush and leave me be. I gazed into the mirror, not as dissatisfied as I used to be. Sinead was always prettier than me, but I no longer envied her for it. If anything, I missed her. I never knew, in my cough syrup-induced state, what Dale had told Sinead that pushed her over the edge enough to slit her throat. She took her own life right off the planet. I will forever imagine her ricocheting into the stars, an astral angel leaving her own body and becoming a new being in the form of a spirit. The girl with blood rivers in her eyes was nowhere near as beautiful as my sister.

Whenever I think of the glow of emergency vehicles outside the limits of the mansion, I pacify myself and push away the thought as fast as it came. I know there were no witnesses besides Dale and me. There was no one to see us all meet there, not knowing one another would gather there to explore the grain elevator. Barbed wire, rusted beer cans and rejected heroin needles littered the ground at the base of the cement building. It had been shut down since the 1970s, and not a soul usually stirred in or around its premises by the railroad tracks. There was nothing to do at the place besides fuck or get stoned. In this case, I killed someone and left him for dead in the place’s basement. The bat was disposed of. Everything wiped clean. No information regarding me can be salvaged because I am a lightning bolt full of speed running as fast as I can away from everyone.

I am sitting by the 7-Eleven high on acid. Halos and wings bleed out of the sky and litter the parking lot in a debris of feathers and gilded circles. I cannot scream in my house, so I went downtown to swallow an LSD-laced sugar cube and careen in the opposite direction from rational thinking. There was nothing to do but melt away along with everything else around me. I wanted the patterns of the strip mall across the street to keep melting, the neon of the bar on Dante Avenue to keep illuminating the girl beneath its sign. She had the darkest eyeliner I’d ever seen. She kept moving from side to side erratically, as if she were high on speed. I just can’t sustain my lifeform without drugs. I become other selves. I talk to ghosts of humans, both living and dead. The girl is talking to the empty air that always has answers. Her cigarette smoke forms a crown. I get bored and walk down the street, the church on its corner alit with hallucinatory flames. I think I see Sinead staring at me beneath the wainscoting in someone’s house through their window. I hate everyone except her and Dale, but whatever he said to her caused her to slice her own throat open. I can’t trust him to not make me capsize. I can’t let my iron guard down when it comes to my walls.

Do not touch me, I command every living human.

There is a star I stare at to the south that shines its light upon my shoulder blades ripping open, my veins bluer than before in my wrists. I caress them. The most important love is self-love, I tell myself. That is how I will flourish.

2019

Mathilde

I am thinking of the remains of the body that I left behind three years ago in a fit of post-traumatic rage. It was dissolved with hydrochloric acid, and gone was the baseball bat-wielding storm of a man after he tried to assault my sister, Sinead’s lover, Dale Tierney. Three years ago, my sister committed suicide over an incident with him in which the circumstances are still unknown to me. Since then, I’ve been laying on my bed with voices compressing my head, telling me they’ll sell me and kill me. I am too strong, too fortified with indifference to care. My parents are rarely at home and I’ll never tell them. My dad would just advocate for changing the medication combination I’m currently not taking.

My twenty-eighth birthday is just around the corner. A brand new gun I purchased from one of my meth dealers shines in my hand in the starlight, full of a fresh supply of bullets. My red-lipsticked smile could enchant the devil. On top of the hill where I stand are two high school enemies, Jamie Frances and Stormy Hale. The last place I saw them was under the freight train bridge. They were sharing a pot pipe. They called me an ugly dog. That time, I let it slide off like snow from a gabled roof. Now, I’ve got the two of them right where I want them and I’m still not bothered by their comment. Underneath of them, in the dark of night, the grass blades look like ebony knife blades and my hand is on my cheap but efficient gun. It’s a silencer so there won’t be much sound when I snuff their lives out. I know how reckless this is considering anyone could have seen me out their window at 2 a.m., but I’m willing to risk it anyway. Jamie and Stormy don’t see me watching from the top of the metal stairs.

I approach with quiet steps across the hilltop. Their backs are turned. My hand grips the gun more firmly than a snake’s coiling hold on a victim. Closer. They turn around. Closer still. Jamie yelps like a mouse before the gun’s bullet catches her in the head, embedded in the wisps of her brown hair. She collapses like a darted, tranquilized animal to the grass. Next, I point the gun at blond, self-righteous Stormy. I see nothing. The fear in her face screams a novel’s length of words. I fire at her forehead and she, too, is done for. It’s my lucky night that they chose this hilltop to smoke weed. I was coming here to smoke meth. I embellish each bitch with another bullet hole and calmly leave them there, the swishing sound of the gunfire replaying in my mind.

The hill. The black grass blades. An abattoir for two girls who crossed a thin line.

I go home, hide the gun and decide I’m already too high to take another hit. I open an antiquated copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel and nearly read the whole thing, satisfied that the voices in the wall have been silenced. I’ll read the end tomorrow. Before I close my red-tinted eyes at 8 a.m., I think I see Sinead standing at the edge of my bed.

“Good job, Mathilde,” she tells me. “You snuffed those cunts out just like a hurricane takes out a wooden house in southern floods.”

I love her.

I miss her.

I almost cry, but my emotions are in a graveyard somewhere. My eyes are only ice instead of liquid tears. My heart isn’t broken. I know she’ll always be with me. I know that the mirage I made of Dale will always love and caress me, even when I’m no longer young and dangerous. He’s not really here but it’s like I can see him anyway.

I imagine the bones of Stormy and Jamie decomposing under the cold earth. And if they are cremated, their ash is undisturbed in urns for centuries. I think of crimson bullet holes on the hilltop of a feminine warzone. It’s the last thing I see before I fall into a pleasant slumber.

2019

Stacey

They released me from the psych ward. I moved out of my old apartment and was discharged into my parents’ house. But not for long. I have a gun in my hand. I’m veering towards the bungalow with meth reeling in my veins, my hands on a fifteen dollar loaded gun. I purchased it from a man in a trench coat in an alleyway. I open the door.

“Where were you?” asks my non-mother. She looks and sounds like my mother, but she isn’t my mother. “It’s late.”

“Take off your skin mask,” I tell her, withdrawing the gun and pointing it at her head. “Stand up and unmask! You’re not my mother! Take that damn thing off!”

She starts to hyperventilate, and stands up. She fumbles with the layers of skin parts that originated in some clandestine building. They come off and underneath is another pale woman. I don’t study her face but I don’t recognize it. The moment I realize I’m right and that this is a malevolent identity thief, I blow her brains to pieces. I shoot her full of holes. I only wish this were a smoking gun. I steal away into dad’s TV room and he does the same thing. He’s just an ordinary guy underneath. These two strangers are people that have lived the lives of someone stepping into a stranger’s skin. Stealing their house, their job, their lives. I’ll never sleep again. Once they’re both dead, I call 911,

“I just killed my parents’ identity thieves. They tried to kill me. Come and pick up their remains,” I tell the operator once asked what my emergency is. I tell them my address and they wheel them away. They’re covered in white sheets. A bunch of cops tell me, “You’re not going to pay for this. They were dangerous. They were unpredictable. They could have killed you, too. You haven’t assaulted us, and we thank you for that and understand how hard this is to talk about for you. So we’re going to just let you stay in the house for awhile. Keep the gun with you.”

They leave.

I’m considered a murderer in self-defense. I’m not even going back to the psych ward because I haven’t told them my history of hospitalization.

I scribble a murderous vignette in a composition notebook that night called “Cornfield Rot.”

It reads:

“Some of us are wraiths gliding through your world, blissfully unaware of your cryptic eyes staring past us, of your mouths that eject inanities. All we’ve heard is noise for years. We’re used to it.”

This is the paragraph I hear spoken aloud to me in a phantom whisper at 3 a.m., my alarm clock bathing my stoned self in a neon green glow. It’s a feminine voice, half-familiar and as faint as the illumination from the clock. My pillow is like a wreath of thorns. I eat pills, caffeine, switchblades and shards of broken teacups. There is a prevalence of apathy that spreads me in me, but what I lack is fear. What they say I lack is self-respect. I suck down another joint, draining the grass until it glows like the motel fire I will see in a few days. Lighting up the firmament with incandescent flames, fiery orange mingled with slate grey. I always wanted to rip open the sky like paper and end the world. When the Days Inn burned down from one of my lit cigarettes, I fled the scene as the firetrucks skyrocketed past me. Black flames filled the town with poison. The colors blurred through the water in my eyes. I hated everything around me since I could think, since I could speak.

Something explodes behinds me as I propel myself further away from the scene of my infantile crime. No more late-night TV, no more waking up to the same sailboat prints on the walls. No more panhandling at the hamburger restaurant next door to the Days Inn. I’m as thin and intangible as a wisp of smoke floating through the adrenaline-suffused air. I’ll disappear into the fields and search for rotting bodies under the pines.

I imagine swallowing a handful of pills next to the concrete platform by the abandoned bowling alley, the one with the crimson anarchy sign spray-painted on it. I see a haze of red Victorian wallpaper and a knife aimed at many skulls. A flash of fire will light up in other places someday. I won’t kill myself while they recline in the ruin of brambles and laugh.

Sometimes I can hear the dead in the dirt beneath me say, “I am under here.” I’ve heard them come from underneath the bus stops I wait at, the sidewalks, the swimming pool, the abandoned drive-in theater at the edge of town.

I can’t see them, but I can hear them with ears that hear nothing but bells, voices, or chaos. I can feel my pain get carried off with the breeze at such times. They give me the hope that death is an opening to a portal of the soul’s immortality.

My makeup is burning off. I’m a limp, ragged doll in the corn maze getting eaten by ants. I got lost looking for the exit. I am rot given back to the earth.

2019

Janine

Amanda Warwick, age twenty-two, lay submerged in a halfway-house, painted yellow walls, dirt yard, a place to be jettisoned to. She had overdosed on methamphetamine in the heated, sunlit parking lot of multiple storage garages, her head in a hole in the cement next to an empty Halloween candy basket shaped like a Jack O Lantern. After the sharp inhalation of crystallized smoke found her brain, she was set off balance with the cathedral’s clamoring bells, the beauty of the wind’s white noise. She drenched herself in the calm black water of the lake, washing asunder the sins of Janine Crellin. Janine, with her green eyes and reddish-blond hair, a contrast to Amanda’s coarse black curls and hazel orbs, was in an infamous fixture in Amanda’s past. She had bled Amanda in the alleyway, bedazzled by the trails of blood flow, scarlet stars, mesmerizing to Janine. They were both sixteen and lived next door to each other. A red brick house with a picket fence (Janine’s) set beside a white house with green shutters (Amanda’s).

Janine was belligerent. Amanda was polite. They weren’t friends and Janine’s problem with her originated from a source unknown to her. In wild, vociferous rage, Janine left cigarette burns, several of them, that felt like surface tumors after they swelled with ash and pain.

What could I have done to you? Amanda thought.

Amanda was never wholly perceptive of what she was doing to Janine. If the evidence of Amanda’s taunts and provocations had been recorded, her remarks would have been proven to have been said aloud. On that day in the alleyway, Janine couldn’t refrain from assaulting Amanda because of Amanda stealing a plastic bag of marijuana. All they both wanted to do was get high. Janine withdrew a knife, the steel blade glinting, sawing gashes formed like lightning bolts. Gashes made while Janine sat on Amanda’s neck to choke and carve across her stomach, the spaces between her ribs where Janine slightly poked Amanda’s ligament, tearing it. When Amanda passed out from lack of oxygen, Janine began to carve some more. The thighs. The calves. A turning over of the deprecated body. More blood pools against the jutting bones of the shoulder blades.

What a passage to destitution, what a descent into the laconic state of shades pulled down, the swallowing of Vicodin. Amanda was in for it. After the cutting and the burning done unto her flesh was concluded, Janine took off into the night where she was always most comfortable.

Amanda never would have been revived if not for a lone transient who discovered her with a faint pulse and numerous raw wounds, blood cold, veins a transparent blue beneath the skin on her crooked arm. He called an ambulance at a pay phone and Amanda was swept to the hospital, where she was diagnosed with a concussion, loss of blood, five broken ribs and amnesia. It took Amanda one week to recall Janine’s attack and even longer to recover her memory; her head had been hit so hard on concrete. She chose to press charges and Janine was confined to jail for six months and later on to psychiatric care. She was very troubled. Her anger seemed baseless. Amanda wondered, withdrawing from meth in her bed, if she had died that evening in rigor mortis in the snowfall, if some silver angel of death, one of grace and storms, would have absolved her of fear and taken her to another side. One separate from life where we all may go, anointed. Amanda wasn’t sacred anymore. She had survived but now she wanted to expire. Amanda thought of Janine in a devious city, weapons hidden away, only to come out again for the dismemberment of corpses, dragged in burlap thorough a secluded forest, placed in a ditch by the railroad tracks under a pine tree, branches hanging low with needles. Amanda’s thoughts were decay, wasp stings, rotten fruit, sour wine, aspiring homicide. The residents of the group home generally ignored Amanda, but as of recently, they wanted her dismissed as a resident because of her conflict with them over trivial matters of ones full of more depth than would have been suspected.

Meanwhile, Janine was exactly where Amanda supposed, in the position of a merciless killer. She let the bodies sink into remote lakes with heavy stones tied to them, not a trace of her DNA left on their remains because she wore hair nets and was careful. She often got high and was free of institutionalization. No more secluded cages or millstones of grim prophecy. Amanda was only an attempted murder. When Janine left town at eighteen, she acquired a car to transport the bodies. In her new town, a population of over 90,000, she knew the civilians to target. She knew who they were.

Fanatics.

Chaos itself.

Dysfunctional child-abusers.

Every house with a shrine dedicated to only the pristine. Their gilded monuments.

So far, Janine had killed seven people.

Her victims:

1. Jay Motley, 36, convicted child rapist and wino

2. Alyssa Sparrow, 14, student, frequent bully

3. Martha Wilde, 45, child killer and teacher

4. Karen Wilder, 21, employee of Burger King

5. Kevin Fielding, 7, was terminally ill

6. Tess Moriarty, 22, bartender

7. Matthew White, 29, pawnshop owner

When Janine Crellin was four, she saw in her parents’ living room, a black halogen lamp with white flames flickering at the top. Either it had been left on too long, or her mother had set the fire herself, Janine decided.

“Look what you did,” said Mrs. Crellin, blaming the fire on her. She would grow up to relish those flames, pyromania impending. First, Janine burned her journals. Then she burned people.

In remote plains tied to wooden stakes with twine, gazed at by onlookers, the only ones who could hear the screams.

Amanda Warwick, in her reverie of Janine, planned to kill her. A new resident told her where she was living. Not far away.

“Here’s her address. I’ve smoked weed at Janine’s house. After what she did to you, Amanda, I would undo her.”

Seven people were dead so far and Janine still slept, tranquil at night. Never would she allow grief or guilt to disturb her. She had made to list of victims, having met them all, knowing their crimes. They had moved to the town for its quaintness and scenery as well as to carry on their traditions of immorality. Only one victim was innocent. Kevin Fielding, who was only seven years old with severe cancer. Just a needle in his vein put him to sleep and sent him, Janine supposed, to celestial firmaments.

How far could she get by being a killer? In the distance, Amanda tried to peer into the room of Janine and sacrifice her dead.

Amanda’s journal entry:

I was born in the middle of nowhere in a Gothic castle with saints and gargoyles guarding the doorway. My father had painted blood coming from their eyes as they knelt in prayer, keeping watch over our mercenary riches. He was blond with brilliant green eyes. When I lived on the grounds of his castle, I had to be his farm slave doing yard work and keeping the flowers by the moat neat and alluring. He made me kill the animals I admired more than the humans. I will forever remember what he did to my eyes. A complicated surgery that lifted up my skin and transformed my eyes from squinty and listless to bulbous and beautiful. I was staring into an antiquated mirror surrounded by four girls prettier than myself preparing me for eye surgery. My father grabbed me aggressively by the wrists, placed me on a cot and put me to sleep momentarily to perform plastic surgery. An eye lift, he called it. The girls giggled in their pinafores, playing dress up at girls from the nineteenth century. I will kill Janine. They looked just like her. I will kill her. We are sisters. We have the same father and I killed him when he came to my adopted parents’ house to kill me. Shot him point blank in the head. His ghost will never be able to speak to me from the dead. I am ready to kill this girl Janine who fucked me up when we were teenagers. People tell me to stop being so high school and grow up, but I’m not in high school or hanging out with high school kids. Just people that keep the mentality around too much and I’m bored of them. Where will I find her and how will I get past her gang of people that I know is protecting her, driving her around in cars to burn people and sink them into rivers? Nobody can find her but I know she’s the type to kill and I heard a woman discuss her and use the term “murder” and “rope.” I don’t know how to take a person down and a part of me tells me to stay away from her. But a part of me wants Janine to kill me and send me on my way to a better place. The government wants to control my health and not allow me to smoke meth. It houses me in group homes that are unkind to me and compare my surgery to drivel compared to what their daughters with a lot of money paid to get. They got way better facelifts. I have weird eyes. Currently, I’m on the road looking for a way to find out what Janine’s doing, spy on her a little. She lives in a plain wooden house and I can see her in the window, staring out at me knowing it’s me; I am easily recognized by my eyes, even at a far distance. I’ve changed my mind. I want Janine to kill me. I can take a lot of pain. I know I won’t survive her and I can’t help but throw myself at the mercilessness of this sadistic girl.

Nobody saw Janine drag Amanda’s lifeless corpse up the three cement stairs and into her house to dispose of her with acid. She shot Amanda with a silencer the moment she saw her face loom large and moon-like at the window. The neighborhood Janine lived in was full of gang bangers and drug addicts that shot up and shot people driving by them at night in the street. I must be in the right place, Janine reassured herself.

2019

Mathilde

My old friend, Janine from summer camp, was just arrested. She told the news she killed Amanda Warwick, a girl who Janine claimed she hated. Someone saw her do it. A girl I once met under the train bridge, Stacey Galloway, is not being prosecuted for the murders of Brian Harlow and Jane Ellen Seymour, her parents’ identity thieves. It’s really sick shit. Brian and Jane wore skin masks that were completely like real human skin and the features of Stacey’s parents had been duplicated. She didn’t really know what to do about it for many years until she just went crazy. She told me about the recording from her laptop, and I didn’t know how to explain it. I had heard the voices, too. If you don’t want to hear voices, I recommend that you don’t do drugs. You will become a schizophrenic satellite. You’ll hear the world speak to you, and the people in public will say what you’ve heard your voices say when you think you’re alone at home. They can hear you breathe, they can hear you sing, talk, even think. I don’t know how to put Stacey at ease. I’m never really on edge anymore, but I can tell she is. I always wanted to make her my partner in crime. Even Janine would have done well, but I’m against her opinion that Kevin Fielding needed to die. He was just a kid, and I’m against killing kids. Apparently something leaked out and someone turned her in. She is now in prison forever.

I know the same thing won’t happen to me because I plan to stop after three killings. I wish I could free her and I wish I could ease Stacey’s pain. What’s happened to her is horrible.

Like my old friends, June and Marcelle. Their group home has been shut down and I don’t know where they are, now. Both girls were beautiful and crazy. They had been raped by strange men who met them at the house of their legal guardians and they killed their guardians in self-defense. Marcelle didn’t pay for her crimes, but June had killed the neighbors as well as her guardian and got locked up in the criminal forensics ward for seven years. Just as I’m thinking of them, I decide to write. It’s about a girl who’s always being watched.

It runs on like this:

It was my sophomore year of college. I had just completed the first day and everything depressed me, especially the shadows of the maple leaves dancing on the wall in my dorm room.

“I’m going out for awhile,” said my roommate, Naomi Carver. I assumed she would be gone for a long while. My homely reflection stared back at me from the rectangular razorblade I held in my hand. I took in the zit on my chin, my black curls, my lackadaisical brown eyes. I turned the blade away from me and reflected the white, utilitarian walls covered in posters of new wave bands, the fake plastic red flowers in a vase on the nightstand, the Russian dolls next to it. The bottom of the blade was still covered in cocaine powder from a night Naomi spent partying at a friend’s apartment. My eyes stung. I moved in slow motion to the bathroom and ran water on my wrist in the sink. The key is not to think, I silently told myself. The key is to gash the vein and not fear what’s beyond. With the past, present and future forgotten, I made a vertical red line on my wrists, tearing into the blue creek of vein beneath my porcelain flesh. It brought forth a mild sting, like a bee’s. Blood spurted like a fountain into the sink, onto the mirror.

When I began to feel weak, I allowed myself to fall to the linoleum and wait for a bright light, a celestial set of golden gates. Before I faded out entirely, I felt a pair of arms pull me up and heard Naomi’s distorted shouting.

“Mildred!”

I blacked out, thinking it was only a hallucination when I saw a girl who looked like me staring at the scene from the entrance to the dorm room. I would see her later, in new circumstances. It turned out that Naomi forgot her phone, which is how she found me attempting to end my dismal life.

They sent me to a local hospital, where they staunched the bloodflow and where I eventually came to. The first thing I remembered was how I used to be such a sweet little girl. I think the most soulless day I had was when I was in junior high and I burned Elena Miller with a lit cigarette, all the world curdling behind my eyes with anger.

“Where do you want it?” I asked Elena, wielding the cigarette like a knife against her arm. “Your skin, or your clothes?” I pointed the tip at the polyester of her blue blouse. At the finality of my outburst, I chose her pale wrist as the target. Elena gasped instead of screaming. I spent two weeks in juvenile detention, was expelled and transferred to another school. As I was recalling this savory memory, a psychiatrist came to evaluate me and she concluded I needed inpatient treatment in the psych ward on the upper level of the hospital. Once I was up there, I frequently threw thermonuclear fits in the blinding fluorescence streaming from the ceiling. They sent me to a place of higher security, a building as old as the 1950s called Astria State Hospital. Located in Astria, Washington, a small country town full of orchards and horses.

Over the course of the next two weeks, I covered my bedroom window with collages and childish colored pencil drawings, one of which was a depiction of me rising above three pastel-colored buildings and into the sky. I wore a black dress and had no legs. Often, I stared up at the sky during cigarette breaks and felt like falling to one of the hollow black holes in outer space, but I was bound by the limitations of earth. My heart felt like hellfire.

“Mildred Swain should burn with fire,” said a patient with wild hair, pointing at me and taking a puff of his cigarette. I could only wonder how he knew my last name, let alone was he was saying this. I had been as friendly as possible since I was admitted into the hospital. As I lay in bed one night, a litany of insults came from both patients and staff passing by the door. They called me ugly, weak and deserving of death. I pulled the blanket over my head and refused to fight back. When I felt they were gone, I emerged from under the blanket, and saw her come in. The girl who looked exactly like me loomed, pale and spectral over my bed. She moved as though she were walking on water.

“Who are you?” I asked her.

“An extension of you,” she said. “You are doomed to be hated until you die. Humans are forever to be your plight. When you go home, they’ll talk about you on the sidewalk, in the park, in the classroom. All you can do is be strong and persevere.”

She went on talking until I fell asleep. When morning came, I felt groggy. The sunshine evaporated me. I felt like a puddle of snow melting beneath my blanket. Slowly, in the midst of the empty room, I willed myself to rise to the ceiling and become united with the camera I felt to be hidden in the light above. I watched myself from the top and there was my strange twin in the branches of the cherry tree outside my window, snapping my picture with a polaroid, the black eye of the lens like the eye of an observant spider.

2019

Stacey

In the dream, I am small enough to fit into a crawlspace. I cannot hide from my mother’s red wine in our barren living room that is as black as a power outage, as black as my rotten innocence. My mother picks me up and takes me to the car, says it’s time to go, I need help. She parks outside a stone clinic and leaves me inside. I cry out and am told to be silent by a stern receptionist. Two white coats hold me down and drag me to a white room with a thirty-something redhead in it. She has painted the word “borderline” on the wall next to an immaculate, gold-framed mirror. When we face it to see our reflections (mine child-like, hers much older), we are propelled from its shattering glass by a defiance of gravity. We coil up and writhe, possessed by demons. Satan lets us die together, which is a blessing compared to living in the hospital. I close my eyes one last time without seeing my mother. I only see the broken glass, the blood on the wall (bright as an ambulance light), the linoleum beneath my cheekbone. I am a dead husk of a human determined to haunt the city I was born in. Life grows black again. I don’t scream.

Marcelle

2012

Marcelle Trahern was raised by two cunts with Munchausen syndrome by proxy, a term derived from the original Munchausen syndrome itself. If one has Munchausen syndrome by proxy, it means a caregiver (in this case, the godmother of Marcelle), chooses to refrain from giving their charges the right health, supplements and nutrients to keep them alive. In fact, they make them worsen with sickness and degradation. Subtly, so the good doctor won’t notice they’re causing the illness for their charges. The first bitch had decided to poison her subtly instead. Marcelle’s godmother favored ipecac. In their small village, church was a mandatory service where all girls had to see the Lord Jesus Christ be praised or crucified on film. A montage of filmy sunlight and a golden cross shone from an array of manipulative Christian imagery, perceived on an overhead projector.

Marcelle went every Wednesday and Sunday in a grey stone building with elaborate brick arcs painted black outlining the stained glass windows. The broadcast room was like an insidious revelation opening up a nightmare to the eyes of sensitive Marcelle, without the abrasive steel to pry a pair of eyes open. Especially when the topic was eternal damnation or the crucifixion of Jesus. It was like a metaphorical film lobotomy. They just stayed peeled open, unable to shut or fall asleep for any reason. Nanny Cravat insisted she stay awake. She favored those antiquated neckbands.

The girls sat around her in stiff, ungraceful lines, backs upright or slouching depending on the girls’ preference to posture. Ms. Winifred Scarlet, who had been killing off children in her home for three years, took Marcelle in at eleven years old the year her mother died and Marcelle was never able to know the woman by heart in a way her memory could rely upon. Winifred was a registered foster mother and she was ailing. Marcelle killed her foster mother (and made the police and medical examiner rule the death as a suicide). She sang “Don’t Fear the Reaper” in her choir voice while spoon-feeding Winifred. “A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down,” Marcelle sang. She gagged on the Drano and no longer said the words Marcelle needed to hear: “You should be ashamed of yourself,” “You should be grateful,” “Why didn’t you try harder?” Winifred was involved in a canned-laughter filled television broadcast again for that last comment, a boring, banal comedy Winifred needed to have Marcelle watch with her before bed.

