#but now onto Alabaster going to save his daughter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluejaytaco · 4 years ago

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(We returned to the session with all party members floating in the waters of Fransland. The bar has “Welcome to my realm” written on it in blood. Outside of it there are strange, humanoid creatures walking around. We're in the water, Theodora had a young elf boy knocked out on her back and Art has Reita clinging to him because she doesn't know how to swim.

The water is, however, strangely buoyant.)

Theodora:(immediately swims over and hugs Koejin) I'm never letting you go again.

Koejin: (hugs back) yeah... uh, no more jumping through strange portals for a while.

Alabaster:(casts waterwalking and walks over to Art) Hello, my friend!

Art: (jumps at the sight) Holy Jesus! Hi, hello!

(We all end up swimming to shore and catching up a little bit. The creatures were something Team A was dealing with while we were in the separate universe. From the distance, some of us can see that the creatures are all attached to one cloaked figure sitting off to the side.)

Koejin: (shoots an arrow at the figure and hits it right in the head. The head pops off and rolls closer. It's Skelly)

Skelly: What the Hell?! What just happened?! Who shot me?!(all his minions just kinda stand around his head) Don't just stand there! Reattach me!

Theodora: Skelly?

Skelly: (After his head's back on, he notices us) Oh, hey guys!

Hennessy: What're you doing here?

Skelly: I don't know. Just one minute I'm minding my own business, the next I'm here with these guys (gestures to the shambling forms) Just making friends and hanging out.

Theodora: Are they.... friends by choice? (stares pointedly at the tethers)

Skelly: They're friends by MY choice!

Theodora: How long have you been here?

Skelly: A day... A week... two years and five minutes? Ehhhh....

Art: (moves to explore the tavern)

(As he moves closer, a giant red claw comes up and climbs onto the roof. Mrs. Red glares at the party. Koejin also notices humanoid Mrs. Red is on her back. Dragon Mrs. Red rears back and uses her fire breath on everyone, successfully melting Skelly into a pile of ash.

We also have a new party member, Jaquine. She is not as high of a level as us, so the blast would kill her.

But then a large tiefling woman jumps in and takes the brunt of the burn for Jaquine. She looks.... very familiar. Despite the fact that we've only really met like two tieflings.)

Tiefling woman: Everyone, inside! Now! (Jumps up on Dragon Red's face and they fly away.)

Koejin: Uh, yeah! Let's go!

Alabaster: (moving over to bring Skelly back to life)

(Skelly is now a strange pile of moving ash. He hasn't regained his original form.)

Vincent: Yesss.... burn.... (This is like... the third time he's gotten excited about some violence.)

Hennessy: Alright! You and me! We gotta talk!

(We go inside the bar to see a scawny looking white dragonborn behind the bar, cleaning a glass. Aside from him, there's only one other patron; a woman passed out in a puddle of her own drool with long, rainbow hair.)

Art: (eyes the bartender) Hey there... I'm Art... and you are? (he already knew the answer)

Dragonborn: (smiles creepily) Oh, hi! I'm Eltbalm.

Art: Right, right. (looks over at the passed out woman and frowns as he realizes it's Thia. He walks over to her)

Reita: (runs to Wreybar and points at a hole in the wall. She then dives for it and pulls out a rat. She tears the rat in half and hands part of it to Wreybar.)

Wreybar: Is it a gift or food?

Reita: (nods and bites into her half)

Wreybar, grinning: Thank you!

(Me: I'm a good big brother for letting this happen.)

(For a moment, we cut to Hennessy and Vincent talking to each other about the way he's been acting. Vincent, after being kidnapped and just all around having a shitty time, has adopted the whole idea of killing in order to make the world better. But, after a bit of talk, he's feeling a little better. Hennessy talks about how Theodora, Koejin, and Alabaster would be able to help him with whatever he needs to feel safe again. That seems to help.)

(Meanwhile, Art is gently shaking Thia awake. He gets her to snap her head up but that's about it. He gestures to Eltbalm to get them some water for her.

We all try to get her to wake up and talk with us, but to no avail. However, all of us agree that this might be the best time for a long rest. But before that)

Hennessy: Art, can I speak to you?

Art: Uh... yeah. What's up?

Hennessy: Your sister. She's still got that pink stone embedded in her back, right?

Art: Yeah... we haven't been able to remove it... why do you ask?

Hennessy: Well, while we were all superpowered by the gods, I came across a spell that might be helpful. We could create a clone copy of Reita and remove the stone from her original body. Then, if anything were to go haywire, then we can put her essence into the clone.

Art:.... I want you to think about this for a second.. Put yourself in my shoes and Vincent in Reita's.... would you still trust it?

Hennessy: If it means saving his very life and the lives of millions, then of course!

Art: Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying no. It's just... a lot. And, I mean, it's not like we can do it right now anyway, right?

Hennessy, seeing that Art doesn't fully trust the idea: Yes, but... to ease your worries... it might help to keep in mind we have a genuine necromancer on our side. (Gestures to Alabaster)

Alabaster, seeing that gesture and looks over to find out whats going on: Hello, yes!

Art: You're a necromancer now?!

Alabaster: Why yes. It's an interesting tale but yes. And I would be able to help your sister, given the situation!

Art: (looks at the Skelly blob then up at Alabaster tensely. He then turns back to Hennessy.) It's not something we can do now anyway so....

(Everyone took a look at the stone. Hennessy discovered it was an ancient magic while Art recognized it as tiefling magic. Theodora offered to cut the magic and see what might come of it, but Art was afraid it might hurt Reita. He might be a little over protective.

This is around where we took our rest. As we're rested and trying to figure out our next move, the tiefling woman steps in through the door. She has in her hands the fifteen foot battle axe and is covered in blood. She walks up, demands a beer from Eltbalm, and walks back over to the table where Thia is still passed out. As she takes a sip, she gestures to all of us to gather around.)

Tiefling Woman: Must be pretty confusing for all of you.

Art: That's putting it lightly.

Tiefling Woman: So, let's start with an introduction; I'm Elsie. Elsie Red. I'm the only form of Mrs. Red here that's a tiefling.

Art: ...yeah, why are you a tiefling?

Elsie, shrugging: Don't know. Don't have any memories of anything outside of here. But, hey! I gotta gift for you (looks over at Eltbalm) Hey, you! Go get her. And you better not have touched her!

Eltbalm: Aww, but- (interrupted by the battle axe embedding itself in the wall next to him) coming up!

(Eltbalm disappears for a moment and returns with a bound Mrs. Red. It's our Red; missing tongue and all. He sits her down next to Elsie.)

Hennessy: Elsie, is your story anything like our Red's? It's quite the tragic tale.

Elsie: I don't know. I dont remember. That smiling bastard sent me and all these reds here. It's like we're some kind of experiment or something.

Theodora, nodding: Sounds like Ticket Master, alright. He is quite an asshole.

Hennessy, turning to Red: Do you still have the diary I returned to you?

Red: (nodding in her condescending, mean girl way)

(Art tries to reach into her satchel in order to show Elsie only to get bitten for the trouble.)

Art: Ow, hey! You bitch!

Red: (glaring at him)

(Art gives Elsie a rundown of what they know about Red's backstory. It sums up to Red ending the war and starting her reign of terror after the death of Eltbalm. At that, he points to the scrawny dragonborn at the bar.)

Elsie: Uhhh, no. I remember being married to a tiefling woman. He's not really my type....

Art: Our Eltbalms haven't looked like that. They're more....uh... Koejin, describe Eltbalm.

Koejin: Oh... He's just so hunky and buff. He's covered in shiny white scales. Like, a beautiful man just... (chef's kiss)

Elsie: Yeah, still no.

(We eventually decide that our Red's inability to speak was making this hard. So, we ask Vincent if there's anything he can do.

Turns out, DM rolls high enough to where Vincent pulls out a mechanical tongue.)

Vincent: Now, you gonna go and bite me the moment I go to put this in your mouth?

Red: (nods with a 'Well, duh' look on her face)

Vncent, putting the tongue on the table: Then you can do it yourself.

(Elsie undoes Red's hands and Red immediately dives to put the tongue in her mouth. She doesn't take long to secure it.)

Red, pointing to all of us: Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuuuck you. And a special 'fuck you' to you! (points at Elsie)

Alabaster: Charming.

Red: You took away everything from me and expect me to do anything for you?!

Art: Oh, you mean like what you've been doing to us?

Red: Oh, you fucking little shit. Why the fuck would I care?! You interrupted everything and stopped my ascent to finally killing that smiling asshole you call Ticket Master.

Art: Please, you went toe to toe with him and couldn't take him down.

(We ended up arguing with Red for a while and trying to get her to help us and figure out the parts missing that kept her from doing it. Then...)

Thia: (grabs the empty beer bottle and smashes it against the table. Holds it out to Red) put that to your neck.

Red: (loses control of herself and immediately follows the order) Wha-?

Thia: How do we get out of here?

Red: I- (is comanded to press in deeper. Starts to cry.) I... I don't know. I don't know. I can't remember!

Thia: Then remember.

Red, freezes for a second: I... remember everything...I... (turns to Art) I'm your mother.

Art: I... Wh-wait.... what?

Red: It happened so long ago now. I... Eltbalm and I... were tieflings. We were very much in love. We were happy... Eventually, we were blessed with a beautiful baby. A little girl... but, the land told us, no. Our girl would become a charming handsome boy. Not too long after, we were granted our beautiful, sweet Reita... but... but the war came to our land. They killed Eltbalm, my love. Right in front of me... So I prayed to the land for a way. To stop the war. To protect my children. I was turned into a dragon and given the power to end it all, so I did. And I prayed for a way to bring my husband back. And the land granted me the stones. All parts of Eltbalm.

I didn't know I would be worshipped by our people. I just wanted you to be safe... so, I prayed for a way to the land. And then.... he appeared.

I was so full of rage, but Ticket Master offered me a way. I sold him my soul and I asked that you and your sister were raised by tieflings. To be sure you were kept safe. And he did...

I tried to make it so Reita could be strong like me. Even in my rage and my forgotten memories, I wanted to keep her safe. She was so... helpless. Art, I am so sorry it turned out this way. I lo-

Thia, interrupting the last part: slit your throat.

(Red follows the order and immediately starts bleeding out. Her body collapses on the ground.)

Art: (immediately moves to save her)

Thia: Stop.

Art: (Fails a Con save and is forced to stop)

Theodora: (moves in to heal Red)

Thia: Sit down.

Theodora: (Fails a Con save and follows the order)

Hennessy: Now, wait ju-

Thia: Cover your mouth.

Hennessy: (Fails a Con save and follows the order) Mmmph Rmph!

Koejin: Thia, why're you doing this?

Thia: It's what you guys taught me. you have to kill in order to get to the top. In order to get anyone to listen. To get any type of power.

Koejin:...I thought you just wanted to do drugs and run your bar.

Thia: I did. But then this shit started happening. And you guys started killing generals. And you guided me here. That's when I realized that yes, this is the only way.

Theodora: (trying to do Lay On Hands to Red as Thia's distracted.)

Thia, noticing: Go lay down in that corner, far away from her and don't move.

Theodora:(fails the Con save and does that.)

Art: The leader shouldn't be influenced by their followers.

Thia: I wasn't your leader. Cloak was. And look how much you cared about her death. (glares at Art) not that you're one to talk about not killing. You signed a contract for the God of Death and Deceit.

Art, glaring back: To save my sister.

Thia: still.

Hennessy: (still screaming behind his muffled hands)

Art, casting Sending to get what he was trying to say: Hennessy says "we have been nothing but merciful as instructed." He also said other things, but it got caught off.

Thia: Fine. Remove your hands and speak.

Hennessy: We have been more merciful to everyone of these generals. Green, your own father, was spared and look now! He's one of our strongest allies! Purple returned to their gem under our influence!

Thia: And what about Orange? And Blue? And Yellow?!

Hennessy: Orange was.... an unfortunate circumstance. And Blue gave us no choice. But Yellow; if I recall he willingly died.

Art, tenses: Uhhh, Hennessy...? Yellow was Thia's mother. And she didn't.

Thia, clearly even more angered: I'm starting to think this world needs to be wiped clean so we can begin again.

Art:.... Please don't think that.

(As if hearing her, the roof of the tavern is torn off and there stands Shmoogie. He's staring down at us.)

Shmoogie: Pelor knew you would see the light. (puts his hand down to her) Come now. There's much work to be done.

Thia: (climbs onto the hand)

(Everyone scrambles to look for a way to stop her from leaving with him. In his panic to keep her there, Art uses Black Tentacles to try and pull her out of his hands before she goes out of reach. Thia sees it and tries to order him to stop, but gets smacked in the face by one of them and is now sporting a huge mark near her eye. She disappears through a white portal in the sky with Shmoogie.

But the spell is then released and they can move.)

Art, rushes over to Red, torn in what he's about to do: Okay, I kinda shouldn't care but after all that now I don't want you to die. There's waaaay too many questions to be answered, but you're still an insane bitch. Okay, I'm gonna do this. I'm gonna save the life of my...mother...mortal enemy... fuck.... How the fuck did Alabaster do this? Here we go. (casts spare the dying on Red)

Red: (Alive and no longer bleeding out, but out cold)

Reita: (watching her brother in confusion)

Art, noticing this: Uhhh... hey, uhhh... There's a lot to explain but.... once I understand what's going on, I'll explain it all. Okay?

Reita: (lifts some of her half-eaten rat to her mouth)

Art: (pushes it back down slowly)

(As Art is healing Mrs. Red and talking to Rieta, everyone is discussing the best way to get out of here. Theodora and Koejin have some private talks with the DM and come back, but seem reluctant to do the things they were talking about.)

Theodora, to Elsie: You think you can turn into a dragon and help us out?

Elsie: You're asking this from the only Mrs. Red that can't.

Koejin:... I think I have an idea. (digs through her bag for a gem she had.)

(She summons a carriage labelled Koejin's Brews and it's pulled by a horse with sunglasses.)

Horse: Heeey there, Koejin! Ready to ascend to your position?

Art:... Koejin's a god... I mean, why not? Why the fuck not? (heads to the carriage to immediately drink his face off.)

(We all pile on the carriage to find a fully stocked tavern with plenty of room. Like a bar version of a Tardis. "A Bardis" as Theodora's player starts calling it. And, as we ascend, the bar shakes a little as if experiencing turbulence, but then we end up in a world of light.

It's bright and white. Everything is white. Including the people.

Me: Sooo, Racism?

DM: It's Pelor's realm.

Theodora's Player: So, yeah, racism.)

(As we step off the carriage, we pass by people and see a letter hanging from the gate. On it is written "To Alabaster.")

Alabaster: (takes the letter)

Letter: Alabaster, you used to be so devout and loyal, but seem to have been corrupted by the influences around you. I will cleanse this world of all that is dark. Come see me and will do the same for you. It isn't too late. Not for you and not for your daughter. Come see me, my boy.

Pelor

(Attached to the letter is a picture of Eris, Alabaster's daughter. Pelor is holding her by the head.)

((DM wasn't kidding when he said this would be pretty intense.))

((Koejin's Player: So... I've been hitting on Art's dad...))

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benscaligraphyset · 5 years ago

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Starward

Summary: You and Ben were childhood friends. You were practically inseparable. That is until you went off to a school in the outer rim when you were teens and had to tearfully leave Ben behind. Now, you're both training to be Jedi together and it’s gonna be a hell of a reunion.

Ben has changed—a lot. He was no longer the scrawny, scruffy haired, big-eared teen you once knew. This Ben towered over you and had a wide build with muscles that you could see from the opening of his robes. His elongated face was more defined; his cheekbones were high on his face and much more prominent than in his teen years. Okay, his hair was still the same scruffy mess, but you had to admit, Ben had really grown into himself. You watched him spot you in the crowd and his face lit up.

“Hey, Starward,” he said after coming up to you. Now that he was up close you could see that he truely towered over you, practically like a tree.

“Still calling me that, huh?” You asked.

“What? You think I'm going to forget the single greatest joke I ever made?”

“Well, when you don't make a lot of good jokes, that's hardly an achievement,” you replied and dodged his attempt shove your shoulder. He was so large now, he probably would've knocked you over with just a tap.

He chuckled and drug a hand through his black mess of curls, pushing it back, only to let it fall back unceremoniously around his face.

You loved this side of Ben. The teasing, funny side that he seemed to only show to a few people and saved the brooding Ben for the rest of the world. His brooding will come back like rolling storm clouds soon enough, once the initial excitement and giddiness wore off, but you were grateful for the sunshine that you were experiencing now. Besides, you didn’t mind his grumpy self all that much. It was cute.

Ben opened his mouth to retort but he was interrupted by Leia rushing over to you two.

“Y/N!” Leia exclaimed and wrapped you in a tight hug. You sighed happily in her arms. “It’s been too long.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I should have flown to see you it’s just-“

“You don’t have to explain,” Leia said, pulling back with an easy smile. Her smiles always had a way of bringing one out of you.

“Where’s Han?” you asked and looked to see if he was around. Leia’s smile faltered and she sighed.

Uh oh.

“He’s sulking in the Falcon. He doesn’t really approve of...” she trailed off and gestured to the temple.

“...me being a Jedi,” Ben finished for her. You could feel his irritation coming off in waves. You’d already heard from Luke that Han had given him his two cents about training Ben to be a Jedi.

“At least he came to see you off,” Leia offered. Ben just shrugged and turned his gaze down to his feet. You tried to send some comfort through the Force but if Ben felt it, he didn’t show it. Leia rubbed circles on his back.

“Don’t you think on it, Ben. You know how your father is, he’ll get over himself soon enough.” You could feel some of his negative emotions slipping away the more Leia talked.

She wrapped his large frame in a hug and stood on her tip-toes to place a sweet kiss into his hair. He gave a small smile at this and tightened the hug, gripping onto her robes, almost as if he held on hard enough, she wouldn’t be able to leave. You saw Leia whisper something into his ear and, not wanting to eavesdrop, you turned away to look around at the other students. You couldn’t help feeling the mixture of sadness and comfort through the Force, though. His mom always had a way of calming his mind unlike anyone else.

“I love you, Ben,” you heard her say.

“I love you too, mom,” he said, voice giving away his emotions. You risked a glance and saw his eyes were glassy.

“You know how to reach out to me,” she said and placed a small hand over his heart. Ben nodded curtly and sniffed. Leia turned to you with a smile and pulled you into a hug as well.

“You have to visit after you’ve finished training,” she said and you nodded on her shoulder. You felt her pull away slightly and bring her mouth closer to your ear, speaking just low enough for Ben not to hear.

“Help Ben not to slip into that dark place in his mind. I know you could always keep him grounded when you two were younger.”

It was true, besides Leia, you think you were the one who understood him most. You talked him through his panic attacks when the voices in his head just wouldn’t shut up. You never judged him when he spoke of his pull to the dark side, instead helping him to ground himself and reminding him of all that is good to focus on. You never thought of him as a monster. More importantly, you never made him feel like he was a monster. You know most people in his life ever intentionally made him feel like he was evil, but their thoughts tended to always betrayed them. But not you. Remembering this only made you feel worse about leaving.

You knew Han and Leia loved him dearly, but they talked too loud behind closed doors. From Ben’s perspective, they spoke about him as though he wasn’t their son, but a monster. Maybe that’s why Han didn’t want him trained in the force.