On March 24, a clear, shiny spring morning, Marcelle knew that she had no one to rely upon any better by the time the next foster mother came around to raise her. She was a distant harridan of a woman with a thin, pert mouth shut tight at church and open like a wrathful shrew to chastise Marcelle at home.

“See that window?” said Nanny Cravat, her second godmother: a malevolent, Puritan woman with brown hair in a frizz and vacant eyes.

“You’ll be lucky if God saves you when you fall out of it. It’s all shit. God’s for nothing. But I fear hell just as much as you do. All we can do is try to believe and see if God listens.“

In her dress made for church, the stiff lace a cascade of black and white. A knee-length skirt and pilgrim collar. Church uniform. The telepathy Marcelle heard: “devout truths”, “deep breaths,” “if you need to console yourself, use these coping skills.”

All the things Marcelle picked up on by reading minds that she could never express piled up in her head and she was crazy.

“Marcelle may be crazy,” said a soft-voiced man about to make an assumption based on what he saw in elaborate artwork in a journal: a drawing in Bic pen, of a realistic-looking Nanny Cravat swallowing a spoonful of something, reminding him of milk poisoning and a scary story his mom sometimes read to him at night in his portentous childhood. Marcelle’s self-portrait was accurate. She overheard the bell ringing in the distance beyond her thoughts of his voice by the cathedral bells that rang with worship, clanging vehemently. When Marcelle got home after spring choir ended, she planned the Drano death. It was under the kitchen sink, meant to mingle with Nanny Cravat’s cup of milk.

“Nanny, I hope you enjoy your milk,”

“Come, have a sit-down,” said Nanny to Marcelle. She set the glass of milk in front of Nanny Cravat, who was wearing her red velvet blouse and white cravat.

“Put that milk on the table carefully. Don’t spill it.”

Time to die, Marcelle wished. Down the throat went that blue liquid permeating Nanny Cravat’s esophagus as she choked. The only number Marcelle knew to call wasn’t an option, and she had to make her own way in the world feeling like humans weren’t worth anything and we’re all just partially alien. Meretricious, cheap people.

Marcelle wanted to die in outer space. She left the raw death and agony of Nanny Cravat slumped over on the table after she choked. Marcelle became the third eye, the third shrew, the ultimate survivor of destiny and doom.

June

2012

My lucidity died in the house I grew up in. I was raised in an arcane Hitchcockian mansion with a cupola. There were no servants due to my guardian, Scarlett Freeland’s, illicit exploitation, and her fear of it being discovered. Therefore, she let everything collect dust. Her mansion was tall and monumental. It reminded me of a Halloween sticker decoration one puts on a windowpane. On our street, Cupola Avenue, named for the cupolas on each house, I suffered many seasons of violent turmoil at the hands of Scarlett. She owned a video camera that she balanced on top of a tripod and told me it was my “surveillance.”

On several occasions, since the age of thirteen, I was raped by a multitude of strange men that Scarlett invited inside. She would put 80s hair metal on the stereo while they raped me and she sat in a red armchair, smoking numerous cigarettes. Sometimes, I wouldn’t get raped and instead it would be my deed, according to every person in the room, to kill a person in front of me. I’ve killed 37 people in Scarlett’s house, each one dissolved with acid in the cupola on film, and killed on film as well, before being doused with acid. Each time this event happened, it was recorded and burned onto a disc to be viewed on Scarlett’s TV.

There were only two other houses on Cupola Avenue: the Tarringtons’ house and the Miltons’ house. Clyde Tarrington lived in a two-story house painted white with black shutters. He lived there with his daughter, Blithe. On their front door was a poster of a symbol that held a cryptic enchantment for me: a cross with an hourglass in the center of it. It always reminded me of their time running out. I had wanted to kill Blithe for so many years. I felt her to be prettier than me with her lustrous black hair and piercing green eyes. She always loved to remind me of how I would have been killed by my twin sister, Adele, had she lived. Adele was called the alpha and I was, mentally, the omega. On a rainy day when lightning split the sky into slices, Adele and me were playing dress-up with red velvet gowns and silver high heels. We were twelve. I convinced her into a “baptism,” holding her head underwater. My newfound strength prevailed and she soon ceased to breathe.

When Scarlett found out, she didn’t seem to care. Neither did the rest of the neighborhood; they were always killing people. We melted her body into the floor of the cupola with acid.

My name used to be Lillian Freeland, but once my twin was dead, I uncontrollably became someone named June. She came to me, like a doppelganger, looking exactly like me, but bearing no evil intentions.

“I am here, and I am not leaving you,” June told me. I regret killing Adele despite her greater knowledge of schoolwork. We were both homeschooled and Scarlett never told us what she did for a living. I learned later on that she worked for the federal government.

My liberation from Scarlett’s persistent and unyielding abuse came on the day of my eighteenth birthday, April 17. After she made me read Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott” to two men, who raped me when I was done, and when they had left, I waited for Scarlett to go upstairs and watch one of her movies. I sauntered to the garage and snatched an axe, the same one Scarlett used in satanic rituals when she was young. I made the predatory ascent up the stairs and into her bedroom. Then, as though she were a chopping block and as though her sanguine bloodflow was sacred, I swung the axe down upon her skull. Hard. She was watching The Caretakers, a black and white movie about women in group therapy. She fell to the side, writhing in pain. I went to the front of the chair and brought the axe down upon her back until her spinal cord was severed and her tenebrous heart gave out. I left her there and ran back downstairs, screaming the whole way.

Next, I opened Scarlett’s freezer and grabbed a carton of Marlboro 100’s, lit one, and burned the subtle swastikas hidden in the patterns of an Oriental rug. I gazed around me, took in the contents of the living room: the Kit-Kat clock shaped like a black cat with bulging eyes, the white topaz chandelier, the gutted hearth, the period furniture. I decided it was time to leave my home behind forever. I grabbed a pink backpack and shoved the carton of cigarettes inside, along with a drawer full of working Bic lighters. I threw in three shirts, six pairs of socks, six pairs of underwear, two pairs of pants, a journal, a pen, and a gun. I topped off the luggage with some rubber vampire teeth I endeavored to save for a malevolent purpose: murdering Blithe Tarrington.

I put my hand on the gun as I walked outside, holding it securely within the large pocket of my forest green trench coat. To my knowledge, the Miltons across the street were always killing people (Scarlett always said so.), but I didn’t know how they felt about Blithe. I didn’t care. I rang the doorbell, staring down the cross and hourglass on the door’s poster. Luckily, Blithe answered the door. I pulled out the gun, and her face became as stricken as one being lashed with a switch.

“Get inside,” I gnashed, pushing her onto the floor and slamming the door behind me. “And don’t get up. Don’t even talk.”

She talked anyway. “Lillian, please don’t kill me. You don’t have to - “

“But I want to, and I can, and I will kill you and nothing will ever be able to resurrect you!”

“What’s going on with that Freeland bitch? Why is she in my house?” screamed Clyde, who had just descended the stairs. I shot him in the head, and he slumped over, instantaneously dead.

“You’ve been killing people in this house for years, and it’s time to go!” I vociferated over her harrowed wailing. “Now, put these in.” I unzipped my backpack and handed her the rubber vampire teeth.

She stared at me, wide-eyed with feral fear. She did nothing. She said nothing.

“Your mouth, dummy. Put them in your mouth.”

I handed her the teeth, and she took them from me and placed them over her own toothpaste commercial-white teeth.

“You look the very caricature of Halloween,” I said, laughing as I blew out her brains. The remains flew against the wall and painted an inkblot test of blood smears everywhere. I walked into Blithe’s bedroom after I was sure she was dead, and saw a purple canopied bed, a bookshelf filled with many classic and contemporary novels, among them: the Bronte sisters, Oscar Wilde, Theodore Dreiser, Jane Austen, Anais Nin, D.H. Lawrence. I grabbed Nin’s House of Incest, Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray and Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, and left the house.

I didn’t make it very far. I was down the road not very far when I was arrested. I always feared them coming for me. I fell onto the asphalt, scabbing my knees and not feeling it. I denied what was happening. I muttered to myself incoherently.

“We know you killed some people, Lillian.”

“My name is June,” was all that I said before my mind shut off and I suddenly woke up, vegetative, in a jail cell.

Eventually, I was labelled not guilty by reason of insanity. The police found Scarlett’s recordings and the recordings that the Miltons and the Tarringtons made of their own killings when I told them about the neighborhood, and what Scarlett had done to me. One day, I will get out of the forensics services ward, where the criminally insane are housed. I have spent many nights here, remembering the death and ravaging, my hair coiling like Medusa’s on the pillow of the restraint bed, the leather straps leaving black bruises on my wrists. Every night, I pray to God and Jesus and all the saints that ever were that I’ll be forgiven for my killings, and be accepted into a realm I can call heaven.

My lucidity will live again, resurged.

2019

June and Marcelle &

Cathleen Carter

She led me to the house with the cupola

Where she stabbed me in the backyard

Blood flowed glowing red from my pale skin

Staining my white blouse

And my throat ached

I haunt the halls

And my voice resides within the walls

I’m a phantom floating through the inmates

Living in my killer’s group home

Eyes stare from the cupola

I don’t know who saw me die

I’m buried under a thorny bush

Bones hidden by woods and tiny baby teeth

She scattered

Covering my grave with evidence from her recent infanticides

She stabbed my baby

And cut me for giving birth

In her bed

My lover carved our initials in a tree

And we’ll always be in touch

I eat strawberries off a plate in his room

We hung a dreamcatcher to capture his nightmares

Of me being tortured by her ringed hands

Bag placed over my head

Cathleen Carter, the snuff film queen

(I have killed many)

Choking on film reel

Always having to be polite

In the morning light drinking tea

Deirdre, the killer, laced it with GHB

Putting me to sleep

Separated from my lover

Pillow soaked in warm tears

His tears and mine

We drink them in vials and kiss under stars

Soon he too will be a ghost

Swallowing pills on a blanket in the cemetery

Deirdre will find us and take our picture

Maybe she’ll capture my phantom on camera

With curiosity, Marcelle Trahern saw from the window Deirdre Carter and her niece, Cathleen, arguing. The infant was dead, that much Marcelle knew. Cathleen Carter had given birth to a baby girl now with stab wounds, lying in red and white rigor mortis in her crib with blood on the teddy bear, in the dolls’ hair and on the lampshade on the side table. Most of the inmates, as they were known due to the group home’s strict rules, were gone for the day at an event and June Freeland was downstairs. Deirdre Carter quickly took over June’s life after leaving her post as nurse at the asylum where June was housed. June was incompetent to stand trial, declared insane and sent away for many years. She had returned to Scarlett Freeland, her former guardian’s, mansion to live. It had been converted into a group home for women with trauma issues.

All thoughts of June vanished from Deirdre’s mind when the knife blade shone in the sun, an ominous metal glint that suddenly penetrated the naked pearl throat of Cathleen. She collapsed to the grass in the fenced-in backyard and as the earth was fresh from the rain, Deirdre found a shovel leaning against the toolshed and dug a fresh grave. Marcelle had never liked Cathleen much because she was always harping on the girls to follow the rules: don’t smoke dope, don’t invite boys over without permission, etc. She had gotten herself knocked up by Miles Sutherland, and Deirdre highly disapproved of him with his leather jacket and cigarettes. Marcelle only saw him once when he drove to pick up Cathleen for a date, his handsome face a silhouette in the dark window. Marcelle decided to keep quiet about the death. She watched Cathleen be tossed into the grave liked a broken doll. Deirdre had tied a plastic bag over her face and stabbed her in the chest. For ten minutes, Marcelle watched Deirdre extract Cathleen’s heart from her chest cavity, holding the dead, lifeless muscle in her palm, her calm blue eyes narrowed and focused on it like a witch in a black magic ritual. June suddenly appeared beside Marcelle.

“The bitch is finally dead,” Marcelle said, breaking her vow not to tell anyone. “What is she going to do with the heart?”

“I don’t know,” said June.

The girls, both in their twenties and too old for Cathleen’s trashy immaturity, watched with morbid fascination as Deirdre snapped a polaroid (after turning off the video camera)

of Cathleen’s corpse before throwing dirt back over her and packing it in. She laid stones over it and from her pocket, she took something white and scattered it over the grave. When she went back inside the house, Marcelle and June left the cupola to inspect what Deirdre had spilled. Six tiny teeth in the front yard, taken from a toddler’s mouth. A previous killing. When the cops led Deirdre away after June called them, June put on a nun habit and took over the house.

They heard Cathleen’s whispers of love for Miles and reassurances that Deirdre was gone. They buried her baby in an infant cemetery labeled merely “Infant Cemetery” in iron above a fancy gate bearing an entrance to the graveyard. June called the cops by her own policy, knowing hiding a murder is wrong.

“Marcelle, she’s a psycho, bats-in-the-head bitch and she could have come after us, too. It’s better that she’s gone.”

“I guess so,” said Marcelle, her mind on Nanny Cravat choking on her milk laced with Drano. Marcelle had fled the world of Christian broadcast rooms and the sex trade. While the cops dealt with Deirdre, she hid in her closet. Nanny Cravat had invited several men over to force themselves on her, and she was glad she couldn’t remember it in great detail. Dissociating was so divine. Girls wore meretricious makeup to school and church and their naked limbs stuck out from cheap, mall-bought miniskirts. Marcelle would have given them all Drano in a cup, too, if she knew how not to get caught.

But she was far from their bratty voices now, with June Freeland, Anika White and Marilyn Sanders to keep her company. In the meantime, the house became less of a group home and June began paying the monthly bills with Deirdre’s leftover income found stashed in a safe in her room. Marijuana smoke soon filled the rooms and the girls giggled at the enhanced cartoons on the television, making funny faces at the ceiling. Then, Cathleen appeared in the mirror behind them in her prom finery, staring sternly with her stab wound, The blood withdrawing and disappearing into the gash. Anika screamed. When the others asked what was wrong, Anika revealed what she saw.

“You’re too high,” Marilyn said, running a hand through her rainbow hair. But Cathleen stood behind them, strawberry juice the color of blood on her mouth, back when Miles contacted her spirit. She came when summoned and manifested herself in the flesh.

Cathleen

My baby is gone

In an infant coffin underground

I wear black to mourn her

And place flowers on her grave

Miles embraces me in the cemetery

Where we have sandwiches and milk

He marvels as the food disappears from the plate

And the milk drains from the thermos

He can see me fresh as daylight

A rose haloed in gold

I am fragile dust and fairy winds and gilded blond hair

They find him dead the next day

By the gravesite of his daughter

His lips blue from the pills

His hair plastered to his head

In the spring rain

His indolent heart gave out and from her prison, Deirdre laughed at the television giving news of Mile’s suicide and the note he’d left:

I’ve gone to be with Cathleen, who drew me into hear heart forever, and our daughter Melanie’s, too. Deirdre couldn’t kill my love, though she tried very hard.

I saw Deirdre from the corner where I stood, staring at ladies dressed in orange watch the television and play cards. Now that I’m dead, I can go anywhere I want to in the world. I’ve explored the moors of England and I’ve been to Alaska, the northern lights illuminating the night sky and I didn’t feel the cold nor the heat of Death Valley, California. I flew and touched the top of the Eiffel Tower.

“Anything can be done in death, it’s like magic is yours after you die,” I told Miles.

Down he went with me and they buried us side by side. We go into earth, then Summerland, then back again. When I haunt the group home, I conjure nightmares for the girls who tormented me, especially June Freeland who told me I looked dressed as gaudily as she had for one of the snuff films her guardian she murdered made her do. I know many murderers: the worst of them being June and Marcelle. I read the evidence of Marcelle’s Drano murders in her journal and her revelations of sex with strange men who came when called by Nanny Cravat, Marcelle’s godmother. But something told me not to be a hypocrite and tell on her. I never had a mother like these girls. She abandoned me on the doorstop of St. Xavier’s Orphanage and Deirdre, the nun (she was a devout Catholic before she moved on to work for the hospital) who knew her sister’s face and knowing I was her niece, took me in and after years of her impossible violence and nagging, I am finally set free and better off, even if by her hand.

The Ouija Board

“Miles committed suicide,” said Marilyn to Marcelle. “It’s on the news.”

“Oh,” said Marcelle. “I bet Cathleen’s ghost dragged him down with her. Anika keeps seeing her everywhere and is freaking out.”

Anika was fast asleep in her room, having taken a dose of Haldol to help the hallucinations.

“But you aren’t hallucinating,” Cathleen had insisted when she came to Anika late at night. Sometimes she wore a nun habit like June, who had taken to smearing on red lipstick and blaring Courtney Love from the stereo. Sometimes, she sang opera with a crucifix dangling around her neck, and quite good. The girls loved listening to her sing her songs of lovers who lost their loved ones like Miles and Greek tragedies where Persephone became trapped for six months in Hades with the Lord of the Underworld and six months on earth. Gods and monsters fighting their battles to the death. The Ouija board they used to summon Cathleen worked. Anika revealed the messages to them of their conversation she heard in her head. Anika directed the board marker’s movement in their hands.

“Cathleen, where are you?” Anika asked, finally facing her fear of the unknown.

“In Summerland, with Miles,” was the reply.

Anika spelled it on the board and all were shocked.

“I knew it was real, like heaven but better than clouds and angels playing harps, waiting at the gates to judge you,” Anika said. “In Summerland there is no judgment, or pain or violence. Just love, laughter and magic. I learned all about the theory of the afterlife in Summerland from a Wiccan book I found in the used bookstore downtown.”

“Are you sure it isn’t fake, Anika?” Asked June, who doubted the paranormal.

“I heard her voice, just the way it was when she was alive!” Anika stormed out of the room, offended by June’s remark. The Ouija board remained still. Out of all of the girls, Cathleen found Anika most vulnerable to her presence. Cathleen enjoyed scaring them a little. But she never spoke to June, who ascended the staircase with a boy from the nearby prep school, holding a candelabra and smoking a Marlboro cigarette. Marilyn played 20 Questions with Anika in their room and listened to her account of what she read in Marcelle’s journal.

“I saw too,” said Cathleen. “She sent people to their death same as insane June. I wonder what sort of terrorism Deirdre endured at a young age.”

“Probably witnessed something violent, or had no parents like you. I didn’t,” said Marcelle, who stood behind them listening and hearing Cathleen’s voice just like Anika.

Deirdre

High on a precious hill stands my home for abandoned, unstable girls.

I can’t return to it.

I’m in prison garb in the women’s prison surrounded by barbed wire and a river runs past, saturated in pollutants spilled by the nearby plants and factories.

I used to be a nun, then a nurse, mercy-killing the elderly, smothering infants and pretending they died of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome), immune to the wails of inconsolable parents informed by the doctor in the corridor.

I spent my early childhood in a ramshackle farmhouse in Louisiana, smothered by my mother and her hot back coffee thrown in my face. How her knives danced before my eyes. My baby brother died when I was fourteen. I hated babies. My mother told me to kill it, it was a sickly, weak little boy and wouldn’t last the year. I fed him to a hungry feral cat and watched the skin like ribbon over her bones from the cat’s carnivorous snacking. My mother, a widow always in grey with shadows under her eyes the color of her sweater, watched the baby’s decomposition.

I felt an affinity for June the most out of all the girls in my home. We had killed and had bad mothers who abused our bodies and sucked our souls out through crazy straws, leaving us bereft and insane. I couldn’t plead insanity the way June could, though.

I wish I were out of this stale air and away from these women, with their murderous stairs and rancid shouting, their fights that lead them to solitary. I won’t put a hand on these women. I won’t go to solitary.

June

I murdered this whole neighborhood besides Clinton and Mary Milton and their twin son and daughter. The parents went to prison for murder, and the kids live somewhere else now. The house is vacant. I never enjoyed what Scarlett made me do. They housed me in an asylum, where I spent the majority of my time in restraints staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes and Medusa coils in my hair that snarled on the pillow.

I dreamt of black widows biting me and in my dreams, Deirdre, who worked there at the time as a psychiatric nurse, didn’t tend to my bites that reddened on my hand. When I wasn’t dreaming, Deirdre liked me. Now she’s in prison where she belongs. I no longer handle nitric acid or kill people or endure stiff baseball bats tearing open my cunt.

Scarlett watched my defiling from behind the camera, recording the rapes in the dark room. I was smothered in her cellar and remembered it, screaming, spitting out the pills, refusing to take them. Deirdre heard my whole story, decided to move into the old Freeland estate and take over as group home director. I moved out of my trailer to stay there. It’s weird I should live here after killing someone here. I used to hallucinate Blithe, who I shot and killed, but I don’t see her lately. I dismiss Anika despite my own experience. Sometimes, the ghost of Cathleen gets old as a topic and I think all should remember the living and forget the dead that can’t reach us, gone to nether realms.

But what if she was there? What if she can reach us?

I’ll never know. One day I’ll be a ghost myself. I have faith that there is something prettier to see than this insidious earth after our bodies run out of time and our souls transcend.

There must be something better than what I had, what Marcelle had, what Cathleen had, what all of us had.

I think I just heard a voice. Is it the still, small voice of God, or is it a spirit coming from some divine region, holy or unholy?

I am a combined angel and demon. I want to drink absinthe and sleep with that voice.

Mathilde

2019

I stood in the calm, obsidian woods and gained my frail balance against a ramshackle cabin. Wolves dashed out of the shadows, ignoring me and veering towards a carcass in a wildflower-bordered clearing. I was pretty certain it was human. Then I saw a ski-masked perpetrator, blood channeling from his disguise. He offered me a bouquet of purple irises in his scathed left hand. In the shunning woods, feeling like the ghost of someone gone, I tore my lavender dress on a nail in the cabin’s wood. I declined the masked monster’s offer. Suddenly, I was pulled inside by someone behind the front door. I cried out, closed my eyes and could hear the door shut and bolt. Once the lightbulb on the ceiling flickered on, I saw my rescuer’s face like a sanctified revelation. The kindest pair of dark eyes I had ever seen. My speech failed me but his did not.

He told me, “Nothing will kill your equilibrium while I’m here. You no longer have to claw at wooden walls are cry into a pillowcase. Notice that soon the sun will come up and figuratively, I’ll give you a pair of rose-colored glasses to view the world through. A better world than this.”

“I-“ I began.

“I love you,” he said.

Of course, he was handsome and I coveted him highly. He pressed his perfect mouth on mine and carried me to bed. After the sex and the sun-glow, he told me he’d be my dreamcatcher, and if not the destroyer of my enemies, the bane of them. The unidentified mask never showed up again. We soon left the cabin to live in a castle. He taught me to love instead of maim, to be tender instead of destructive. I learned to give myself away to a man created by the sparks of imagination itself.

I ease myself out of bed after this dream and take another hit of glass. Something to make the world glitter with white ice and a way to make the hell inside freeze over. I see him blur on every bridge, every riverbed, every highway. There is no hallucination more powerful than him. Nothing will perforate me and make me stop haunting this city. Nothing will make me bleed out onto the sidewalk because I am too fast for the blade, the bullet. The smoke flows through the open room and hits the sun. I wake to sirens piercing the quiet. I’m the cause of them but I know their glow won’t alight on me and swallow me up.

#novella #mine #finally edited it #literature #dark #morbid #am proud of this

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dilliebar · 5 years ago

Text

Flower

Hey guys, so I decided to write a lil fanfic loosely based off of the new Ellie/Dina screencap because it’s adorable and we stan a pair of cute lesbians. I’ve written fanfiction before but not for The Last of Us or on AO3 so bear with me.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23464600

Ellie’s hand wrapped around the nearly-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol. It wasn’t much, and medical supplies were getting harder and harder to come by on patrol, but Dina was worth it. Even if Ellie had been able to clean her bullet wound with 100% alcohol and sacrifice a limb to a witchdoctor or some shit, she would still insist on checking and cleaning every ten minutes and sticking to Dina’s hip, despite the shorter girl’s protest.

Ellie closed the medicine cabinet and took a moment to study her own wounds in the mirror. She hadn’t come out nearly as beaten up as Dina did, with barely much more than a scratch on the right side of her face. Part of her almost felt guilty for it. She’d always felt a responsibility to look after her. Maybe if she hadn’t let her and Dina get separated, everything would have been fine. Maybe if she looked a little more carefully when opening that basement door, she wouldn’t have gotten shot.

But all of that was over now, and Ellie was going to do all she could to make it up to her.

She exited the bathroom and made her way down the hall, knocking lightly on the bedroom door of Dina’s home and letting herself in. Ellie had barely managed to lug them both back to Jackson the day before, and since then, Dina hadn’t left the bed. Her face fell a bit as she entered, the sight of Dina still laying under the covers, eyes open, staring into nothingness. The plate of food that sat on her bedside table sat untouched.

Ellie sat herself criss-cross on the left side of the bed facing Dina, though her eyes didn’t look up.

“Can I see?” she asked, placing a hand on the edge of the covers and moving them down.

Dina turned over on her back in response, pulling up her peach-colored shirt up over her belly to reveal her bandaged abdomen. Ellie lifted the dressings to get a closer look, and as she expected, the stitches were doing their job and it looked to be healing as best as it could be. Still, she dabbed some of the alcohol on an old cotton towel and pressed it against the wound, cleaning it to the best of her ability. When she was done she pulled down Dina’s shirt, replaced the covers, and went to move off of the bed, but felt a soft hand grab around her tattooed arm.

Ellie looked back down at the girl, who had shifted her absent stare to look up at her in a pleading manner.

“Please stay.”

She nodded and didn’t hesitate to lay next to Dina, pulling the covers over her own body and rolling onto her side. Their gazes locked, and Ellie couldn’t help but notice the tinge of pain that rested in the pools of those deep brown eyes. She had never seen her best friend this hurt before, both physically and emotionally.

A brush with death will do that to you.

In that single thought Ellie realized just how close she had come to losing Dina. She thought she had known when it was happening. She thought she had known just after. She thought she had known on the ride home. But in reality, she only knew just how much she would lose in this moment. She would miss the smiles, the sound of her voice, the snarky comments, and rare moments like the dance that only came once-in-a-lifetime. Instead all she’d have of her was the blood that stained her hands and traumatic memories of a day that never should’ve come, and if that’s how she felt, she couldn’t even imagine what was going through the other girl’s head.

“Ellie?”

She snapped out of her thoughts and looked back to the now-teary-eyed girl that lay only a few inches from her.

“Yeah?”

Dina took Ellie’s hand and held it between her own. She brushed her thumbs over her rough skin, feeling it as if she’d never feel it again. Her eyes averted the green-eyed-girl’s gaze.

“Promise me you’ll never leave.”

Her voice cracked mid-sentence, which tore Ellie’s heart in two. A tear fell from Dina’s eye and she instinctively reached her free hand up to wipe it away, lightly cupping her face in an attempt to comfort the girl. Their eyes met again.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

A knock on the bedroom door interrupted their intimate moment.

“Hey kiddo, s’me.” Joel’s voice called from the hallway.

Ellie pulled back from their embrace and stood to open the door. She took a moment to straighten her clothes and brush stray locks of hair out of her face.

“Hey.” she greeted, opening the door a couple inches. Joel stood there in a dark green button-up, guitar strung across his back. Ellie had caught up with him briefly at the gate when they rolled in, Dina hanging over her shoulder, but she hadn’t stuck around long enough to tell him the whole story. Word must’ve gotten around.

“Hey, uh, heard what happened,” he cleared his throat and gestured to the girl in bed, “she alright?”

Ellie sighed, unsure of the real answer.

“The wound is healing fine,” she replied, then pointing at the guitar strung across Joel’s back, “you brought your guitar?”

He nodded, swinging the strap over his head, “Thought it might cheer ‘er up a bit.”

Ellie nodded in response, and opened the door further to let him in. Dina loved guitar with a passion. Not playing it, but she always managed to coax Ellie into playing for her any time they were together, or at least whenever a guitar was available. She wasn’t even that good, but the way Dina rested her head on the taller girl’s shoulder as she plucked away at the worn strings always convinced her otherwise.

Joel pulled up an old, dusty chair from the corner of the room up to the side of the bed. Dina sat up, and Ellie lay beside her, placing a loving arm around her shoulder as Joel placed his fingers delicately on the fretted neck of the guitar.

“Whaddya wanna hear, Dee?”

She thought about it for a minute, brushing her soft fingers against Ellie’s calloused hand that rested on her shoulder.

“The one named after that flower?”

Joel smiled, “I think El sure knows that one a lil’ better than I do,” he placed his fingers, “but that’ll do.”

The song was called “Hey There Delilah”, and Ellie and Dina had found it on vinyl in an old bookstore about a year ago. From the moment they sat criss-crossed in her bedroom, listening to the black disc as it spun round and round, Dina fell in love with it, and Ellie had spent weeks memorizing chords and calloussing her fingers just so she could replicate the tune. Ever since, Dina called it “the flower song”, and Ellie wouldn’t normally have cared much for it if it didn’t mean so much to her best friend. Now it was her favorite, too.

Joel began plucking away to the intro, which was pretty simple compared to previous songs they’d found. It was loving, but somber. Sweet, but bitter. It was something that seemed to define their relationship as a whole.

Just as he opened his mouth to sing the first lyrics, he stopped playing, and looked up.

“Ellie, wanna be my lead?”

Ellie smiled in disbelief, “Uh, no I think I’m good,” she laughed. Joel sighed and went to keep on playing.

“Aw, El,” Dina looked up at her, “C’mon, please? I’ve never heard you sing.”

Ellie looked at Joel, expecting his support. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

“The lady’s never heard ya sing, El.”

She hesitated for a moment, checking to make sure that they were being serious and that they were actually going to make her do this. But alas, the eyes in the room remained locked on her, awaiting her answer, and those dark browns refused to let up.

“...Alright, play the fuckin’ song.” she said playfully.

Dina smiled and curled into Ellie’s chest as Joel started the song up again. Normally, it would take her a minute to start. The soap bottles in her shower were enough of an audience for her. But if it would make Dina happy, especially right now, she couldn’t resist.

The words flowing out of her mouth almost seemed to be her own. She had spent so long keeping her feelings a secret that the past few days had felt like a dream, and as of the day before, she wished it was. This song was always a way for her to express what she couldn’t tell the girl leaning against her, but in reality, she knew how Ellie felt all along, and now it was just a reminder.

She thought of the promise she had made not fifteen minutes before. It was right then when she began to wonder whether or not she could keep it. The anger towards those men still boiled in her veins, and at this point, she would do anything in her power to make sure they would never come anywhere near Dina or Jackson ever again. There was only one way to do that, though.

She’d have to kill them.

Before Ellie knew it, the music had stopped, and Joel had swung his guitar over his back once again.

“Think she’s asleep,” He nodded towards Dina, voice slightly above a whisper.

She looked down at the dark-haired girl whose head rested against her chest. Sure enough, her eyes were closed and only a peaceful exhale escaped from her lips.

“I reckon you’re stayin’ here tonight?”

She nodded, pulling the blanket back over Dina and tucking it into her sides. Joel nodded at the response, flicking the lightswitch off as he let himself out.

Ellie studied the calm features of Dina below her and brushed a stray hair out of her face and behind her ear.

How could anyone hurt something so beautiful?

She pondered the question over and over again in her mind. Dina wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less anything else, unless it were already dead like those clicking motherfuckers on the other side of the gate. Her heart was too pure for someone who grew up in this kind of screwed up world. She didn’t deserve it. No one who loved like her did.

Though her mind was racing, she settled into the bed and held Dina as tight as she could without hurting her, making sure that even if death himself came to take her away, he’d have to pry her from her cold, dead arms.

Before she fell asleep, she made one final decision.

I’m gonna find, and I’m gonna kill, every last one of them.

#the last of us #the last of us part 2 #the last of us part two #Dillie #Ellie Williams #tlou ellie #ellie x dina #dina and ellie #ellie and dina #tlou dina #tlou #tlou2 #tlou ii #dina x ellie

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fallout4treasures · 5 years ago

Text

What’s Worth Fighting For - Ch 1

“Then why are you going?” Ellie asked, standing and following me as I headed towards the door.

“I need his help. And he’s not doing anyone any good gone.”

“You must be pretty desperate. It’s not often Nick can’t save himself.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

Wayfaring Stranger - Johnny Cash

You’re looking for a man. He can help you. But he ain’t gonna be the man you expect. I’m ashamed to say my fear and rage was leading me back then. Giving an old lady chems seemed so small compared to what I was looking for. Her visions were all I had to go on, and nothing was more important than finding Shaun. I’ve tried to make myself regret it, to let the guilt weigh on me, but I can’t. It led me to the truth. More importantly, it led me to Nick.

I always thought this story started in the Vault. With the death of my old self, and everything I knew. Watching my world, along with the people in it, disappear in a blink of an eye had sparked enough vengeance in me to fuel a war. It should have been enough to be the main plot. Not that it was small, but I guess I’m a sucker for a nice guy with a broken soul. Either way, it turns out this story actually starts at the ballpark. But you should know before you start, in case you hadn't picked up on it already, this was never supposed to be a love story.

The crash of glass filled my ears, pulling me from my deep sleep and sending me sitting straight up. I grabbed my gun from the nightstand and had it readied on the door, taking short and shallow breaths as my brain caught up to my actions. My heart thumped in my ears, with sweat already building at my brow. The shatter was followed by boisterous yelling coated in accents too thick and angry for me to decipher through the wall, but from what I could tell it was only the innkeeper brothers quarrelling.

The air I was holding in my lungs released as did the tension in myself. I let the firearm lay in my lap as I held my face in my hands, counting the seconds as my breathing brought my pulse back down to a regular rate.

I was still grateful the shock woke me. The images from my nightmares were quickly blurring together to the point that they were unrecognizable. If I had to experience them while I slept, at least I couldn’t remember them when I woke up.

My shoulders refused to relax as I rolled out of bed. In fact, my whole body ached from my journey the night before. I should have taken the nearly day’s walk from Sanctuary to Boston more seriously. But it wasn’t the first time I did something stupidly impulsive for the sake of the mission. Certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Ready to leave the musty smell of my rented room behind me, I hoisted my leather armor over my shoulders and fumbled with the buckles as my sweaty fingers continued to tremble. It must have taken me five full minutes to get everything strapped on. And once it was I started to sweat even more, the leather feeling as if it was constricting around me.

Everything about this world, and the anxieties it stirred in me, felt so foreign. It had only been a handful of days since I had unfroze, yet it felt like I had lived weeks in this wasteland already. Time had its own mind here, with every moment full of either danger or needed rest. There was no telling how it would move next.

My days used to start so slow and sweet. Usually with Nate’s warm voice telling me that Shaun was crying. He’d bring him in from the nursery and we’d snuggle around him in bed. Just staring as our son babbled and cooed at us. Listening to the radio, sipping at the coffee on the nightstand. The sun would start to rise and we’d get up with it.

I wish I had wanted it more then. I wish we had begged the sun to stay low just a bit longer. To keep the moment stretched on, and our son beside us. Even if just for a little while. Safe, warm, perfect.

The bittersweet memories stung my chest, causing tears to well up. I quickly pushed them out of my head, but was still left a tired, jittery mess. Unfortunately, this was my morning routine. Battling the visions mixed from the past, present, and my nightmares. At this point, it seemed only one thing could calm my nerves.

“Ah, Viv! Our newest patron. You finally woke up.” The bartender bellowed out with a laugh the moment he saw me dragging myself from the hall of rooms to the bar.

“Good morning, Vadim.” I offered him half a smile as my arms fell to the counter.

“I am sorry about the fighting. My brother and I don’t always see eye to eye… Eh, are you okay? You're as white as a sheet.”

“I’m fine.” I waved him off before pressing my eyes into my palms. “Just looking for something strong.”

“No problem, what’s your drink?”

“Bourbon.” With a stiff nod he grabbed the shot glass from underneath the bar and the liquor with it. The quiet splash of brown liquid made crave the drink even more. I snatched it from its surface and threw it back without bothering to taste it. My face twisted as it burned the whole way down, but the warmth quickly took over and calmed my nerves. “Thanks.” I pulled out the small bunch of caps I had in my front pocket and counted out the payment, plus a couple extra for him.

“Will you be back tonight?” Vadim asked, pocketing the caps.

“Depends on how my day goes.” I gave him a short wave before leaving the grimey, makeshift inn.

The Diamond City I was walking through that morning was much different than the night before. It reminded me of the last ball game we went to. It was right before Shaun was born and Nate surprised me with tickets right behind home plate. Not too far from where I was standing actually, just two hundred years earlier. Who knew a baseball field was big enough for a whole city? If you could call it a city. Smashing a few dozen or so metal shacks inside a ballpark wouldn’t have fit my qualifications before we went under. But so far this was the closest thing I had seen that felt like home. The houses and businesses formed a bull’s eye around the stadium with the Power Noodles bar dotting the center. The Dugout Inn where I was staying was tucked away in an alley towards the city gates and to start exploring I ventured back toward where I had started last night.

“Read all about it! Institute replaces people with machines! Are you next?” A young girl with short, wriley, dark hair announced from her podium. “Hey lady!" Her short arms wildly waved me over, her long skirt flouncing a bit around her pants as she bounced. "You're new, right? All newcomers get their first issue free." She extended the flyer out to me.

"How could you tell?"

"My sister told me to look out for a doe eyed misfit.”

“I am not doe eyed.” I huffed, taking the flyer. I made a face at the girl as she smirked at me. “I’m guessing you’re Piper’s little sister?”

“Most people call me Nat.”

"Most people call me Viv…” I let my eyes fall to the paper, wandering the article aimlessly. It started to catch my attention when a name stuck out to me. “What's the Institute?” I asked her.

“You don’t know about the Institute? Oh, man... ” She rolled her eyes at me. I narrowed mine in return at her. “They snatch people up and replace you with robots." She sighed.

“Do people disappear a lot?”

“How would I know? They look just like us.” She retorted with an eyeroll. I let out a breath, trying to keep my patience.

“You’re a smart kid. I’m sure you know someone who does know.” She pondered this for a moment before shrugging her shoulders.

“I guess, you’d have to ask the detective, Mr. Valentine. He’s the only one to go to if someone’s gone missing."

“Oh yeah? Where’s he at?”

“Probably his office. It’s down that alley. There’s a sign at the end that shows the way.”

“Hey, thanks kid.”

“Remember what I said about the Institute! You can’t trust anyone.” She called after me as I walked. I waved goodbye and heard Nat muttering under her breath as I walked away. “Give her ten days… max.” I couldn’t help but laugh at this. She gave me three more days than I had given myself.

I followed her directions to the agency, quickly finding the glowing detective sign pointing me to the covered alleyway. Even in the daylight the pink neon ‘Valentine Detective Agency’ sign seemed like it was the only thing lighting the way. A heart shot by an arrow glowed behind the lettering with another arrow pointing towards the dark and narrow corridor leading towards the entrance. Passing the light, I couldn’t help but hear the fortune teller’s words in my mind.

You find that heart that's gonna lead you to your boy. Oh, it's... it's bright. So bright against the dark alleys it walks. Maybe feeding that crazy old lady drugs was worth it after all. I should have written everything she said down, I thought to myself.

The metal door creaked open, and I was sure I would have alerted anyone inside. It was a simple box-y metal and concrete office, but was filled completely with files, papers, and other miscellaneous items that I could only guess were clues to cases. Off to the right, behind me, was a short hall that led to what I assumed were living quarters. Despite the cold look it gave, the agency felt warm and inviting. Across the room young lady in a flowy dress and dark jacket was rifling through files, completely oblivious to me intruding.

“The bills… Oh, forget the bills.” She sighed, mournfully muttering to herself. I decided to make my presence known, and finished walking inside, closing the door with a light slam. I figured I would have startled her but she kept her back towards me, continuing away with her work.

“Hello?” I finally spoke up.

“We're closed.” She told me over her shoulder. My eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

"I don't want to be rude but is Mr. Valentine here? It’s important."

"I’m sorry, the detective's gone." My heart felt like it missed a beat. I couldn’t have gone all this way to be led to a dead end.

"Gone? Gone where?" I asked. She turned to face me, her dress flouncing around her legs. "He was working a case. Skinny Malone's gang kidnapped a young woman and he tracked them down to an old subway station. I told him that it didn't feel right. But he just smiled and walked out like he always does… always did.” As sad as she sounded I couldn’t help but let out a silent sigh of relief. As long as he was alive he could help me find Shaun. It was just a matter of getting to him.

“Couldn’t he still come back?”

“He’s gotten himself into trouble before, but he’s never been gone this long. I never thought the day would actually come where he didn’t come back.”

“No one’s tried to get him?” I asked.

“Who do you send to find the man who finds everyone else?” She walked over to the desk in front of me and sat down in the armchair. Her face was fallen with defeat. I let out a long sigh, realizing I was about to make another stupid, and possibly fatal, decision.

“What’s your name?” I asked her, pulling the bag off my back. I dug around, counting my ammo boxes. After a quick stop at the gun stand in the market I would be set.

“Ellie.” She dried her tears, quickly composing herself.

“Where did you say he went, Ellie?”

“Park Street Station, it’s an old pre-war ruin. Skinny and his gang took it over.”

“Okay, great. I actually remember where that is.” I flung the bag back on my shoulder.

“You’re not actually going after him.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No, you just... you don’t strike me as the fighting type.”

“I’m not really.”

“Then why are you going?” Ellie asked, standing and following me as I headed towards the door.

“I need his help. And he’s not doing anyone any good gone.”

“You must be pretty desperate. It’s not often Nick can’t save himself.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

My legs were on fire by the time I had reached the Boston common. I had been able to get away with only running across some ghouls and a few rogue raiders before reaching this point, but I was still high on my guard.

Plywood signs along the metal fencing warned me not to wander inside the common’s park. Lucky for me, the hub was just on the edge and no where near the center. The buzz of anxiety kept me on my toes as I made one last mad dash for the station’s doors. The pops and cracks of battle echoed in the distance before they were muted by the heavy metal door shutting behind me. I would usually find this comforting, but there was plenty of danger waiting for me deeper underground.

The temperature fell as I descended down the broken escalator. I could hear talking coming from the next room. I hid behind the doorway, listening in and trying to get an idea of what I was dealing with.

“He’s weak, I’m tellin’ ya. That detective comes snooping around, and what does he do? Just keeps him locked up. He don’t even got the balls to ice some nobody.”

“Keep that shit to yourself. His new girl hears ya and she’ll start swinging that bat of hers until we don’t have no face left.” I could hear them walking and talking through the nearly empty lobby. A few more were lingering around. I didn’t think I would be able to shoot it out. I figured it was time to improvise.

I pulled my pack around to rifle through the junk I had collected until I found a ragged stuffed bunny that I had found in Concord. It was hardly big enough, but it would work. I pulled the seam that ran down its back apart and tossed the stuffing onto the aged tile until it’s torso was hollow. The empty cavity ended up being the perfect bed for a grenade. There was barely enough room to cover the explosive with some of the fluff to seal it in with only the pin being visible. I gave myself a nod of satisfaction. It would do.

I grabbed a couple of caps from my pocket and took a short peak around the corner to get a look. Most of the men were dressed in sharp suits, and some even completed the ensemble with a worn fedora. Most of them carried guns longer than my arm, and probably a lot more experience than I did.

The first cap was grasped in my hand, ready to fly. The metal clanged against the tile. I patiently listened as footsteps approached it. Another toss and the other cap rattle nearby the other.

“H-hey, check this out! Caps keep falling from the ceiling.” One of them called to the others. I was relieved to hear the other footsteps lumber over to the commotion.

“What the hell are you talking about?” My heart raced as they babbled on. My fingers sweated over the circle pin, waiting for the right moment to pull.

“They keep dropping down! Two of them! Look!”

“You’re hitting the chems too hard, bud.” A different voice chimed in.

“I haven’t even had that much! I’m serious!” The grenade clicked after losing its pin. One last good toss and I heard the soft thud of the toy. I covered my ears and braced myself behind the wall.

“What the-” BOOM!

It felt like minutes before I moved. I waited and waited for some sort of response or movement but nothing came. Slowly I stood and entered the now destroyed terminal. The air was heavy with the smell of blood and explosives. Like some sort of crude firework. There wasn’t much that could be recognized, other than the occasional burned cap. I figured it would still spend as I went around collecting them. I came upon the blue scrap of the bunny’s ear, left charred and frayed as I finished up.

“Thanks for your sacrifice, little buddy.” I gave it a small solute before moving deeper into the station.

I wasn’t nearly as lucky down by the tracks. I had to carefully sidestep a few mines as I made my way down. I stopped once the open area became visible. There were around a dozen or so triggermen. I had to be fast, precise, and alert. All things I did not feel confident in. My desperation had led me this far, though. Who’s to say it would fail me now?

I pulled out my pistol, checking the ammo before aiming directly at the back of their head. My finger trembled over the trigger, unable to let go of the fact that this would be the first gunfight that was initiated by me. I gave myself a moment to focus, taking slow breaths to balance my hand. Finally, I pulled the trigger. The first man flopped to the floor with the bang of my gun. Before someone had time to react I quickly aimed at the next one. My arm cuff was grazed as the other mobsters started to react. I ducked my head down as a swarm of bullets flew towards me. A break in the assault let me grab another glimpse of the tracks, and another head shot. It went on like that for awhile until the room finally fell quiet. The air held an unsettling feeling, keeping me frozen in my spot. I shut my eyes and waited for a noise. After several seconds there was a soft shuffle and footsteps. Just one set, but I could hear him closing in on me. He was creeping closer to the wall that protected me. I counted to three, held my breath, and popped up from behind the barrier. Before he could lift up his own gun my bullet flew through his chest.

I tried not to count the bodies as I passed them. I wasn’t close to ready to start processing the amount of damage I had caused. I followed the tracks, and was pleasantly surprised with the lack of security. I was able to stroll through the tunnels, their echoing silence bringing me some peace. Until I reached the last stop anyhow. I could see the tunnels had collapsed on the other side of the room. I slowed my pace and peaked around the tunnel opening. The coast seemed clear enough so I decided to continue on. I thought I was moving silently as I tried to sneak onto the platform.

“Hey! There’s someone here!” I heard a man call out from behind a pillar.

“Shit.” I muttered to myself.

“She’s here for the detective! Don’t let her-” With the pop of my gun I silenced the first goon, and the other dropped shortly after as he stumbled after him.

After a couple more skirmishes I found myself in an unfinished part of the station. Dirt and rock made up the floors, walls, and ceilings. The room was cluttered with boxes and construction equipment. As I ventured in a vault entrance came into view, sitting high on the wall with metal stairs leading up to it.

“A vault. Of course, he ended up in a vault.” Grumbling to myself I hooked my pip boy up to the panel, and pushed the button to open the door. The yellow lights circled as the vault hissed and groaned. The large gear shaped door sunk deeper into the earth before rolling off to the side. The metal bridge stretched out to meet the platform I was on. The familiar hollow step of my boot against the steel echoed as made my first steps in. It opened up to a small room, filled with storage containers. Off to the left was a small hallway, leading deeper inside the vault.

“Who the hell keeps opening the damn vault? Can’t hear myself think.” Someone called from the hall. “Skinny? Darla? S’that you?” The moment he came into view I fired. He cried out and with a limp arm he still attempted to aim his gun at me. Another shot and he was on the ground.

“Are you all this stupid?” I asked his body as I stepped over it.

The further I went into the vault the more the rooms started to blur together. I lost track of how many levels I had gone down, and of how many triggerman I had to put down. I was already desperate to get out of that stupid maze.

The last door opened to the second floor of the atrium. Below tables were sprawled out like a cafeteria. On the other side of the room, on the third level, a balcony overlooked the hall with a large circle window showing the office behind it. Yet another gangster stood in front of it, looking and talking to someone through the glass.

“How ya doin’, Valentine? Ya hungry, wanna snack?” He teased his prisoner. I let out a quiet sigh of relief. I found him. At least I could say I got this far. I could hardly hear the murmur behind the glass, but the words became more clear as I lurked closer to the stairs leading to the upper floor.

“...gives Malone more time to figure out how he’s going to bump you off.” The detective’s voice finally became clear as I reached the stairs, taking each step slowly enough to keep my boots from rattling against the metal.

“Don’t give me that crap. You don’t know nothing.”

“Oh really? I saw him write your name in that black book of his. Mumbling something about a ‘no-good, lousy, card shark’. Then he struck it off three times.”

“Three times? That’s not funny.” The guard itched around where he stood, obviously troubled by what the other man was saying. Once on the higher platform I hid before the doorway leading to the balcony.

“Gotta guilty conscious, Dino?”

“Shit… I gotta fix this, fast!” Dino was in such a rush that he blew right passed me squatting in the corner without noticing me. Another shot rang out through the atrium, as did the thud of his body.

“What was that? Who’s there?” The detective called out once the echo finished. I followed the voice to the window, only seeing a shadowy figure inside the office. “It’s not going to take long for them to realize he’s not coming back. Get that door open.” He gestured towards the terminal at the end of the balcony. It all seemed to happen so fast then, so meaningless. Even with Mama Murphy’s visions I had no idea I would be walking into a moment that had been written into fate a long time before then.

The door opened and I strolled inside the dark office, ready to grab him and bolt. The glow of his yellow eyes pierced through my thoughts, leaving all of my previous thoughts behind.

“Gotta love the irony of the reverse damsel-in-distress scenario.” He commented. With a flick of his metal wrist he fired up a match to light the cigarette hanging from his mouth. The flame that was brought to his face gave the first glimpse of the exposed framing beneath his cheek. “Question is, why did our heroine risk life and limb for an old private eye?” His voice struck a chord in me, somewhere that I thought was dead.

“Would you rather stay here?” I asked. He raised an eyebrow at me. Taking a drag of his cigarette he stepped forward into the light, giving me a better look at him. His synthetic grey skin had definitely been through plenty through his years in the Commonwealth. Despite his experience even his subtle smile felt warm to me.

“No, but you’ll have to forgive me if I’m wary of walking into another trap.” He retorted. I conceited with a nod.

“I need your help. But, I’m a lot better at explaining when I’m not in an old vault surrounded by blood-lusted mobsters.”

“Fair enough.” He pulled his pistol from his holster and readied it. “Well, what’s your name?”

“Viv.”

“Just Viv?”

“Vivian-...” I hesitated, suddenly unsure if surnames were even used anymore. Judging by his inquisitive stare he was waiting to hear mine. “Becker.”

“Great, I’m Nick… Valentine.” His lips curled into a cheeky smile behind his cigarette. “I’m actually able to say I’m pleased to meet you. Although, I probably would have been pleased with anyone who rescued me from this place.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be. Not many people would have been able to get to me. I’ve been stuck

down here for weeks. Turns out the kidnapped girl I was trying to rescue wasn’t kidnapped at all. She’s Skinny’s new flame, and she’s got a mean streak.” He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

I let him lead us back out into the atrium. He seemed to know his way, and I was done figuring this maze out. I was happy to mindlessly follow after days of strategically planned movements.

I never imagined how much easier getting through a small army of mobsters would be with a partner. We blew through rooms as if we had trained together before. I could almost let my guard down. Even so, the vault went on for ages. We would think we were close, only to find another staircase leading up closer to the surface. Finally, after what felt like dozens of goons and staircases we finally made it to the final locked door.

“Do you think he’s in there?” I asked him as he went to work the terminal that held the door shut. “He could have run off.”

“No, he’s there. I can hear his fat footsteps from here” Nick murmured as he typed away. I was fascinated with the way his fingers moved, specifically the exposed metal ones, moved. Fluidly, and with intention, despite the fact that they were controlled by a computer themselves. “I’m not really sure where Skinny’s temper is these days. Stay alert in there.” He broke me from my thoughts. My heart thunked in my chest so loud I could feel the ripple in my entire body, the beat hammering in my ears. It was moments like these that I completely forgot why I was there. I wasn’t a soldier, that was my husband’s job.

“Ready?” He asked, cocking his gun.

“Ready.” I lied.

The door opened with a hiss. The next room’s light only illuminated Nick’s captors and what was left of their crew.

“Nicky, what do you think you’re doing?” A portly man in a sharp, black tuxedo called from inside the room.“You just come in to my home and start killing my guys? How could you do this to me?” Next to him a tiny porcelain doll of a woman with a shimmering, cool colored, dress wielded a baseball bat. They both watched with a smirk as the remaining triggerman aimed their weapons at us when we approached.

“You should tell that dame of yours to write home more often. I wouldn’t be here if her parents weren’t looking for her.” Nick said. I could see the detective nervously eyeing the room after he spoke. We were surrounded, and I was suddenly very aware of the large amount of sweat I was producing.