You swallowed the lump in your throat before pulling back and nodding. You wouldn’t fail her. Or Ben.

Leia smiled and brought a hand to your cheek.

“May the force be with you, always.”

You covered her hand with your own.

“May the force be with you.”

Once all of the parents had left and it was just you younglings left, you were each shown to your quarters. These stone huts didn't provide much in terms of homey vibes, but you could make it work. Besides, you knew you wouldn't be spending much time in there anyways. You'd much rather be swinging your saber throughout the night than tossing and turning and begging for sleep to come.

Once you all got settled into your new home for a while, you all headed to the temple cantina for dinner.

Every part of the temple was beautiful, even the cantina. The walls were mostly a clean shade of alabaster, as most of the temple was, but these walls had swirls of blues, yellows, and greens painted across them, meant to represent lightsaber colors, you assumed. They were decorated with some old rebellion flags but mostly various flags of the Jedi Order. The shiny black tables stood out sitting atop the ivory durasteel flooring.

While surveying the black tables, you spotted Ben eating alone with a hung head from across the room. You rolled your eyes at the thick curtain of hair blocking his face.

“Hey, grumpy,” you greeted, sitting next to him with your own tray of food.

“Who’s grumpy?” Ben scoffed and took a bite out of his Haroun bread.

“You are,” you said and nudged his shoulder, “but that’s about to change.”

“Is it now?” Ben asked and looked up at you and you could tell he was at least a little bit cheered up as your presence.

“Mhm.” You plopped a Hubba chip in your mouth and savored the flavor that you hadn’t had since a kid.

“Are those—?”

“Yep,” you replied and let another one land on your tongue, making a show of moaning with delight. Ben swallowed harshly in response and you saw the tip of his ears that were peeking out of his hair turn pink.

Oh.

Luckily, an R2 unit whirled over to break the tension and beeped a question at both of you.

“No, thanks, QT,” you responded and it beeped a goodbye, rolling to the next table. By the time you looked back at Ben, his ears had returned to their normal shade.

“Luke gave me a few bags as a gift and I thought we could eat them together but—“ You broke off as Ben snagged the bag from your hand. “Hey!”

You scrambled to get it back from him but he held it above his head and shoved a chip in his mouth with a grin.

“You should have better reflexes,” he teased. You rolled your eyes with a scoff and pulled back from him while he continued to hold them in the air as if it was a trophy. He grinned in victory at your retreat and put a few more chips in his mouth.

“I haven’t had one of these since that time we went to Batuu.” While you feigned interest at his telling of the memory, you secretly reached your hand out under the table and pulled at the bag suddenly with the Force. You brought your hand above the table quickly and caught it before Ben had time to react, the chips crunching loudly under your grasp.

“And you shouldn’t trust so easily,” you gloated and shook the bag in front of you. Ben shook his head at you and rolled his eyes.

“Well, I—“

A loud clearing of the throat ran out through the room and everyone’s conversations instantly died down. It seemed like no one wanted you to have an actual conversation with Ben today. But, thankfully, you have a lot of time to catch up.

“Welcome, young padawans,” Luke greeted with a smile. He sent a wink your and Ben’s way and you giggled softly. You saw Ben’s small smile out of the corner of your eye.

Your parents had brought you to Luke a little after your seventh birthday when you first began to show signs of being Force sensitive. Luke had said no, at first. Not that you could blame him; some random people showing up at your doorstep and saying their daughter led them to you? You’d say no, too. But, Luke felt your power raw and electric around you and described it akin to touching a live wire. He knew if he didn’t train you, no one else would and your power could be dangerous if left unchecked. Or worse, if the Sith rose again, they could get a hold of you and use you to their advantage.

After a few months, when you were training with Luke off-world, someone came for you. Only they didn’t know that you were off-world. So your parent’s house was blown up, with them in it.

Luke either truly doesn’t know who it was or he’s intentionally keeping it from you. Your feelings told you the latter, but every time you’ve asked he’s shut you down.

Luke had taken you in after that. That's where Ben's nickname for you had come from. Skyward. Because you were a ward of Skywalker. It was a terrible joke, but it stuck. Ben and Luke used to laugh at it as if it was the funniest joke in the world. That feels like a lifetime ago now.

“These next few months will consist of all the training you need to become young Jedi.”

Excited mumbling broke out through the crowd until Luke silenced them with a look. It was the same look he would give you if you had done something wrong. In fact, you think it was that exact look that you received when you nearly wrecked his X-wing while taking it for a (non-authorized) joy ride, with Ben cheering you on from the ground.

“Don’t fool yourself into thinking this will be easy. Overconfidence will only slow you down and get you or others killed. You have to work together if you ever expect to become proper Jedi. Remember, controlling your feelings is key.” Luke appeared to be looking at Ben when he said this and you felt a prickle of irritation come off of him.

Without thinking, you reached down to grab his hand under the table in comfort. Ben stiffened at the contact, but you kept your hand there all the same. There didn’t need to be any more intimacy than this, you were just letting him know you were here and hopefully, that would be enough. Ben’s emotions were a rollercoaster throughout Luke’s speech. Irritation. Excitement. Nostalgia. Worry. Fear.

“Attachments can prove dangerous for a Jedi, especially romantic ones, ” Luke took a pause and surveyed the room before saying, “which is why we, as Jedi, are prohibited from having any.”

Now a worried and slightly angry rumble went across the room and you heard groans of frustration ringing out. At their grumbling, you chuckled and turned to Ben.

“Come on, is that really much of a surprise? That’s like Jedi 101,” you joked, but he was keeping his face stoic and looking forward at his uncle. You felt a feeling coming from him that you couldn’t quite place

“Now, now, I know you probably feel that this rule is unfair...”

“It’s rubbish,” you heard someone grumble behind you.

“...but it is necessary in order for us, as Jedi, to keep our emotions stable.”

“My mom told me about this but I didn’t think he’d actually do it,” a girl said from the table behind you.

Silently, Ben pulled his hand away from yours. Blood rushed to your cheeks as hurt and shame flooded your body and you had to take a few deep breaths to control your emotions. The only thing more embarrassing than Ben pulling his hand away, would’ve been him feeling how hurt you were by the gesture. You hadn’t held his hand to make some sort of romantic attempt, it was merely out of comfort. Ben must have seen it differently. You crossed your arms across your chest.

You’d forgotten how much Ben Solo had also frustrated you.

Luke continued to drone on, but you honestly couldn’t care less what he was rambling about. You’d heard this speech a few times from him already at home and you weren’t in the mood the hear it a fourth time.

It was brought to your attention that the speech was over when a round of applause sounded and you quickly joined in as to not show you weren’t listening. But judging by Luke's face, he already knew. You were sure he could feel your churning emotions as well. You shrugged and mouthed an apology but Luke just shook his head with a grin.

On your way to get more food, a purple Twi’lek stopped you in your place.

“Hey, you’re Y/N, right?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” you replied with a chuckle, “How’d you know?”

“Everyone knows you here. I mean, you were raised by Luke Skywalker,” she bubbled excitedly.

You sighed. You’d hoped that wouldn’t be public knowledge but you were obviously a fool to think that.

“Yeah, that’s me.” You forced a chuckle that you hoped didn’t reveal how uncomfortable you were and rubbed the back of your neck. It was silent for a second as you stared at the floor and she kept her gaze on you. You looked up and gave a half-smile, chuckling awkwardly. You hadn't meant to make her uncomfortable, after all, she was just being friendly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to call you out like that—this is nothow I wanted to introduce myself...My name is Helixia,” she said and eagerly thrust her hand out. You gave her a reassuring smile and shook her hand.

“I’m Y/N, but you knew that already,” you joked. She giggled and you were happy to feel her nervous energy drain away.

“Anyway, I wanted to let you know that we’re all going to a bonfire tonight and you’re free to join if you’d like.”

She sounded so hopeful. Even if you wanted to say no, you couldn’t.

“Of course, that sounds great,” you replied. Helixia squealed and jumped in excitement. You watched as she started to go in for a hug and then thought better on it. Smart.

“Okay! Well, I guess I’ll see you there!” she said before skipping back off to her table, her purple and white lekku bouncing with every stride. You had to admit, she was adorable, but that conversation had drained you of a bit of energy. You let out a sigh of relief and continued your pursuit to find a sweet-sand cookie. You grinned when you found your treasure and grabbed another one for Ben.

“You’re welcome,” you said after handing the cookie to Ben. He chuckled and took the cookie from you, examining it.

“You couldn’t wait for me to say thank you first?”

“I knew it was coming.”

Ben took a bite of the cookie and nodded in agreement.

“I will admit, this is worth a thanks.”

You smiled and took a second to just watch him enjoying the cookie.

“So...I think everyone’s going to a bonfire tonight...Do you wanna come with me?” You asked while your leg bounced nervously under the table. You’d hoped him pulling away from you in the cantina had been an isolated incident. You didn’t feel any residing hostility coming off him...

“Sure,” he answered and casually took another bite of the cookie. Your eyes flew up to look at him and he gave you an adorable mouth-half-full, close-lipped smile. You returned the smile and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

“C-cool, good, uh, I’ll meet you outside your hut at 2000 hours?”

“Sounds like a date.”

Excitement quickly coursed through you and you couldn't help to grin that appeared on your face.

Oh boy.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Feedback is appreciated!

Taglist (ask to be added or removed):

@lover1307 @bepo-is-sorry @snakelaufeyson @supervengerslock @shockwavee @kilo-wrench @ohhh-boo-tiful

#ben solo x you #ben solo fanfic #ben solo x reader #kylo ren #ben solo #adam driver #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfiction #sw fanfic #star wars #ben solo fanfiction #kylo x reader #kylo x you #padawan fic #my writing

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jflashandclash · 4 years ago

Text

Tales from Mount Othrys

Alabaster: The Delicate Dance of Chance II

Author’s note: Are you ready for fluff??? ALL THE FLUFF?! And some angst—BUT MOSTLY FLUFF!?

Alabaster didn’t remember much about getting off the stage. He did remember shaking so violently that he feared missing a step on the side stairs. When the crowd swarmed them, he was vaguely aware of Pax warding them off and navigating them through the mass of people.

Axel made some announcement about taking a girl for the first dance and snatched the hand of Charlie—their five year old mascot—who giggled with glee. This caused an uproar—both that Axel was dancing and that he’d picked Charlie as his first partner. Alabaster could practically hear Lucille’s future squeals about how cute it was.

But, that’s all he could recollect. There was a blank spot, where Alabaster must have shut down from the humiliation and horror of being on stage without any warning. Coherence came when Pax shoved Alabaster to the punch table.

With a few comments that Alabaster didn’t hear, Pax diverted the remaining admirers. Several monsters and campers were still glancing their way, and a few of his siblings waved at him enthusiastically. But, this was manageable. This was distant.

Pax shoved a plastic cup of punch into Alabaster’s trembling hand. His touch lingered over Alabaster’s fingers for a moment, likely noticing the quiver. Pax went on his tiptoes to whisper in Alabaster’s ear, as quiet as he could while still being heard over the music. “Your Mist show was amazing.”

Alabaster jerked back.

He wanted to hit Pax. Though, he knew it was misdirected anger. Who he should be hitting was Matthias or Jack, who likely planned the grand entrance on stage. Or—

The music increased in volume, encouraging shouts of delirium. Monsters and campers tangled on the dance floor. Alabaster had never been to a school dance, but this looked like the nightmare version of what he assumed one would be. They were in a gymnasium with a stage on one end. Tables were scattered along the walls for food, drink and loitering. The back had interactive games, like Pin the Sword in the Demigod: Camp Half-Blood Edition. The center was reserved for dancing.

And, in the middle of that dance floor was Axel Pax, bowing to a thrilled, giggling five-year-old. He handed Charlie off to Chris (likely with strict instructions to escort her off the dance floor, least she be crushed by mingling Cyclopes). Then he turned a smile to Lucille. With the smooth demeanor of a vampiric count, he transferred into the next dance. No one was going to say no to the attractive, typically reserved, stoic and heroic character.

The reserved, stoic and heroic character that caused that nonsense on stage. While Alabaster wouldn’t have been up there if it wasn’t for Jack or Matthias, Axel had forced him into panicked improvisation and showmanship.

“I must disgrace Axel Pax,” he growled.

Pax startled. Over the edge of his plastic cup, he said, “I’m not sure what maniacal soliloquy you had internally, but the rest of the audience is still confused.”

Alabaster snorted. “I’m going to punish your brother. Maybe I can tell Lucille to spread the word that he’s looking for a male partner.”

Pax laughed. He set his cup back on the table and drummed his fingers beside it. “Oh, dancing with boys won’t bother him.”

Axel paused twirling Lucille in front of her girlfriend, Echidna. Echidna wasn’t the daughter of Summanus’ (the god of nocturnal thunder’s) real name, but Pax’s nickname caught because of her prickly personality. Despite this, when Axel offered, and Lucille shoved Echidna towards him, she begrudgingly accepted the dance. She shot a quick glance at Charlie. This was incredible progress—she couldn’t get within ten feet of men a year ago or be separated from Charlie for more than a few seconds.

Alabaster tore his eyes from Axel and examined Pax skeptically. From what he’d seen, Axel had all the traits, and the cultural background, to be homophobic.

The thirteen-year-old shrugged. “This isn’t exactly a no dancing with people wearing the same underwear kinda place.”

A preliminary glance around proved there were girls dancing with girls and boys dancing with boys. It was with such commonality that the gesture seemed to mean nothing about their inclination. Alabaster wasn’t sure how that worked here, since that would have been a social taboo in his Cotillion classes.

Pax’s smile became distant and sad as he watched Axel save Echinda from tripping all over herself. Pax leaned against the drink table. “Besides, between the circus and our sister, he had to learn not to care. She was a crossdresser and made sure we were comfortable with all sorts of people.”

Opening up twice in one night, Alabaster mused. They hardly spoke of their siblings, other than that Pax missed them. Their near death experience must have made Pax feel more relaxed around Alabaster. The younger boy seemed to have something on his mind recently. Alabaster often caught Pax zoning out in the laboratory, staring at Alabaster’s sleeve or spell book. Alabaster had wondered if it was for a prank.

The smile on Pax’s lips quirked into a smirk. His eyes focused back on the present. “Axel doesn’t favor dancing with boys though, unlike me,” he said, giving Alabaster a wink.

Alabaster snorted. “Stop messing around.”

Pax looked away and popped his cheeks. He straightened his posture, released the table, and turned towards Alabaster. “I want to have fun at this party. Your whole vengeance on my brother for ambiguous reasons—”

“Humiliating me—”

“--that’s villainy and great and stuff, but I don’t want you on it all night. You’ve got his weakest link right here.” Pax pointed both his thumbs at himself. “But I’m not going to help you brainstorm ideas unless you really try to have fun tonight. Now let’s go stuff our faces with Nachos and show Morpheus how to really dance.”

Alabaster stared at him. “We have two different definitions of ‘fun.’ The most probable outcome to incur enjoyment is seeking vengeance.”

Pax pouted. He glanced down the refreshments table. “You’re my babysitter. I going to make a bee line to the first nut-based desert I see and shove it into my mouth if we don’t go play on Matthias’ Wii , and it’ll be your fault.”

“I won’t save you from anaphylactic shock if you do that,” Alabaster said. He frowned. Pax would be integral to bringing Axel down. And they were stuck here for at least another hour-and-a-half.

“What’s the best game on Matthias’ Wii ?” Alabaster asked.

***

Alabaster wanted to complain about Mario Party’s reliance on a random number generator and how it devalued the skill level of the player, but that would require him to admit he relied on that random number generator to win. When playing against actual gamers like Matthias and Chris, he knew there would be little hope in him winning in something like Super Smash or Tekken.

Out of the games they played, his favorite was poker. All magic was legal. He won Pax ten Reese’s Sticks before Prometheus came over and threatened his reigning championship. Alabaster’s “pallor tricks” didn’t seem to work as well on the Titan and Prometheus’s bluffing skills were godly. Well, titanly.

Pax decided Prometheus’s impending win meant he needed to eat all of his candy at once, something Alabaster suspected he’d regret in about ten minutes.

Once the Cyclops bouncer wrestled the last six Reese’s Sticks from Pax, he hopped to Alabaster’s side. His brown and hazel eyes twinkled while he rubbed the chocolate and peanut butter off his chin.

Alabaster didn’t realize he’d been smirking with each his wins. Between Pax’s excitement and cheering and Alabaster’s strategizing, he’d forgotten where they were.

Pax snagged Alabaster’s sleeve. “Come on!” he cried before Prometheus could gloat. The tuxedo-wearing Titan spread his long, thin fingers over the cards as Pax dragged Alabaster away from the table.

Once they stumbled from the game sector, Pax stopped short. He gave Alabaster a huge grin, pulling up his shirt to reveal two Reese’s Sticks hidden along his beltline.

Alabaster snorted. “I’m surprised you didn’t steal more.”

Pax winked and dropped his shirt. “We could go back for round two later. For now…” He took a few steps further onto the dance floor, tugging Alabaster’s sleeve again.

Alabaster’s tranquility shattered. He stared at Pax, listening to the thud of the subwoofer and watching the mass of bodies moving behind the Belizean boy.

Alabaster hadn’t realized it, and he would never admit to it, but he’d been having fun. At the thought of merging into that flowing blob of people, monsters, sweat, and social anxiety, fun evaporated. Cold sweat formed on his brow.

“No,” he said, yanking his arm back from Pax.

The younger boy’s pout returned. “I’m going to make you a shirt that says that.”[1]

They stood there, others swirling around them. Someone bumped their shoulders while running by, shouting, “Don’t be lame and have no shame! Warlock, creep out of your lair, dance, and have fun!”

His face went hot with humiliation. When Alabaster raised his wrist to check the time, he found his fist clenched. An hour had passed while they were playing games. Had the passerbyer’s mockery not bothered him so much, he might have marveled over how fast the first hour went. He assumed it would be agonizing.

But, he could tell the next hour would be much worse. He thought about his laboratory and how much he could get done while everyone else was out. After the Roman attack, everyone should have been working to move and restore the building, not throwing a party “in their honor.”

“This is just a thinly veiled excuse for everyone to feel good about acting like idiots,” Alabaster said. “And a waste of time.”

Alabaster couldn’t remember how Pax got him to play along with this stupid party. Then, it came back: Axel forcing him into showmanship. The humiliation turned to anger. He didn’t need the younger Pax brother to concoct something against Axel. “I’m heading back to camp,” Alabaster said.

He turned to leave. Pax frantically grabbed his arm. “Wait!” Pax shouted. “Wait—we were having—you’re my babysitter! I’ll choke on tree nuts and get kidnapped by bad guys if you’re not around!”

Considering Pax’s ward, Jack, was a schizophrenic with a history of attacking his family, Alabaster thought his concept of “bad guys” was a bit skewed.

Alabaster scowled. “Ajax, you’re thirteen. You’re too old for a babysitter. Grow up.”

Pax’s eyes widened. The rims reddened. He blinked rapidly and looked away. “We don’t have to dance,” he whispered.

Alabaster yanked his arm back again. “This isn’t dancing. This isn’t music. This is a group of unskilled buskers following a formula to produce ‘musical’ garbage because people don’t know how to express their hormones without it.”