“What’s the matter, Valentine? Ashamed you got beat up by a girl? That why you needed your lady friend to come save you?” The woman cackled, her bright red lips stretching across her face. Her nearly flawless features should have stunned me, but I couldn’t get over the crazed look in her eyes. Even when she wasn’t looking at me I could feel her stare. “I told you, we should have just killed him! Now he’s sent this one to rub us all out.” She hissed. “Darla, I’m handling this!” Skinny scolded. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, tucking the bat into the crook of her elbow.

“Sure, you’re handling it. Look how that turned out. You got all sentimental. All that stupid crap about the ‘old times’.”

“Darla, please!”

There’s… an echo. I found Mama Murphy’s words rolling around in my head again. I tried to push them away, staying on alert, but they forced their way in. Something in the past that can help you. When you meet the fat man and the angry woman… It finally clicked with me. I couldn’t believe that drug addicted, old, broad really wasn’t crazy.

“W-wait!” I was only half-expecting anyone to hear me, but as I spoke everyone’s eyes turned to me at once. My heart kicked into a new level of overdrive that I didn’t even think was possible. “Skinny… remember- remember the Quarry, a-and Lilly June on the rocks.” I couldn’t even hear myself speak. Everyone, including Nick, just stared in silence. Did I screw it up? Did I even say anything? Was I already dead?

“What?” The mob boss finally spoke, dumbfounded as his arms, and his weapon, dropped to his side.

“Um… remember the-”

“Shut up, I heard you.” He stopped me with a wave of his fat hand. His brow furrowed in thought, scratching at his face as the two brain cells he had bickered back and forth inside his head. Nick shot a look at me, silently asking what the hell I was thinking. I gave him a short shrug, not letting my eyes leave Skinny’s hands. The second they even twitch towards his gun and I would be ready. “Alright. Alright, fine. I’m going to give you ‘til the count of ten. After that then the old days are dead, and I see your faces again then you will be too.”

“Skinny, what are you doing? Kill them!” Darla shrilled, stomping her feet around like a spoiled child.

“No, Darla. Skinny Malone is putting his foot down. They get one chance to leave.” Darla’s face twisted with disgust. Her wooden bat clamored on the tile as she tossed it aside.

“My mother was right. You mobsters are all talk.” Without missing a beat, she turned on her heel and started walking into the shadows behind them.

“Babe, where you goin’?”

“Home. I don’t need you and your fat ass weighing me down anymore.” She called behind her shoulder as she sauntered out the back. The boss watched with his jaw left open, his head following her until she disappeared. He whipped around to face us, his eyes wide with pain and frustration.

“ONE.” Skinny growled through clenched teeth. His sausage fingers gripping his gun as he aimed it at us.

“Time to go.” Nick grabbed my hand and pulled me passed the small crowd to the back.

“TWO.” Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see how the far side of the room was cluttered with totes and boxes. It led to a wide hallway that led us further away from the scene but you could still hear the mobster’s voice booming behind us.

“THREE… FOUR… FIVE.” I could tell the boss was getting impatient as he sped up the countdown. “SIX.”

“This way, there’s a tunnel. It’s how I got in.” Sure enough, almost tucked away in the corner, was a ladder heading straight for the surface.

“SEVEN.” The stomps of boots started to approach as we clamored up the metal rods. At the top was a stone sewer cap. I struggled to push it open, hooking my leg around the ladder for balance as I used my whole upper body to shove the thing open.

“EIGHT.” Fresh air cascaded from above as the cap moved aside. I crawled out from the sewer hole and simply rolled aside so the detective could follow.

‘NINE.” I heard the last of Skinny Malone’s voice as Nick sealed the cap once again.

“Jeez, you’d think an old-school mobster who just got his heart stomped on would be more forgiving.” I chortled, staring up at the night’s sky. Nick gave a surprised chuckle. I could feel his eyes on me but it was easy to tune it out this time. Laying on the asphalt I let the crisp breeze relieve my body of its sticky sweat. I focused on my breathing, the rise and fall of my stomach. I was actually alive. “That was quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Saving me?” I nodded, and he laughed again. “You mind telling me why you did? Or who you are?”

“I told you who I am.”

“Oh, c’mon.” I couldn’t help but giggle again at his frustration. I finally sat up, leaning back onto the palms of my hands.

“I went to your agency and your secretary said you were missing. You weren’t around to save yourself so I told her I would.”

“Okay, but why?” I curled my legs in to sit criss-cross, struggling to find the right words.

“I need your help… I’m looking for someone.” I picked at the skin around my finger nails, but kept eye contact with him as I spoke. He extended his metal hand out to help me up.

“Well, I’d say you’ve earned the right to tell your story.” Once I was back on my feet I brushed some of the dirt of pebbles off of my hands and jeans. “Let’s head back to my office. You can get a chance to unload your mind.” He said it like it was a good thing. The idea of voluntarily remembering what happened sent a spike of anxiety through my whole body. We had a decent walk back though. Plenty of time to think of ways to put it off.

It turns out Nick was an excellent travelling companion. Usually I enjoyed the still silence but listening to his stories of ‘the old days’ was both intriguing and hilarious. He talked about the cat and mouse chase that ensued between him and his old friend, Skinny Malone. There was something familiar about listening to him. Somehow it felt like a little window to before the blast. Even though he was recalling memories that had only happened some years before then, it felt like he was talking about the streets of Boston as it was two-hundred years ago.

The strangest mixture of dread and relief washed over me once we made it back to Diamond City. I almost got myself killed trying to get to this point, and yet part of me wished it had killed me. It sounded better than reliving what happened.

The town was silent under the midnight stars, so different from how I had left it. The occasional guard popping out from the shadows to patrol the market. Walking through, we would grab their attention but I noticed once they saw Nick they weren’t bothered with us anymore.

Back at the agency, the detective stepped in tentatively, I’m sure not to startle his secretary who was most likely sleeping.

“El, you here?”

“Nick?” I watched him smile as there was a sudden shuffle of footsteps from the private quarters. He silently invited me in, shutting the door behind us. Ellie came running in from the hall, her eyes obviously sleepless. “Oh my god, you’re alive. You’re actually here.”

“Try not to be too disappointed.” Nick said with a smirk. She ran over and embraced him, and he accepted it warmly. He gave her head a fond pat after breaking their hug. I noticed the tiny tears that had formed in her eyes. She wiped them away before they had the chance to fall. Suddenly her face turned into a scowl as she crossly set her hands on her hips.

“I told you it was a trap. You could have died.”

“A trap would mean they knew I was coming. They just got a lucky shot.” They bickered like that for awhile. In the meantime I let my bag fall off my back and onto the ground. I plopped onto a nearby chair, that had definitely seen better days. It was still a relief for the throbbing soles of my feet.

At first I tried to follow their conversation, but my brain would start to phase the sound away and replace it with emptiness. A quiet nothing feeling embraced me, where the only thing that was being processed was the sight of the robot moving from one paper stack to the next.

At some point Ellie stopped and pulled me from my trance to thank me and I believe I responded politely. She disappeared to bed some time after that, but I didn’t notice. I was back in my disassociation, my eyes only tracking the little movement in the room.

The flow of Nick’s patched trench coat. A scratch on the back of his neck. I wasn’t sure if I was even awake anymore. It was oddly satisfying, like meditating specifically on the moment.

“You’re staring.” The detective’s voice rang in my head before I realized he was actually speaking to me. He had sat down at the desk in front of me, and pulled a screwdriver from one of the drawers. “Have you ever met a synth before?” He asked as he started fiddling with some of the screws in his exposed hand.

"Oh, uh… no, but that’s not- uh…” I attempted to rub the sand out of my eyes but it was useless. I dropped my hands into my lap and sighed as I looked back at him. “Sorry. I'm just tired. I should head over to the Dugout and let you settle in. We can meet up in the morning." When I rose from the chair it felt as if I had spent all day there. Every joint in my body ached, begging for a proper rest.

"You could. Or you could use my bed tonight if you want." His statement actually woke me a bit from my state.

"You want me to sleep in your bed?" I raised an eyebrow at him.

"You don't have to. I don’t sleep so it’s not like I use it. I figured it would save you a few caps, and I thought I'd offer since you saved my life and all." I gave a soft laugh. The idea of walking just a few steps to a bed, as opposed to across the diamond, did sound appealing to me.

"You don't even know me. I could be some sort of con artist."

"I'll have to keep a close eye on you then, won't I?"

His bed, bedroom area, was up on a loft above Ellie’s. I climbed up the ladder quietly as she slept. My leather armor was shed to the floor, along with my blue flannel overshirt and heavy brown boots. I crawled onto the mattress and curled up happily under the light blanket. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. My mind just drifted back into the peaceful blackness.

#fallout 4 #fanfiction #fanfic #fallout #fallout4 #falloutfic #falloutfiction #fo4 #fo #fo4fiction #fo4fic #nick valentine #nickvalentine #oc #original character #sole #solesurvivor #WWFF

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intimidatingpuffinstudios · 5 years ago

Text

Yet Another Public Commission!

My dudes, one incredibly kind patron has decided to gift you all with a 3700 words commission! That’s right, almost 4000 words of pure goodness, free of charge!

The pairing in this one is Daelynn/Eledwen/M!MC, and it starts sweetly and wholesomely with the family being out of a picnic with their kids and friends and ends in a scorching hot coupling sequence! This might just be one of the most explicit things I’ve written!

So, on that note, I’m going to post the first half of the story here, then the steamy half under a cut! I hope you all enjoy this!

~*~

You are sitting on a soft, comfy picnic blanket, breathing in the fresh air gently blowing away your white hair from your face. The sun is warming you with his rays and combined with the crisp breeze, your temperature is just perfect. The perfect day for a picnic.

Dana agrees with you— she is laying down on the grass a bit to your left and is patiently allowing your daughters to braid flowers into her mane. This mule is a true lady, and she has withstood everything for you.

Even now, she is going through torture in your name— your daughters are not the gentlest they could be with the old lady’s mane. And Daelynn isn’t much help in that regard.

The elven woman is sitting next to her daughters, helpfully providing them with all the flowers she has gathered for them, commenting on the patterns and color arrangements of the braids.

You chuckle softly to yourself, a slight shiver running through you— an involuntary reaction whenever you see these three blond heads put together. The twins are as rambunctious and lively as their mother. And when the little half-elves collude with their mother, even the most innocent-looking of activities can lead to disaster.

This is why the devilish trio must never be left alone, and Eledwen is usually on top of babysitting duty. She keeps the other three ladies contained, her quiet presence always a calming factor. But even your half-dragon love has her weaknesses. In this case, the weakness was DaeDae’s puppy eyes. The grey-eyed woman assured your dragon lady that she and the twins would be angels on earth. And Elly believed her— a mistake, really.

Your blue gaze turns toward the other side of the clearing, where Eledwen is sitting with Straasa, the two of them watching Morkai spar with your eldest son. Your heart swells with happiness as you take in the scene, the same happiness that fills it when you look at your elf and daughters.

Your very own family. The family you never thought you’d have— not after what happened to your mom, to Tristen. Not after everything that came after. And yet, here you are all, all the members of your little clan alive and well. Your noble steed, your women, your children. Your brothers.

When you met each and every single one of them, you felt a pull— like these people will be important to you, will become a part of you for the rest of your life. And you were right. Your intuition has never led you astray, always landing right on the mark. When you met the two women that would become your life, you thought life couldn’t get any happier.

You were wrong— because not long after you finally put the broken pieces of the world back together, you found him. Your son— a small child, alone and crying in an abandoned village, clinging to his stuffed toy. Eledwen took one look at the child and immediately knelt down to gather him into her arms.

To say that you were surprised would be an understatement— your draconic love was still somewhat uncomfortable with sudden physical touch back then, even when it came from Daelynn or you. To see her so readily hug the child, and start stroking his fine hair while her deep voice cooed at him… well. It changed something in you.

Then DaeDae got pregnant, and the twins came. Mischievous little agents of chaos, just like their mother. And so your life was complete. Between you and your beautiful, strong women, you managed to wrangle one toddler and two infants— quite well, if you may say so yourself.

Morkai and Straasa helped too—well, Straasa helped. Morkai was just standing on the outskirts, as far away from the soiled clothing of the babies as he could possibly get and still be considered to be inside the room.

He helped in other ways, though. His steady presence and sometimes insistent prodding always helped you get out of the somber moods that sometimes assailed you. He and Daelynn were always the best at helping you get out of your own head. And now the once grumpy man was teaching your son ways to beat you in sparring.

And Eledwen was actually assisting him, giving the kid pointers and little tips on how to go about bringing his father to the ground. The traitor! You’d expect this sort of behavior from DaeDae, but Elly! The scandal! Straasa was the only one trying to remind everyone that sparring was meant to be fun, and not about giving one’s father bruises, but no one was paying attention to him.

Well. You’d just have to be extra careful from now on. And speaking of being careful, you suddenly notice a suspicious absence of giggling coming from your left. Daelynn and the twins are quiet. Uh oh. You immediately snap your head around to look for them but find only Dana, her mane thoroughly braided and your blond minxes nowhere to be found. Gods, you were a fool to take your eyes off of them!

Right as you think this, your worst fears come to life— you are assaulted by two little flying half-elves, their blue eyes twinkling as they float on top of you out of nowhere, their mother’s invisibility spell finally wearing off.

You immediately reach up to grab them, but that’s a mistake too. As soon as the tiny princesses are in your arms, they attack all your weak spots— they start tickling you to the sound of their mother’s cackling, a pair of strong hands taking hold of your legs to make sure you can’t escape.

You yelp and try to protect your tender sides from the minuscule but evil fingers, but it’s no use. Your women are relentless as they go about reducing you to a broken, giggling mess. You! Giggling! The ignominy! You can even hear Dana snort at you, probably enjoying her revenge— you didn’t help save her when she was the one under attack, after all. As far as she’s concerned, you fully deserve what you’re getting.

“Daelynn! Girls! Please! I give up, have mercy!” you cry out desperately, red in the face from the laughing fir that has been all but forced upon you. Your pleas go unheeded by the treacherous women holding you down. Daelynn even snickers wickedly at you, goading her daughters on.

“Get him, girls! That’ll teach him not to pay attention to us!” the blond devil instructs her minions, and said minions redouble their efforts in tormenting you. You are laughing so hard it hurts, and it’s starting to get difficult to breathe.

Then stong, scaled arms reach down to save you, descending on the squirming elflings as if from the heavens themselves. Eledwen grabs the two protesting girls with ease, pulling one under each arm and holding them like piglets. Which is apparently highly amusing, if the burst of giggling coming from the wicked angels is to be believed.

“It’s not our fault, mama! Didi told us to do it!” they cry out in unison, their cry of innocence obviously rehearsed. Eledwen promptly hands both girls to Straasa, who is standing right next to her and smiling at your trickster daughters as if they’re the cutest creatures on earth.

He takes them in his arms and then walks away while the elflings snuggle contentedly against him, more than happy to be held by their beloved uncle Straasa. Both have declared that they’re going to marry him when they grow up, after all.

Which leaves you and your women by yourselves for a moment. Both you and Eledwen turn sharply to stare at Daelynn, who is now sitting at your feet calmly, almost imperially. Like everything is as it’s supposed to be, and she has done no wrong whatsoever.

“Finally, now you’re paying attention to me,” she smirks at you both, batting her eyelashes cutely when Eledwen raises an unimpressed eyebrow at her. Her fingers are now at your ankles, massaging them tenderly— probably to soothe them from the death grip she had on them just moments before!

“DaeDae, we’ve talked about this. Using the girls as a weapon whenever you want attention is not an acceptable use of our children,” your brown-haired lover scolds lightly, but the sadistic elf you’re in love with shows no remorse.

The blond woman shrugs her shoulders carelessly and flicks her golden hair over her shoulder with flair. She also pushes out her breasts, putting her arms under them and perking them up, looking to draw your and Elly’s attention to them. You’re sad to say that it works.

“Why not? It works, doesn’t it?” the temptress echoes your thoughts, and Eledwen sighs, momentarily closing her eyes. She can’t fool you though— you saw the way her fingers twitched as soon as Daelynn put her little show on. Her fingers twitch like that only when she wants to touch. You can understand the compulsion.

“Still trying to talk sense to the elf, Eledwen? Shouldn’t you have given up on the futile endeavor by now?” Morkai pipes up from across the clearing, and you glance over to see him putting his shirt back on. His training session with your son is over, and they are both looking sweaty and out of breath but very happy with themselves.

“You know you love me, sourpuss!” Daelynn shoots back at him cheekily, and the redhead chuckles in reply. Your son walks up to you, smiling brightly and all but headbutts Eledwen’s arm with affection as he moves to stand next to her, his mannerisms distinctly feline in nature.

The smile he gives you makes your heart go light and positively sing inside your chest. Then he notices his elven mother’s pose and immediately proceeds to groan in dismay. He glares at her, though it’s half-hearted at best, and vaguely points at the direction of her pushed-up bust.

“Mom, again?! Can’t we have one day without you flinging yourself at Dad and Mama the moment our backs are turned?!” he all but whines, putting his hand over his eyes to save himself from the cursed image of his mother making moves on the rest of his parents.

“Be a good darling and take your sisters and your uncles and head home, hmm? Your parents need some alone time, and you need to go wash off,” Daelynn instructs him with an unrepentant grin, and the boy glares at her in response.

“We really should get going. These beauties are ready for their afternoon nap, actually,” Straasa cuts in before things can escalate any further. And you have to admit— as much fun as you’re having right now, your elven woman’s display hasn’t left you cold and unbothered. Some alone time would be appreciated. And judging from Eledwen’s quiet intensity, she’s in the same predicament as well.

The golden-eyed woman runs a soft hand through your son’s hair, gentling him, and the boy immediately sucks up the attention, turning his face up to look at her. He always had a soft spot for her.

“Take your sisters home and wait for us. We won’t be long,” she quietly instructs him, and although he scrunches up his nose at that last part, he doesn’t talk back to her like he did with Daelynn. With a heavy sigh, he disengages himself from his mother’s side and moves to stand with Straasa.

Morkai is standing next to Dana, scratching between her ears and giving her what appears to be dried sweet beet paste. You can never figure out where he’s stashing the candy, but he always has some of it on him. Dana has gotten twice in size because of him!

With one final wave from Straasa and your son, the party heads back for home, your pretty mule in tow. The look she gives you as she walks away is knowing. Damn, even the donkey has your number now!

Once your friends and children are so far away that you can’t hear their voices, you brace yourself for impact— and sure enough, Daelynn flings herself at you, apparently having waited enough. You are grateful she waited this long, to be honest.

~*~

Okay, that was the first part of the story! Now comes the STEAMY PART! In case I wasn’t clear up till now:

This is NSFW! WARNING, WARNING, PROCEED WITH CAUTION!

The elf wraps her legs around your waist in a heartbeat, pushing her voluptuous body against you, and making you stay still. Her soft hand grabs your hair tightly, and she all but thrusts your face toward her breasts.

Your face gets smooshed in softness as your hands mold themselves to the full bust, kneading and pinching her nipples over the thin fabric of her shirt. The moan she lets out in response sounds smothered, so you look up to see her kissing with Eledwen, the elf’s free hand holding Eledwen by the neck as she all but devours her lips.

The sight spurs you on, and you roughly lower Daelynn’s shirt to get her peaked nippled out in the open. You don’t need more than that— you don’t have the time for it. This coupling will be quick and passionate, getting just naked enough to get what you want.

As soon as the pretty breasts are out in the open, your mouth waters for a moment before you ravenously descend on them, sucking the nipples into your mouth and teasing them with your tongue, lips, and teeth.

You are so focused on your task and lost in your elven lover’s sinful moans that you don’t notice your other woman kneel next to you. Not until her strong hand goes straight for you clothed length, gripping tightly and massaging it over the fabric of your breeches.

You moan helplessly against the nipple you were suckling, your hips instinctually pushing forward to get more of the maddening sensation. Your lips unlatch as you blindly offer up your mouth for Eledwen to claim.

The moment your lips connect, you start licking them voraciously, demanding entrance. Gods, you’ve barely begun, and you’re already going mad with desire, your shaft dripping inside your breeches and creating a mess.

She lets you in, and you go about tasting every single last nook and crevice, saturating your mouth with her intoxicating flavor. You reach out with your hand and bury it in her short locks at the same time Daelynn starts sucking bruises on the tender flesh of your neck.

Then you are unceremoniously pushed on your back, Daelynn’s strong hands pushing at your shoulders until you are flat on the ground and looking up at her wantonly. She smirks at your dazed expression and gets up, ignoring your little moan of complain.

Her hands head for her skirts, and she reaches under them— in one fluid movement, she has grabbed her underwear and is pulling it on the string that is keeping it in place. Within moments, the soft fabric flutters down her legs and pools at her feet. You can see that it is already wet with her desire.

Then your member is abruptly taken out of your breeches and exposed to the cool afternoon air, twitching and drooling pearly liquid from the tip. Eledwen’s warm hand closes over it without hesitation, playing with the glans and gripping it exactly as you like it.

Daelynn quickly stops her, however. She grabs your draconian lover by the throat and lifts her up so she can get the other woman’s breeches off. Soon enough, Eledwen’s lower half is bare— she’s the one wearing the least clothing than all three of you. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, if her flushed cheeks and foggy gaze are anything to go by.

Daelynn is on her knees in front of the half-dragon, having just taken her underwear off, and she deposits a sweet kiss to the brunette’s mount before she moves away. Then both women look over at you greedily, and you know— your time has come.

Daelynn loses no time climbing over you until her thighs are bracketing your face— she holds up her skirts to give you access, and you swallow thickly as she begins to lower herself on your face.

Before your lips can make contact with her core, however, the fingers of your right hand are firmly gripped— then enveloped by the tightest, silkiest heat. Eledwen moans lowly as your digits enter her, and you lose no time setting up the rhythm you know she likes best, stretching your fingers inside her and going as deep as you can get. You tease the entrance to her womb with the tips, and she shudders almost violently in response.

Then your mouth is put to work as well. You are lost to Daelynn’s heat, her scent, her taste— your very soul sings as you push your tongue inside her, making her moan and tremble for you as her slickness dribbles down your chin.

You’re so lost in the feeling of your women, that you barely notice that your own swollen member is left unattended and forlorn— but it doesn’t stay like that for long. Eledwen, the doll that she is, has apparently enough coherency left to grab it, and start pleasuring it in proficiently.

Which probably means you’re not doing a good enough job of driving her out of her mind. With new resolve, you push your fingers in and out of her expertly, picking up the pace and stretching your digits on the pull-out, making sure to widen her reddened opening every time.

After so many years with your amazing women, you have become quite proficient at multi-tasking. You go about pleasuring them with gusto, your mouth sucking relentlessly at Daelynn’s core, flicking and rubbing her nub with the fingers of one hand, while the other is busy burying its fingers inside Elly knuckle-deep.

And still Eledwen keeps on massaging you, her thumb swiping over the swollen, wet head of your erection, dipping her fingertips into the slit and twisting her wrist on the up-stroke. But then she decides to use her other hand as well— her strong fingers grip your scrotum firmly, and roll around your orbs until your eyes all but roll back into their sockets.

It’s too much to handle— Eledwen’s walls are gripping your fingers so tightly it’s become a struggle to move them, and Daelynn’s wild riding is stealing your breath away as she tries to get your tongue inside her as far as it can go.

The ecstasy building in your core can no longer be ignored. Saturated in the smell and taste of your women, your mind long gone and your body functioning on nothing but instinct, your muscles begin to clench and lock as magma erupts from your throbbing shaft, bolts of lightning-intense sensation shooting down your raw nerves and scorching everything in their path. You spill thickly over Elly’s fingers, painting them white with the evidence of your desire for her and Daelynn, a desire that only grows stronger with each passing year.

Your moan of ecstasy is lost between Daelynn’s fold, and you fight not to thrash as the rapture all but incapacitates you— you need to keep going, you need to please them! You need it as much as you needed your own orgasm, more than that even!

Then your wish is granted to you— Daelynn’s thighs become a vice around your face as she wildly thrashes on top of you, crying out and pushing her opening against you almost suffocatingly the moment her walls begin to clamp down on your tongue. A little explosion of slickness fills your mouth as she moans and trembles on top of you, feeding you all she has to give.

She slumps on top of you like a puppet with its strings cut, heaving and panting as she rides the aftershocks. Then it’s Eledwen’s time. Her own passage is clenching so tightly it almost threatens to break off your fingers, but she needs that one last push.

So you give it to her— you crook your fingers up, and relentlessly hammer into the spot that drives her wild. Her body freezes the moment you begin the fierce assault, and a moment passes, two— then she is locking against you as a burst of liquid bursts from inside her, bathing your fingers and palm in her essence.

She is quiet in her pleasure, unlike Daelynn— she rides your digits with gusto, panting, her red tongue peeking between her half-open lips. You can feel her pulsing, the spasms so strong that you’re amazed she’s still conscious. Then it’s done, and she too falls on top of you bonelessly.

You grunt a bit— the woman is compact, but don’t try to move her. Daelynn finally decides that the time to get off from your face has come, so she gets up on shaky legs, but doesn’t move far. She kneels next to you, and gently reaches out to remove your fingers from inside Eledwen. The half-dragon moan faintly as your hand leaves her sensitive walls, but doesn’t complain.

Your blond seductress is looking at your hand with hunger— like the white covered fingers are a treat to be savored. And sure enough, she immediately leans forward and takes them in her mouth, cleaning away all evidence of Elly’s orgasm with her voracious tongue.

You chuckle darkly as you watch her, but the sight is quickly blocked by Eledwen’s face, the golden-eyed woman crowding you and pressing her mouth against you demandingly. You open up for her, and she goes about stealing your breath as well as sharing the flavor of Daelynn’s climax.

Then you’re all done. You slump against each other, taking a moment to just cuddle with each other. A moment where you are laid flat on your back, cradling both women against your chest as your breathing finally slows and you all start to nuzzle and softly kiss each other.

You need to get going— everyone is waiting for you back home. But you can’t help but cherish this blissful sensation, where the only thing that exists is just you, your amazing lovers and the sky above you.

It has all been worth it.

#the soul stone war #Scenario #snippet #post-ending #Daelynn #Eledwen #poly routes

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bran-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Farm Boy Blues Ep. 1 “Welcome Home, Sunny” Pt. 3

Sunny’s office on Ventura Way was literally home, and he was sorry he ever left it. Parking his car in its garage, Sunny keyed the door to the familiar chime and made his way in. The blast of automated air conditioner embraced him much in the same way Lacey did shortly before, welcoming him back. The place still smelled like mahogany and looked crisp. The downstairs break area he used for an armory and supply room was still neat and ordered, the lockers lining one wall while maps of Dyson City and the surrounding wastes lined the opposite one. When he crossed through to the carpet of his office, he flicked the light on and tossed his keys onto his desk, glancing around at his license hanging on the wall next to his commendations from the city for bravery and service, as well as pictures with some of his favorite clients.

Sunny smiled and stood there for a moment, basking in the feeling of safety and familiarity. He’d come close to never seeing this place again and even though his job was naturally dangerous, this brush with death felt closer, more intimate. It was probably because, this time, he’d almost been killed by someone he trusted. He figured that would probably have an affect on someone’s outlook.

Turning the light back off, Sunny took his shoes off and walked wearily up stairwell behind his desk, anxious to sit down in his chair upstairs. Yet, halfway up the stairs was when he got the feeling that he wasn’t alone. It was a small shuffling that lasted for a few seconds and was barely audible under the air conditioning, but Sunny was sure he heard it.

There was only one person he knew who could get into his office without leaving a trace. That person wasn’t a threat to him as far as Sunny knew, but just to be sure, he drew his handgun and held it at his side as he walked the rest of the way up.

The first thing Sunny noticed was that his place wasn’t ransacked or even disturbed. To his right was his living room, where his TV, personal computer desk, couch and favorite chair was. The kitchen was to the right and both the bar counter and wooden island were as clean as he’d left him. His fridge, however, was slightly ajar- enough that the light was still on. Sunny checked the trash can to see one of his empty beer bottles sitting at the bottom when, straight ahead from the direction of his bedroom and bathroom, he heard more noises, someone clearing their throat and a toilet flushing.

Rolling his eyes and tossing his shoes to the floor, Sunny sighed and leaned against the bar counter. There was the sound of a sink running before that too stopped.

Special Agent Grafton Ellis walked out of Sunny’s bedroom, waving his hands at his side, air drying them. “You’re out of paper towels in there.”

Sunny gave the man a once over and noticed his expertly pressed and creased pants, clean button-up and crisp tie. “And you’re wearing shoes in my apartment.”

“Yeah, sorry, I forgot. I won’t be long.”

“Good.”

The man hadn’t changed much in the years Sunny knew him. He must have been at least thirty-five by now with reddish brown hair, piercing green eyes accompanied by unflattering dark rings and a crooked smile amidst his perpetual stubble. A long, ragged scar crossed the side of his neck down to his clavicle. The man hadn’t changed much at all. He still looked tired as ever.

Agent Ellis took a seat at the bar and sighed, clasping his hands together. He looked bored.

“Y’know, coming to terms with the fact that our new government, and by extension, the Bureau, is gonna have me keeping tabs on you until they’re 100% sure you’re not some sleeper agent for The Commonwealth,” Ellis said in a completely conversational and non-accusatory tone which made Sunny want to throw his shoes at him, “I’ve accepted that I’m in for many a frustrating day. Whether it’s responding to reports of you having gunfights with thieves inside the city wall or trying to find out where the hell you’ve been for the past four months- it’s always something.”

“Gotta mix it up somehow,” Sunny shrugged, holstering his handgun.

“True. I will say you keep things exiting- I suppose I should be grateful.”

Ellis took a moment to stare around at the apartment, his legs swinging from the bar stool nonchalantly. “What do you want, Ellis?”

“I guess we could start with where you’ve been?”

“Look. I’m hurt, I’m tired and I just want some rest. Can we not fuck around right now? You know where I was. You probably tracked me coming into the city, too.”

Ellis regarded Sunny for a moment while the young man waited for a response. Finally the agent shrugged. “Fine, why were you there?”

Sunny chewed his lip for a moment. He’d known Ellis since he was eleven years old. He met him the day after The Commonwealth fell. It wasn’t that Sunny didn’t trust Agent Ellis- it was that he didn’t feel like going into it at the moment. He was far too close to what happened to discuss it openly, he realized. He just wanted a day or two’s distance before giving the federal agent the debriefing he was sent here for.

“Was that too direct for you?” Ellis smirked. Sometimes, Sunny wanted to punch him in his face. He unclipped his gun from his belt and placed it on the counter before heading into the kitchen, kicking his fridge all the way closed. He picked through a cabinet for his bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“New York or Chicago?” Sunny called over his shoulder.

“Chicago.”

Sunny nodded, he liked his drinks the same way. Forgoing the chaser in the fridge, Sunny poured whiskey in both glasses then slid one across the bar to Ellis, who nodded thankfully. “I was out there, with Mia, because she asked me to leave with her.”

“Is that right?”

Sunny sat in his chair and sank into the cushions with a sigh. From this seat he could see the city outside through his large window- a perk he’d noticed when he first rented the office. He had a pretty good view of the hills and the beach from here. At night, the street and building lights dotted the window like multi-colored jewels set in a satin cloth. Sunny eyed his glass, lazily tilting the liquid back and forth.

“Keaton…”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Sunny held back the hurt in his voice, along with the tears he almost lost from his carefully tended reservoir.

“I just want to know what happened, kid. Give me that, and I’ll write the report and be out of your hair. Hell, at this point they might not even ask for a report.”

“She said she was going straight.”

“Mia?”

“Mmhm.”

“So she showed up promising a new life without the crime?”

“Said that she was ready to just be with me and she didn’t need any of that other stuff. She didn’t need the money or the lavish lifestyle bullshit. She just wanted me,” Sunny took a swig of whiskey and grimaced, the instant warmth cascading down his chest.

“Shit…”

“Four months in and I find out she’d already made plans to rob the federal reserve transport trucks while they crossed the desert. I told her she was fucking crazy, and all she kept saying was how with this one job we’d be set for life.” Sunny stared at his reflection in his own drink before shrugging and taking another swig. “Stupid me, right?”

“So what, she tried to get you on a job and you just said no?”

Sunny scoffed. “I burned the charges her and her little buddies were planning on using for the roadside bombs. Her crew realized they were gone before I could get out of there, though. She asked if I did it, I said yeah. She put two bullets in my chest and left me on the side of the road.”

Without saying a word, Ellis stood and moved over to sit on the arm of the couch. Sunny unbuttoned the top of his Hawaiian shirt and showed Ellis the stitches, not daring to look down himself just yet.

“Jesus, Keaton…”

“A family on vacation found me and took me to one of the doctors out there. He go the bullets out and had me lay up for a few days before I could move on my own. I just got back to town today.”

Ellis sat back and rubbed his chin for a moment, eying Sunny’s bullet wounds. He took a swig of whiskey and played with the glass between his fingers. The two were quiet for a few, long moments before Ellis cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you’ll finally wise up, will you?”

Sunny looked at Agent Ellis and hoped the man could see the annoyance in his face. Wise up… What an asshole. “Fuck you.”

Ellis shook his head, “You know, I’m probably going to regret saying this, but I hope this has taught you a little about yourself. And I hope you realize that maybe, just maybe, your life is worth a lot to the people who care about you… Clearly you feel like you’re not worth much at all.”

“How do I know?” Sunny mumbled, almost choking on the words.

“Know what?”

“That my life is worth a lot. Or anything for that matter…”

“Well, the contrary is usually what happens when our mind starts working against itself. Luckily we have eyes and ears that often give is the hints we need, we just gotta take it for what it is.”

“Easier said than done.”

“For sure. But how about starting here,” Ellis cleared his throat, “What are you more afraid of? Those stitches or the Commonwealth ID number tattooed to your chest.”

Despite himself, Sunny allowed himself the smallest of smiles. “Probably the gunshot wounds.”

“Which means that being a Farm Boy- being the former property of The Commonwealth doesn’t feel as bad as it used to be. It matters less and less. That’s a good a place as any to be, don’t you think?”

Ellis didn’t give him a chance to answer, but stood up and set his tumbler on the bar. “Out of my hair already, eh?”

“I’ll give my superiors the run down,” Ellis shrugged, walking towards the stairwell. “You might have to go let the police take photos of your injuries. You’ll be down at the precinct tomorrow anyways, though.”

“Why’s that?”

Ellis turned around, brows furrowed. “Your contractor recertification…”

“Ah, shit.”

“Hey, luckily you passed your 5th year last time, so it’s just marksmanship certification for the next couple years for you. But you know the rules- to keep getting contracts from the police you’ll need a re-cert every twelve.”

“Maybe I should have just stayed in the desert,” Sunny stood and followed the man to the stairwell. He leaned on the banister as Ellis descended into his office area.

“I’m sure Detective Dodson would eventually come find you,” Ellis chuckled.

“What can I say,” Sunny smiled, “We’re madly in love.”

“You do know how to pick ‘em.”

Sunny watched as the man opened the front door and glanced out for a moment before stopping. Ellis looked up at him and took a deep breath.

“Hey, for the record, I guess… Add me to that list.”

“What list?”

“The list of people that care about you. It’s a no-go for handlers to grow attached to you guys, but I’ve known you since you were a kid, so I don’t know what to tell you. You’ve come a long way since we met… I just don’t want to have to ID your body at the morgue one day.”

“Thanks, Ellis.”

“Just be careful, okay?”

“Will do.”

And just like that- the door was shut and Ellis was gone. The silence folded around Sunny like a suffocating smog. He turned back to his bar counter and downed the rest of the whiskey before shuffling back to his room, the weight of the day and his injuries making every step a trial.

Sunny’s room was dark and cool when he made it back there- just the way he liked it. He wanted to see his posters and maps and space ship blueprints on the wall. He wanted to see his desk and shelf of keep-sakes. But he also wanted to lay in the dark for a while.

He chose the latter.

The moment Sunny laid his head down on his pillow, the tears broke through and poured down the sides of his face. He felt powerless to stop crying, but at this point, he didn’t want to. Best to get it all out.

Everything bouncing around in his mind assaulted him at once and he was having trouble collating it all, having trouble answering his own questions.

Why did she do that?

Why can’t I ever get things right?

Why can’t I ever make the right decision?

Hell, why can’t the right decision ever find me for once?

Why do I have to struggle like this?

How do I make it stop?

Why do I still have feelings for the person who keeps leaving me in the dust?

Goddammit, Sunny.

Sunny’s phone vibrating in his pocket shook him out of his downward spiral. He fished it out, planning on ignoring whoever it was before reading the contact name flashing on his screen:

Big Sexy

Sunny was so happy to see that name that he wanted to cry harder, which made him laugh at the ridiculous nature of Collin Talbot’s contact name, but he had no intention of changing it in the near future.

Without hesitation, Sunny hit accept and put the phone to his ear, waiting with still breath to hear his best friend’s voice.

“Yyyyeelllooww, Sunny? Sun-tzu?”

Sunny smiled, “I’m here, man.”

“Ah, great,” said Collin on the other end. There was a pause before Collin continued. “You okay?”

“No,” Sunny surprised himself, once again, by not choking on his words. Yet, he knew Collin picked up on it.

“What happened? Where are you?”

“Back home.”

Again, another silence. Collin was trying to figure out what to say or how to ask what happened with Mia. “Do you want me to come to the city?”

Of course he knew what to say.

“I’d like that.”

“Say no more, give me a couple days. Should I get a suite or come to your place?”

“My place is fine…”

“Alright, well I’ll get to you as soon as possible. Like I said, two days at the most. Here’s what I’m thinking, you ready?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll catch a flight, land in Dyson, stop by the grocery store, pick up some food because your sorry ass still can’t cook, and then we’ll eat and drink and you can tell me about what’s going on. Sound good?”

“That sounds fucking beautiful.”

“My man. Anyways, I’ll let you go cause I have to go wrap up this test flight. I just wanted to check in on you.”

“Thank you, Collin.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Just… Hang on until I get there, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

“Peace out, brotha.”

Collin hung up just as the sounds of a single passenger ship engine flared up in the background. Sunny stared at the phone for a moment before setting it on his night stand.

That was that. All he had to do was wait for Collin. Maybe Ellis was right, maybe his friends really did see the value that Sunny didn’t. Maybe he’d be okay. Sunny almost kicked himself for the way he’d lost hope in them moments before. He turned over on his side and closed his eyes, ready to sleep and start the next day.

Contractor recertification.

Pick up TK from the Trey’s shop.

Swing by the coffee shop the next morning to see if his coffee buddy would still be showing up after four months of him being gone.

And then Collin would be here.

That, Sunny decided, was easy enough. He had a plan. He had a way out of the confusion and pain. He just had to stay focused. He just had to live. It shouldn’t be hard, he thought. He’d been doing it pretty well so far.

_______________________________________________________________________

@writerinafury @oneleggedflamingo @carmina-solis @anomaly00 @neirawrites

@lnspired-insomniac

#my wip #writeblr #short story #Farm Boy Blues

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ahotpeaceofshit · 6 years ago

Text

DARK THINGS (Chapter 1 Draft 1)

(also super unedited)

“Awwwww!!! Fucking shit, did we actually have to do that??” I fell back on my chair and let out a hasty sigh. “For real?”

“Yeah…. It's called homework.” Peter frowned before a smile crossed his face. “Well on the bright side, you'd make a decent stripper.”

“He doesn't really have the body for it though.” Steff eyed me from the other side of the desk sceptically. “Not enough ass.”

“Nah.. he hath not the skill to be a stripper, nor the charm.” Ellie, the girl who sat next to Steff, pondered for a moment. “A prostitute perhaps?”

“He's not pretty enough for that either.” My friend flicked their long hair back only to lean over the table and ruffled mine up with the sweetest smile. “But if we sell his organs on the black market, we're sure to make a fortune!”

“HEY!!! Fuck all of you!” I pulled away, playing a grumpy face while fixing up my now messy hair. “For the record, why do you always mess up my hair? It takes Peter forever to get it look this damn good.”

“That's very true, it takes a lot of effort to make Noel look presentable to society.” My friends snickered at Peter's words. “A shit load of effort.”

“AND, as I was saying,” I gave my best-friend a playful push for his word. “I would make an amazing stripper, sex worker or organ donor on the black market but that's not the point here!”

“Huh, sex worker?” Ellie mumbled under her breath. “More new words to learn.. great!”

She rolled her eyes and yawned as gray light broke through the window, softly landing on all of us. The classroom was illuminated with only the silver glow as the day slowly began, classmates stumbling in, the rings under their eyes darker then the world around them.

“So can I copy your homework, my dear mooooooooonlight?” I bated my eyes at him. “Pretty please…?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa….. how about, no! You need to learn your lesson.” He laughingly barked. “Come do it yourself, it's not that hard.”

“As if?” I groaned, tossing myself on the table like an angry toddler. “Why have you betrayed me like this?? I thought you loved me!!”

“You can copy mine.” Ellie said, her odd accent spilling all over her words as she pulled out her math supplies, her blond hair seemed to glow in the absence of light. “I'm not positive it is correct though..”

“Don't encourage him!” Peter exclaimed. “This way he'll never pass the class.”

“I was only fishing for Peter's sympathy but I guess my powers are too strong!!” I carefully took her notebook. “I could become the best super villain the world has ever seen!! Nahahaha!!!”

“No, it really isn't.” She shook her head at me kindly. “But dream big, kiddo.”

“Ellie, you sparkle fucking joy and I would willingly carry your children!” I gave her a big smile and began copying. Normally being called kiddo from a girl I had a slight crush on would have been frustrating but this early in the morning I didn't really mind.

“Noel...” Peter spoke my name with such care, I had to look at him. “You're a full blown idiot and you are aware that is anatomically incorrect right?”

“Who are you to control his body?!” Steff laughed while they pulled out their math notebook and slammed it on the desk next to mine. “Make space Noel, I don't have the homework either!”

Ellie gave them a gentle smile before pulling out her Nokia phone, a device that looked older then I was. She poked around on it while Peter arranged his books to look perfectly synchronized and they and I scribbled away. A tired humming began to fill the room as more classmates came in.

“By the way, where is your sister? Or Bryan for that matter?” I asked, barely glancing up from my work.

“You know Maria, she will stay in bed until the last moment even if God himself tried to wake her up.” Peter let out a small laugh. “And Bryan.. who knows?”

“He's probably dressed too masculine again.” Steff snickered. “His mom is probably making him change right at we speak so that she can impress Mr. You-were-born-a-girl-so-why don't-you-dress-like-one.”

“Speaking of Mr. Hofmann, why the fuck do neither of you two ever do your math homework?” My best friend looked over at us writing away. “Seriously, he's like the only teacher who always checks if we did it or not.”

I looked up into his deep brown eyes. They were the same as that of his twin sister and of his mother but I liked his the most. A soft brown that matched with his dark hair and skin… and his beautiful kissable lips. Not in a “I'm secretly in love with my best friend” kinda way, more in a “I would make out with my best friend at any given moment, in a platonic way of course.” There is a difference trust me, a huge one!

“Because Mr. Hofmann.” Steff groaned. “I live to spite him. My hate for him gets me out my goblin hole every morning.”

“True words that inspired people across the nation.” I nodded before turning my attention back to Peter, as if it ever truly left his gorgeous face. “Hey do you have number 5? 'Cause our dear Ellie just put a bunch of question marks there.”

“The spoken and written word has changed too much since my birth, keeping up bringeth with it many hardships.” She didn't even look up from her device. “And such calculations were seen as witchcraft, as they should.”

“Yeah…. So Ellie is being cryptic again.” I leaned my head on his shoulder and snuggled closer. “Please moonlight, do us this favor..”

“FINE!!” He sighed, passing me his notebook. “Why do I always give in so easily to you?”

“Because you love me!” I gave him a smooch on his cheek before focusing my concentration on the math problem. “I love you too...”

“Where would you get the idea that I… wait, did I just hear that correctly?” His tanned cheeks gave off a slight reddish tone, making it clear that he was blushing. “You like..love me?”

“Yeah.” I threw him a slight smile. “As a friend.”

“OOOOOOOh friendzoned!” Steff looked up from their writing to laugh. “But like seriously Noel, don't even try and deny you're totally in love with Peter.”

“I'm straight, so unless Peter is actually a trans girl,” I continued copying out the calculations. “We're just friends.”

“Can you just admit your bisexuality before before wrinkles cover your fleshy skin and the long fingers of death cuts the thread of your mortality?” Steff groaned. “Please!”

“Aye.” Ellie agreed, still not looking up from her phone. “We're begging ya.”

“Oh man… look I know you guys are the ultimate shitlords and our future rulers and all that but for fucks sake, can you talk like modern humans?” I scribbled in panic, jumping over stupid calculations to get the homework finished before the bell rang. “Now if you don't mind, I would like to finish this.”

“Finish what?” A voice stated as footsteps wandered through the door, Maria's soft giggle by his side.

“Awww Bryan, you sweet pumpkin!” I looked up from my writing for just a second to face my friend. “Get your ass over here and your notebooks out, we've got math homework to do!”

“oooh.. uhm you see..” Bryan stalled as he pulled up a chair towards where we sat. “well I.. uhm.. I.”

“We just did the stupid homework.” Maria plopped herself down on Ellie's lap and gave both her and Steff a kiss on the cheek. Ellie simply shifted her phone and let her girlfriend sit down comfortably. “Plus Bryan managed to get me out of bed so we're here a bit early.”

“BRYAN, You Motherfucker!! What happened to us dying together?” I frowned. “You truly disappoint me!”

“Yo dude!” Peter leaned over to the wide eyed teen. “How did you get Maria up? What kind of magic do you possess? Can you teach me??”

“She wrote me yesterday that she wanted to copy the homework so I did it quickly and..” He nervously looked back at Peter. “an..and so I came by this morning to pick her up. And she was already awake..”

“Stop using your fear to hid thy wizardry! Damn Skippy, I see through you.” Ellie ruffled up his hair without her blue eyes leaving the device she held in her hand. “Thy anxiety is so tough that I could spear it down with my bow and skin it to make a lovely rabbit soup.”

“What?” We all stared at her.

“She means you're so super nervous, like a rabbit.” Maria pipped up. “And that you shouldn't be scared, we're not gonna hurt you.”

“I WILL BE SCARED AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME… not scared? Stop being scared? If anything you're making me more scared!” Bryan pounded his fist on the table before his words drowned into a whisper. “And I have anxiety so yes, I will be terrified. Thank you very much.”

“I said no such thing.” Ellie looked up with a concern and yet gleeful look on her face. “You should be very terrified, thou areth friends with us. Ey!”

“I just shit myself, great!” He smiled and turned to Steff and I. “So what's taking you too so long?”

“What do you mean?” We both asked, looking up from our writing before I continued. “We're dumb, ok? It takes us a little longer do things.”

“Oh, we know that.” Peter laughed.

“Speak for yourself.” Steff punched my arm.

“No but why are you doing the whole page?” Bryan asked. “We only had to do five and six.”

“What??!” I glared at Peter while Steff glared at their girlfriend. “Then why are we doing all of these?”

“Who truly knows?” Ellie shrugged. “You should be asking yourselves that question. Thou has been jacked! Get reketh”

“Yeah, you guys just blindly copied out our homework, with no thought of what we actually had as homework.” Peter stated, his arms crossed. “It your damn own fault.”

The bell rang behind us, a soft ding dong but I didn't notice much. Instead, I was too busy imagining how I was gonna strangle Peter. Kinky, I know but I was thinking about doing it in a nonsexual way. More of a pure rage way.

“Fuck you!” I mumbled angrily. Ok, maybe I was thinking about choking him in a slightly sexual way but not in a gay way. Because I am heterosexual who is only into females! Super straight in every way, I thought as I watched his lips move as he countered my words and imagined kissing them.

“Fuck me yourself, coward.” He joked, pulling his notebook away from me.

“Gladly… wait no!” I whispered without thinking before shouting. “That's not what I meant.. I meant that you wish I would fuck you! Because.. I'm cute and you're cute and we'd be super cute together and.. no wait, what am I even saying?”

“Is he still pretending that he's straight?” Maria rolled her eyes when Steff nodded. “Noel, we all know you're in love with Peter.”

“Not even your mama loves Peter and she fucked him!” I shouted. “And you two are twins!!”

“Dude, that's.. that was uncalled for.” Bryan whimpered, in his hand a cubic cub that he turn endlessly without trying to solve the colorful square. “You can't accuse someone of incest, even as a defense.”

“I'm not accusing him of anything.” I spoke quietly before a smile danced across my face. “I'm just saying he's a motherfucker.”

Our group went silence as I glowed with pride at my, may I say, amazing delivery. The rest of them seemed to have a different opinion to mine, with Steff covering their face with their hands and Maria just giving me the death stare. Only Bryan, kinda muffled a slight smile. At least one of these savages understood my genius!

“Hey babe.” Peter placed his hand on my thigh. “I know you're in denial about our love so I would murder you where you sit.”

“NO!” My voice cracked as he stared at me with his deep brown eyes. “I'm fucking not! Cause.. uhm. Fuck you. Maria, make your brother bother stop bullying me!”

“Peter stop hurting the poor bean.” She smirked, her hand running through her hair. “Don't you see he's suffering enough from his undying love towards you, why would you inflict even more pain on him??”

“I hate all of you.” I shook my head at Bryan and he let out a sigh of relief. “But especially you Peter. You're stupid.”

“HEY!” Peter unleashed the full force of his math book against my head. “And I helped you after you totally forgot to your homework”

“I choose not to do it.” I said proudly. “Albert Einstein failed school and look what he did.”

“That's actually a total myth you know.” Ellie added. “He got really good grades but only Germany with our 1-6 notes so when he moved to another country with 6-1 notes they thought he had failed the grade.”

“Thanks for destroying all my hopes and dreams.”

Ellie blushed and began stuttering. “Oh no... I didn't mean it.. I'm so sorry.”

“Ellie, my precious bean, that was once again sarcasm.” Steff whispered to her and then turned on me. “And how could you not know that? Everyone knows that. Also side note, you kinda did forget your homework so don't lie to yourself.”

“I'm sorry, I don't spend my life reading up and learning random facts about famous people.” I tilted my chair a bit more. “Also how do you know that before wasn't a lie and this is me finally telling the truth.”

“No, you prefer playing video games over and over again.” Steff frown. “Doesn't shooting people get boring after some time?”

“I love you darling but no hating on video games.” Maria smirked. “Either way, wasn't Albert Einstein born with a smaller brain and that made him so smart?”

“It was only a tiny bit smaller then the average brain but with the same amount of brain cells which caused his brain to work far better then ours.” Peter added to the conversation. “And talking about hopes and dreams, Albert Einstein was working a boring desk job as an adult when he worked out his theories.”

“Hmmm... brains. I hear those things are tasty.” I licked my lips. “I'm actually getting pretty hungry, who wants to volunteer as tribute to my belly? Smart people only.”

“I think it's more about the spices and the way you cook it.” Maria stroked her imaginary beard “Raw brains sounds just gross.”

“Well that's just your opinion.” Ellie seemed to have gotten over her embarrassment and rejoined the conversation. “I think raw brains are delicious.”

“Eww.” Peter barked.

“Wow, we're really just going to kink shame poor Ellie here. She likes raw brains, you like dudes.” I put my arm around Peter. “There's no difference.”

“Wait, I'm not kinky. Not in that way at least.” Ellie spoke, startled. “I just enjoy a good meal. Vore is not a thing I like, nor will it ever be.”

“So being gay and being a cannibal is the same thing?” Peter glared. “You've truly sunken far, dear friend.”

“Seriously.” Steff joined in. “That's low even for you.”

“I'm sorry!” I attempted to defend myself but they seemed to have already hardened their hearts to my woo. “I was kidding..”

“There are some stuff you just can't joke about, that was one of them.” Maria joined into the fight. “And I thought you were cool.”

“How did we get from Noel not doing his homework to cannibalism?” Bryan asked into the group. “And how do we always move over to these kinds of conversations?”

“We were talking about Albert Einstein's brain then we came to brain food and then Noel had to compare cannibalism to being lgbt+.” Peter crossed his arms. “What does the defendant have to say in his defence?”

“I-..” “Guilty!” Steff broke into the conversation, interrupting my speech, one I had already thought about before I opened my mouth. “I say we execute him on the spot.”

“I second that!” Peter was quick to second it even though Noel looked at him with innocent eyes.

“How are we going to execute him then?” Maria rubbed her hands together gleefully. “Burning to the stake sounds like fun.”