Shock wove their mouths shut.

Musical garbage.

Someone else had said that around Alabaster. He remembered sitting in the back of the family’s Mercedes Bends, visiting his father in the hospital. The chauffer cheerfully turned on music for them. His grandfather fired the chauffer, saying what Alabaster had said: that this type of music was a cheap replica of what real musicians could create.

Just like his grandfather thought Alabaster’s magic was a cheap replica of science that couldn’t save his father.

Alabaster couldn’t believe he’d quoted that horrible man verbatim.

At the “buskers” comment, Pax flinched. Although they’d never told Alabaster directly, Alabaster had guessed that Axel and Pax busked, or illegally street preformed, to get by before Camp Othrys. And Alabaster just used it as an insult.

“Ajax,” Alabaster unfroze his tongue, “I’m sorr—”

Pax turned and bolted into the mass of dancers, towards the stage. A couple nearby exchanged a confused glance at his passing and looked over at Alabaster.

“Ajax!” Alabaster called. Although every cell in his nervous system wanted to reel backwards, he shoved past the couple to go after his friend.

After taking ten steps forward, Alabaster realized that finding Pax would be impossible. There were too many people, too much movement, and Pax was too small and conniving. Considering how many monsters and demigods were over six feet tall, the five-foot-nothing demigod could vanish.

This was irrational. Alabaster shouldn’t worry. Pax was in a safe environment, surrounded by friends, and didn’t actually need a babysitter. They would meet back up later, after both of them had time to let off some steam, and Alabaster could explain that he didn’t mean what he said and that Alabaster had only said those words because he… because he…

Is so incompetent at relaxing, I couldn’t rationally explain my anxiety before snapping.

Alabaster didn’t want to wait to check up on Pax. He despised the thought of making someone feel the way his grandfather used to make him feel. Worse for Pax: what if his and Axel’s father didn’t approve of their street performance? Alabaster didn’t know what nerves he’d struck, and not knowing meant he couldn’t mentally prepare for what damage he’d done.

There were too many people, too close. The music had grown louder as Alabaster made his way towards the stage. The subwoofer rattled him internally. Alabaster felt clammy. With all the laughter and joy whirling around him, he felt isolated and sick. Especially with the stares of confusion at his rushed passing.

A sense of hopelessness threatened to overwhelm him when the music quieted.

With the weirdest transition he’d ever heard, the thud of electronic wound down, like the music itself was dying. The DJ, a dark-haired Titaness wearing a modernized toga-dress, cleared her throat in the echo of the mic. The Eldest muse—Mnemosyne’s voice was silky. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Monsters and Ghouls, we have our first good request of the night!”

Pax withdrew from the raised DJ booth and hopped back to the floor, only three yards away.

After the chime of bells, the calming sound of a stringed orchestra flooded the speakers, soon accompanied by a wind instrument—probably a flute.

Several demigods groaned. One or two whined. Alabaster was horrified at what Pax had done to the rest of the party’s occupants and whether or not Mnemosyne had been mocking him.

Then, all the monsters cheered.

“I love the oldies!” Dr. Thorn, their local manticore, exclaimed. He ejected two spikes into the air in celebration, grabbed a Scythian dracaena, and began the elegant twirl of the waltz. Alabaster didn’t want to know where those spikes would land.[2]

Alabaster would hardly call Tchaikovsky an “oldie” but he marveled that these monsters were eternal and their concept of time differed from their own.

While several half-bloods exited the dance floor, a flood of monsters entered. Jack dragged a rather inebriated-looking Luke out to spin with him. Chris and Matthias hopped by, paused, grabbed hold of each other with mock-serious expresses on their faces, and began a goofy, sloppy shamble.[3] Prometheus ruffled Pax’s hair and said, “Good choice,” before bowing to Mnemosyne.

Their DJ grinned, set her headphones to the side of the sound table, and hopped down from the booth.

In an empty space of floor, Lucille giggled. She kicked off her high heels, hopped up to her toes, and began to dance point, her flowy skirt mimicking the motions of a ballerina’s tutu.

Near the food tables, where most of the confused demigods had gone to stand, Axel bowed to Mercedes, offering their Spymaster his hand. Mercedes tucked her embroidered hijab tighter against her chin. She gave Axel a coy smile and flicked him off with her other hand.

Axel must have just finished dancing with Lou Ellen. She stood beside Mercedes, still bright red in the face from the dance. Alabaster was already annoyed with the inevitable week of Lou Ellen’s squealing. She glanced at Mercedes, glared at the older girl—from jealousy or aghast at Mercedes’ refusal, Alabaster couldn’t care to tell—and shoved her forward, hard.

Mercedes stumbled forward into Axel’s arms, adding a second forced dance to Axel’s count for the night.

With all the commotion around them, Alabaster approached Pax. He paused a foot away from him. “Why’d you pick this song?” he asked.

Pax rubbed his face against his forearm, sniffling back the last of his choked tears. “You—you play it a lot when you think other people aren’t around.”

Alabaster unclenched his fist. “It was my grandmother’s favorite scene from Swan Lake.” One of his favorite memories: when she was alive, she would hum along as she stained glass in the piano room. His grandfather hated that she used the room like that, but she claimed it had the best lighting.

“If you were going to leave, I wanted to make sure you at least liked the last song playing before you left,” Pax said. He looked away, hugging himself.

All the tension eased out of Alabaster. He sighed and wasn’t sure if he was more relieved that Pax had stopped crying or annoyed that Pax had beat him—Alabaster couldn’t leave with such a considerate act.

“How many people know how to waltz here, you think? That aren’t monsters, I mean. It might be hard to find a partner,” Alabaster said.

Pax took a step closer. He puffed up his cheeks, popped them, then quietly said, “I know how to waltz.” He offered a trembling hand out, palm down in the female partner position, to Alabaster.

Alabaster stared. Slowly, he glanced to where Jack and Luke were dancing and Chris and Matthias were… he refused to call that a dance, but awkwardly shambling. It wouldn’t be too weird, right? Everyone knew Luke was a ladies’ man, and Jack and Flynn were a “thing,” and Chris and Matthias were just joking…

And Lucille, after all, was doing a ballet pas seul with a cheering circle around her like she was break dancing.

Alabaster exhaled and took Pax’s hand. He slipped his other hand under Pax’s arm, and positioned it on Pax’s shoulder blade. Pax violently shook as he lowered his free arm atop Alabaster’s. Pax was the perfect height for this, being a foot shorter than Alabaster.

That busker comment must have stung Pax worse than Alabaster thought. To have him shaking like this? He frowned, taking a slow step forward with his left foot. He expected Pax to stumble and mix up his footing. Instead, Pax flawlessly stepped back with his right foot.

They started with a basic box step. He wasn’t sure how much Pax would remember from his Cotillion classes or how easily Pax would be able to reverse the footwork to follow instead of lead. When Alabaster added in a rotation to their box step, and then lifted his elbow and their hands to properly shape their posture, Pax continued perfectly. When Alabaster began to go up on his toes for the “2 and 3” count of the waltz, then down onto his heels for the “1,” to give the rise and fall effect of the dance, Pax mirrored the footwork. By the time Alabaster added in the swing and sway to make the dance have a rolling effect—raising his rib cage when they went to the side, or tilting his body when they went forward or back—his curiosity had peaked.

“You know how to follow really well,” Alabaster observed.

The fluid and repetitive movement of the dance calmed Alabaster. This was a familiar environment. The only unusual part was dancing with a boy. Though… he supposed he’d danced with his male instructor when he was learning.

Pax had stopped shaking. Now that they were in a rhythm, Alabaster could glance down to see if Pax still had tears in his eyes.

The younger boy was staring at Alabaster’s collar—the only part of posture he wasn’t doing correctly. His cheeks were flushed with the movement and, likely, his prior tantrum. A little grin touched his lips at Alabaster’s comment. “Thanks. You’re really good at leading.” Alabaster raised an eyebrow at him. He’d been expecting some stupid, witty retort.

Pax glanced up. His blush deepened and his eyes shot back down to Alabaster’s collar. “Oh! Um—Lapis and I—my sister—we used to switch places on our Cotillion teacher. Axel, Hiro, and Kouta would play along, altering our names and pronouns to fit according to the day. The instructor never knew if which one of us was a guy or a girl, and she was too scared of getting in trouble for mixing it up to ask Dad. As long as we learned both parts, she didn’t care.”

That sounded exactly like something the Pax brothers would do.

Examining Pax’s facial structure, Alabaster could see how the instructor could mistake Pax for a girl. He had all the features to make a convincing crossdresser: with Pax’s wild, raven hair spilling all over his shoulders, his rounded face, button nose, wide eyes, squishy cheeks, and full lips. He was a little too muscular to pass for the average woman, but Alabaster had seen some ripped female demigods and wouldn’t be shocked if Pax’s sister—Lapis?—were similar.

With the baggy, punk-style jacket he wore, Alabaster could easily imagine Pax as some flat-chested girl half-drowned in her friend’s borrowed clothing.

And with the thought, Alabaster felt his chest constrict. For some reason, he felt horrendously uncomfortable.

Alabaster spun Pax out for an underarm turn.

Nothing would change if Pax were a girl. Then, she would just be Axel’s annoying little sister, instead of an annoying little brother—one that followed Alabaster around the laboratory, cheered when he succeeded in one of his experiments, made him hand-crafted presents, and was always ready with a goofy, lame joke to try to make him laugh.

Why couldn’t Alabaster shake the idea that something would be different?

The song would come to an end soon. Alabaster recognized the crescendo. He hadn’t realized until then that they’d danced through two songs—now it was the Waltz of the Snowflakes. Mnemosyne must have a Tchaikovsky Waltz playlist.

Although the last two songs had been relaxing, Alabaster was eager for the end. Something felt off and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t the same anxiety as before. No, he’d almost forgotten about the others—

Alabaster glanced around, finding Jack had stopped dancing to watch them.

Alabaster released Pax’s hand and took a step back half-a-second sooner than he should have according to the music. Pax stumbled, not ready to stop following.

That goofy smile on Pax’s face widened. “It’s okay. I also get distracted thinking about life, the universe, and everything, and forget how to end a dance.”

“Nice song choice, Ajax,” someone said beside them.

Alabaster jumped, having forgotten how many people were around them.

Mnemosyne climbed back into her DJ booth. The throb of electronic and modern pop thudded back into the gym. Bored demigods cheered. Dancing monsters grumbled.

Axel stood near them, one hand still on Mercedes’ shoulder blade. Although he’d lowered their hands from the dance, his other hand still held hers. He continued talking to Pax, giving Mercedes a half-smirk that would have made half the girls in the gym faint. “You helped me find the best dance partner in Camp Othrys,” he said.

Mercedes did not look amused. Her expression was as deadpan as ever. A lock of curly black hair had escaped the corner of her embroidered fabric. He had to wonder if Lucille forced her into some makeup. Mercedes typically wore the simplest, plainest, and most practical clothing she could, without make up or hair accessories other than her veil.

“Pax One,” she said to the older of the two, “you found a temporary victim of circumstance that is now going to ruin Matthias’ life in Tekken. If you’ll excuse me.” She bowed her head, as though about to vanish into shadow after a spy mission. For a split second, he thought she frowned at Pax.

“Uh-hu,” Axel said. As soon as she removed her hands, he took a step after her. “If I win a round of Tekken against you, I win another dance.”

Pax stared at his older brother. “Axel, you’re awesome and everything, but you’re going to get obliterated.”

Mercedes’ head didn’t move as her eyes shifted between the two brothers. “Listen to Pax Two. He is wise… unless you’re willing to gamble information on this game.”

The offer sounded like a threat.

Alabaster saw a minor opportunity unfolding.

“If you’re going to do that, you should keep Tran around,” Alabaster suggested, smirking at Axel. “Least someone consider lying.”[4]

Mercedes let a tiny smile slip. “The child of Aletheia, Goddess of Truth. Thanks, Torrington.” She nodded her appreciation. “Are you feeling lucky, Pax One?”

Axel shot Alabaster a glare.

At least he’d successfully started his revenge on the older Mayan.

Pax tugged on Alabaster’s sleeve. “We can worry about Axel’s downfall later. Let’s get some punch and go for a walk!”

“My downfall--?”

“Come on!”

***

In two weeks (hopefully) are you ready for MORE FLUFF!?! …. And angst. AND MORE FL—oh, oh, next week is more on the angst side. *ehem* I see.

I hope you guys enjoyed! Thank you for reading :D

***

Footnotes:

[1] And thus, Grumpy Cat was born.

[2] Technically, our spiky friend should be dead by now, but I didn’t know that when I originally wrote this scene and I enjoy having random spikes reigning on this parade.

Also, this was written to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Suite, Op. 20a, TH 219: Act 1: Waltz.

[3] Okay, I’ll finally admit it, my representation of Chris and Matthias’s whole character are based off family members. <3 you guys.

[4] Call out to my home boy, VCRx.

#Tales from Mount Othrys #TFMO #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #PJO #heroes of olypmus #HOO #Alabaster #Pax #Mercedes #Axel #Fluff #FLUFF SO MUCH FLUFF #IT'S LIKE ME CAT MATED WITH A TRIBBLE AND IT ROLLED IN EXCESS SPIDER WEB DECORATIONS #........................................ ew

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lokimostly · 5 years ago

Text

Polaris (Ch.2/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU Word count: 3,707 Warnings: mentions of blood, angst Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything– if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: Tag list is open! Sorry for any typos, I really need a beta reader, lol. Enjoy!

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

“Daughter, if we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late!”

“It’s not like it starts without me!” You snapped. You heard your father let out an exasperated noise, quickly followed by his footsteps down the hallway, and then they disappeared entirely. He’d given up fighting with you for the meantime, it seemed.

One of the maids your father employed stuck her head cautiously through your open door like she was peeking into the lair of a waking dragon. “Miss, would you like any help–”

“– I’m fine,” you replied curtly. “You may go.”

She dismissed herself with a relieved expression.

You returned your gaze to the vanity mirror in front of you. You didn’t look anything like yourself. Your hair had been tousled with and brought to heel, stacked so high that you felt like you might topple over if you leaned your head the wrong way. Your face was painted with vermillion, cheeks unnaturally red. Your lips were pigmented, too– they tasted sour and metallic when you ran your tongue over them.

You stared at yourself. You looked miserable. Your eyes dropped to the ornate set of jewelry that had been laid out for you on the vanity. You sighed noisily and reached up to the mountain of hair, searching for the clips that held it so carefully in place. If you were going to be forced into a corset, an obnoxiously heavy dress and even heavier jewelry, you had to compromise somewhere. Besides, how was your future fianceé supposed to know what you looked like if he couldn’t see your real features?

You paused with a hair clip between your fingers. Huh. You’d never thought about your betrothed before. Not as a person, at least – he was always a concept, an abstract figure that you could argue about and passionately loathe for ruining your life’s plans. You didn’t even know what he looked like.

If you were lucky, he might be that handsome stranger.

You threw away the thought just as quickly as it came, and began undoing the mountain of curls on your head. What a foolish thing to think. You’ll never see him again. You don’t even know his name.

He didn’t know yours, either. It was an arrangement he suggested at the beginning of the night, and you had agreed. After all, the less he knew about you, the better, right?

But he was the first thing on your mind when you were roused by the maids, only a few hours after falling into bed. You blamed the dark circles under your eyes on a bad night of sleep, on account of nervousness – which was laughable. This marriage had been arranged since before your birth. What did you have to be nervous about?

After you pulled a final clip your hair came loose, tumbling down your back in loose curls. Much better. You sighed again – you seemed to be doing that a lot lately – and gave yourself one last look. No, as much as you could daydream about the handsome stranger who walked along the docks with you on your last night of freedom, you knew the truth. You would never see him again.

You tried to convince yourself that it was for the best.

“Daughter–”

“I’m coming down!” You called, pulling at the dress to try and ease your discomfort somehow. It was peach-colored – sweet, soft and innocent, as you were supposed to be. You reached up and rubbed the back of your hand against your lips, removing the blood-red stain from them at the last minute.

You could practically feel your father’s veins about to burst when he called you again, this time by your first name. You picked up the hem of your dress, stood, and smiled politely at your reflection: half-practice, half-goodbye. This was, after all, your farewell to your better self. The girl that would walk out of your room would be someone else entirely.

Your eyes pricked with tears and you inhaled quickly– no crying. Instead, you put your chin up, took as deep a breath as you could manage, and walked out the door.

The lone candle stood flickering on the windowsill.

It was mid-afternoon by the time you arrived.

“You changed your hair,” Your father observed as he stepped out, offering you his hand.

“It looks better this way,” you replied testily, taking it. You picked up the fabric of your dress with one hand and carefully descended the steps, until your soft-soled slippers touched cobblestone. You purposefully avoided your father’s expression of displeasure. Instead, you looked ahead.

The estate was enormous. You couldn’t have imagined a house so large, even though yours was the biggest in St. Thomas by far. There were more windows than you could count. The gardens went on forever. Ornate pillars of alabaster stone framed a wide, curving staircase up to the gilded double doors. They were wide open: music and light chatter flooded out like water, ringing out across the grounds and reaching you even as you stood in the drive.

“It seems that it does start without you,” Your father remarked as he offered you his arm– a jab at your comment from earlier.

Your eyes flitted over the estate with an unenthused expression. However skilled the musicians inside may have been, to you the distant music only sounded discordant.

You took his arm and travelled up the stone walkway. Your stomach felt like it was sinking to the depths of the ocean. By the time you reached the stairs, you were surprised there wasn’t a visible thundercloud looming over your head. The servants at the door greeted you – you didn’t hear a word.

When you came through the foyer and into the main ballroom, you had begun preparation for a swift exit.

There were too many people, far too many. The afternoon heat only amplified your feeling of claustrophobia. The room was obscenely large and still felt crowded: lords and ladies dressed to the nines, not a beauty mark or a wig hair out of place. You were immediately grateful for altering your appearance. You stood out now. To this crowd, you undoubtedly looked childish and plain. To your fianceé, at least you might look something like yourself.

A string quartet played subdued, slightly melancholic notes from one corner. You were reminded of the four-string fiddler in the tavern last night – and the sea-green eyes of the man who’d saved you. You felt a pang in your chest. Why hadn’t you run away for good? Smuggled yourself onto a ship and let it take you far away from this?

I’m a coward, you thought miserably, as you flashed a reassuring smile towards your father. No matter how hard I try, I’ll will always be afraid.

You were vaguely aware that the servants had announced your presence, because suddenly the music quieted, and everyone turned to look at you. Hundreds of eyes burned holes in your skin, tearing apart your clothes, makeup, expression– you felt more naked than if you’d stripped. And yet muscle memory prevailed: you smiled, just enough to look seemly, and told yourself it would all be over soon.

Your father tugged subtly on your arm, ushering you into the room. Your heart felt like a bird trying to escape through your chest as you continued to draw the gaze of the crowd. Why were they still staring? Surely your appearance wasn’t that shocking.

“My friend, how good to see you. You look well.”

You turned your gaze and found your father shaking hands with someone: an older man. Your soon-to-be father-in-law. You knew him only by the name of his company: Odin & Sons, the wealthiest shipping merchants in every corner of the Caribbean. Unlike most of the English guests, he wore no wig or lace-covered clothing. There were a few metal clasps in his greying hair, and nothing more. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you recognised it to be a more traditional Scandinavian style of dress.