“How 'bout no.” Ellie seemed visually shaken by even the thought. “What about beheading?”

“Too painless.” Peter countered. “He deserves to suffer.”

“Guys...” I tried to change the conversation but they continued to ignore me. I glanced at Bryan who seemed to have dissociated himself entirely and was inspecting a piece of lead that lay before him. I whispered his name several times before he shot back up into reality and looked at me puzzled.

“Shhh prisoner, the judges are deciding your fate.” Steff shushed him. “Mortals who hath' committed such a horrid crime does not deserve to speak.”

“Guys maybe we should leave Noel alone.” Bryan began his defense of my case but Steff cut him off, refusing to let him speak. “Shush human, spare us the sounds that escape your pretty lips. We know where your loyalties lie.”

“Don't take it to heart.” Maria spoke softly to Bryan. “We're just joking around and foreshadowing stuff, no need to worry.”

“My word, how about we cook him alive.” Peter rubbed his hands together “You know, with boiling water and all that good stuff.”

“I say we eat him.” Ellie grinned. “Tis the best way to depose of a corpse.”

“Yeah.. how about no.” Peter growled. “But a bloodsucker like yourself probably doesn't understand what no means.”

“Why wouldn't I know what no means?” Ellie countered, her eyes seemed to flash red for split second. “No means no, simple as that.”

“That is simply untrue.” We all spun around to see our dear math teacher, Mr Hofmann standing there, his body leaning on the doorway. The other students had noticed him standing there and had gone to their respectable seats. We had not. Who knew how long he had been standing there. How much he had heard.

“Sorry.” I said as I hurried to my proper place and pulled out my school books. The others did the same, some slower then others. Bryan rushed to his seat and practically threw his stuff on the table in terror while Steff stared him dead in the eye as they very slowly moved their chair to face the front.

“No. Definition: a negative used to express dissent, denial or refusal, as in response to a question or request. Also used to emphasize or introduce a negative statement.” He seemed to float into the room and found his way to his desk, his face unchanging before a slight smile crossed over his lips. “But It's math now so everyone pull out your homework. Everyone should have it, No excuses.”

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90percentprocrastination · 5 years ago

Text

Nothings pt. 18

I leave the powder room determined to be as theatrical in this last act as possible. All while hiding my true intention from my girl. Focusing on the deceit needed to call Ellie away from Jay I climb the staircase, pressing hard on the rickety third step.

“Pen?” Ellie calls to me before I reach the top.

She appears at the bottom of the staircase and tilts her head in my direction. “What are you doing?”

“Didn’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“A phone ringing. I swear I heard it coming from up here.”

“Pen.” Ellie whispers. “You know that can’t be true, it’s just the story. Come down.”

I shake my head, widening my eyes, trying to convey a lie to Ellie that says I know it’s the story but I’m unable to stop myself. I force my foot up another step and another until I’m at the landing. I disappear around the corner and wait.

“Pen! Come down! Let’s finish our game. Please!” Is it Ellie or god putting the fear into her voice? She’ll startle Jay if she isn’t careful. I don’t want him to be suspicious.

“No, it’s fine, come look. There’s a phone. We can call home!”

“Really?”

I peek around the corner casually. “Yes, really. I think she’s giving us a happy ending.” I whisper. “Come on!”

Her eyes sparkles. That’s why god gave her such a beautiful green. Her smile stabs my heart, but if I can get out I’ll figure out a way to bring her to me. Her and Jay. We’ll be happy. I just have to kill them first.

She races up the stairs. Tries to at least. That pesky third step breaks underneath her and I watch as her foot disappears into the darkness below. She holds her scream. I don’t know why or how. Real or not, that looks painful.

I rush to her. “Are you okay?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Jay moves on the couch. “Are you girls coming back?”

“In a second, we’re dealing with something.” Ellie calls to him.

“What could be more important than ‘Pony or Fish’?”

“Blood, Jay.”

“Like...girl blood.” We can hear the grimace in his voice.

As Ellie continues to bite back her pain I roll my eyes and reply. “Yes, Jay, ‘girl’ blood.”

“Okay. You got it. I’ll just wait down here.”

Ellie’s eyes widen. I shake my head st her. “It’s okay. There’s gotta be something in the bathroom to help.”

Quiet as a rampaging mouse we pry her leg from the broken wood, speaking loudly of tampons and cramps to keep Jay from listening to us too closely.

When she’s finally free I help her up the rest of the stairs. “I don’t wanna go in, just grab a towel or something.”

“El, it’s fine. I’m with you.”

“You were with me when the bathroom turned into the forest too, remember?”

“Yes, but this time feels different.” I smile. It is. She won’t be leaving this time.

We enter the bathroom. No candles are lit, the tub is empty, and there are no women masquerading as millipedes.

I help Ellie limp to the toilet before crossing to the towel rack, locking the door on my way. The house won’t let Ellie escape anyway, but I want her scared.

I take the towel and place it against her wounds. Her flesh was torn away by the broken wood, the blood thick and dark at the source and lighter where it drips down to her dainty ankles. I’ve never liked blood - not even when I was a woman who wasn’t exactly a vampire but who needed to drink blood because of some rare disease. That was probably the worst story.

Ellie sucks in a breath when I apply pressure. I look up to meet her eyes before squeezing more than I need to.

“That hurts.”

“It’s supposed to.”

“Why would that girl, our creator, let us feel pain?”

I shrug, “Why would she do anything? Why would she make me the villain of the last story?”

The house groans around us. Brown water begins trickling from the tub behind me. Ellie jerks away on instinct, no doubt recounting her time spent stuck in the tub.

“No. We’re going to have a happy ending.”

“I will. You won’t.” The trickle becomes a stream behind us. No steam or inviting scent billows forth from the tub, only the sound of the thick water accumulating.

Ellie tried to stand, but I squeeze her leg. “Don’t get up. It’s not necessary.”

“Pen, please, you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. I need to be free and you need to belong.”

“Pen...”

I shush her. “Maybe she’ll make it so it doesn’t hurt.”

Ellie punches me across the face, I barely feel it but it still throws me off balance. She runs towards the door, slipping in the trail of her own blood. When she can’t turn the lock she begins pounding on the door. She doesn’t even try to unlock it. How disappointing.

I stand and walk towards her. She turns, her arms raised and her weight on her good leg.

“Did it hurt when they tore you apart?”

“Of course it hurt.”

“Why?”

“Because they were flaying me alive!”

“How did our girl know to make it hurt?”

She lowers her arms just a hair. I step forward and she raises them again. “I don’t know...maybe she wrote the abduction.”

“Or maybe we’re more real than we thought.”

You’re ruining the story. Get on with it. My god speaks only to me. I lunge towards Ellie, slapping a hand to her face before she even screams.

...

It takes so little for Pen to drag Ellie to the tub. She thrashing and screams against Pen’s hand but her mind is at peace.

Last night god came to her while Pen and Jay slept, or did whatever things like them did when their creator didn’t need them for the story. She was beautiful like Pen, but more while. Where Pen was thin god was full. Her eyes shined with a light fitting for such a goddess.

“Do you want to be real, Ellie?”

Ellie remembered only being able to nod, still in awe of her god.

God smiled and sat next to Ellie, placing a warm hand upon her arm. “For years I’ve been making these stories. Pen has always been the lead, but I could never make her real. That’s all I wanted. I realized why a few months ago, she’s too much like me. We could never exist in the same world, but how do I kill off my best girl?”

Ellie shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t, that’s how. I won’t kill her off - not really. She’ll live forever in a way but I cannot keep writing stories for her. This will be her last. It will be her best and it will continue forever.” God’s eyes darken when she says this.

“Will it be a happy story?”

“I don’t know how to make happy stories.”

“You can’t try, just for Pen?”

God sighed, “I wish that was how this works.”

Slow footsteps began coming down the hall. Ellie’s skin pricked at the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry.” God gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “That’s just Andy.”

Now, in the bathroom with Pen dragging Ellie to her rebirth rather than her death she struggles to keep fighting. God told her not to tell Pen anything, no matter what she said.

When the cold water touches Ellie’s skin her body is too shocked to react. It has to be cold. God told her so. Pen’s face is a twist of anger, regret, and determination as she holds Ellie under water.

Ellie tried to keep her eyes open for as long as possible. She wants to remember her friends face. Too soon, however, the world of the story dims. The dirty water clears. Pen’s almost gaunt face is replaces by god’s wide smile.

God reaches down and pulls Ellie up from the tank of freezing water. Before any words are exchanged god embraces Ellie, god’s pure love and happiness warms Ellie’s bones.

After too short a span of time god lets Ellie go and holds out her hand for Ellie to shake.

“Welcome to the world, El. I’m Nelly. Let’s get you some dry clothes.”

...

I stare down at the dirty water. Was that enough? Will god be satisfied? Ellie’s body became part of the water upon her last breath escaping in the form of rancid bubbles. The door unlocks and the tub begins to drain.

Standing and shaking and wondering in my head over and over again if that was a dramatic enough death for my green-eyed friend I struggle to calm myself.

The door creaks open, reminding me that I’m not finished. I still have one more ending to deliver.

#writing #nothings

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geekofmanyforms · 5 years ago

Text

New Beginning Chapter Six

***This chapter has been edited by my Beta Casey. Please review!***

I woke up as the sun peeked in through the blinds. I covered my face with my pillow and grumbled.

"Stupid mornings. Stupid sun."

I wasn't in the mood for the day to begin yet. After the horrible dinner last night, and the realization that Katherine was in town planning on starting trouble, all I wanted to do was stay in bed and hideaway.

And not to mention, the death of Mr. Tanner.

It had been a fun realization to come home to, Damon killing someone. I knew he'd changed, that he wasn't the same Damon I fell in love with, but I had hoped he wasn't this far gone. I should've never told him and Stefan what was to come. It was a stupid idea, now I had two angry, volatile vampires on my hands.

"Someone is still not a morning person..."

I pulled the pillow from my face and lifted myself up. Rebekah sat on the other side of the bed, smirking at me.

"Ya know, Bekah, Most people would think waking up in bed with the ghostly figure of their best friend a bit odd. But not me, ya know why? Because this happens every damn morning — Can't you haunt Nik, instead?" I whined.

Rebekah frowned at me and hopped off the bed.

"You know Nik can't see me, but for some reason, you can. Sorry sis, but until I'm undaggered, this is where I'm gonna stay," she said.

I gave her the finger and stepped into my bathroom to shower. Once I was done, I slipped on a pair of jeans and a band tee — Def Leppard, to be exact. They were my favorite band. I ignored Rebekah's gasp of horror at my outfit and headed downstairs carrying my grey converse. Jenna sat on the couch, hissing at the news anchorman on television.

"Scumball — Scumbucket,"

I sat down beside her and slipped on my shoes. "Who are you talking to, Jen?" I asked with a smile.

She looked at the screen with pure hatred.

"Him." she spat.

I laughed, earning a glare from her as Elena stepped off the stairs.

"The news guy?" Elena asked.

"Also known as Logan "Scum" Fell. Did your mom ever tell you guys why I moved away from Mystic Falls?" Jenna asked pointedly, looking at us both.

I held in a gasp and stared intently at the man on the TV. He had brown hair and an angular chin. He wasn't terrible looking, but definitely not good enough for my current Aunt.

"Oh, no way — you and him? He's cute." Elena said, looking at Jenna and then back at the TV.

I smiled at her and shook my head. Sometimes I forgot that she was basically a normal teenage girl, and didn't have as much life experience as I did.

Jenna scoffed. "He is not cute — there's nothing cute about him! Wait, what are you doing with that?"

Jenna eyed the family heirlooms Elena was packing up. I noticed the gold pocket watch that was meant to be handed down to Jeremy and frowned deeply. As if he knew exactly what was happening, Jeremy came bounding down the stairs just as Elena and Jenna were discussing our Great Grandmother's wedding ring. Neither Jenna nor Elena noticed the way his face fell for a moment before being replaced with anger. He was about to make Elena pay for her thoughtlessness.

As I headed towards the kitchen, I overheard him ask how much the heirlooms might sell for on eBay. I cringed; that conversation wouldn't go well. I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, still eavesdropping until the doorbell rang and broke my focus. I smiled as the familiar aura of Stefan washed over me. I made my way back to the living room just in time to see Elena pulling Stefan up the stairs towards her room. I laughed at his carefree smile and shook my head. I had to admit it was nice seeing him so happy, even if I thought it would never last. I knew they would both be spending a while succumbing to their teenage hormones — even if one of them isn't technically a teenager — so I decided to head out. There was no way I wanted to accidentally overhear whatever they were doing.

"I'm heading out Jen," I called to Jenna as I grabbed my car keys, "I'll be back later!"

At her hollered okay, I headed out the door. There wasn't much to do in such a small town, so I decided to head to Caroline's. I was sure she needed help picking out her dress for the Founders party anyway.

I slid into the car and made my way to the Forbes' house. The closer I got to the house, the angrier I became. I could sense him there with her — and he wasn't supposed to be. I thought I had taken care of that problem, but apparently, this was going to be harder than I thought. I growled in frustration and gripped the steering wheel tightly, making my knuckles turn white.

Damn Damon Salvatore! Damn him to hell!

I jumped out of the car as soon as my keys were out of the ignition. I stomped towards the front door, going through all the ways I knew to kill a vampire; they were plentiful. I had asked him one simple thing — to stay away from my friends and family, and yet here he was. I slammed my fist on the door repeatedly. I could see the Sheriff was already at work, so I didn't need to worry about freaking her out.

"Caroline Forbes! Open the damn door, NOW!" I hollered, staring daggers at her white front door as if it was the vampire I was pissed at.

I cast a silent spell over her house to make sure he couldn't try and escape before I got to him. I smiled evilly as I felt the power of it blanket the home. The door swung open to reveal an irritated Caroline. I pushed my way inside and ignored her protests.

"Look at me," I said, pulling her pale face towards mine.

I held her still and peered into her blue eyes. When I found no new empty spaces in her memory nor anything fuzzy, I frowned and let her go.

"Why. Is. Damon. Here? I asked through clenched teeth, enunciating every word.

She huffed loudly and crossed her arms in protest of my question.

"He's here because he is my boyfriend," she said.

I closed my eyes and took a deep calming breath. I grabbed the scarf that was still wrapped around her neck and removed it. There, exactly where I knew they would be, were several faded bite marks. I grimaced and wrapped the scarf back around her neck.

"You have no memory of how you got those, do you?" I asked.

Caroline fidgeted with the scarf and started blushing furiously. "Damon says we use to "play" a bit roughly," she whispered with a giggle.

I stared at her for a moment before I sighed deeply. I spun around and marched up to her room and found Damon sprawled out on her bed reading, one of the Twilight novels.

"What's so special about this Bella girl? Edward's so whipped," he said.

I leaned against the door frame and rubbed my hands across my face as Caroline walked past me, towards her closet. She picked up a blue dress and stared at it.

"You have to read the first book first. It won't make sense if you don't," she said, lifting the dress and shaking it in my direction.

"You look better in yellow Care, you know that," I said, eyeing Damon with distaste.

"Ah, I miss Ann Rice. She was so on it," he said, ignoring me.

"How come you don't sparkle? And how do you know about him, Ellie?" She asked curiously.

I almost forgot how much I hated the after-effects of compulsion. It would be excruciating for me to wipe away the fogginess and bring back Caroline's memories, and I didn't want to put her through that. At least I knew everything she was doing now was of her own free will.

"How about you tell me how you are okay with all of this, Care? You know what he is and what he is capable of, yet you still wanna date him? That doesn't sound like you ."

I stepped towards her and crossed my arms. She still held the blue dress in her hands and was looking it over. I pulled the dress away from her and tossed it on the bed, where Damon was staring at me intently.

"I don't know, Ellie. I'm not afraid of him," she said, shrugging nonchalantly.

My mouth snapped open, and I turned towards Damon.

"You didn't!" I shouted.

If I hadn't been so angry, his obvious discomfort would have made me laugh, but at that moment, I found nothing funny about what was happening. He had compelled my best friend to have no fear. I knew I should have checked her previous compulsion before feeding her the vervain. I jumped onto the bed and started hitting any part of him I could get my hands on.

"Are you completely insane?! She could get herself killed this way, Damon!" I yelled while hitting him on the shoulder.

He tried to escape my swinging fists, but I sat on top of him and pinned him down. My red hair flew around wildly, looking almost like the fire I felt inside of me. I knew if he wanted to, he could easily escape me, but he appeared to be attempting to keep himself in check.

"Ow, woman! get off me!" he hollered.

I slammed my knee into his stomach and rolled off of him, ignoring his humph of anger. I pointed a shaking finger in his face, fighting to control my rapid breath.

"You will fix this, Salvatore," I said sternly.

My voice stayed firm, despite the hilarious shocked expression he held. I pulled Caroline from the corner of the room where she had hidden herself during my outburst. I smiled warmly at her and gave her a playful laugh.

"Sorry Care, I have some history with Damon here, and it's not pleasant," I explained.

Her eyes widened, and her face became stiff and cold as she eyed Damon.

"What did he do to you, Ellie? I'll kill him!" she spat.

I almost cried at her determined and faithful expression. She was such a good friend, even in the face of all this craziness.

"It's in the past. So, wear the yellow dress tonight and meet me at the Grill later, okay?"

I grabbed Damon's hand and pulled him off the bed. I pushed him out of the bedroom door, calling back to Caroline.

"I'm gonna borrow your boyfriend for a bit."

"Okay, just don't break him!" she hollered "I don't wanna go solo tonight!"

I pushed him down the hallway and out the front door. He shook me off and straightened his black leather jacket.

"So, you gonna tell me why I was trapped in there until now?"

I pulled my hair into a high ponytail and narrowed my eyes. The wind whipped past us, making his dark hair sway in the breeze. I ignored the jolt I felt in my stomach and let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding.

"I used a spell. I didn't want you escaping before I could kill you." I said plainly, with a sly smile.

He squinted his eyes at me, amusement evident in their blue depths.

"I think you just wanted an excuse to get on top of me," he said, smirking.

I started towards my car, and he walked silently next to me.

"Damon, we both know I wouldn't need an excuse," I said slyly, sliding into the driver's seat.

He leaned into my window his arms placed above him on the roof.

"Oh Elandra, you know you always have permission to straddle me," he said, his signature smirk still glued to his face.

I put my keys in the ignition and leaned towards him, my eyes never leaving his. For a moment, I could see uncertainty flash in his eyes. I knew, even after all these years, that he still saw me as I used to be. The proper lady who he was preparing to marry. The woman who he needed an escort just to be able to spend time with.

He needed to remember that I was no longer that woman. I had lived so many lives since then. I have loved and lost and was just as capable of these silly flirtatious games as he was. My warm breath fanned across his face filling the air between us with the sweet smell of peppermint. His long lashes brushed against my nose as he looked down at my pink glossed lips.

"Oh, Damon, you have no idea what I could do to you. You forget I'm not Elandra anymore. I'm not some sweet innocent girl you can make melt with a few words."

I brushed my nose against his, smiling as his breath hitched. I pulled away and started the car.

"See ya later, Damon,"

I gave him a salute and pulled away from the curb. As I drove away, I watched him in the rearview mirror. He stood staring after me for a moment, before vanishing in a quick flash. I bit my lip and leaned into my seat. What the hell was I getting myself into? Flirting with Damon was a terrible idea. Our past should stay exactly that — the past. Getting involved with anyone would prove to be very stupid. I couldn't bring someone into my life only to break their heart. I shook my head and pushed the thoughts away. Now wasn't the time to think about it.

—-

The doorbell rang as I was going through my closet later that day. I tilted my head to the side as the warm aura of Tyler Lockwood wafted over me. I could feel the presence of his dormant wolf and knew if Jeremy opened the door, we would have trouble. I hopped over the rainbow of clothes covering my closet floor and jumped down every other step in my rush to get to the door. I halted right before the door and tossed my red hair back over my shoulder before yanking it open.

"Hey, Lockwood," I said, upon seeing his bright smiling face.

I've never had a problem with Tyler. We had always had a friendly relationship, and apart from Caroline and Matt, he was the only other person in Mystic Falls I would actually call a friend. Bonnie and I got along to an extent, but Tyler and I hit it off as soon as we met. If it weren't for the fact that his temper was always fluctuating — due to his dormant wolf — then we would have hung out a lot more. Well, that and the fact that we had lost our virginities to one another, one drunken night when we were fifteen.

A dark memory had just resurfaced, one that always caused me a lot of pain, and Tyler (along with a large bottle of Vodka) was there when I needed someone to just help me forget. After the fact, we both felt kind of awkward around one another.

"Hey El, I'm here for my mom. I'm supposed to pick up a box of stuff," he said, running a hand through his hair.

I grinned at his nervousness and ushered him inside. "Yeah, I think I saw Elena messing with that stuff this morning," I said, looking around the living room. "Elena!"

Elena and Jeremy started down the stairs, the latter with an angry and betrayed look on his face. Elena pulled on her green top anxiously as Jeremy approached Tyler. I stepped between the two hormone-ridden boys.

"He's here for his mom," I said casually.

Elena grabbed the box from the closet under the stairs and handed it off to Tyler.

"Its right here. Please be careful."

Jeremy pushed past me and looked Tyler up and down. "Yeah, be careful, dick," he spat.

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought I might lose them. "Hey! Not now, okay, guys? Please," I said, pushing Jeremy back.

Tyler laughed behind me, sneering. "Its okay Ellie, he's just a punk,"

I huffed loudly as I used all my strength to keep Jeremy from attacking him. "Ty, seriously. Just take the box and go."

I used one hand to push Jeremy towards Elena, and the other to push Tyler out the door. Once I knew Elena had ahold of our brother, I followed Tyler out the door.

"God Ty, do you have to bait him? You know what Vick means to him right now."

Tyler set the box of heirlooms in the back of his truck.

"Would it help if I said I actually like Vicki?" he sighed.

I leaned against his truck and gave him my best 'are you serious' look. He laughed at me and sighed.

"I really do, El. I just...you know me. I have trouble expressing myself, and sometimes it's like I can't control my attitude. I can be such a dick,"

He sighed heavily, seeming to have trouble explaining himself. This was the side of him that many people missed out on. He was always trying to be the stereotypical jock, and with a father and mother like his, its something I could completely understand. Tyler had a rough life; yeah, it wasn't the typical rough that a lot of people suffered through, but that didn't make it any less raw. It was a life someone like my brother would never understand.

"I get it, Ty, you don't have to explain yourself to me,"

I punched him in the arm, and he leaned his head against my shoulder briefly before switching back to his usual distant self.

"Okay. Thanks for the old junk. I'll tell my mom to be careful with it," he said, winking.

I shook my head at him and stepped away so he could pull out of the driveway. I waved him off and then headed back inside to resume my search for a Founders day outfit. As I passed my sister's room, I could hear her and Bonnie debating what color nail polish to use. I was just about to pass by when I heard Bonnie bring up Katherine's name. I paused and listened quietly to Bonnie explain Stefan, Damon, and Katherine's past relationship. I almost laughed at Damon's immature way of trying to get in between his brother and Elena. I ignored the sting of jealousy that flared up inside me at the idea that he was still hung up on Kat, and walked into my room. My phone buzzed to life just as I shut the door behind me. I pulled it out of my back pocket and smiled down at the text from Matt.

Hey, odd question. I need a date for the Founders thing, wanna come with me? It would make seeing your sister with that new guy a lot easier to swallow.

I laughed loudly at his awkwardness and sent him back a quick sure. I tossed my phone on my bed beside a lounging Rebekah and headed back into my closet. Once again, I groaned in frustration as I tossed hanger after hanger onto the floor, struggling to find a suitable dress.

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alydiarackham · 5 years ago

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(Cover by me)

The Riddle Walker by Alydia Rackham (Book 2 Weaving of Time Trilogy)

Prologue

The young man glanced in the dull, curved mirror. He frowned. It was covered with dust. Reaching out a leather-gloved hand, he swiped at the circular surface, clearing it so that it reflected better. Bending closer, he studied his face. It was young, white, carven, princely, and hard. He had sharp, aquiline eyebrows, his mouth was set and grave, his cheekbones high and defined, and his straight, brown hair hung down to his collar. He fingered a strand of his hair that was now bearing a bit of gray, which was slightly annoying. The same hand strayed to his right eye and gently pressed against the soft skin beneath it. He was already losing his sight there—and gaining it at the same time. His mouth twitched. He still was not used to this appearance, but it did not disconcert him. Quite the opposite. He had made this transition thousands of times, and he never grew tired of regaining strong muscle and sinew, and a staggeringly handsome face.

He pulled a long, woolen riding cloak off of a wooden hook beside the mirror and slung it around his shoulders. He glanced down as he clasped it, striding down the dark, stone hallway and then kicking the door open. The door banged against the outside wall. Sunshine showered over him and warmed the top of his head. His clothes ruffled as a crisp, moist wind blew down off the hillside. The twittering of birds filled the air. He glanced up and behind him at the four gray towers of the castle, reaching high into the brilliant blue skies, each bearing a vibrant banner.

Three men waited for him in the gravel yard, each atop a muscular, sleek black horse. One was the lord of this castle, a robust, red-headed, bearded man named Lord Ackhenhaill. The other was his firstborn son, Brody, a young, lean, blonde man who thought of nothing but hunting. The third was their guest, a dark-haired, good-hearted, battle-scarred Lord Alasdair MacDomnhaill, ruler of Tioramir and half of Scotland. The young man clasping his cloak concealed his smile. This was the man who would be receiving the bulk of his attention.

“Good morning, my son,” Lord Ackhenhaill called merrily. The young man forced himself to acknowledge Ackhenhaill, reminding himself that the lord was talking to him, as his second son.

“Good morning,” the young man answered briskly.

“How did you sleep?” Brody asked.

“Tolerably,” the young man replied, turning toward the servant who was bringing out his stallion. The young man snatched the reins from the servant, restraining himself from striking him in the face. The cowering stableman hurried away as the young man mounted.

“It is such a glorious day,” Ackhenhaill took a deep breath as he cast his gaze across the sweeping emerald hills and blooming hedges.

“It is indeed, finally,” Brody agreed. “Our horses haven’t had proper exercise since the rains.”

“Shall we stretch their legs?” Alasdair suggested. The young man watched him carefully, observing the white dustings in his beard.