Not that it matters, you reminded yourself. He’s the richest man in the South Pacific, he can wear what he likes.

“And you must be her,” he said, turning his attention to you and extending his hand. You snapped out of your thoughts and forced a smile, giving it to him. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles as you curtsied.

“It’s an honor, Sir,” you said robotically, faltering a little at his title- you weren’t sure if it was the right one.

He noticed, and chuckled. “Odin will suffice, my dear.”

You forced a titter through your lips and straightened up – a small laugh that meant silly me, what an easy mistake. There had to be some kind of award for a performance this convincing.

Odin gestured broadly behind him, directing your gaze as he spoke. “May I introduce my sons– Thor, my firstborn, and Loki.”

Your eyes fell on the two tall figures, and then your jaw dropped.

It was him.

The one who walked the town with you last night, who saved you in the tavern, standing there and smiling with all the congeniality his handsome face could offer, like nothing had happened.

And next to him was your fianceé.

“My dear, that’s hardly becoming,” your father teased nervously, and you quickly closed your gaping mouth. Your father chuckled, trying to make light of your inappropriate expression. “I hadn’t told her of your son’s good looks.”

Thor laughed, and you looked at him for the first time. He was good-looking. Like his father, his golden hair was pulled half-back and tied with metal clasps; there were a few braids hiding behind his ears as well. Broad shouldered, with a light beard and twinkling blue eyes … yes, he was handsome.

But then there was Loki.

Gone was the simple dress you’d seen him in the night prior. The wide-sleeved shirt he wore now was a deep sea-green, embroidered to shimmer like water when he moved. The only addition to his appearance was a loose braid that fell to his collarbone, but God if it didn’t do wonders. He looked marvelous: understated yet elegant, with a smirk that betrayed exactly nothing. Even here, he had that air of mystery, like he was somehow a touch out of place.

You let Thor take your hand automatically, but your eyes stayed fixed to his brother: staring at him with such intensity that you were surprised you didn’t leave burn marks in his forehead.

It’s me, your eyes said desperately. We’ve met before.

Loki’s eyes said nothing in return.

“May I have the first dance?” Thor asked politely. Right, there was dancing. You broke your gaze from Loki (with difficulty) and allowed Thor to take you from your father, capturing you with a hand around your waist. You stiffened at his touch, and then forced yourself to relax. This would be your husband soon— you couldn’t flinch every time he touched you.

The string quartet music swelled and in one choreographed movement, the guests paired themselves up. You knew how to dance, of course, but given the nature of your predetermined marriage you had never actually danced with anyone other than your instructor.

“You must forgive me,” Thor said, smiling apologetically. “I’m usually too busy for dancing. I haven’t made a habit of it.”

“You and I both,” You responded distractedly. Your hand barely touched his shoulder as the music steadied to a waltz. Simple enough. You avoided Thor’s gaze like the plague, looking around the room instead – searching for his brother. Did he really not recognise you, after last night’s excursion? Your appearance wasn’t that different.

Then again, if he was feigning ignorance, you wouldn’t be surprised. He had already proved that he was clever beyond your understanding.

“Your hair is lovely.”

You forced yourself to pay attention to your partner. “Thank you,” you murmured, still avoiding his gaze. “I like yours, too.”

On cue with the music, Thor spun you out and brought you back seamlessly, pulling you to him once more. You found yourself staring at the floor, watching the marble tiles move beneath you. He was obviously taking great care not to step on your feet.

“If we are going to be wed, we should learn to look each other in the eye,” he said gently.

Your gaze snapped up to him as your face flushed. Apparently Loki wasn’t the only one with a watchful gaze. “My apologies.”

“Not necessary,” He smiled, which only made you feel worse.

There was another beat of music-filled silence. You combed your brain for something witty to say, and came up empty. How were you supposed to talk to him? With respect? As a friend? The two of you barely knew each other– you hadn’t the faintest idea where to begin.

You heard Loki’s familiar, musical laugh and glanced across the dance floor– he had a woman caught up in his arms, spinning her like she weighed nothing and smiling as though he was having the time of his life. You felt an unfamiliar twinge of jealousy, and quickly shoved it back down, forcing yourself to look at Thor again.

By the time you had half a sentence constructed in your mind, the song was over.

Thor parted from you and bowed politely, offering you a genuine smile. “If you’ll excuse me – there is business to attend to that I must oversee.”

Your eyebrows raised and you managed to conjure a mildly disappointed expression. “Oh, it’s alright,” you said, and gave him a condoling smile. “I understand.”

“Don’t worry, brother,” came a familiar voice over your shoulder, as two large hands set themselves on your shoulders. You froze. “I’ll ensure that she won’t perish of boredom.”

Thor laughed. “I have no doubt of that.” He gave you a final nod, and strode through the crowds, disappearing from your sight.

As soon as he was gone, you whirled around with wide eyes, feeling like you were about to combust. “You–” you began accusingly.

He didn’t let you finish. Instead, he swept you up into his arms just as the music swelled again, grasping your hand and wrapping his arm around your waist. It sent shivers up your spine that you did your best to ignore.

“Darling, we must stop meeting like this,” he said, and began twirling you across the dance floor. You were forced to stare at his face so you wouldn’t get dizzy. He led effortlessly, weaving through other pairs and picking you up off the ground by a fraction of an inch when called for – unlike Thor, whose dancing required rigid focus, you felt free in Loki’s arms.

Loki. You savored the name in your mind, wondering how it would taste on your tongue. It certainly suited him.

“So you did recognize me,” you said, after you’d reigned your thoughts back in and remembered what you were talking about.

Loki merely smirked, tilting his head slightly in a nod. “You’re hard to forget.”

Your cheeks burned and you scowled. “Don’t try and flatter your way out of this,” you warned him. “Did you know I was your brother’s betrothed when we met? Is that why you wouldn’t tell me your name?”

“Surprisingly, I was unaware,” he admitted, lifting you up and forcing you to hold tightly to his shoulder before setting you back down again. So fluid and simple, but your heart was racing from the adrenaline of it. “It’s a shame. He’ll have a hard time reining you in.”

Your scowl deepened as you tried to discern the meaning behind his statement. “Is that an insult?” You asked, gazing up at his face. Goodness, that jaw of his could cut glass.

In contrast to your faithful stare, Loki’s eyes never seemed to meet yours. “A compliment,” he corrected. He spun you out without warning, pulling you in and holding your back against his chest. His elegant hands gripped your waist just enough to lead without ever making you feel like he was touching you indecently. The irony was that it left you wanting for more of his touch. You wanted to feel his fingers dig against your skin.

You felt a surge of guilt. You shouldn’t be thinking of him that way, not when you were going to marry his brother.

Why wouldn’t it have been him?

He brought you back to face him once more, catching your hand and bowing as the song ended. Unlike the first, this waltz seemed only too short. You had a hard time masking your regret when you curtsied.

Then he offered you his hand again.

“What say we catch our breath?”

The gardens were a maze. Tall, neat hedges lined the walkways and climbing vines wove around overhanging tree branches, hiding you from the sweltering heat of the evening sun. The grass underfoot was obviously well-tended: there wasn’t a blade out of place.

Loki looked different in sunlight.

The night before, you hadn’t been blessed by the opportunity to observe him in full. You had only seen the shadows and suggestions of his features, alluding to what he truly looked like. Now, you could see the curve of his cheekbones, the angle of his nose, the way his eyes spoke volumes before he ever said a word. He was mesmerizing, and you had a difficult time diverting your eyes.

So he’s not a pirate after all, you thought amiably. Just a wealthy merchant’s second son.

When you put it like that, he hardly sounded impressive – but he held your fascination nonetheless.

“Tell me, is there something on my face?” He asked suddenly without looking at you. His eyes were, in fact, drawn upward towards the low-hanging bows of the trees.

Your face flushed and you diverted your gaze. “No. I’m sorry, it was rude of me to stare.”

“You’ve been doing it all evening, don’t stop now,” he remarked sarcastically, dropping his eyes and gazing at you. In the light of day, they were more of a light green than the deep sea color you had previously thought. “And you sound terribly mechanical when you talk that way.”

You pressed your lips together to hide a smile, and dropped the formalities. “You don’t know me like you think you do.”

It was true, to an extent: you had told him almost nothing about yourself last night. Then again, you knew he saw more than he let on.

But to your surprise, he agreed. “No, I don’t.” He paused, slowing down to consider the roses that were blooming elegantly along the archway above you. They were the same color as your dress. “But I know you’re already tired of him.”

You frowned. “Thor?”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Stupidity isn’t becoming on you, either. Who else?”

You crossed your arms over your chest and watched him through narrowed eyes as he looked up at the roses. “I’ve only just met him, I couldn’t be tired of him.”

“I saw your face.” Loki reached up, and there was a small snap as he broke the stem of one flower between his fingers. “This world you’ve found yourself in, full of business meetings, garden parties, empty conversations– it bores you to tears. And Thor is all of that personified.”

His voice and face held no emotional weight– only cold calculation. He was stating a matter of fact.

You reached out to take the flower when he offered it. The wheels of your mind mulled over his words. He was probably right... they had grown up side by side, and if Loki said it, then it must be so.

Thor had left you for a business meeting right after your dance. You hadn’t cared at the time. But the duration of your interaction – and the fact that it felt like he was doing the bare minimum – did make his entrance into your life lackluster. And when you married him, what then? The least you could expect from your fianceé was his attention. And today, Thor hadn’t been able to give you that.

You had a feeling it wasn’t going to change.

Loki watched silently as you thought it over and your countenance fell, and he hummed through his nose.

You looked up sharply. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, smirking. “So unhappy and yet you do so little to prevent it.”

You stiffened as a rush of heat rose to your face. “You don’t know me,” you repeated, more serious this time.

“No?” He asked, stepping towards you so suddenly that you took a few steps back, hitting the trunk of a willow tree. The bark dug into your back as you stared up at him with wide eyes.

His expression had changed. The deep sea-green color of his eyes was back, dark and dangerous like an impending storm.

“I know that it wasn’t just surprise that held your gaze on me and not your beloved,” He stated. His voice was low and sultry as he reached forward, holding your chin between his forefinger and thumb so you wouldn’t look away. “Tell me, little one, when you’ve finally wedded him and resigned yourself to a life full of everything you despise, how long will it take before I find you in my bed, whimpering in the dark, begging me for the comfort your husband cannot give?”

There was a sharp sound.

You stared, petrified, as you watched the pale skin of Loki’s cheek blush crimson from where your hand had struck him. He pulled away from you and reached up, slowly, ghosting his fingers over his skin.

You were speechless.

Loki stepped away, leaving you pressed against the willow. You were gripping the rose so tightly that the thorns had pricked your skin, little rivulets of blood trickling through your fingers. Your chest heaved with emotion, but still you made no sound.

He chuckled, dropping his hand and narrowing his eyes. His genuine smile sent a shiver down your spine - and not an unpleasant one, either.

“I think," he said slowly, offering you his arm with a smirk to walk back, "that you and I are going to get along.”

Next Chapter

~ ~ ~

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julianacapulets · 5 years ago

Text

✧ ᴀꜱᴋɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴏꜱᴇꜱ ✧

“The end of the melody is not its goal: but nonetheless, had the melody not reached its end, it would not have reached its goal either. A parable.” — Friedrich Nietzche

PART I.

Juliets were made for balconies, and February eighteenth found Juliana Capulet stood at the alabaster lip of her own, dark eyes unveiled to skirt over the sea of paramours walking the streets of fair Verona, and none of them her own. None who know her, and none to whom she could belong to. The Capulet heiress stood at the helm, like a captain of a ship, or only a tender girl plagued by loneliness – utterly, entirely alone. Her inhale was sharp—as it was, always. When she focused, she forgot to breathe, at least until her lungs burned in protest, in searing reminder. Her lashes lowered, her lids squeezed, tightly: it’s like slamming a window shut, end meeting pane scornfully. Yet it wasn’t scorn that coursed, potently, through Juliana’s bloodstream that day, that moment.

The perfume in the air was pungent, the floral decadence in ode to Saint Valentine, supposedly. An ode to Damiano Montague’s ego might be more accurate, but she digressed. Nevertheless, an inhale was all it took. Roses, the woman-girl knew. She knew without looking.

Quiet, calm—as if she is the bystander, not the host—Juliana diagnosed the heaviness of her lids, of her soul & her heart, as a melancholy teetering on nostalgia, engulfing her with a pressure that wasn’t quite crushing, wasn’t quite warm. Her fingers were curled around the railing, the wrought-iron blooms pressing indentations into fragile palms. She didn’t realise, not until her eyes were once more open, until her gaze dropped to blanched fists: she was shaking.

Roses, roses, roses; there were only ever so many at a wedding – or at a funeral.

PART II.

Shell-casing & shrapnel rained. The same shaking hands throttled the weapon so desperately clutched between her fingers. A machine that propagates death held onto for dear life; there was a terrible irony here, was there not? There were two choices. There were only two choices. She could either shoot, or she could not. But that wasn’t true, either, was it? Didn’t she ask a third option of the towering blonde on the other side of the column? Shoot to disarm or distract, not wound, not fatally. Didn’t she ask it of Katarina Du Pont as Juliet, not Juliana? Had the plea not been as good as an order?

For a moment in time, Juliana could no longer hear the shots firing all around the room, bullets ricocheting, left, right, and centre. She couldn’t hear anything anymore, nothing besides the hard, deafening beat of her own heart, pounding in her ears, loud as a war song. It sounded like heavy footsteps, and then, just as quick, it sounded like a scream. It sounded like a scream, but it tasted like blood—and the blood was never hers. Shell-casing & shrapnel: she heard them, knew that on the other side of the column, there was blood.

She knew that the blood was always theirs, her Capulets. It was always them, spilling their blood and risking their lives, whilst she stood, always on the sidelines, useless.

“Defend them,” came a murmur. Or was it a prayer?

Juliet stepped out from behind the makeshift barricade. Hands still, finger trigger-ready. Her eyes as dark as a prophecy of the night’s impending unraveling. They caught on a flash of bolstering blonde in their periphery, and her gun joined the bloody orchestra, playing like the rest of them.

•••

—a scream. It was a sound that chilled her to the bone and would later haunt her, the scream of Juliana Capulet. Between both physical and verbal rows, it would seem a certain charge of hers had snuck past, and Katarina’s head turned sharply at the sound– past marble columns, past ballroom doors, to Juliana. Juliana. Whether it was desperation or anger, love or duty that fueled her next, a hard knee to her opponent’s gut had her moving faster than before, reclaiming her Beretta from the ground. “This isn’t over–”

She barreled her way towards the brunette she’d been ordered to keep safe, careened through the air as proiettile di Volumina – but, she was a weapon triggered too late, blindly following the sound that chilled her heart from the volatile inferno that accompanied a battle of fists. La principessa was within sight, not a dozen yards away and she’d seen it: that movement forward into the doorway of the ballroom, those few steps in the shocked atmosphere of battle to hear such a horrible heartbreaking wail escape from a woman’s mouth. Then: A shot loosed from a weapon that was not her own met her ears.

Too late, Katarina’s heartbeat roared in her ears. Too late, too late, too late-- Her heart declared each venomous cry in beat as she sprinted towards the younger woman fearing the worst. The way that Juliana’s body had violently jerked in response to the gunshot said everything the blonde had needed to know. Months ago, it had been Don Capulet. Now, his daughter-- their future-- Katherine’s charge, Katarina’s friend had a bullet torn into her body-- Too late, her mind howled. But, once the Capulet bullet had been loosed from its chamber, there was no stopping her; and, as the blonde came from the side of the entryway her arm was outstretched to wrap protectively around Juliana’s midsection to pull her away, to shield her, she finally spared a glance into the ballroom.

Rafaella–

Was not who she had been ordered to protect. The woman was their consigliera, and Matthias Warren would receive what was due to him. However, she had to get Juliana out of danger. Katherine needed to defend her life, had to do her duty. With her free hand, her gun came up to fire at the Montague who had shot at Juliana. Three shots, both shoulders and the hand that held the gun. There was no clean shot at Warren, not in the four heartbeats since she’d reached la principessa, not in the three and a half seconds she’d assessed the situation with the cutting authority of Carabinieri Lieutenant Du Pont and not Katarina. “We need to go–” A command, not a request tumbled from her lips, urgent as she attempted to pull her behind the entryway and out of another bullet’s line of sight, hand stained red from the blood that seeped from the younger woman’s wound.

“– Volumina, she’s been hit!” Help me save her, her words seemed to yowl. Their conversation days ago, just before she’d spent an afternoon with Juliana seemed to find its influence here now. Katarina Du Pont had lost Delphine Cloutier; but, Katherine would not lose Juliana Capulet. Not when they both wanted the same thing: a better Verona for the people they loved. She would not fail, and her yell called for the older woman to help her move the youngest of them to safety. “Her shoulder–” They needed to put pressure on it, get her to the hospital or she’d run the risk of bleeding out. “Juliana, please, we need to move--”

•••

Power was to be in the middle of a battlefield, defended by her allies, untouched by her adversaries.

Power was in extolling vengeance, in depriving Alexander Rallis of air in the same way he had done her, when a near-fatal wound had her choking on her own lifeblood backstage of the theatre in December.

Power was feeling each frantic beat of the Montague’s carotids, right beneath her fingers. And squeezing harder, and harder still...

Power was not losing one of their greatest chess pieces in the maelstrom.

Yet one minute Rafaella was there, fighting alongside herself and Lucrezia – the next, she was in Matthias’ grip, as surely as Alexander is within her own. Fear filled Vivianne’s eyes as she she stared at the glinting knife the Montague barred against the Capulet’s throat. Rafaella’s curls bounced back as she strained to avoid the serrated edge, and briefly, Vivianne recalled the press of those same tendrils against her cheek, when the young woman threw herself into her arms at the hospital, only two months prior. Not just a Capulet, not just their adviser, but her fiamma feroce. Her fierce flame. It was enough for love to briefly eclipse hatred, for Volumnia to reluctantly release her most reviled rival in order to reach for her gun, raising it quickly to target Matthias through its barrel. “Liberala.” Release her. She didn’t recognise the animal fury in her former friend’s eyes, didn’t know what vendetta he had against Rafaella that caused him to ignore even her own sovereign words.

“Malcolm –”

It was then she heard Juliana’s scream, her attention instantly diverted to the heiress who had come upon them, and fallen down the rabbit-hole to Hell. By the time she turned back to Matthias, he was already retreating with Rafaella in tow, putting Montague soldiers between them as her bullets rained down; catching, not on the Captain, but the collateral damage he’d tossed in her path instead. Her mind was as divided as her targets, keenly aware—with pulsing, nauseating whorl—of Juliana’s vulnerable presence only a few meagre feet away. She’d be damned before the girl was used against her once more, before another Montague was foolish enough to mistake la principessa for a mere bargaining chip, to be bled and discarded at will.

And then it happened.

She heard another cry erupt from the heiress, the multitones of surprise indicating that she’d been hurt. There were too many bodies between then; the Underboss couldn’t see her, but she spotted the Carabinieri bolting towards Juliana with single-minded purpose. And she was relieved for Katarina, relieved that she needn’t remind the bodyguard of her priorities. Instead, she continued fighting, until the path temporarily cleared, bloodthirsty resolve doubling with each body that hit the ground – until, finally, Vivianne reached them.

She knelt down to assess the extent of Juliana’s injury, but did not plead with the girl as the soldier did. Instead, her voice rang out a command, the doting concern with which she normally addressed the heiress with temporarily replaced with steel-spined authority. “Mantieni la pressione sulla tua ferita, Juliana.” Keep pressure on your wound, “non fermarti se non lo senti dalle mie labbra!” Don’t stop unless you hear it from my lips.

There was no time to argue, and no time to count their losses either. She hoisted Juliana up in her arms, as best as she could, taking care to avoid hurting her further.

“Andiamo, Katherine. Cover me,” she added to the lieutenant, rising to her feet. “Let’s get her out of here.”

PART III.

She always expected a scream. After the gun went off like a judge’s gavel—BANG!—after the bullet pierced flesh... before the blood, before the end. In films, as the body hit the ground with a harsh breath, the quivering gasp, all they ever were was winded. She’d gone off on so many indignant rants, hadn’t she? About poor direction and lazy acting, about a lack of realism, and on and on? And in the life she’d inherited a mere three years ago... Juliana hadn’t paid it any mind, each time one of them had been wounded – hadn’t been able to. Perhaps she blocked it out? People did that with trauma, she knew, when it was too much and too hard, when it was unbearable. The theory had merit. Though, the nights lost to the sour wet of Vivianne’s blood on her hands, too much blood out where Rallis had wounded her negated it. Was the repression conditional on the basis of weaponry? Guns versus blades? Juliana supposed it didn’t matter anymore. No, it did not matter at all.

As it turned out, it wasn’t bad film-making. It wasn’t trauma overshadowing the event. She wanted to scream. She wanted to scream, she wanted to never stop screaming: Please, please, please, please, please –

But she couldn’t make a sound. She couldn’t breathe. She could feel the blood, warm and slick. She could feel strong arms around her, the racing pulse, the ragged breaths. The curtains came down on another blood-stained in Verona, with crimson velvet traded in for glistening, fluttering ribbons in black sweeping across Juliana Capulet’s vision. Her hands reached as her heart pled: RAFAELLA. WE CAN’T LEAVE HER. WE CAN’T LEAVE HER, I WON’T, I CAN’T – PLEASE! Please –

Her mind numbed, cooled. Her body could feel it; they moved farther away, they left her. They left her. Juliana left her.

Her lungs strained, oxygen sneaking into her system in whisper-thin tendrils, desperately, burning. The smell was unbearable: roses & blood.

Roses.

– It would be a funeral, then.

#x. bloom #guns tw #blood tw #date: 18.2.19.#act ii; scene ii.#with: katarina du pont.#with: vivianne sloane.#with: rafaella capulet.#{ ooc: okay folks so this one is an important one & i'm about to hit the GC up for plots regarding it #but i really absolutely could not have done this without vic & lina just being truly incredible #and lending me viv & kat and their gorgeous words and helping me so hard #thanks for reading! love you }

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galfridus1 · 6 years ago

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Stargazing

Flashbang piece! Thanks @nerroart for collabing with me on this and for producing this amazing picture. You’re such fun to work with 😊.

Our prompt was sky. Hope you like this.

Laughter echoes, bouncing off stone and filling the cavernous space. Pressing his lips together, Zeldris strides down the hallway, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the noise that floats from the ballroom. He can hear clearly the shouts and calls which signal the party is in full swing. The vampire king Izraf has spared no expense for this occasion: an alliance with the powerful demon clan is something to celebrate, a treaty that will protect their race for centuries to come.

As the alcohol had flowed, representatives from both sides had visibly loosened, the stiff handshakes and careful small talk of those barely acquainted gradually morphing to giggles and jokes. Usually this sort of behaviour set his teeth on edge, but today he is thankful that the preoccupation of his brethren has allowed him to slip away unnoticed.

Eventually he reaches the carpeted interior at the entrance to the castle and Zeldris tenses, stretching out his powers to check he is alone. Detecting nothing of interest, his shoulders drop slightly, and he releases the breath he has not realised he is holding. He does not fear discovery on his own account - death is a given fate for a soldier - but he knows he must keep Gelda safe at all costs. Their clans may be allies, but her father is proud, Izraf’s prejudice placing the vampires above all other clans in his mind. This vision of the world extends to his daughter; Gelda will be beaten to within an inch of her life if she is found with a demon.

Biting his lip, he continues forward, passing ornate statues of glass which gleam in the candlelight. The obvious wealth of his clan’s new allies is staggering. Now that the treaty is signed and the vampires’ future is secure he should break things off, leave Britannia, return to his life as an unfeeling soldier. He can do Gelda nothing but harm with his continued presence. But the thought of her eyes, soft and full of affection, the way she clings to him, the way she feels in his arms, keeps him on his path towards their meeting place.

When he sees her he stops, overwhelmed. She is so beautiful, the way her golden tresses sweep over her shoulder, the smooth column of her neck and her flawless alabaster skin. Sensing his presence, Gelda turns, her face lighting instantly as their eyes finally meet and a moment later she is in his arms. Zeldris can feel his hearts pounding in his chest as she holds him to her: that this beautiful, determined woman returns his affections is too staggering to believe.

“I missed you,” she murmurs into his ear and Zeldris feels lava run through his veins. He swallows, his eyes sliding closed as he breathes in her scent, the fragrance of roses searing onto his memory. He will always remember these moments, these stolen snatches of time. He sighs. Even though they have just been reunited, Zeldris already feels the ache of impending loss, knowing that they have but a few hours until dawn when Gelda will have to return to her chambers and he will slink back to the demon realm.

The emotion is so strong he cannot respond. Instead he holds her, his cheek pressed to her hair. Then fear grips him. They are standing out in the open. Quickly he steps back, dropping his arms to his sides. “We should move,” he says gruffly, “find a room somewhere.”

“I was thinking we might go outside.” Gelda closes the gap he has created between them, taking his hand in hers. “It’s fine tonight, and we won’t be disturbed.”

Zeldris scoffs before he can catch himself. With an apologetic glance as Gelda looks at him curiously, he mutters, “This is Britannia, and not only that, northern Britannia. It is hardly known for the clemency of the weather.”

“Well, it’s fine now,” Gelda says with a chuckle. “There’s barely a cloud. We can look up at the sky.”

“Why would you wish to do that? It is pitch black outside,” exclaims Zeldris, his brow creased in genuine confusion.

Gelda stares at him, her violet eyes wide. “Because… well, because it’s a beautiful sight.” She cocks her head to one side. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? You fly all the time. You must have seen how breathtaking the sky is at night.”

“The stars are useful navigational aids,” Zeldris says with a shrug. “Beyond that, there is nothing of particular interest. When I fly I have a mission to undertake, it is hardly the time to focus on frivolities.”

The hand on his tightens. “That’s it, come with me.” Zeldris starts as Gelda pulls him towards the castle entrance, pressing her free hand against the great wooden structure and pushing against one of the doors, which slides open unprotesting on its hinges. “You demons are so… serious,” she says with some exasperation. “Too serious for your own good.”

A cold breeze hits his face as the door closes with a soft thud behind them. “There!” Gelda says with some finality as she gestures around. Demons can see well in the dark, and Zeldris can make out the shapes of the hills picked out in the silver moonlight, noting the slight movements of a fox as it slinks quietly through the bracken. The air is fresh, perfumed with dry grass and the earthy scent of the heather which covers the landscape. Edinburgh is still, peaceful, devoid of threat, but hardly the aesthetic paragon the princess has been promising.

“You really don’t see it?” Gelda asks incredulously, correctly interpreting the demon’s silence. “I can see that more drastic measures are necessary.” Before Zeldris can speak, her hand has left his and the vampire steps out into the night. “Follow me,” she calls over her shoulder as she very deliberately climbs into the air. The princess’s form rises serenely up into the dark and his jaw drops. He must have known that vampires flew, he supposes, but he had no notion it could be done with such grace.

Ridiculous as it is, he cannot deny her and besides dawn will be upon them soon. The vampires can stand the sunlight of course, but their power is eroded, severely weakened as night leeches to day. Feeling very self-conscious, the demon summons his darkness to build wings across his back, taking off into the night. As he too rises into the atmosphere, his eyes lock on the vision before him, the silk of Gelda’s dress glimmering in the light of the moon. Eventually she turns and her hands are outstretched as she beckons at him to join her.

“Look,” she urges as he flies to her side. “No, not at me!” she says with a laugh and, with a huff of annoyance at his ludicrous behaviour, Zeldris realises he is gazing into her eyes. Gelda takes his hand, the warmth seeping into his fingers, a contrast to the almost painful cold of the air. Noting the princess’s slight shiver, Zeldris is just on the point of insisting they return when he looks down and gasps. The ground is bathed in glorious silver, the expanse of land studded with tiny trees cast in moonlight. It is indeed beautiful, breathtaking in its loveliness, the calm of Britannia glowing as if with an eerie fire.

“Now look up,” Gelda breathes into his ear sending a shiver down his spine. Zeldris does as she commands and once more finds his throat runs dry. The black velvet of the night stretches before them, obsidian sparkling with gleaming diamonds. The stars shine bright, unobscured by cloud, too numerous to name or to count. It is indeed more alluring than anything he has seen, save for the woman who floats by his side.

He is dragged from his reverie when warm hands cup his face. “Zeldris,” she murmurs. He swallows thickly, trying to articulate his thoughts but Gelda seems to understand. He melts into her touch as her lips meet his, his pulse quickening as her fingers card into his hair. The cold is forgotten as they grasp at one another for what could be seconds or perhaps a lifetime, and the world shifts on its axis as the stars twinkle above.

Reluctantly he pulls away. Deep black has faded to a navy blue, the hint of birdsong drifting towards them on currents of air. The sun is peeking over the horizon, streaks of burnished bronze and blush pink gently illuminating the sky. “We should get back,” he suggests, his voice rasping slightly, and he feels the pull of his impending loss.

“Not yet.” Gelda once more takes his hands in hers, their fingers entwining and, instinctively, he wraps his darkness around them, pulling the princess into a warm embrace. “Is this not beautiful too?” she whispers. The violet of her eyes is picked out out before him as the light catches at wisps of cloud, and he wonders how he has never noticed the true depth of their colour before.

“It is… incredible,” Zeldris replies in a marvel as, all at once, the light of day floods into the world.

#nnt #nntflashbang #zeldris #gelda #geldris #stargazing #fanfiction #nerro is awesome

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bravonovel · 3 years ago

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Oops, A Heaven Sent Bride! read novel online - Xia Micheng & Lu Yuzhen -Bravonovel

Oops, A Heaven Sent Bride! https://www.bravonovel.com/oops-a-heaven-sent-bride-7561

Introduction to the novel : Xia Micheng，She had been abandoned in the countryside when she was a nine year-old,but now,she is going to marry a terminally ill man, one who was about to die.He and her met unexpectedly, and their love was evenly divided.

Oops, A Heaven Sent Bride! novel is a Romance story about Xia Micheng and Lu Yuzhen.

You can read Oops, A Heaven Sent Bride! novel on Bravonovel Web or App.

Oops, A Heaven Sent Bride! novel Chapter 1

It was autumn in the year 2015 when Xia Micheng took the train to Haicheng City from the countryside.

She had been abandoned in the countryside when she was a nine year-old. It was only on this day that she was finally being taken back to the city. There was only a single reason for this—the Xia family intended to marry her into the Orchid Garden in order to counteract their son’s bad luck. This was a practise that was supposed to save an ailing one’s life.

She had heard that the groom from the Orchid Garden was already terminally ill. Neither of the Xia family’s two daughters were willing to marry him, so the people of the Xia Family took her back from the countryside—where she had lived all this while—so that she could take their place instead.

Xia Micheng sat on her bunk with a book in her hand. Just then, the door suddenly opened. The bitingly frigid wind invaded the space along with a sickening, sweet metallic scent of blood.

Xia Micheng looked up, only to see a tall and handsome man suddenly topple over into the room.

He was unconscious.

A few people dressed in black swiftly charged in. “Boss, there’s no one around now. Let’s immediately dispatch him.”

“Who said that there’s no one here?”

The leader of this group—a man with a scar seemingly caused by the slash from a blade—glanced at Xia Micheng.

Xia Micheng hadn’t imagined that misfortune after misfortune would pile up this quickly, nor did she expect that this man who suddenly collapsed in her carriage would end up jeopardizing her life. Heavy murderous intent swirled in the scarred man’s eyes; it was apparent that he wanted to silence her by killing her.

Xia Micheng attempted to keep her composure as she glanced at the weapons in their hands before frantically begging for her life. “Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything!”

The scarred man walked closer to her to take a look at Xia Micheng’s face. She had a veil on, which obscured her face, but her clear eyes were exposed to the outside world.

Those clear eyes were unbelievably crystalline. Even when they were darting around, they still managed to be so gentle and beautiful.

The scarred man had never seen such a pair of stunning, alluring eyes before; he was taken by them in an instant. Adding on the fact that he hadn’t touched a single woman in recent days, it wasn’t surprising that less than savory intentions arose within him.

“My pretty little thing, we can leave you unharmed, but you’ll have to service me and my comrades here.”

Xia Micheng’s long, feathery lashes trembled as she said in a pitiful tone, “I don’t want to die. I’m scared. As long as you don’t hurt me, I’ll serve you well.”

The scarred man could no longer restrain himself at the sound of the girl’s wobbly and feeble pleas as he straightaway leaped onto her, pinning her under his body.

“Boss, you go first. We’ll go ahead and send this guy on his merry way before we enjoy ourselves.”

With the ringing of vulgar laughter in his ears and the feeling of the warm feminine body under his own, the scarred man put down his weapon and reached out to tear at the buttons of Xia Micheng’s shirt.

However, an alabaster little hand suddenly grabbed at him.

The scarred man looked up and instantly saw the girl’s clear, crystalline eyes. Right now, her eyes had lost the weak and panicked look to them; a cold glint shone in them instead.

“You!”

The scarred man was about to continue, but Xia Micheng raised her hand and drove the silver needle she held in it into his head with an unbelievably smooth motion.

The scarred man’s eyes closed as he fell straight to the ground, unconscious.

“Boss!”

The other men in black were taken aback. They tried to surge forward, but then the man who had collapsed earlier abruptly opened his eyes. With a sweep of his arm, he snatched away the weapon that one of the men in black was holding.

One by one, the men dressed in black collapsed to the ground.

It was so sudden that they didn’t even have the time to process what was happening.

Xia Micheng sat up. She had already known that this man was pretending to be unconscious; the blood on him was not his own.

Xia Micheng raised her head to look at the man. He too looked back at her. He had a pair of narrowed eyes that had a universe of meanings behind them. They were as sharp as an eagle’s talons, and there were even abysses hiding at the bottom of his eyes; whoever looked into them would feel like they were being sucked in.

“Young Master, I apologize for our late arrival.”

Their saviors had arrived and began to clean up the aftermath in an orderly fashion. A trusted subordinate handed a clean handkerchief to the man.

The man wiped his hands in a most graceful way, before striding over to Xia Micheng with steady and composed steps. His knuckles popped out as his fingers closed around her delicate jaw.

He narrowed his eyes, sizing her up with a somewhat amused look. His voice was low and charismatic as he spoke. “How do you think I will handle you?”

His calloused fingers gripped her jaw tightly. Xia Micheng was forced to look up at him. The man towered over her, and his handsomeness was beyond this world. His aura was like the night—strong and powerful, yet chilly as well.

He had already cleaned his hands earlier, but she could still smell that sickly sweet and metallic tang of blood on him.

She had seen something she wasn’t supposed to, but it wasn’t easy for her to just turn around and run; this man was rather dangerous.

Smack!

Xia Micheng straightaway slapped the man’s hand away. “Let go of me! I am the one who will be marrying into the Orchid Garden!” she said with a stern face.

The one who will be marrying into the Orchid Garden? The man raised an eyebrow. How interesting. His… bride?

“You’re from Haicheng City? Then you should know that one of the Xia family’s daughters is going to marry into the Orchid Garden. This wedding is going to rock the entire city, and I am that bride that they speak of. Do you think that you wouldn’t run into even bigger problems if anything were to happen to me? Release me, and it will be as if I haven’t seen anything. I will not speak about this as well!”

Xia Micheng really had to thank her stepmother Li Qianhui now. Li Qianhui had only given her an economy class train ticket for her trip back to Haicheng City. However, she was the one who organized the wedding—a grandiose, extravagant affair that was supposed to boost her reputation.

The Xia Family’s daughter’s marriage into the Orchid Garden was the biggest scoop in Haicheng City, so Xia Micheng was gambling on the chance that the man didn’t want any extra trouble.

The man looked at her with interest. He had been on the receiving end of an assassination attempt from some contract killers hired by his competitors on this day; meeting this girl was a complete accident.

He saw that she was no older than twenty. Even though her face was drained of blood and her clothes were in disarray, her clear eyes were still bright, with a cleverness hiding within and a blinding brilliance that shone in them.

Most importantly, she was his bride.

The man averted his gaze and left with his men.

Xia Micheng slowly unclenched her fists; her nails had been digging into her palm.

The man turned his head, amused. He looked at her and said to her slowly so that she could read his lips, “We will meet again, soon.”

……

The Xias’ wedding was held at Magnifica Manor.

Xia Erxiang peered at her older half-sister Xia Micheng as they waited in the bride’s lounge. “Xia Micheng, your mother died when you were nine. Later on, you pushed Grandpa down the stairs with your own two hands. Even the astrologer said that you’re a walking harbinger of bad luck; that was why dad sent you away to the countryside. If it wasn’t for this wedding that’s supposed to counteract the Orchid Garden’s bad luck, you would have to spend the rest of your days in the boonies. So, you should recognize your place. You’re not a daughter of the Xia Family; you’re just a dog to us!”

“Who are you calling, dog?” Xia Micheng said blandly as she sat in front of the dressing counter.

Xia Erxiang put her hands on her hips. “You of course!”

Xia Micheng’s lips quirked up into a smile. “I know already, so you don’t need to continue yapping.”

It was only then that Xia Erxiang realized that she had played into Xia Micheng’s hands. She peered at Xia Micheng’s clear, sharp eyes. She had had a veil on her face the entire time—ever since her journey from the countryside—but the eyes that peeked out above the veil were so very attractive; just those eyes alone would make anyone think that she was a gorgeous woman whose beauty could fell entire cities.

Xia Erxiang was jealous beyond belief. How she wished she could scoop out Xia Micheng’s eyes. How could this country bumpkin be beautiful? She was just hoodwinking everyone. She was clearly a hideous thing!

“Micheng, the time has come. You may leave now!” Right at that moment, Xia Chunyang and Li Qianhui entered along with an entourage of important guests.

…...

Continue to read Chapter 2 of Oops, A Heaven Sent Bride! on Bravonovel Web

https://www.bravonovel.com/oops-a-heaven-sent-bride-7561/chapter-2-84677

Read more exciting novels on Bravonovel App

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#Oops A Heaven Sent Bride #Xia Micheng #Lu Yuzhen #Bravonovel #novel #Romance #story #Fiction

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jasperrollswrites · 7 years ago

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The Baritone and the Critic

More commissions. This is a bit of a silly one but I feel it’s important, because it features yours truly. Done for AgentofEmpathy on FA. There was going to be an original song but it would’ve made the story too long.