“Are you certain you are up to it, my lord?” the young man asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Haha!” Ackhenhaill crowed. “Up to it? Oh, I assure you, there is no bolder rider in all of Scotland!”

The young man turned and grinned broadly at the bright-eyed, firm-jawed Alasdair.

“Then I shall enjoy the challenge of keeping up with you, my lord!”

Chapter One

"A Death and an Oath"

Western Scotland, 1335

The candles had nearly burned themselves down. No one had bothered to replace them for hours, and so their light grew dimmer and paler, the shadows creeping out from the edges of the stone room and steadily venturing toward the center, where the MacDonald laird now lay. He was swathed in crimson sheets, guarded by wooden angels that formed the posts of his canopied bed.

The flickering light deepened the colors of the wood and the bedclothes, touching the faces of the angels so that they almost animated with sympathy. The laird himself remained motionless, his face drawn with grim effort, as if resisting a tide. He was not an old man. He should not be there on his deathbed, unable to move. He knew this, and in his heart, he railed against it. But no more so than his three sons.

From oldest to youngest, they stood by their father's bedside: Dunmor, Bhaird and Oleron. All wore elegant black, remaining motionless, hanging on their father's every shallow breath.

Bhaird, the middle son, stiffly glanced at his older brother. Dunmor's proud head bowed gravely, his curly, auburn locks obscuring his solemn eyes. The battle scar on his cheek seemed accentuated in this light, and in that small place on his jaw, his skin glinted where his close beard would not grow.

Bhaird turned a similar glance to his right, where Oleron stood. Oleron's clean-shaven, pale, cultured visage showed he was visibly pained; deeply grieved. His sapphire eyes glimmered with tears, and his well-bred jaw tightened. Bhaird risked a breath, returning his gaze to his father. None of them had spoken all day. And he knew that all day, they had each been remembering the day before.

The day before had dawned brilliantly. Bhaird was already up before the cock crew, had dressed in simple riding clothes and boots, and run a brush through his hair. He strode to his bedroom window and pushed open the shutters, letting in the scent of lush moorland and the soft light of the spring sunshine. He had been looking forward to this day. Spring had officially arrived, and upon this day, every year since they had been able, he and his brothers had gone hunting for hart. His face clouded for a moment as he remembered that their father would not be accompanying them---he was away to a neighboring family clan, once again attempting to find a wife for Dunmor.

Bhaird snorted as he snatched his belt and turned toward his door. Dunmor would never settle for someone his father picked out. After all, what did an old man know about beautiful young ladies?

He flung the door open and trotted down the stairs as he fastened his belt, whistling as he went. His feet hit the corridor floor and he strolled easily down it, opening shutters to the morning whenever he saw them.

Movement caught his eye ahead of him and he quit whistling. A willowy lady rustled along before him, her long, waving auburn hair hanging down almost to her knees, her emerald skirts brushing her ankles. She turned and saw him. Her dark, long-lashed eyes warmed and her lovely face beamed.

"Good morning, Bhaird," Her comely mouth smiled wryly. "I can always tell it's you before I even turn around."

"Oh, whatever do you mean, Lady Elinor?" he asked nonchalantly, coming up to her and offering her his arm. She took it and he clasped her hand in his, tucking her arm under his and pressing her hand naturally against his chest, as he always did. She glanced teasingly up at him.

"You're loud," she answered.

"Ha!" He pretended to be offended. "Perhaps I am, in comparison to my deathly-silent brothers."

"Yes, Oleron especially is very quiet," Elinor admitted. "Which is considered a virtue this early in the morning."

Bhaird just laughed again. Though his wit was usually sharp as a blade, he could never outfox Elinor in a battle of banter. He remembered the day Oleron had arrived with her; Bhaird had liked her instantly. However, with a deep, settled knowledge that he did not like to think about, he had realized that he himself had no chance with her. That had been confirmed upon Elinor and Oleron's marriage.

For three years so far Elinor had showered the whole house with warmth and happiness. They had not had a lady in the household since Lady Kiera, the brothers' mother had died, and Elinor's presence did wonders for Tioramir. The place looked hospitable again---like a home---rather than some sort of cave, the appearance it had taken on when only men dwelt there. She cared for all four men, helping run the household and the kitchen, and often surprising them with the skills that she possessed in horsemanship and storytelling.

"I must admit, though," Elinor commented as the two of them headed down the spiraling stairs. "You are louder this morning than usual. What are you so happy about?"

Bhaird grinned.

"My silent brothers and I are going deer hunting today," he answered.

"Oh, yes. Oleron told me about that," Elinor recalled. "Where will you go?"

"Just within the castle's lands," he answered. "The serfs find it sporting to watch."

Elinor frowned delicately.

"That reminds me; I'm due to go down to the village today."

This was the part of Elinor that both confused and intrigued Bhaird. Elinor had brought with her more than just a sunny disposition and a new decor to the castle. She had also implemented what could be called "reforms." She required that everyone---lord or slave---bathe at least twice a week, wash his hair, wash his face daily, and scrub his teeth with odd, small brushes that she had made out of finely-cleaned horsehair. She also made weekly trips herself down to the village of Tioramir to teach the serfs' children to read. Some of these actions would be questionable, others intolerable, if Oleron did not always support her whole-heartedly, and if they all did not love her as much as they did.

Bhaird did not get the chance to comment on her last recollection, for they now entered the smaller of the two dining rooms---the one meant only for the family. There were four windows on the western wall, allowing morning light into the tall, stone room without scorching anyone. Dunmor and Oleron sat waiting for them, a break fast of bread, butter, cheese, apples and blackberries spread out on the long table. Elinor lit up when she saw Oleron and let go of Bhaird. Oleron grinned at her.

"Good morning, Ellie," he greeted her.

"Good morning," she replied, kissing him lightly and seating herself next to him. Bhaird avoided watching this affectionate exchange, then moved around the table to sit by Dunmor.

"Good morning, Dunmor," Elinor said brightly, settling her skirts. The eldest smiled warmly at her.

"Hello, Elinor. I hope you slept well?"

"Oh, indeed," she nodded. Dunmor seemed satisfied.

"Let's eat," Bhaird cut in impatiently, reaching for his bread and butter. "It's high time we were on the hunt."

"Lean forward more when you jump those hedges, Bhaird!" Oleron shouted over the dull pounding of hooves against the peat.

"Be quiet and mind your own horse," Bhaird answered back, resettling himself in his saddle after that last jump.

"Fine, but if you go tipping off again---"

"Listen, someone who can't even shoot straight shouldn't be telling me---"

"There he is!" Dunmor cut them off and pulled his horse's head hard so that he sliced sideways, toward the river. The three men rode abreast, Dunmor slightly out front. They all rode dark stallions whose manes and tails flung out behind them in the fresh wind. Bhaird’s horse’s name was Falcon. His father had given him to him years ago, and Bhaird had broken him. Of all the horses in the stable, Falcon listened to Bhaird best.

The cool air also lashed the hair and clothes of the men as they tore across the moor, leaping over stone walls and heather toward the woods.

Far ahead of them, flitting like some member of the fairy-folk, dashed a sleek hart, his antlers now the only part of him visible over the brush. Ducking his head to avoid low branches, Bhaird darted into the trees behind Dunmor, hearing Oleron follow on his tail. Bhaird instantly had to check Falcon’s speed, for the footing here was treacherous, and a wild rosebush could fell a beast as easily as a snare. Fortunately, the hart had also realized this, and had slowed a bit as well. Dunmor, masterfully letting go of the reins and steering with his knees, brought his bow around front and slid an arrow from its quiver.

A branch reached out and slapped Bhaird across the face. He frowned fiercely as he felt its sting, but quickly refocused on his brother. Ahead of them lay a small clearing. When the deer leaped into it, and was illuminated by the sunlight, Dunmor would shoot.

Dunmor put the arrow to the string and pulled back. Bhaird sucked in his breath. Once again, his older brother would have the glory of bringing down the---

The bellow of a horn split the air. Oleron's horse stopped instantly. Bhaird had to rein back and Falcon neighed in protest. Dunmor, momentarily flustered, took a moment before he leaned back in his saddle and called: "Ho!" Reluctantly, his stallion slowed to a halt. The deer darted away and was lost in the tangle. The horn sounded again. Bhaird glanced over at Oleron. He had gone pale. Oleron glanced at his brothers.

"That is not good. That's---"

"Right," Dunmor nodded crisply, putting away his weapons. "We had best head back."

Instantly, Oleron turned his mount and pelted out of the woods. Dunmor spurred his horse past Bhaird's and followed their youngest brother. Bhaird glanced reluctantly back at the waving branches where the hart had vanished, then, his jaw tightening in disappointment, turned and galloped out of the forest as well.

They made straight for the huts and smoking chimneys of the village, both Oleron and Dunmor disregarding any preparation before leaping the hedges. Bhaird trailed behind, not willing to risk Falcon’s knees, for he was older than the other two. They reluctantly slowed as they entered the walls of the village, for people were hurrying to and fro on their daily errands. Their hooves clattered on the hardened earth as they trotted through. Peasants leaped out of their path, and Bhaird was glad for it; if something was wrong, they would only get in the way.

"Oleron!"

A cry came from somewhere ahead of them, and Oleron's head jerked. Elinor came racing toward them, her hair windblown, one hand hiking up her skirts, the other clasping a piece of parchment. Oleron slid off the horse without thinking and ran to her. Bhaird blinked, and his heart gave a pang. Elinor was crying. Oleron grabbed her and she fell against him.

"Oleron, it's your father."

Bhaird went stiff. Peripherally, he saw Dunmor do the same. Elinor took a gasping breath and her face twisted.

"Something happened while he was out riding with Lord Ackhenhaill. Ackhenhaill lost sight of him in the woods, and when he... Ackhenhaill...found him, Alasdair's horse was gone and he was lying unconscious in the rocks..."

"Shh," Oleron pressed her to him, trying to comfort, but his face showed his terror.

"It's too much the same..." Elinor whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. "It can't happen to you, too..."

Dunmor jumped off his horse. His boots crunched on the gravel.

"May I see the message?" he asked huskily. Bhaird still could not move. Elinor nodded, biting her lip, and handed him the parchment, which by now was rather wrinkled. Dunmor smoothed it out with his gloved hands and read it carefully. His rugged brow furrowed darkly and he swallowed.

"Well..." He cleared his throat. "They should be bringing him soon. They set out right after they sent the messenger."

"They shouldn't have moved him, Oleron," Elinor murmured, shaking her head. "You never move someone who has hit his head or his back..."

Oleron did not reply. He just wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead. "Come," he said quietly, took her hand and lead her to the horse. He got on first, then helped her mount behind him. He turned grimly to his brothers.

"Let us meet them on the road to see that they carry him carefully."

They had done so. But all of the careful bearing in the world had not seemed to help. Thus, the three young men had stood restlessly beside their father all the rest of the day, all night, and all of the following day. And now all four of them could sense that, despite their best efforts, the end was drawing near.

"Dunmor..."

The sons jerked. Their father had spoken. Dunmor quickly knelt down by the bedside and leaned earnestly toward his father.

"Yes, I am here, sir," he assured him, taking his father's right hand in both of his. Alasdair turned his battle-scarred, bearded visage toward his eldest and managed a slight smile.

"My son..." He spoke as if breathing were difficult. "You are now the lord of Tioramir, and the largest portion of my realm."

Tears sprang to Dunmor's eyes.

"Please, Father, do not speak that way---"

"Do not interrupt me, Son," Alasdair closed his eyes and took another ragged breath. He opened his eyes and looked steadfastly at Dunmor. "Do you swear to rule with honor and fidelity, with every action paying homage to your fathers and the God of Heaven?"

Dunmor's visage, as war-scarred as his father's, but warmer and sadder, clouded with grief.

"Yes, Father," he said surely, but his voice was not steady. Alasdair glanced past Dunmor. Bhaird took a small breath and his muscles readied to take Dunmor's place beside his father.

"Oleron," Alasdair said. Bhaird stopped, disconcerted. He turned quickly to his younger brother. Oleron, just as surprised, blinked several times before moving forward. Bhaird stepped back, out of the way, fighting the feeling of offense that rose within him. Dunmor moved to back away as well, but Oleron rested a firm hand on his older brother's broad shoulder, knelt down close beside him and clasped both Dunmor and Alasdair's hands in his.

"Yes, Father?" Oleron searched the older man's face. The old man smiled, reached up with his left hand and put it to the side of Oleron's face.

"My dear son..." Alasdair sighed. "You, who have your mother's eyes...I am proudest of you."

Dunmor cast his gaze downward. Bhaird just stood. Oleron's brow furrowed.

"We have all striven to please you, my lord," he insisted. Alasdair's smile remained and he closed his eyes.

"Yes, I know. But you have changed----changed in such a way that you have taught me many things. And you chose a wife! A wife that has brought so much happiness to all of us."

Oleron's expression softened and he did not argue. Bhaird could see that Dunmor was pained by their father's comment, and only remained kneeling there because of the calm touch of Oleron's hand.

"My precious, third son..." Alasdair whispered to Oleron. "You shall receive the western islands in my possession---Islay, Iona, Eilean Mor and Eilean na Comhailre---the ones you and I used to sail through when you were a lad." Alasdair's eyes caught a glint of fire. "Once you are established there, it should be easy work to take the other islands. Then you can truly enjoy them instead of worrying about your borders."

"I shall enjoy them by remembering when we were there together," Oleron responded quietly.

"Yes, yes, of course," Alasdair resigned, dropping his hand, his breaths beginning to rattle. "I need no oath from you. I know you shall accomplish what is honorable. Bhaird, come here."

Stiffly, Bhaird knelt down, thinking that there was no room at the bedside. But then Oleron let go of his father and Dunmor's hands and opened his side to Bhaird. Bhaird edged in and Oleron put one arm softly around Bhaird's shoulders and one around Dunmor's. Alasdair's eyes became more intense this time and he regarded Bhaird from the depths of seriousness.

"I bequeath to you, second son, a realm I have never seen. It is far away, across the sea, across the bridge that Finn MacCool built."

Bhaird's brow furrowed and he leaned closer.

"As you may know, my son, there is a land across the sea called Erin," Alasdair continued with difficulty. "There is a castle there in the county called Antrim, and its surrounding lands are vast. But there has not been one of the MacDomnhaill there for decades...I fear that all order has fallen to ruin." Alasdair spoke urgently. "I know that you will find a way to restore MacDonald rule to that savage place. Do you swear to rule with honor and fidelity, with every action paying homage to your fathers and the God of Heaven?"

Bhaird could not speak for a long moment. Then finally, he nodded.

"Yes, my lord. I do."

Alasdair let out a long, relieved sigh and smiled.

"You all have been good to your father. You have served me faithfully." He reached up a shaking hand again and touched Oleron's cheek. His brow furrowed strangely. "I love you---do you know that? It is I who am honored to have had you with me..." He lowered his hand and it settled on the bed sheets. His eyes beamed on Oleron. And then he was gone. Bhaird blinked. Nothing dramatic had happened---the light had simply extinguished behind his father's eyes. Alasdair's body went still and silent.

No one moved for a moment, and then Oleron made a strangling sound as if he had been struck. Dunmor shot to his feet and froze, his shoulders tightening, his brow twisting. Oleron covered his face with one hand and leaned down onto the bed. Bhaird backed away, shrugging off Oleron's arm, stood and marched out of the room, leaving the door swinging open behind him.

"Bhaird? Bhaird!"

He recognized Dunmor's voice through the blur in his mind but he did not stop pacing back and forth across the flagstones of the small, dimly-lit dining hall. Footsteps sounded hollowly in the corridor outside and then Dunmor appeared in the doorway, breathing hard.

"Bhaird, why did you leave?" Dunmor asked raggedly.

"What do you mean?" Bhaird snarled, stalking relentlessly, his head down. "We've been in that blasted room for two days now. The stale air was driving me mad."

Dunmor seemed at a loss.

"Oleron...Oleron thinks you are angry at him," he finally told him.

Bhaird said nothing, just sharply kicked a dry piece of bread that the dogs had not found. Dunmor took a few steps into the room.

"Are you?" Dunmor asked cautiously.

Bhaird whirled, shooting his brother a steely look before returning his attention to his rapidly moving feet.

"Should I be?"

"No," Dunmor responded quietly.

"Really?" Bhaird snapped with biting sarcasm. "And why not?"

"He has done nothing to injure you," Dunmor gravely answered. Bhaird lifted his head and pointed viciously at Dunmor.

"Exactly!" The speed of his pacing increased, but now he directed his tirade at his brother. "He has done nothing! How many times has he gone to battle for Father's causes? How many times has he captained ships for him? How many times has he met with enemies to see whether wars would begin or end?"

Dunmor came silently closer and leaned sideways against the table, but Bhaird did not slow. His volume rose as his voice grew unsteady.

"How many times did he take archery lessons? How many hours did he ride with him? How many often did he try so hard to please him that he ended up bruised or bleeding?" Bhaird gestured vehemently. "Oleron has done nothing! Not compared to you or me!" He stopped in front of Dunmor, his hands clenching into fists as he shouted. "Dunmor, I could have died for him! And Oleron always sat back here at Tioramir in Father's throne, eating grapes and whatever else and running gold through his fingers! All he did was flatter and contrive and...and get married---" Bhaird choked on that last bit, then let out a pained, shocked laugh, slapping his hands to his head. "And so, naturally, Father decides that Oleron is the one who inherits Islay and Eilean Mor and Eilean na Comhailne and Iona while I get some obscure piece of land across the ocean overrun by pirates and Gaels! And Oleron took no oath!" He flung his arm out in a despairing gesture, his voice at the edge of his control. He was shaking terribly. He turned his back on Dunmor and braced himself against the wall with his right arm, hanging his head. He swiped at his face. Dunmor approached him softly and stood near.

"That isn't what is troubling you, is it, little brother?" he asked softly. Bhaird's brow tightened angrily and he lowered his head further.

"What's troubling you," Dunmor sighed."Is that you think Oleron was the only one that he loved."

Bhaird could not speak for a long moment. Then, he finally managed.

"Well? Is that not what it sounded like?" he said through clenched teeth. Then he heard someone shift his weight near the doorway.

Bhaird stood upright quickly and turned around. Oleron was standing on the threshold, arms loosely at his sides, his face blank. Bhaird, trapped, felt a twinge of nausea, wondering how long his brother had been standing there. Oleron saw the turbulence on his brother's faces, for his expression of grief deepened. He shrugged helplessly and swallowed. He tried several times to speak, then shrugged again.

"I..." He stopped a moment, for his voice was too unsteady. He took a sharp breath. "I'm sorry," he said simply. He stood for just another moment, then closed his hands into loose fists and cast his gaze at the ground. Hesitantly, he turned, as if waiting to be called back. Hearing nothing, he strode off down the hall. As his footsteps died away, Dunmor glanced at Bhaird, painfully chagrined. Bhaird said nothing in reply. Their hearts were too torn for them to move. Thus, they simply stood, their shoulders touching, as the single bell in the tower rang, signaling the death of the great MacDonald lord.

Elinor lay in bed, staring straight up, watching the patterns that the twin candle flames cast on the red velvet canopy above her. The fire in the fireplace had smoldered down to embers, and the wide room, filled with comfortable furniture and pillows, seemed colder this evening. She shifted achingly and adjusted the covers so they were up around her shoulders. It was past midnight, she knew. But ever since she married, she could not sleep unless Oleron was by her side; especially when she knew he was in so much pain.

The latch on the door across from the bed quietly worked. She sat up, brushing a strand of long hair behind her ear. The wooden door creaked softly open and she recognized Oleron's form within the shadows as he eased into the bedroom. She saw him lift his gaze and catch sight of her.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered apologetically.

"I wasn't asleep," she assured him. He turned and shut the door, but his movements were limp and his shoulders sagged. Elinor felt herself tremble.

"What happened?"

He just stood, halfway turned, his hand on the latch. Elinor went cold. She threw off her blankets, stepped down onto the floor and padded softly toward him, her long nightgown whispering on the stones. She stood near him and urgently searched his dimly-lit face.

"Oh, no," she murmured, her lip trembling. "He...He didn't..."

Oleron bit his lip, then shook his head dumbly, leaning back against the door. Elinor could not speak for a long moment.

"Oh, my sweetheart!" she finally gasped, reaching toward him. The effort was almost too much, but he accepted her brokenly, letting her wrap an arm around his neck and pull him to her. With quivering arms, he embraced her at last, then began to cry. She felt his hot tears against her neck and snuggled him tighter, stroking the back of his head.

For an interminable time, the two remained there, rocking slightly back and forth. Then Elinor gently backed up, sliding her hands down his arms, and took his hands. She led him gently to the bed and urged him to sit on the edge. She then knelt, her hair spilling in a waterfall down her side, and slowly pulled off his boots.

"Lie down." She touched his shoulder gently and he did as she asked, easing down onto his side. It was then she could see his tear-streaked face, and her heart broke.

"Move over a little," she urged, trying to control her emotion, and he absently did so. She pulled the covers out from under his legs and draped them over him, then climbed in and lay on her side as well, her back to him. Without speaking, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in so she could feel his heartbeat against her back, the warmth of his arms all around her and his breath against her hair. She rested her hands over his, gently playing with his gold wedding band. Elinor could feel and hear him still crying almost silently, and she was so close that his sorrow swept over her until she could sense it in her muscles. Soon, burning tears of her own slid down her nose and face and she nuzzled closer to him. She did not speak, knowing that if he wished to talk, he would begin it.

"My brothers are angry with me." His voice sounded so weak she barely recognized it. Her brow furrowed.

"Why?"

He took an unsteady breath.

"Father bequeathed me several valuable islands in the west; his favorite islands. And he told me he loved me." His voice softened. "He only told me."

Elinor swallowed, bewildered.

"You mean...he did not say that he loved Dunmor and Bhaird?"

Oleron was silent for a long time.

"No."

"I know he did love them, though," Elinor said quickly. "I could tell that he did, every day."

"I know," Oleron agreed wearily. "But upon his deathbed...is not the time for a man to single out his favorite. It tends to...stick in a person's mind."

Elinor groaned and closed her eyes briefly.

"Yes, you're right. But I don't see why they should be angry at you." She fleetingly adjusted the bed covers. "You have nothing against them, do you?"

"I love my brothers, Elinor," Oleron whispered, as if it was difficult. "They have no idea how much I love them."

"I know that, too," she assured him. They were silent for a few minutes, allowing their tears to dwindle. Elinor took a deep breath.

"I love you, Oleron, and I would never want to be anywhere without you," she began, her hand closing around the sheet. "But this is what is terribly frustrating for me about being here. When something like this happens, asking for a doctor is like delivering a death sentence. They don't even wash their instruments! Back home, we could have taken your father to the hospital, and they might have been able to do a surgery to repair his lungs or his back...But here; here, you can't do anything but wait to see if a man's own strength is enough to bring him through."

She shifted slightly. "I've thought about it before once or twice, in the middle of the night, and it scares me, Oleron. What if something were to happen to you---or me, or anyone---what would we do? What would we do if someone got cut or got sick or fell off his horse or slipped on the ice?"

Instantly, she felt Oleron's arms tighten around her.

"Don't say things like that, Ellie, please," he murmured earnestly. His voice stiffened. "What would I do if that happened to you?"

Realizing immediately that she had erred, and had instead increased is anxiety, she twisted gently so that she could see him, adjusting her shoulders so that their faces were only inches apart. She gazed at his worried countenance for a moment, then smiled tenderly, trying to be reassuring.

"You would go back in time and rescue me," she whispered, running her forefinger across his eyebrow. "Just like you did last time."

His eyes filled with emotion.

"It doesn't work that way anymore, Elinor. You know that," he breathed. His eyebrows came together and his gaze searched her deeply. "Promise you'll never leave me."

"I made that promise three years ago, Oleron," she reminded him steadily. "You do not need to worry. I am never going to leave you."

She leaned toward him and kissed him gently, then snuggled down to rest her head against his heart. They did not speak any more, and neither could they sleep, for Oleron's spirit was too heavy with sorrow, and Elinor was determined to do all she could not to let him feel alone.

Bhaird threw another cloak into his trunk on top of his other belongings. This was his fourth chest to pack this long morning and he was thoroughly sick of such a chore.

"My lord, you mustn't just toss it inside," Macy, a young household servant, chastised. "There'll be no room for more important things."

"Leave me alone, Macy," Bhaird snapped. Macy stopped in the middle of folding the cloak and stared at Bhaird, wide-eyed.

"My lord?"

"Leave me!" Bhaird commanded, pointing at the door. "I am not a child---I can pack my own chests."

Stunned, for Bhaird had never spoken that way, Macy managed to nod numbly.

"Yes, my lord," he murmured, set the cloak down carefully into the chest and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Bhaird's jaw tightened, he screwed his eyes shut and leaned both hands down upon the bed. He hung his head.

He could barely breathe. It had been weeks since his father's funeral, and still the pain had not subsided. Instead, it churned and snarled within him, pulsing through his veins and tightening his chest. He could not be rid of it. It followed him all through the hours of the night, keeping him awake, tying his bedclothes in knots. Deep in his heart, he simply wanted to collapse onto his bed and sob, but would not allow himself. He could not be so weak. He was a MacDonald lord now, not simply a second son.

He rose up and paced about the bare, stone-floored room, for he found that if he stood still too long his throat would simply close, and the dark shadow that was his grief and rage would overtake him. Forcing his mind to focus, he cast his gaze about his chamber, trying to think of anything else he ought to pack. But he could not think. His emotions were too blinding.

This morning, he was leaving Tioramir, the castle where he had been born. And what tore him was---he wanted to leave. He never wanted to see this place again. And Oleron, his brother---well, he never wanted to see him again either. Yet, much to his consternation, the two of them were to travel together in caravan south-westward, for both of their newly-inherited realms lay in that direction.

He turned and kicked the chest so that the lid slammed shut loudly.

"Macy!" he bellowed. "That's the last one. Have someone come up here and haul it

down."

With that, he turned and yanked on his riding boots, strapped on his belt and sword and threw a cloak over his shoulders. He pulled the door open just as Macy and two other servants were entering. He did not acknowledge them, but carelessly marched down the stairs, ignoring their stammers of "Pardon, m'lord," and silently worked at his cloak clasp. He passed a window in the corridor that had an open shutter. Scowling at it, he moved and closed it, darkening the hall and shutting out the sounds of the birds.