———————

In comparison to the sweltering heat outside, the main theater of the auditorium was enjoyably cool. It had to be, since the stage lights would be heat enough on the actors, and if anyone in the audience ended up passing out, it'd probably be pretty embarrassing. There wasn't a full audience in there right now, of course. They'd come later. Right now, the wide open room, filled to the brim with art deco style architecture, had only two occupants.

They were sitting in one of the front seats on the balcony. One was in fairly okay shape. He wore a red shirt, with a brown jacket over it. His dark brown hair was short, with a slight flick at the ends. He looked pretty young, no real blemishes or anything on his face. The other was slightly chubby, wearing a tight dark blue hoodie. His dark brown hair was quite long in comparison, reaching down towards the small of his back, but it didn't look like he took particularly good care of it - it was washed at least, but clearly hadn't been combed.

"What is it, tonight?" the long-haired one asked, turning towards his companion.

"Uhh...some opera. The Magic Flute." they replied.

"Oh, I actually know that one."

"You know an opera, Jasper?" the one in the brown jacket responded, laughing a little.

"Yes," Jasper replied, indignantly. "I am slightly cultured, Spencer. I bet you didn't know it."

"Fair enough." Spencer admitted. "How do you know so much, though?"

"I had a children's book version of it when I was a kid." Jasper said, reminiscing. "Well...I mean it looked like a children's book, but all the dialog was straight from the story, so it was kind of confusing for an 8-year old."

"What's it about?"

"Uh...it's kind of weird." Jasper began. "There's this prince from another country, and the queen of that country tells him that if he saves her beautiful daughter from some...evil guy, she'll let him marry her. But then it turns out that the guy who kidnapped the queen's daughter might not be evil after all...he has to go through some trials...there's a lot of stuff about being in the Masons, I think, 'cause Mozart was a Mason or something like that."

"And what about the flute?" Spencer asked.

"Oh, yeah, that like...barely comes up I think. Like, the prince gets given it about halfway through by some servant boys, and it gets used like once for some deus ex machina near the end, I guess. I'm probably remembering it wrong."

Spencer stood up, stretching his legs a bit. "Man, why are they keeping us around here?" He asked. "It's not like there's anything left to do. Cleaning's all done. People won't be coming for like...3 hours."

"To check nothing else gets messed up I guess?" Jasper replied, still sitting as he pulled out his phone. "I mean, I don't mind getting paid to sit around for 3 hours."

"Yeah, guess so." Spencer said. "I'm gonna go look around." Jasper made a noncommittal humming noise, evidently more interested in his phone. Spencer looked down as the phone's speaker began making music. Looked liked he was playing air hockey or something. Spencer turned away, making his way to the back of the balcony, before heading through the doors that lead outside.

As Spencer closed the door back to the auditorium and entered into the corridors wrapping around it, he was struck by how silent it was. The light red wallpaper was brightly lit, and there were no windows. It felt like it was completely divorced from the rest of the world - that there was nothing beyond the walls of these corridors. He walked down the plush red carpet on the stairs, towards the lower floor of the auditorium. Opening one of the wide doors, he walked back in. He could barely hear the hiss of Jasper's game up above. The lights were low, except on the stage, where a single spotlight was pointed at the centre. Spencer walked along the rows of seats, all red and slightly plump with comfortable fluff. It was a pretty classy place, with the pillars a stark alabaster white, with lines of gold curving around in intricate patterns. They didn't seem to have done anything special for the play, however. Spencer guess it might be a pared back production, for whatever reason. Maybe they didn't have a big budget

He walked silently around the orchestra pit, then began climbing the hard steps to the stage. As he did, he was surprised by the sound of his footsteps - they'd been silent on the carpet of the audience area, now they were much louder. He turned towards the balcony, in time to see Jasper look up from his phone. He looked quite small from where Spencer was standing.

"Are you going to sing for me?!" Jasper yelled, feigning delight.

"Very funny!" Spencer yelled back.

As he stepped up onto the stage, however, Spencer felt a bit funny. He wasn't much of a singer. Everyone sung to themselves in their room, or in the shower, or something, but Spencer hadn't really done in front of audience. Jasper's comment had made him feel a bit indignant. Maybe he should sing. He might be really good at it. You never knew.

He looked around the stage, looking behind the curtain and into the wings. There were a few props lying around, stuff he assumed was needed for the opera tonight. A gramophone was set out, although it looked pretty dusty, the metal of the...speaker looking dirty and unpolished. A handkerchief with a red edge had been laid on the part where the record was placed. He picked the handkerchief up, using it to dust the gramophone a little.

"No respect, really." He muttered to himself. He felt himself a little stung by Jasper's remark, the more he thought about it. It had been kind of a mean thing to say...well, okay, maybe not, but the implication was rude. He looked back towards the centre of the stage, where the spotlight was shining. If he sung, that would shut Jasper up. And if it didn't, well...who else would know? He walked towards the spotlight, handkerchief still in hand. Now that he was in the centre of it, it was hard to see the audience. He looked up to where he thought Jasper was. He could just barely see him, his feet up on the ledge of the balcony, still messing around with his phone. Spencer scratched his upper lip a little, feeling it itch a bit. As he pulled his hand away, a few hairs pushed through the skin, growing faster than normal.

What should he sing? It was an opera tonight. Something classical would fit. Canon in D. Everyone knew that one. He felt a little nervous, but closed his eyes. There was no-one there except Jasper. There was nothing to be afraid of.

He began to hum the opening notes, holding the handkerchief tightly in his right hand. First a B, then an F, then G after that, followed by a D...as he carried along with the song, he tried to be a bit louder, letting his voice project a little. Didn't they say something about speaking from the diaphragm in drama lessons at school? It was a little tough to do, so he might as well just keep singing from the throat.

As he sung, the hairs on his lip were pushing out more now, gaining in thickness. A mustache was forming across his upper lip, although it didn't look like much at the moment. As he moved on to the next measure of the song, he raised his voice further, trying to reach Jasper's ears now. He put his left hand on his stomach, and as he did, it bloated outward slightly. He began to sing the song's main melody, a series of sonorous "la"-s bouncing around the room. It wasn't bad, he thought. But maybe it wasn't loud enough...

As he thought that, Jasper spoke up. "Can't hear yooouuu! Speak up!" He said, kind of mockingly. Spencer stopped abruptly and frowned up at Jasper. His voice sounded strange, like he hadn't cleared his throat. It was hard to see through the glaring spotlight but...yes. He was still wrapped up in his phone. Now that felt really unfair. Of course he couldn't hear Spencer if he was more concerned with his stupid game! Lazy, fat idiot. He looked a bit bigger than before. But the spotlight wasn't on him, now, was it? It was on Spencer.

A game...maybe a song from a game would be more his speed. But what song? They weren't really known for anything particularly operatic...except. Spencer grinned to himself. He knew the perfect song. He took a breath in, his belly swelling a little bit more as he did. He could almost hear the organ playing.

"Bwah. Hum. Ah-hem." He gave out a few test notes, trying to sing from his diaphragm. This was a lower song than Canon in D, so he'd need to be going for...what was it? They had names for this kind of thing. A low and bassy voice. Baritone, his mind offered. Probably. He did a bit more vocal testing. "Bwaaah, bwa-bwaaahhh..." the more he did it, the easier it felt, and the more he did it...the more he grew.

The hair on his upper lip was now pushing into a proper mustache, and as it reached its full length, it curled round a little at the ends. He coughed a bit, and without really thinking about how he didn't have a mustache a minute earlier, stroked it. Hair was now pushing out over his skin now, but this wasn't the dark hair of the mustache that now adorned his face...this hair was white. His belly swelled further, becoming impossible to miss, causing his shirt to ride up. He smirked, feeling ready to let his real voice come out. He opened his mouth, and out came the baritone he was looking for.

"Who's done me a thousand wrongs, ever since Donkey Kooooong..." he held the last note, his voice quivering. He closed his eyes, put his left hand to his chest, while raising his right into the air dramatically, the handkerchief flipping over in his hand. The white hair was pushing out all over now, in his arms and hands, across his belly and chest...on his face. He felt a little itchy, but he couldn't let it stop him from performing.

"Slithering down every pipe, despite his plumb-shaped body type..." his voice was beginning to change, not just now he was singing in baritone. He was rolling his Rs, his words gaining a slight Mediterranean tone. His belly kept on pushing outwards with every note he held, the hairs across it thickening...he wasn't just looking a bit hirsute. This was becoming proper fur adorning his belly. He cracked open an eye, to get a look at Jasper...it was hard to see, but his "friend" seemed to be paying attention...although he looked a bit bigger than before.

"Who's gonna run in fear, while screaming 'Mamma-miaaaaaaa'?" He was really enjoying those long notes. With every single one, his belly swelled - it was getting beyond just chubby, or fat, this was becoming obese. It was starting to sag down, but Spencer didn't feel impaired at all. As his shirt and jacket rode up, however, they too began to change. His shirt remained red, but the material it was made of was becoming more comfortable...a little more plush. Little buttons bloomed out, as a split formed down the middle, the shirt becoming a little waistcoat, with a spiralling design being drawn into it.

Meanwhile, his jacket was changing a lot more. The brown colour was deepening, turning towards purple, before rolling back, into a ocean blue colour, that stood out in the light of the spotlight. The back of the jacket began to push down, over his swelling buttocks, into the coattails of a much smarter blazer. The sleeves of the jacket folded back, as cufflinks set themselves into the softening material. The collar rose up around his cheeks, which were beginning to get plump with fat, and fluffy with white fur. His pants were being stretched to the limit, by his oversized body, but he was far more focused on the performance.

"Who leaves me gray and grim? Oh, what does Peach see in him?" As the white fur pushed out over his face, his hair began to change too. The curl in the dark brown hair got more intense, quite literally curling up into little rolls of hair, and as they did, they began to lose colour, turning grey, before reaching a white tone closer to that of the fur he was growing. His nose was sinking into his face, the fur covering it up. He took a deep breath, pleased with his first verse, his open mouth revealing a set of blunt buck teeth. He was about to launch into the second, when a cruel, gravelly voice interrupted him.

"Oh, goodness me. You call this opera?" It was Jasper, it could only be Jasper, but...he sounded wrong. It was hard to see him past the spotlight. "I've heard elementary school choirs that sang better than this!"

Spencer felt the anger rising up in him. What was this guy's deal? To be so rude, for no reason, especially to someone like him...

"Do you know exactly who you're talking to?" he said, trying to resist singing it out.

"A hack?" came the response from the darkness of the auditorium.

"Get some lights on this man!" Spencer yelled, and at his will, a set of lights swivelled towards the audience and turned on, pointed at where Jasper was sitting.

Jasper recoiled from the light, but it was clearly a changed Jasper. He too, had bloated in size tremendously, much fatter and larger than he had ever been before. Gone was the blue hoodie and jeans - now what adorned him was a brown tuxedo, with a bow tie tightly tied around his fattened neck. His skin was now a light purple, his hands fat and stubby. His hair was still long, but it was beginning to brighten, into a fiery orange.

He raised a hand to protect himself from the light. His wide mouth opened slightly, revealing two rows of yellowed, cavity filled teeth - too many sweets, nowhere near enough brushing. "Listen, pal," he growled out. "I don't know who you think you are, but you should definitely know me, well enough."

"Can't say I've ever heard of a tub of lard like yourself." Spencer retorted.

"Tub of lard!! Take a look at a mirror, buddy!" Jasper fired back. Spencer was thrown off by his comment. What was he talking about...he looked down, and finally noticed his own, bloated body.

"Where did...that..." Spencer murmured, his head getting fuzzy. He was sure he hadn't been this fat earlier...had he...? He looked down at his hands...fur was all over them, they were getting so fuzzy he couldn't see the definition between his fingers any more. He turned them over to see a paw pad on the palm of his hand - his hands had blurred together - it looked like he was wearing mitts, but they were definitely his hands. He could feel them. They were his hands.

"See, the difference is," Jasper began, "Unlike you, I'm good at being fat. Look at you! You can barely recognize yourself! Honestly, is this the kind of quality we're supposed to look forward to now? Where's the manager? I have a complaint to file."

The blobby, furry fellow on the stage shook his head, clearing the fuzziness. "Listen, you! I am the Phantom! I'm the master of this stage, and small-minded critics like you have no place in this theater!" As he announced his own name, a set of furry, floppy ears popped out of the top of his head, pushing through the flat, white head of hair that he now owned.

The monstrous purple creature giggled, doubling over a little, before breaking out into a cruel, mocking laughter that reverberated around the auditorium. As he laughed, his belly swelled further, his size overall inflating, becoming bigger than any human, his blazer being pulled to its limit.

"You? YOU!?? YOU'RE the Phantom?!?" He exclaimed incredulously. "Oh, that's the funniest thing I've heard in weeks! You! The Phantom! You should go into comedy, you'd make a killing!" He wiped his eyes.

"And, what, exactly, is so funny about my name?" Phantom replied.

"Oh...oh, you dear, naive, thing. You really don't know me, do you?"

"I think I have made it clear I don't have the time to remember the names of whiny small-time critics such as yourself."

The purple creature extended his arms outwards, displaying his hands theatrically, revelling in the spotlight that had been thrust upon him. "Small-time? My child, nothing could be further from the truth! My name is Jasper Rolls! Esteemed critic, part-time writer of Broadway-worthy plays..." Jasper leant forward, gripping the edge of the balcony with zeal. "...full-time monster, to puny little opera singers like you. My word can make or break you...and with the indignance you've shown to me, I'm heavily favouring break!"

"Well, then, Mr. Rolls." Phantom replied, smirking. "Maybe I can change your opinion."

"Oh," Jasper Rolls replied, with a drawl. "I rrreally doubt that."

"You do? Well, just watch!" And with that, Phantom leapt up, with a surprising amount of athleticism, and flipped back, almost floating across the stage, before landing with a heavy thump on the gramophone. There was a moment of strange noises, and then, Phantom's belly turned transparent, revealing a couple of things - his legs had phased away, leaving him with a ghost-like tail, and the gramophone was stored inside his monstrous belly.

Jasper raised his bushy, fiery orange eyebrows, as his hair curled upwards, into a devils-horns hairstyle. He might have been a bit quick on this one, he thought to himself. He sat back, reaching out to the side, where a box of popcorn that wasn't there before had placed itself, and began to stuff his face, ready for the real show.

His belly dragged down by the gramophone in his ghostly body, Phantom floated towards the centre of the stage. He was going to show this critic a thing or two. This time, the music wasn't just in his head - the sound of a loud organ blared. The lyrics were coming into his head - he'd always been good at improvising on the spot. He sang out, a few test notes, his voice reverberating around the auditorium. The lights turned on by themselves, props began to move onto the stage. This was where it really started.

"I do hope you enjoy this one, Mr. Rolls!" Phantom remarked. "It's been written especially for you."

---

The pair were back atop the balcony, taking up several more seats than they had before. It had been easy for Phantom to get back up there, given that he could float around as he pleased. The gramophone still rested in his translucent belly. Whatever had happened in the intervening minutes, the result had been that the two seemed to have warmed to each other amicably.

"Oh, people think of me some sort of parasite, never happy with what I see on the stage." Jasper was saying. "They just don't get it! I appreciate good, quality theater! That's all I want. It just so happens that 99% of what these idiots put out is pure garbage."

"I would have to agree," Phantom replied, resting his hands on his stomach. "But, I hope you don't mind me saying, you are perhaps too quick to judge. I mean, I barely got through my first verse, and you were already chewing me out."

"Oh, well, if you've led my life...snap judgements are easy to make," Jasper said. "I spent the longest, most abominable time trying sort out this troupe of kid actors...ugh, it was torture. They never listened. I only just got out of it, so I was a bit on edge. But..." He held his hands up in admission, then set one around his companion's ghostly shoulder, smiling perhaps the most warmly he had in awhile. "I'm perfectly willing to admit when I'm wrong, my friend."

Phantom returned the gesture, smiling as well. "I will admit my own shortcomings on judging you, as well." The pair looked at each other, feeling a little strange about gaining a friendship, after both of them spending so long alone...but it seemed like one that would last for a good while. Phantom couldn't wait to see where it would lead them.

#writing #transformation #mario + rabbids kingdom battle #phantom #psychonauts #jasper rolls

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goldensunflowers98 · 8 years ago

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Pharaoh Harsiese (Harry Styles AU Imagine)

“Can you believe I’ll be chief wife to Harsiese the Magnificent, Nafretiri?” My eighteen year old sister, Shamise, exclaims as she greedily drapes a shining, gold necklace across her neck where it gently grazed her breasts.

Her silver eyes glitter as the sun set and casted a ray of light from the open door on the balcony and her ebony hair and skin glistened from the oils her body servants had put on her during her bath.

My lighter, green eyes trail from the window where I watched the pomegranate tree, that my mother planted years ago before she died, sway in the slight wind, in the small garden that was mine and my mother’s old happy place, to her as I try to hide my frown. It was the first month of Shemu and the days were becoming hotter. Our ladies fanned us from the heat, trying to stop us from sweating as the Nile flooded.

I was sad to leave it, to leave my home in Akhmim and go to Thebes, where Pharaoh Harsiese resided in the Malkata palace, to help my older sister as she fought for Pharaoh’s approval over his other wife of five years, Bahiti.

Pharaoh Harsiese had been in power since I was young and the Romans invaded even though he was only a few years older than I. He was nearly fourteen when he become Pharaoh and now he is twenty and I sixteen. The people of Egypt adored him as he took over and saved our country from starvation and poverty with the help of the viziers.

They didn’t mind how different he looked from the past pharaohs; how his skin paled during Peret, the colder months, and how his hair was the color of the sand that covered the ground. To them, he was a god and from what I had seen and heard, he looked like one.

The first and only time I saw him was when I was almost fourteen and he eighteen. He was being carried on a gold and lapis litter through the streets, waving to his people, with his wife, Bahiti by his side as they showed off their newborn son. He was absolutely breathtaking and for a moment, I was jealous of my sister who has always been promised to him.

Sadly, a few months after, their son died in the night, smothered himself in his sleep by his own blanket, and they have yet to have another child. It was said the pharaoh was getting impatient, demanding a child and an heir from Bahiti soon or he would throw her into a harem.

That’s why my father, one of the most respected viziers to the royal family, took his chance and is finally making Shamise take Harsiese’s attention and become chief wife.

I go to answer my sister’s question, that she asks at least twice a day, when the door to the room opens and our father walks in, his smile immediately becoming adoring as he lays his eyes on his two daughters.

“Senit,” he leans down and kisses my head lovingly as he whispers the word for little girl before doing the same for Shamise. I pet my beloved cat, Khensu, meaning traveler of the sky, as he slept peacefully in my lap. I named him after the God of the moon as he loved to explore at night.

“Are you ready for the travels?” He asks us as we both nod, my eyes trailing to the window again where the servants were loading our heavy chests. My sister leaned over the window to look down when she heard a sudden ruckus and scowled.

“Be careful with that! It’s worth more than your life and what we paid for you,” she hisses as I frown and look down. I hated when she was rude to others. I could never find the way to be mean to someone, even if they were lower in class.

“Nafretiri,” my father suddenly speaks, making my head shoot up. He gives me a soft smile, holding out his hand which I grab, placing Khensu on the floor as he leads us out of the room.

“Your eyes are like a cat’s in the sun, senit. Green as the emeralds that line the palace thrones,” he says as we walk out into the garden. I instantly pull off my sandals to feel the cool, fertile silt against my toes as I lean down to inspect my mother’s mandrakes that I continue to take care of.

I smile lightly at my father’s words, looking up at him. “I don’t think you brought me out here to talk about my eyes,” I say as he chuckles and nods.

“Nafretiri, when we arrive at the palace and your sister becomes chief wife, it is your duty to make sure she stays well behaved and remembers the task at hand. She is hot tempered and you, my girl, must help her. You have patience and kindness, little cat, unlike your sister. She must become pregnant with Harsiese’s heir in the first year or she will be thrown into a harem just like he’s threatening Bahiti. Our family’s fate lies in your hands.”

I listen to his words as I stare at the ground. It was going to be hard to make sure my sister stayed in line. She was wild as a bird, never staying in one place, and had the bite of a cobra when someone upset her. She frightened even me on occasions and I instantly prayed that I wouldn’t be over my head.

I fear that is not the case. ____________

Reeds, lotus, and cattails lined the banks of the muddy Nile as our barge carried us to the City of Pharaohs. My breath was caught in my throat in jealously as I watched my sister parade around in a sheer, white dress that accentuated her curves as rare, glistening jewels and a gold collar sparkled in the afternoon sun as they hung from her throat. She looked beautiful, like always, as her honeyed, tan shoulders and obsidian hair caught the eyes on the slaves as they rowed.

My own dress was as green as my eyes with gold accents, my dark ebony hair was in several braids and pushed back with a gold headband. My sister warned me I had to look plain, but not too plain, and have her be the first one Harsiese sees so he will fall in love with her instantly and not me. I told her she didn’t have to worry about that earning a laugh and shake of the head as she marched off to bark more orders to the servants.

The fact that she was about to become chief wife to the pharaoh of all of Upper and Lower Egypt was beginning to be unsettling, but I wisely kept my mouth shut.

As we grew closer to the palace, the water became clearer, shining like liquid lapis and silver as it glittered in the light. Many boats and ships lined the banks as men, women, and children pushed and shoved to see just a glimpse of the future chief wife of the great pharaoh.

“Great Osiris,” I whisper to myself as I see the Elders being carried high in their shining litters and hundreds of soldiers and slaves waiting for our arrival. As we stepped onto the bank, we were all escorted to our individual curtained litter and picked up as they slowly carried us to the palace.

I smile as I watch musicians entertain the growing crowds and close my eyes as the beautiful flutes play as we passed the sandstone homes that the people of Thebes lived in. I knew Harsiese was an avid music lover, as was I, and I knew he would be disappointed when he realized Shamise was not.

Entering the Malkata Palace was overwhelming. Sweet perfumes of incense wafted down the hall made of beautiful alabaster stone, the walls beautifully covered in bright tiles and paintings of papyrus fields and the Nile. I trail my hands across the magnificent art work, happy that my new home was so exquisite.

We were escorted to our own rooms where body servants helped us bathe and I was happy as they rubbed rich lavender oil into my skin as it always helped calm my nerves. My tanned skin shone from the oil as they wrapped another green dress around my body, accentuating my small waist and long legs while pushing my breasts up slightly.

The body servants then spent hours expertly lining mine and Shamise’s lips with red rouge, our eyes with thick, black kohl and mine rimmed with malachite making my green, cat like eyes even more intense, and hennaed our breasts with intricate, gorgeous designs.

After they placed heavy, hot Nubian wigs covered in braids and beads on our head before securing them with beeswax and resin. Soft creams were massaged into our skin making it silky smooth, sweet smelling perfumes spritzed between our breasts and neck, and gold and silver dust was blown softly from their palms until our bodies were covered all the way to our feet.

Looking down at the bath water I emerged from and seeing my reflection, I almost gasped.

For once, I felt beautiful next to my sister.

“You look like Isis herself,” my body servant whispered to me, making my cheeks heat up. It was rare I ever received a compliment as my sister normally stole every man and woman’s attention.

“Thank you,” I whisper back, gently giving her arm a small squeeze making her gasp lightly. I ignored it knowing why she reacted that way. They were rarely shown any kindness.

Soon, the servant stand and open the doors before turning to us. My breath catches as the utter the words,

“Are you ready to meet the the great Harsiese, Pharaoh of Egypt?”

_______

The music and festivities could be heard from the other side of the palace as we neared the large doors. Shamise gripped my hand tightly, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “Stay behind me. He must see me first.”

I nod as the doors slowly creak open and I could instantly feel a million eyes on us. My cheeks heat up instantly, my instincts telling me to shyly bow my head but instead I keep my head high like my sister. I had to get used to this; a world of constant watching.

We are greeted by a herald who clears his throat before loudly and grandly introducing us, which was very unnecessary since everyone’s attention was already on us.

“The Lady Shamise, daughter of Mehu, Senior Vizier of Egypt.”

Gasps fill the Great Hall as she takes a step forward and the endless chatter faltered instantly. I bite my lip as I step closer to the herald.

“The Lady Nafretiri, daughter of Mehu, Senior Vizier of Egypt.”

Whispers pick up making my heart rate start to thump wildly in my chest, my eyes darting left and right. Their eyes were burning into my skin as I step forward and begin to walk towards the Horus thrones where Pharaoh and his wife sat. I see my father in the crowd and he gives me a proud nod, making me feel a bit more confident.

As we approached closer, I feel an intense stare on my face but I ignore it, my eyes on my feet as I make sure I don’t trip and make a fool of myself. Arriving in front of the thrones, we both bow deeply with our arms outstretched.

“Rise.”

A deep, raspy voice that reminded me of pure honey spoke dominantly sending a feeling of sparks through my veins. I wondered if Shamise felt the same as we both stood up straight.

My eyes finally move from my feet and come in contact with the most brilliant green eyes that looked like they were mixed with pure gold. I hold in my gasp as I allow myself to be drowned in their depths.

The owner of the most gorgeous eyes adorned the Nemes crown, the royal head cloth that was striped blue and gold. In the center held the Uraeus, the golden cobra crown with its hood flared that symbolized kingship. Stories say that it was able to spit fire into the eyes of the wearer’s enemies, blinding them permanently.

Pharaoh Harsiese

What shocked me the most was how the eyes were looking straight at me and not my sister.

“Harsiese,” my sister begins earning an stern, out reached hand, cutting her off.

“Silence,” he commands making my blood run cold at the sound, his eyes never leaving mine as he demands silence from my sister, the girl who was supposed to be his chief wife. From the corner of my eye, I see my sister deflate and glare at me but I can’t find myself to care.

My breathing catches in my throat as I stop myself from collapsing as he regally stands, sweeping his dark blue cape behind him as he slowly walks down the stairs towards me, his eyes still never leaving mine. His body was one of the gods, lean and full of muscle from battles at war.

The room was silent as he soon stands directly in front of me. The scent of him almost made my eyes roll back in pleasure as I inhale the rosemary oil mixed with the musk of his own body.

“Nafretiri,” he speaks lowly, his voice even more beautiful as it spoke my name. My mouth gapes slightly as I try to say something back but nothing comes out. He smiles playfully, his hand gently reaching up and caressing my chin as he closes my mouth.

Sparks dance across my skin wherever his fingers trail. “Beautiful creation. Your mawat named you well,” he comments making my cheeks heat up for the third time of the evening as he speaks the meaning of my name my mother chose. His smile becomes even brighter at the sight.

“Miw-sher,” he whispers the word ‘kitten’ as his eyes admire my face and body. “You are now mine.”

I barely have time to react before he turns and grabs my hand, raising it up. “Bow before your new, soon-to-be queen,” he exclaims loudly as I finally remember to breathe, my chest heaving dramatically as I watch the entire room, including my sister, bow before Pharaoh Harsiese and me.

______________

I tried something different! Hope you like it! Give me some feedback please! It will mean a lot and I’ll try to post Part 2 soon if you want it! x

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sarnai-borlaaq-blog · 7 years ago

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Back to her roots

Quietly the steel blue huntress moves beneath the morning sky. In the air lingers the early promise of autumn. Its bitter chill kisses the atmosphere, and brings a sense of urgency to the dark woman. In her arms, cradled to those ample bosoms, a small infant is resting. Alabaster eyelids drawn shut over piercing pale lavender seas. Sometimes when Sar’nai glances down at the Seeker babe she can see her daughter’s eyes moving behind the thin lids. She dare not to wake the slumbering Hotaru from her dreams. With autumn approaching it means that winter isn’t that far behind. Seasons in the Steppe are rather extreme, but so is everything else in the Azim. This place, her home, is not one for outsiders who cannot bear the rapidly changing and unforgiving climates. Sar’nai was bred, born, and raised in these vast open lands. Having just returned to the Steppe only months ago she has nothing much in the means of lasting through the winter. It would have been challenging, but doable, to survive alone but the Dusk Mother had other plans for the huntress. Now with a baby in her care she knows she doesn’t have the means to do this alone.

It takes a lot for Sar’nai Borlaaq to swallow her pride, and she is indeed a very prideful woman. Providing for her tribe had been the highlight of her life. So for her to admit that she cannot provide adequately enough for the babe, and herself, is a difficult pill to swallow. Dread lingers on the back of her mind, and hangs over her like a heavy cloud while the pair stalks to their destination. At their backs Ligdan happily pulls a wagon with all of Sar’s belongings, and her disassembled yurt. The only time the ivory chocobo complains is when Hotaru is out of his sight for too long. Since he had helped his rider save the Seeker infant he has been smitten with her. Never straying too far from the baby, and always her faithful protector.

For a moment Sar stops when those vivid azure seas settle on the yurts in front of her. Lightly she rocks the infant. Hotaru whimpers while stirring from her slumber. Eyelids flutter open, and thick black lashes part to reveal those lilac irises. Ebon tipped ears swivel backward as she summons a louder whine. “Shhh, Minii Orion Od.” Sar soothingly coos, and turns herself so that Hotaru may see the yurts in the distance. “That is our home. Where my eej lives, and where we will stay.” Craning her neck she kisses the region between Hotaru’s eyes. Giggling the infant squirms, and playfully pushes at her mother’s face. “Time for you to meet your emee.”

Chakha’s face comes to mind, and a bitter taste floods her mouth. Nothing really positive, or loving, comes to mind when she thinks about her eej. Her mother is a fierce warrior, and knows very little about tenderness. She is a battle hardened woman. So much so that the tribe even gave her the title of Warmane. A title of respect, and maybe even fear. Sar remembers how poorly they had left things between them when Sar’nai was shipped off to Kugane those many years ago. Soft lips press together in a thin line. Contempt burns through her like a disease, but her daughter’s cooing quells her soul. Hotaru is worth facing off against Chakha.

Pressing forward the closer they draw to the settlement the more eager Sar’nai becomes. How long has it been since she was last with her tribe? Leaving for Eorzea wasn’t of her own design, and every day that she was gone she missed her home terribly. Here is where she belonged. A huntress living off the land with her tribe. Slow steps increase their speed, and soon she is jogging toward the Borlaaq homestead.

Steps halt quickly when she is among the hamlet of yurts. Deeply breathing she takes in all the fragrances, and scents, that drift through the morning’s air. Dinner lays on the smoking racks. Its perfume of cooking meats tickle her sense of smell. Radiant cobalt eyes watch the women busy by her. All occupied with some task or another. Among the population of tribal women there are new faces, but she notices several older ones. Familiars. Baya stands by some young Xaela girls. Weathered eyes drift to her for a second, and she looks away, but does a double take. “Sar’nai?” The tribe’s healer breathes out in a tone of awe. Quickly she runs over to the traveling pair. “It’s been so long!” Emerald eyes, so bright with wisdom, study the huntress. “You’ve grown into quite the woman.”

Steel blue cheeks feel a flicker of heat rushing through them, and the flesh begins to darken its hue. “I have.” Sar murmurs almost bashfully. “The years have been kind to you as well Baya!” Her gaze roams over the older woman of smaller stature. Baya has several scars littering her face, and neck. She wears heavy robes that hide her arms and lithe figure beneath their fabric. What has happened in her absence?

“You flatter me.” Glancing down the healer finally realizes the huntress is carrying an infant. Miqo’te are a rare sight out this deep in the Azim Steppe. Baya’s eyebrows raise curiously, but she cannot stop her heart from melting at the sight of Hotaru. How big the babe’s black tipped ears are, and how surprisingly long the child’s bushy ivory tail is. Blonde leopard spots adorn the fluffy appendage. “Who is the lucky man?”

“No one. It’s a long story, and I am sure that Chakha will want to hear it with you.” As much as Sar wants to be the blood mother of Hotaru she isn’t, and she wouldn’t start the babe’s life on a lie. While they are not blood related the huntress will raise the Seeker infant as one of her own. “Where is she anyway?”

“Off at some type of warrior meeting.” Baya grumbles and waves her right hand dismissively. Obviously not caring much about what the fighters of the tribe do. She knows it’ll just eventually end up with Sar’s mother needing to be healed, and her being the one having to patch up the warrior. Wrapping her arm around Sar’s she gradually guides the huntress and babe to Chakha’s yurt. Sliding the door open she allows Sar’nai to enter first. “I’ll go fetch her. Make yourself comfortable.” With that Baya is gone. Leaving Sar’nai to her own devices.

Drifting over to a plump cushion she lowers herself down onto its fabric. Lazily those radiant blue eyes roam over the warrior’s yurt. Not much has changed in Sar’s absence. Her mother has added a few more weapons to her collection. No doubt her trophies of her many victories. ‘I’m the fighter. You just fill the bellies of our tribe.’ Those words have plagued her mind since the night Sar’nai gave Maral her freedom from the Goro. Sar and Chakha have different views on fighting. Well on life in general.

Through the doorway a tall, and rather fit, Xaela emerges. Those liquid amber eyes have not lost their harsh edge or how they just smolder with the raw aggression that her mother consists of. Ashen hair is cut short, and done up in its usual style. Gray war paint decorates the skin around the warrior’s piercing gaze. For a moment Chakha stands motionless. Just staring her daughter down. “Took you long enough.” No hello...no ‘hey how are you. I’m sorry for shoving you off to Eorzea! Glad you’re home!’ Just a snide comment on the time it took to get back her.

Sar’s mouth tastes sour immediately, and she wonders how she even came from this woman. “There were things in Eorzea that I had to take care of.” Carefully the huntress adjusts Hotaru in her arms. The little precious babe had fallen back asleep during their wait on the warrior.

Golden eyes narrow at the Seeker infant, and her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Is that the thing you had to take care of in the Western lands?” Venom drips from each syllable that she spits out past dark azure lips. Stalking across the room the warrior mother plops down onto a cushion close to her daughter. Despite her hatred for her daughter laying with someone not of Xaela origin she quietly hides the fact that Hotaru is breaking down her walls.

“She isn’t a thing!” Sar’nai nearly shouts, but when her daughter stirs in her arms the huntress lowers her tone of voice. “Her name is Hotaru Borlaaq. A month ago I was traveling to Kugane to get some supplies. My journey took me aboard this passenger boat. There was this Miqo’te couple aboard. I don’t know why they were so upset, but when I looked over they had put Hotaru in a burlap sack and threw her overboard.” Pausing for a moment the huntress looks down at her daughter. “I didn’t think twice. I jumped right in after her.”

“Her parents probably thought drowning her was the best fate for her.” Chakha scoffs. “Look at her. She’s a runt. Not even the normal size of her kind for her age. I can’t blame them for feeling like that….”

“They’re cruel! That is what they are.” Sar’nai growls under her breath. “How could a parent intentionally kill their child?” In her veins blood boils. Coals of anger are stoked into raging fires, and it burns all of her being.

“They were doing her a favor.” Chakha sneers. “She is weak, and would probably drag them both down with her. Killing her was an act of mercy.” All the disappointment and contempt starts to fade. The warrior’s facial features growing soft...almost tender in a way. Amber eyes settle on the babe that is protectively cradled against her daughter’s chest. “I take it you intend to keep her….” It isn’t a question, but an acknowledgement.

Weakly nodding Sar’nai replies in a murmur,” I do, eej. She’s my daughter now. I don’t care if the blood that flows through her isn’t from my own. The Dusk Mother put me on that ship for a reason. To save her. To be the parent that they could never be.” Feeling warmth against her side makes the huntress look up to notice her mother has scooted over, and is now leaning against her. She wants to press Hotaru more against her breasts, and hide her from Chakha but she knows that would enrage the warrior woman.

If cuddling caught her surprised her Sar’nai is not prepared for what happens next. Chakha’s slender fingers lightly comb through the ivory hair of the Seeker infant. Pushing strands of white from the sleeping babe’s innocent face. “You both will stay here then. I can’t have you out there attempting to raise a runt by yourself. Small children are very difficult to rear. They need more food. More attention. Sometimes they become ill for lengthy periods of time. All children are full time jobs, but runts are the hardest. Tis why most parents give them back to the gods before they had a chance to savor life.” Chakha’s voice whispers out. In between her thumb and index finger she takes hold of a black tipped ear. Drawing little invisible circles on the back of the aud with her thumb. “I won’t go easy on her just ‘cause she’s a runt.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Sar’nai muses.

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birdiethebibliophile · 8 years ago

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{fic} And The Truth Will Set Thee Free

Word Count: 2.4k Characters: Mor, Amren, Nesta, Elain, Keir Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS, Angst, Mor is a badass (okay that one’s not a warning it’s just a fact)

Here on AO3.

__________________

It had finally happened.

Their armies had fallen. Cassian and Azriel were dead. She knew by the truth that soaked her bones and laid bitter on her tongue that in the end, it had been inevitable. That they’d faced Hybern, and Cassian had died in Azriel’s arms, hazel eyes going dark. She’d heard the truth of Azriel’s scream, the way he laid waste to all those around him, shadows tearing through them all – tearing him apart.

It was odd, really. They’d imagined this scenario, she and Rhys. But they’d always assumed that he’d be around to call her in.

They were dead as well, though, her High Lady and High Lord both. The other women had brought them in, Elain sobbing as if her heart would break, Nesta rigid and face contorted with numb pain, Amren’s silver eyes dull.

They’d shredded Rhys’s wings before they killed him. She’d make them pay for that.

It was time.

Mor looked around the room with weary eyes. There were only the four of them left. Grieving, broken, and the only thing keeping Hybern from enslaving the human realm.

“We have to keep fighting.” Amren’s voice was fire and smoke, shredded by the death-throe magic of Beron and his sons. “We have to.”

“What for?” Nesta, in contrast to the rest of them, was immaculate in her fighting leathers. Her face was an effigy of alabaster. Since she’d carried her sister’s broken corpse into Velaris, spattered with blood and with her clothes in tatters, it was like she’d petrified. Mor suspected that Cassian’s death hadn’t helped. “For the sliver of land south of Prythian? Let them burn. We’ve given enough; sacrificed enough.”

Amren let out a savage snarl. “I’m not going home until we win – which means we have to win.”

“There are still innocents to save,” Mor said firmly. “We keep fighting until we kill Hybern or die trying.”