The great entourage stood waiting in the yard. Each young lord had two wagons to bear their portion of household inheritance and treasure, and each was taking four servants and twelve guards. The gray morning was rather cold, and a mist had settled within the gentle slopes of the deep emerald hills. The forests were still shadowed in soft darkness, and only a few songbirds had ventured to wake so early, and so their tunes sounded lonesome. The twenty-five horses, however, were fully awake, for they had early sensed that the day of travel had arrived. Their hooves scraped the gravel of the yard, and when they snorted, halos of warm breath surrounded their heads.

Bhaird, shutting the small, creaking door behind him as he left the castle, tugged his cloak tighter around his throat, his booted feet crunching the hard earth as he walked. Glancing up, he spotted Elinor helping to pack the wagons. She was clad in a dark red traveling dress and a brown cloak. Her hair hung loose, and her face appeared careworn and pale, but no less lovely. Bhaird's steps slowed, his brow furrowing. He had not seen her much these past two weeks---she had been too busy comforting Oleron.

A dart of resentment shot through Bhaird. How could she not have realized that they all needed her feminine comfort---not only her husband? It was not as if they had a mother, or a nurse to speak soft words to the older brothers as they grieved. This past fortnight, Oleron had had Elinor to keep him warm during the night, to embrace him there and ease his pain. Dunmor and Bhaird had been alone in their own chambers, staring at the ceiling. And during the day, Elinor had walked back and forth with Oleron, sometimes disappearing for whole afternoons. She had rarely spoken to Bhaird. He tightened his jaw, refusing to consider why this made him so deeply angry.

She pushed a rolled-up tapestry into a small space in the wagon, then turned and saw him. She dropped her hands and took a step toward him, but his countenance was not hospitable. Elinor stopped.

"Hello, Bhaird," she said quietly.

"Hello," he answered tightly, moving toward Falcon.

"How are you?" she asked hesitatingly.

"Well enough to ride," he replied. He avoided her gaze so that he would not see the hurt on her face and checked the cinch on his saddle. Falcon snorted in discomfort and stomped his front foot as Bhaird tightened it .

"Shut up, you," Bhaird snapped harshly. "You are not going to be tossing me onto my back. Not today." His throat closed as images of his father toppling from his own horse flashed through his mind. His eyes shut tightly and he bit his cheek.

"Bhaird..." Elinor murmured. "Are you..."

"No, Elinor," he said shortly. "Never you mind." He stormed back toward the castle, terrible feelings pulsing through him. He should not have spoken like that to her or Falcon. Yet he could not think of what else he could have said.

He had almost reached the small door again when it opened and Bhaird almost ran into Oleron. Oleron was dressed in his black riding clothes embroidered with red lions---a princely gift from their father. Oleron was even paler than Elinor, and the darkness under his eyes made him appear as if he had not slept the whole two weeks. Bhaird tightened. He had not spoken to his brother all this time. Oleron slowed to a halt, but appeared too weary to jerk in surprise. He tiredly lifted his bright, sad eyes to Bhaird's.

"Where is Dunmor?" he wondered, almost apologetically. Bhaird shrugged, reluctant to trade words.

"I do not know. I haven't seen him yet this morning."

Oleron looked as if he wished to say something else, but Bhaird made sure his expression forbade it, and so Oleron only nodded, his eyebrows coming together, and cast his gaze down.

"Oleron! Here is your horse."

Oleron's head lifted quickly and he gazed past Bhaird. Bhaird turned to see Dunmor, clad in long black and their father's MacDonald tartan, leading Oleron's ebony stallion. Dunmor did not look much better than Oleron, but strength seemed to rest beneath his sorrow, for he also appeared to be bearing a great weight. Still, his brown eyes warmed, and he actually smiled at his brothers. Tears suddenly threatened Bhaird, but he fought them. Oleron brushed past him and approached the eldest brother.

"Thank you, Dunmor," Oleron said sincerely, taking the reins. Reluctantly, Bhaird drew near as well, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elinor take a few steps toward them. Bhaird sensed that the servants and guardsmen were ready; they now stood by their horses and wagons and had picked up their loads. They only waited in silence for the brothers to give farewells.

Oleron stood before his eldest brother, head bowed, holding the reins in both hands, as if he did not know what to do with them. He then lifted his eyes and met his brother's, for Dunmor was very tall. A startling tear ran down Oleron's white face.

"I had not thought to say goodbye to you so soon," he choked. He dropped his head again and his hands tightened on the reins. "Dunmor...I am too young for this."

Without restraint, Dunmor took his brother in his arms and pressed him close.

"None of us could have seen this, little brother," he spoke into Oleron's hair. "But I was always certain you would be a great man." He stepped back and took Oleron by the shoulders, looking him directly. "I know that you will not disappoint me."

Oleron's jaw and brow tightened painfully, but he nodded with conviction. After just a moment, Dunmor dropped his hands and Oleron turned to gaze at Bhaird. Bhaird stood, not knowing what to do. Dunmor reached out his right hand to him. Shakily stepping forward, not wanting to stand near Oleron, Bhaird came to Dunmor's side. Dunmor reached up and took Bhaird by the side of the neck and brought him closer. For a long while, neither said anything as Bhaird desperately fought the tide within him. Then, Dunmor pulled him into an embrace as well---an embrace so like their father's that the tide nearly broke through.

"Do not resent your brother forever," Dunmor whispered so that only he could hear. "He does love you."

Bhaird felt stung, but would never force himself out of Dunmor's arms. Thus, after a moment, Dunmor released him. Oleron was weeping now, his head low, and Dunmor's cheeks bore tears. Dunmor then glanced past his brothers and opened his arms to Elinor. She ran to him, her hair and cloak flagging behind her, and buried her face in his chest. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"I hate it so much that we'll all be apart," she gasped into his cloak. "It shouldn't be this way."

Dunmor took a deep, shaking breath.

"I know," was all he said. After a long, helpless moment, Dunmor let her go. She turned and grasped Oleron's hand.

"May I ride with you for now?" she asked, wiping at her tears. Oleron nodded wordlessly. A servant brought Bhaird's horse near and so he mounted it. Oleron got on his horse first, then helped Elinor on behind him. Elinor reached down to Dunmor and he grasped her hand.

"We will not be kept from you," she insisted. "Especially in the summers! It will be hard for you to leave here, but we will manage to see you as often as we can."

"Good," Dunmor said earnestly. "Good. I will look forward to your visits."

Elinor released his hand and he came to stand by Bhaird's horse.

"I want to see you again someday," he said solemnly.

"You will," was all Bhaird could think of, for he had gone cold---before this, he had never realized how distant Ireland truly was. Dunmor knew his brother's doubt, but did not speak. He merely nodded and backed away. He stood for a long moment, casting his saddened gaze over the entire assembly. He then took a breath and spoke, and the voice of the new MacDonald lord, admittedly gentler than his father's, rang out through the morning.

“May you see God's light on the path ahead When the road you walk is dark. May you always hear, Even in your hour of sorrow, The gentle singing of the lark. When times are hard may hardness Never turn your heart to stone, May you always remember when the shadows fall— You do not walk alone.”

Biting his lip hard, Bhaird turned Falcon, and was the first to lead the grieving caravan out of the castle yard and onto the moors. He only looked back once, and when he did, he beheld the gray towers of Tioramir cutting the sky, and Dunmor, standing alone, one arm raised in farewell.

Chapter Two

"Stolen"

They traveled several days across the wild and chilly highlands, camping in niches in the valleys or among birch trees, trying to avoid the wind that tumbled over the hills at night. The going was slow, because of the wagons, and it was difficult to find terrain smooth enough not to upset them. Bhaird silently left that task to Oleron. He grudgingly had to allow that, though Oleron had always been much inferior to him in swordsmanship and archery, he was much superior to him in horsemanship, tracking and scouting. But rather than admit this, and suggest that Oleron lead the way, Bhaird had merely fallen back in the ranks, and settled for glowering at his younger brother's back.

The first three nights were sleepless as all the others had been, but by the fourth, Bhaird was so sore and exhausted that he did manage to slumber for a few hours. He had his own small tent, for which he was grateful, and a warm bed of furs. This night, the wind howled without, sounding like someone lost out on the moor. The only light came from a small fire that had been built within the circle of tents, but the thickness of the tarp clouded most of it. Other, perimeter fires had also been set, but those were far enough away that they did not disturb him either.

However, he had slept through only one watch when his tent flap was pushed aside.

"My lord."

Bhaird groaned and put a hand over his face, shielding his shut eyes from the intruding glare of the fire outside.

"My lord, your brother requests your presence. He is waiting for you by the south perimeter fire."

"Tell him to jump off a cliff," Bhaird growled. The guard hesitated.

"My lord?"

"Never mind, Gaskin," Bhaird muttered angrily, throwing his warm blankets off himself, snatching at his cloak and tossing it around his shoulders.

"He also requests that you bring your bow."

Bhaird stopped and squinted at the bearded man, not certain he had heard him properly.

"What?" Bhaird said hoarsely, rubbing his face."What for?"

Gaskin shrugged.

"I don't know, sir," he said honestly. "I did not ask."

Bhaird groaned again, shook his head, and grabbed at his bow and quiver. He did not bother to sling them over his shoulder as he pushed past Gaskin and stomped out into the chilly night.

The wind cut through him, even down in this valley, and he cursed at his brother for dragging him out of his warm, fur bed. Who did he think he was, anyway? Dunmor?

Bhaird, slouching his shoulders, shuffled down through the deeply shadowed camp to one of the perimeter fires where Oleron was waiting. The fire stood almost alone---it was the farthest reaching finger of the camp. Through the darkness, Bhaird could distinguish Oleron's form, sitting on a log with his back to him. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Bhaird approached the fire and stopped impatiently.

"What is it, then?" he demanded.

But his voice was cut off by a haunting wail that cut through the air. Bhaird stopped, stepping back quickly, his widened eyes darting about to search the forest beyond. Oleron turned his hooded head just slightly, and his blue gaze sliced across the distance between them.

"Wolves," he murmured deliberately, before turning his icy attention back to the shades of the trees. "Have you not heard them?"

"No, frankly, I have not," Bhaird retorted, hating the fact that he had just shown his little brother a hint of fear. "I was actually sleeping for the first time in a month."

Oleron ignored his tone, still staring into the blackness.

"I shot at a few of them that came too near, but I believe I missed," Oleron said with almost eerie calmness, and it was only then that Bhaird noticed the bow that easily rested across Oleron's knees, and the quiver leaning on the log beside him. Bhaird raised his eyebrows.

"Of course you missed," Bhaird could not resist jabbing. "When will you learn not to even try with that thing?"

"That is why I sent for you," Oleron replied, not missing a beat, but still not looking at him. "I thought your bow might be useful."

"Sent for me?" Bhaird barked, his temper finally getting the better of him. "You? Sent for me? I am the elder, here! Why should you be summoning me?"

Oleron turned to him and cocked an eyebrow.

"Because you were asleep and I was awake. Because I heard the wolves and you did not," Oleron stated. "Because I was out here and you were up there. And because you can shoot and I cannot."

Fury rushed through Bhaird's whole body, but as a result he became utterly mute. Oleron turned from him, back to the woods.

"But if you would rather go back to bed, feel free." Subtle sarcasm entered his voice. "I cannot see what would hold you here."

Just then, three wolves joined in a chorus of howling---and they did not sound particularly far away. Bhaird stared at his brother. When Gaskin had first told him that Oleron was sitting by one of the perimeter fires, Bhaird had naturally assumed that his little brother was afraid to be out here alone. But now, watching Oleron with narrowed eyes, Bhaird did not get that sense at all. Oleron appeared completely calm, alert and still, an almost wolfish aspect of his own possessing his countenance. Also, the golden firelight accented a deep impact scar on Oleron's cheekbone---a scar that Bhaird had somehow formerly missed. Whatever his brother was, he was not afraid. Bhaird swallowed, trying not to show his disconcertion.

Grudgingly, Bhaird strung his bow, then eased forward and sat on another log across from Oleron. Neither of them spoke a word for hours as the ethereal night sounds of the menacing wood surrounded them. Oleron remained almost still, except for his ever-vigilant eyes.

A branch snapped and dropped away from the fire, tumbling onto the ground near Bhaird's feet. Bhaird bent down and tossed it back into the crackling flames, causing the light to flare up and once more highlight Oleron's scar.

"Where did you get that?" Bhaird found himself questioning. Oleron glanced at him inquiringly, and Bhaird tapped his own cheekbone. The right side of Oleron's face twitched slightly, and he turned away.

"I got hit in the face."

"With what?" Bhaird pressed. Oleron did not answer for a moment.

"A fist."

Bhaird blinked. He did not remember Oleron ever participating in a fight.

"What? When was that?"

Unexpectedly, Oleron smiled, as if he simply could not help himself. He actually chuckled.

"Never mind. It really does not matter."

Bhaird glared at him. He absolutely hated the way Oleron talked; as if he was some prince of men instead of just the spoiled third son of a lord---and his younger brother. Such insolence wiped all curiosity from Bhaird's mind. He turned his shoulders away from his brother, casting his attention out toward the beasts.

Perhaps Oleron's arrows had frightened them earlier, or perhaps the presence of two armed men by the fire now was more intimidating. Whatever the reason, the wolves did not venture near again. By the time dawn arrived, their shadowy presences had faded away like wraith with the coming of the light.

The next day, they arrived at the halfway point: the tumbling, roofless walls of a long-abandoned church. The caravan quieted as they approached, gazing up at the silent, ivy-covered, dark gray stones and elegant, broken-down windows. Oleron called a halt for a rest and a meal.

In the bustle that followed, Bhaird caught sight of Elinor gracefully dismounting, then gingerly approaching the ruins, drawing her cloak around herself. The look on her flushed face stilled him. Her expression held a mix of wonder and sadness, and almost reverence. Silently, and unbeknownst to anyone else, she slipped through the church door and disappeared. Without thinking, Bhaird followed her.

His booted feet were quiet upon the lush grass and foliage, and no sound accompanied him but the slight flapping of the hem of his cloak. Hesitating just a moment, he ducked through the narrow, low door and entered the utter stillness of the church.

The earth had long ago swallowed the paving and replaced it with thin, tender grass. Slate stones from the fallen roof littered the ground. The steel gray of the sky above almost gave the impression of their being inside, and the day was so still and cool that no breath of air moved his hair or clothes.

He glanced to his left where stood a great, tall window, the top broken down. A risen part in the floor just beneath the window was the only indication of where the altar had been.

Elinor stood up there, on the platform, not moving, her back to him. He slowed to a halt and stared at her, suddenly awkward. He had not spoken to her since he had snapped so harshly at her on the yard of Tioramir. And now, the longer he was quiet, the stranger he felt. Should he speak, or go back out and leave her alone? However, despite his best efforts, he found he could do neither, and stayed rooted to the spot.

A shaft of sunlight briefly cut through the clouds, shining through the main altar window. Elinor turned her head slightly, so he could just see her profile, and the sunlight lit her up, shining in a halo around her head and gracing the edges of her garments. She caught sight of him, turned a bit more and smiled at him, looking for all the world like every angel he had ever imagined. He was struck.

Oh, heaven, he suddenly realized, his breath catching. I am never going to see her again.

He managed a feeble smile in return, knowing he had gone pale. She did not seem to notice, but turned her attention back to the decaying walls. She took a few steps toward him, her cloak and train trailing through the ferns behind her.

"What is this place called?" she inquired softly, reaching out to touch a large, fallen stone. "I do not know its original name," Bhaird admitted, his voice slightly listless. "For as long as I can remember, it has been called Rewyn." He took a breath. "The Ruin Between."

The clouds covered the sun again, and the shaft of brilliance vanished. At the same time, a cloud passed over Elinor's face, and she turned to him.

"Between?" Elinor wondered. He glanced at her.

"Between...well, on the road between Dunmor's castle...and Oleron's."

Elinor's shoulders sagged a bit.

"That is a sad sounding name."

Bhaird shrugged.

"That's what it is," he murmured, casting his own gaze over the walls. "What it was long ago is forgotten. What it is now is rocks piled on top of each other. What it could have been, had it not been neglected...no one will ever know. It has no purpose, no potential...no future." Suddenly, he found himself staring into her concerned, intent, dark eyes, and his throat threatened to close. But he made himself go on. "Nothing will ever come of it. So why give it a grander name?"

Elinor watched him for a long moment; not harshly, but deeply, and Bhaird found himself unable to break her gaze. Finally, she did it, and turned to leave. He closed his eyes and did not turn. Wordlessly, almost as an afterthought, she kindly touched his shoulder. A painful thrill ran all down his body, and he barely heard her leave.

He forced his eyes open, but otherwise did not move, and stared hatefully around at the falling walls, bitterly resentful about what all of this said about the brother between.

Three days later, they arrived. It startled them. One moment, they were struggling up a terribly rocky hill---leading their horses, cursing at the wagon wheels, catching things that tumbled out---and the next they stood gazing at a tremendous, four-towered castle, hung with banners, and surrounded by verdant hills and a quaint, many-chimneyed village. Beyond the castle stretched the breathtaking, silver sea; and shrouded in the morning fog, several dark, lush, rocky islands raised their heads above the distant waves. All of it was lit by the rich, shimmering, fresh sunlight of morning.

"Oleron..." Elinor murmured in awe, leading her mare to the top of the hill, her hair lightly tossed by the cool, moist breeze. "It's beautiful."

"Do you like it?" Oleron panted, leading his own horse up, and shoving his hood back.

"Oh, yes..." she breathed, quite overcome.

"Well," he shrugged. "Then it's yours."

She looked at him, and he winked. Then, the first real smile she had shown in a month lit up her entire face. Bhaird felt jealousy pierce through him and he glanced away.

It took great, painstaking effort to slide and wind their way down that hill. Finally, they reached a treacherous, narrow road, but compared to the uneasy footing they were used to, this road was a Godsend. The horses, sensing an end to their long journey, began tugging at the reins, and the carts clattered with an almost happy noise as they proceeded down toward the village.

The lovely place was called Karliblagh. Bhaird had visited it once, when he was young. It had not changed at all, and appeared every bit as grand as he remembered---perhaps more so, for now he could appreciate the hard work it took to maintain an estate such as this, especially so close to the sea, where Vikings and other pirates always threatened to raid.

Their horses' hooves clattered against the hardened earth of the central road, and as they entered, peasants began to emerge from their houses, or look up from their work. Bhaird noticed that the people living here looked prosperous. Their small homes were well-kept, their gardens flourished, their clothes appeared reasonably clean and carefully mended, and the scent of baking bread hung in the air. The peasants' faces lit up with realization and expectation as they followed the caravan's approach, and all of them gasped when a herald atop one of the castle turrets let out a welcoming trumpet call.

Oleron lifted his head and took a deep breath, something sparking in his eyes. He smiled, then glanced at Elinor, who returned the look of anticipation. Bhaird shut all emotion out of his face.

They arrived in front of the castle, which sported an impressive moat. A guard, poised between two flapping banners, leaned down and shouted through cupped hands. His voice rang through the village.

"Who goes there?" he bellowed.

Oleron cupped his hands around his own mouth to answer.

"I am Lord Oleron MacDomnhail, son of Alasdair, Lord of the Isles."

"And what brings you here, Lord MacDonald?" the guard questioned.

"Lord Alasdair is dead! He has divided his realm between his three sons, and given Karliblagh into my hands as an inheritance!"

The guard looked shocked. Several other guards darted over to gaze down at them, and they conversed with one another. Finally, the first guard called down again.

"My lord! The gate shall be opened to you! Steward Ramphail will greet you in the courtyard!"

About a minute later, the great, black drawbridge was lowered, the mighty chains clanking against the gears. With a final rumble, it nestled into the earth on the other side of the moat, making a wide enough bridge for the caravan to cross.

The horses found this prospect slightly spooky, but in the end they entered the castle unscathed.

Despite his foul mood, Bhaird had to marvel at the towering gray walls of the large courtyard. The windows in the walls were fairly large, and many servants were now hanging out of them at the prospect of catching a glimpse of their new master. The wain wheels and horse hooves clattered loudly against the stone, and every noise echoed. The servants chattered excitedly amongst themselves, filling the space with cheerful sound.

"My lord!"

Their attention was arrested by a finely-dressed, middle-aged, bearded man striding toward them. Without hesitation, he fell to one knee in front of Oleron, his right fist to his heart.

"My lord, I am Ramphail, son of Laridhon, Steward of this castle and this township." He raised his head to smile broadly. "I met you when you were a boy---I doubt you recognize me, but I would know your face anywhere. Your father was my good friend." He took a deep breath. "It is my great pleasure to present and return to you the castle and realm of Karliblagh."

Oleron dismounted and quickly bid the steward to rise. Oleron reached out his hand, and, after a moment's hesitation, Ramphail grasped Oleron's elbow. Oleron returned the grip, looking supremely serious.

"Though the conditions which deliver this place to me grieve me deeply," Oleron said quietly. "I am relieved and comforted to find that Karliblagh has been cared for so diligently."

Ramphail was delighted, and once Oleron had introduced Bhaird, Elinor, and his leading knights, Ramphail took a few rolls of official papers from Oleron and bid them all inside.

Bhaird stiffly dismounted, and reluctantly allowed a stable boy to take the reins of his weary animal. Trying to walk straight and not wince or rub his back, for Oleron did not seem to be having any trouble, Bhaird followed Oleron and Elinor through the courtyard and through the towering, main oaken doors, which hung open to let in the light and the morning breeze.

A narrow dimly-lit hallway suddenly opened up into a grand hall---and with it a black hole opened up in Bhaird's heart.

The hall was incredible. Strong, thick pillars reached their towering fingers upward until they branched into graceful archways in the ceiling. Flags bearing the MacDonald crest draped from polished flagpoles. Two giant, square fire-pits in the floor were alight with cheerful, welcoming flames that filled the hall with warmth. The scent of a feast---game hen, pheasant, potatoes and bread, at least, if Bhaird was not mistaken---wafted out from a back room. And if he listened, he could hear the kitchen maids bustling and bickering and clattering unseen.

Then he lifted his head---and slowed to a halt. The others kept going, but he paid them no notice as everything but the sight before him faded into the background.

It was a throne. No---two thrones.

They stood on a raised platform; ancient, sturdily built and simply grand, one slightly taller than the other. The wooden seats were draped with exotic fur, and behind the thrones, on the masoned wall, hung several war-scarred shields---shields of the great warriors and lords that had lived and defended in this place.

Bhaird's mind reeled at the thought of what legendary and mighty lords had sat upon that throne, reaching back to ancient days. His fathers---his kin---had held this place with the strength and will of oxen, and had made it glorious.

And now---Oleron would sit there. Oleron.

Bhaird's blood ran cold.

And Elinor.

"Bhaird?"

Bhaird jerked at the sound of his brother's voice. Oleron had called stopped the others, and now had faced him worriedly.

"Are you well?"

"Yes," Bhaird lied stiffly. "Yes, I am fine."

Neither Elinor nor Oleron looked convinced, but Ramphail began to speak again, telling Oleron all about the grand hall, and using the words "my lord" in every sentence. Bhaird made himself catch up to them as they gradually gave their attention back to the steward.

"Servants shall be assigned to both of you personally," Ramphail explained. "And you, my lord," he nodded at Bhaird. "Shall also receive servants that will attend you during all the length of your stay."

"That will not be necessary," Bhaird said flatly. They all turned to face him, confused.

"I am afraid I do not understand," Ramphail admitted. Bhaird looked at him.

"My entourage and I will stay for the morrow. The following morning we will depart for Ireland."

"Surely, after such a long journey, you wish to recover yourself before you set out again! Especially before journeying to Ireland!" Ramphail exclaimed.

"There is nothing to recover," Bhaird answered simply. "I refuse to trespass upon my younger brother's hospitality any longer than that. I am certain he has more important things to attend to than entertaining me."

Silence fell. And then deep hurt registered on both Elinor and Oleron's faces. Bhaird ignored it.

"Now, if you please, could you show me to my quarters?" he asked, drawing himself up like the second son and lord that he was.

A servant arrived the instant Ramphail motioned with his finger, and Bhaird turned and swept along behind him to ascend the stairs to his quarters. He could not possibly stay here any longer than a day. He could not bear the sight of this masterly castle---the castle that should have been his.

Elinor could not sleep. Oleron was in too much pain. She glanced over at him. Even as he lay there asleep, a shaft of moonlight gracing his face, his brow was furrowed. The way he rolled and tossed also told her that his dreams were just as bad as the sentiments he had expressed all evening.

They had talked and talked, and neither of them could understand what had happened to Bhaird. It distressed Oleron so badly. He had tried so very hard, after coming back from his incredible journey, to make peace with his brothers, and to show them how much he had come to love them and their home. But that night, Oleron told Elinor that he had surely failed.

Besides this fact, they were sleeping in an unfamiliar castle, in a bed that was not their own---and Oleron would have been inexpressibly grateful to have his older brother there to help him break into the lordship.

Elinor turned her head and gazed out the tower window. What had happened to Bhaird? Setting her jaw, she realized that there was truly only one way to discover that. Cautiously, making sure not to disturb her husband, she slid out of bed, wrapped a robe around herself and slipped silently out of the grand chambers.

She had a fairly good sense of direction, but this castle was vast and spooky in the darkness of night. However, she remembered a secluded section of the roof that Ramphail had shown them, and tried to find her way there. If she knew Bhaird at all---though that truth was uncertain, now--- he would have found his way there if he also could not sleep.

At last, she arrived just at the door that led out onto that part of the roof. She hesitated a moment, then pulled it open, just a hair.

She was right. He stood out there, facing the dark hills beyond. If she had not looked carefully, she might have thought it was Oleron. They were built much the same, and their hair was equally dark. But she knew how different Bhaird was from his younger brother. Bhaird’s clean-shaven countenance was not so serious, and his face not so aquiline. His shorter hair was boyishly disheveled, as always, and his mouth and Oleron's were dissimilar. Bhaird's mouth was wry, and was formed more gently than Oleron's. Elinor knew he was handsome, as his brothers were, but it was his eyes, really, that made him so unique among them. They were a warm, open brown; reflecting pools for his heart that simply sparkled.

At least, they had sparkled, once upon a time.

Taking a deep, saddened breath, Elinor pulled harder on the creaking door and stepped out into the night air.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Riddle-Walker-Weaving-Time-Book-ebook/dp/B071G1B6DQ/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1572895982&sr=8-1-fkmr0

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