“I don’t know, Mor. Maybe Nesta’s right.” Elain lifted dull brown eyes to meet Mor’s, shoulders hunched. Elain had not fared well in this war of blood and sorrow. They didn’t know what had become of Graysen – hadn’t dared breach the Wall to find out – and then just weeks after Feyre’s midnight escape from the Spring Court, Mor found her huddled in a corner of her room, tears running down her face.

“He’s dead,” she had told Mor, eyes wild and desolate as the Sacred Mountain. “He’s dead…”

“Who’s dead?” Mor had asked urgently.

“My mate,” Elain had whimpered.

The news had come in a few days later, courtesy of Azriel’s spies: Hybern had decided Spring needed to fall for him to be able to properly annihilate the mortal lands. He’d taken Tamlin with him, thinking him useful, but no one else – including Lucien. Mor could see the sprawled, broken figure in the ruins of a once-proud mansion, lying on a carpet of blood-drenched roses.

Not that it had mattered much. Tamlin was dead by now as well. They’d found his body on the battlefield, face still twisted in rage.

It had broken something in Elain, Lucien’s death. She had barely begun to recover when she had received the blow of the death of her sister, and then that of her best friend; Azriel had been the one to hold her together following the loss of her mate.

“No,” Mor said fiercely. “Elain, we can’t let them have died in vain.”

She thought she saw a wisp of shadow curl around Elain’s wrist. “How?” Elain said in a choked voice. “How can we hope to win when they couldn’t?”

Mor looked around the room: a monster, a commander, a shadow.

And her. A queen.

“First thing’s first.” Mor gave a vicious grin that showed every one of her teeth. “We need to find a priestess.”

When Mor visited the Court of Nightmares a day later, it was as High Lady of the Night Court.

She took all of them with her. She knew how this would look; how she would be challenged. And she had to be prepared to back it up.

Amren took Mor’s old role, strolling into the throne room before any of them, calling for those gathered to kneel for the arrival of their new High Lady in the cold, cruel way she did so well.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” Elain was as pale as a ghost. Mor’s suspicion from before was right; here, in a place of demons and darkness, the shadows that used to come at Azriel’s call now darken their flowergirl, twitching at her hair and curling around her neck as if unsure whether to strangle or caress.

“You can,” Mor said with soft, even conviction. “Look at me.” Then, as Elain didn’t, “Look at me, Elain.”

Hesitantly, Elain tipped her chin up enough to meet Mor’s eyes.

“Good. Now listen to me.” She waited until Elain was entirely focused on her. “You have lost your home, your humanity. You have lost love thrice over. And you are still alive.”

Mor had been afraid Elain was right – that she was too far gone – but then she heard the truth in her own voice, tasted it like sour wine on her tongue. And saw something ignite in Elain’s eyes – a dark fire.

Mor smiled, the cruel, merciless smile she was calling for Elain to mirror. “You have survived years of starvation, dying and being brought back to life, the slaughter of your mate. Things the Fae in there could never dream of. You are strong, Elain. And you are dangerous.” She paused. “You need to be.”

The shadows stopped swirling around Elain and wisped to her side, clinging to her like a second skin for a moment. By the time they disappeared, Elain’s back was straighter, and the dark fire Mor had seen spark a moment ago was a bright flame – for now, at least.

Mor turned to Nesta, but she didn’t need to give out any words of encouragement there. With the fierce Illyrian blade strapped to her back and the topaz Siphons clinging to her body, the shorn hair and the gleaming wings, the head held high and grey-blue eyes flashing, Mor had no doubts about Nesta’s ability to scare the shit out of every person in that room.

“Showtime,” she murmured, turning to face the gates.

Nesta and Elain entered first. If Mor closed her eyes, she could see them, even as her nostrils flared at the scents of fear and disgust: so much more similar than Cassian and Azriel, they were clearly siblings, but that’s where the similarities ended. Nesta was every inch a honed warrior, proud and tall and ready to rip the skin off anyone who would come too close to her High Lady. Each step even, each step measured, her eyes of ice took in every person lining the path, and told them each, You. Your time is up.

Elain, on the other hand, practically drifted into the room, as silent and sinister as the shadows that trailed in her wake. She was a waif – a ghost – a breath-catching demon who seemed like she could drift into your nose and mouth and suffocate you from the inside out until shadow trailed from your lips and you fell twitching to the floor.

And then it was Mor’s turn.

She wore precisely what Rhys had worn the last time he visited. The fine clothes hugged her body as they had his, though instead of swirling tattoos, the deep V of the tunic showed the curve of her breasts.

High Lady, not High Lord, and not afraid to show it.

Her footsteps did not echo as Rhys’s had. They did not need to. She strode through the crowd of bent heads, mounted the stairs, and sank onto that throne of dark stone that had been her cousin’s for so long.

She mourned him – she likely would until the end of her days. But today was not a day to show the weakness of grief. Today was a day of power.

Mor glanced to her sides. There knelt Nesta, her right hand, and Elain, her left. Amren stood behind her throne, her head bent in a deference Mor knew she would show no one else in this world.

“Rise,” she said, her voice echoing through the chamber. As one, her court got to their feet. She was almost surprised; she had been expecting more pushback.

“Daughter. How… pleasant to see you again.”

She should’ve known from whom it would come.

Mor stroked the arm of her throne lightly, tilting her head. “Keir,” she said, and the name burned in her mouth.

He went to the foot of the dais, a cold sneer on his face. He had bowed, yes, but Mor knew he hadn’t meant it. She didn’t need her bones and blood to tell her. She knew from her life, from his cruelty.

“You will not call me daughter again,” Mor said, her voice quiet and deadly. “You will refer to me as High Lady or The Morrigan. Nothing else. Is that understood?”

“I do not fear you,” Keir snarled. “Rhysand and his Circle, for all their power, have fallen. You are but a bare echo of what he was, and your courtiers –” He glanced from her right to her left, and spat on the ground. “That is what I think of your rule. You are no Lady of mine.”

Mor drew in breath to condemn him, to pronounce his punishment, but before she could, a thin thread of voice wound through the room.

“You will not speak of my High Lady like that.”

And Elain – frail Elain, clothed in darkness and grief and wearing it like armor – drifted forward to stand before Mor’s father.

He laughed, the sound cold and cruel. “And what will you do about it, girl?” he said in scorn. “Think you to take the place of the shadowsinger?”

“I would never dream to take Azriel’s place,” Elain said, and the sweetness of her voice sent a shiver of foreboding along Mor’s spine. “For this place is my own, not his. The Morrigan is High Lady, and you will respect her as such, or I will be…” She pondered for a moment. “Or I will be very unhappy with you,” she decided on, a faint smile on her lips.

“Oh, my. I wouldn’t want to make you unhappy,” Keir snarled, advancing another step. “Neither you nor your sister have the power of the Illyrians, and now that they’re gone, mark my words, I will –”

But he didn’t get a chance to tell them what he would do, because at that moment, his voice stuttered, and he went silent. His eyes widened, and Mor saw it then: a thread of shadow trickling into his mouth.

Mor sensed Nesta tense, saw her start to move forward, but she raised a single finger, and Nesta froze. Mor wanted to see what Elain would do.

“You will what?” Elain asked, and there was a shadow-honed edge to her sweetness now. “I don’t think I heard that. Would you mind repeating it?”

Keir let out a strangled sound and clutched at his throat, falling to his knees.

Elain’s smile widened slightly. “That’s better,” she crooned, then looked back at Mor. “My Lady?”

Mor studied her father – the gold hair which was so like her own damp with sweat, his eyes like old soil. They reminded her of Elain’s, somehow, but she knew that Keir’s had not been made cruel and cold by hardship. They had always been that way. “I will tell you this once, and once only,” she said, voice soft and deadly. “You will bow to my rule, or you will die, and someone else will take your place.” She flicked a hand at Elain, and the shadows unwound from Keir’s throat and slipped back to Elain, who retreated to Mor’s side.

Keir’s breathing was ragged, his eyes full of hate, but he stayed on his knees. “Understood,” he breathed.

“You will lend your warriors to me,” Mor said. “They will be commanded by Nesta.” She nodded at the woman to her right. “Believe me, Keir – you should be grateful. Hybern will not stop at razing the territories of his enemies. Have you not heard of the fate of the Spring Court? Unless Hybern has use for you, he will lay waste to this entire city. And, believe it or not, I do not wish for that to happen.” She leaned forward slightly. “For centuries, Rhysand gave me freedom to decide when you would die. I do not need his permission any longer. Give me one good reason why I should not have my commander and shadowsinger rip you limb from limb.”

“To change rulers in such a time would destabilize the Court of Nightmares beyond repair,” Keir rasped. “My warriors will obey me without question. They may not do so for – for whoever would succeed me.”

Mor considered that, tapping her fingers on the throne. She knew that at a single word from her, Nesta would step forward and eviscerate Keir with that blade strapped down her spine – and she was very, very tempted to let her do it. More tempted than she had ever been in the centuries she’d been alive.

But they needed to win the war first.

“You shall keep your rule and your life – for now,” Mor pronounced. She thought she heard Nesta give a soft huff of disappointment. “That is, assuming that you follow through on obeying my orders. If not…”

Keir nodded several times. “I understand.”

“You understand… what?”

He ground his teeth. “I understand… High Lady,” he said, bowing almost to the floor.

“That’s better,” Mor said. Her smile contained no real joy – just vicious satisfaction and triumph. She stood, and the court fell to its knees once more. “I expect troops to be amassed within two days,” she told the room at large. “Should that not happen, I will be returning, and you won’t have made only Elain unhappy, but all four of us. And believe me –” Her smile widened slightly. “– you will not enjoy that at all.” She slowly stepped off the dais, strolled past her kneeling father without even a glance. And her new Inner Circle – the Ladies of the Night Court – followed her.

This time she let her footsteps echo.

#acomaf fanfiction #mine #I'm not sorry #morrigan #nesta archeron #elain archeron #amren #keir #I wanted to write more but I cannot plot #so this is what you get unless I get inspired #acomaf #acotar

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hellomissmabel · 8 years ago

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Spark (For a moment, I was lost part 2)

MASTERLIST

Based on one of my favourite albums “For a moment, I was lost” by Amber Run.

This part is inspired by the song Spark that is not on this album, but on the previous one called 5 AM.

Pairing: Tony Stark x reader, Howard Stark x OC!Julia

Summary: A devastating loss brings you closer to the man you are destined to be with, but a family dalliance keeps you two apart.

Word count: 2.783

Warnings: FLUFF

A/N: I LOVE WRITING HOWARD

Disclaimer: I found these pics on Google, all credit goes to the respectable owners. I just put them together as cover art.

Part 1: Dark Bloom

All you needed was a good cry. Sinking to the floor, you contemplated whether you would ever love someone as dearly as you loved him. There’s a rustling by the door and you bury your head deeper into your arms.

“Good evening, mister Stark.”

“Good evening, miss…”

“Julia, please call me Julia.”

First it’s the spark and then it’s the flame Then it’s swinging round lamp posts in the rain Well then it’s that feeling that you, you just can’t shake That your life’s about to start and you just can’t wait

Howard Stark eyed her up and down, his hands trailing the outline of her chiffon dress as she fidgeted rather nervously with her off-white gloves. “Pleasure to meet you, Julia,” he drawls out in a charming accent, instantly causing the blush to rise to her cheeks.

Offering her his arm, she timidly accepts it as he leads her to the dance floor, all eyes trained on their two forms as Howard takes his sweet time admiring his dancing partner, shifting from one foot to the other to the rhythmic melodies of a slow, jazzy song.

“Tell me a bit more about yourself.” His lips form the words with such delicious intent it clouds Julia’s thoughts with a warm and fuzzy feeling. She looks around the dance floor to see a few more people have gathered around them, twirling in the same manner and smiling politely when their eyes cross with hers.

When she fails to answer, Howard subtly lifts his one foot in front of Julia’s, causing her to trip slightly and collide into his sturdy chest. Smiling smugly at the stunned dame in his arms, her hands folded onto his dress jacket, she coughs in embarrassment as her eyes flit about the room. A devious flame ignites in Howard’s chest, the warmth of her touch spreading like wildfire through his system.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he coos softly, “Nobody saw a thing.” He looks down at her with a certain endearment in his nightlike eyes and with a tender stroke of his thumb on her cheek, she starts to melt into him with the utmost ease.

“We ought to be dancing, sir,” Julia giggles as Howard takes a hold of her hand again and starts swaying lightly, the other hand he ever so gently placed on her waist inching a bit lower. He’s got a beautiful girl in his arms tonight and he just can’t help himself.

“Howard,” he replies sternly before his eyes soften at her, “I am not a sir, far from it.”

“So I’ve heard,” Julia mutters under her breath, squealing in surprise as he unexpectedly dips her, extracting a couple astonished and scandalised gasps from their surroundings. Howard’s grip on Julia tightens when he pulls her back to her feet.

He winks at her, over-confident as ever. “How come you have heard so much about me and I don’t know a single thing about you, Julia?”

Debating whether or not to indulge his request, Julia closes the distance separating her body from Howard’s by leaning in close to his ear, whispering tantalisingly slow as her lips momentarily graze the shell of his ear. “My name is a given. My story, however, is not.”

Momentarily dumbfounded, Howard blinks away the image of the gorgeous lady he has just shared a dance with before she’s slipping through the crowd, her pink sundress floating across her curves as she swiftly tiptoes towards the garden.

First it’s the spark and then it’s the flame Then it’s getting blind drunk in the middle of the day And though it’s a comma in a full stop’s place It’s that wherever I go I see your face

Standing tall with a cigarette between his lips, he offers Julia one as well which she politely declines. “I don’t smoke and neither should you, unless you have a death wish.”

Howard snorts at her haughty refusal. “Of course I have a death wish, I am human and a man.”

“That’s not funny,” Julia whispers more to herself than Howard and as his eyes travel across her elegant dress, he notices she’s shivering slightly when a small summer breeze wisps through her light curls.

Without thinking much about it, he shrugs off his jacket and slings it around her shoulders. She heaves out a content sigh and the corners of her lips tug upwards in a sincere smile. Tucking her under his arm, they walk side by side through the rose garden her father has designed especially for his precious daughter.

Julia stops at the patio and guides both of them to a nearby bench, the scent of freshly cut red roses engulfing her senses with a soothing bliss. Howard does not waste any time and intertwines his fingers with hers, resting their entangled hands in his lap. Staring into the distance, Julia does not speak yet simply enjoys the silence that has fallen over the couple.

“I don’t know how to explain this,” she breathes out, squeezing his hand softly. “I think I might be falling for you.”

It’s a dangerous confession to make and Julia is painstakingly aware of this, but she cannot help herself from leaning into his natural charisma and allow it to bathe her in a feeling she has not yet encountered.

“And I with you,” Howard replies without hesitation, much to Julia’s and his own surprise. It’s the first time a woman has cast as spell on him and not the other way around.

He’s tired of messing around, creating problems as a long-time liar and feeding the latest newspaper issue with his outrageous shenanigans. On top of that, Jarvis is tired of handing out the infamous Stark bracelets as well and honestly, he can’t blame the poor guy. Hoard wouldn’t be so keen on sending away someone else’s lovers either.

In the low light, he can barely discern the soft edges of her cheeks and the sharp contrast of her razor-like cheekbones. If he didn’t know any better, he would say he’s sitting next to a mythical apparition. It’s not love at first sight, it’s still too early to make such grand gestures, but there’s definitely something about her Howard just can’t shake.

“I want to see you again, after tonight. Don’t be fooled by the beliefs of others,” he reminds Julia as he lowers his head to capture her lips in an unexpected yet chaste kiss.

Just like that, with a brush of his lips, Julia throws all carefulness out the window and kisses him back, closing her eyes to revel in the intense, intriguing and infinite adoration radiating from Howard’s intoxicating touch. If she had known that underneath his Casanova exterior a true romantic lies awaiting, she wouldn’t have protested against her father as much as she did.

She knew her old man wanted her to marry well, partly for her own good as for the sake of the family name. Nevertheless, she is a woman of her own mind who will simply not go about the rules set by men if she does not believe in them and does so wholeheartedly.

Howard’s eyes bask in tenderness as she opens hers again. “I don’t ever want us to be apart,” he speaks to Julia in a way every woman wishes to be addressed, like she is the goddess Aphrodite and he is but a mere mortal begging for a taste of the divine to save him from the shackles of his earthly ignorance.

“I don’t want Iron Man, I want Tony Stark. I want someone to turn to, not a superhero to save me. I am perfectly capable of saving myself, thank you very much.”

Tony didn’t expect much from the woman he haphazardly sent an invitation to this eve’s charity event, thinking she won’t show anyway. When his assistant had informed him there had been someone insisting to speak to him for an entire week straight, he wasn’t surprised at all. When you’re Tony Stark, the vultures line up at your doorstep to collect whatever dirt you decide to share. So naturally, when he found out she’s a writer for a living, he figured she was just one of those young and ambitious reporters trying to get a good scoop on the latest Iron Man scandal. Nothing new under the sun.

FRIDAY announced the arrival of his special guest and just as he turns around the corner, his eyes fall on the shy figure stepping through the fog of people that have assembled and are waiting to meet the notorious Tony Stark himself. She’s wearing a floor-length, off-the-shoulder peach dress that flows gracefully around her natural and generous curves. Her lips are the colour of spring and each fresh breath of air she takes, rips it right from his throat. He is blinded by her beauty and cannot divert his attention to anyone else, instead stalking straight towards this intriguing creature.

“The name’s Tony Stark,” he introduces himself as she spins around on the balls of her feet to lock eyes with the mystery man addressing her with such a swift, sugary sweet yet cocky voice.

“Y/N.” You offer him your hand and as his fingers delicately make contact with your alabaster skin, he bows his head slightly to press a tender kiss to your knuckles. If it wasn’t for all the other people gawking at the two of you, Tony would carry you straight to his bedroom bridal-style.

First it was fun now it’s fireworks Was so bright and so harsh that they’ll make your eyes hurt Oh it’s the circles of smoke from your cigarette Oh it’s the beating of drums in the back of your chest

Tony Stark is an profligate man that loves a decent masquerade, not just for the night but in his day-to-day life as well. But the way her penetrative gaze locks with his chocolate brown eyes, he just knows that he has to keep this woman by his side and make her his muse. Even though he might only know her for a minute or two, it feels like she has the answers to all his questions and boy, does he have many.

“So darling, what about you tell me a bit more about you,” he purrs seductively, lacing his body around hers as he takes the opportunity to appreciate the delicacy of her beauty from up close, his eyes searching hers for any sign of rejection. When she does not push him away and instead offers him a warm smile, Tony swears he can die a happy man as long as her intricate features are the last thing etched onto his mind.

“I don’t want to bore you, mister Stark.”

“Not mister Stark,” he cuts her off with a shake of his head. “Tony. I am not a mister, far from it.”

“Tony,” you mimic and as your name rolls off the tip of your tongue, his nose brushes tentatively against the valley of your cheek. Goosebumps rise over your skin when Tony’s lips hover over yours next. “You do your reputation justice,” you exhale sharply, turning your head just a few inches so the tip of your nose slightly nudges his.

“I don’t care about my reputation.”

You kink a suspicious eyebrow, a question mark visible in your eyes. “Since when?”

His breath mingles with the tense atmosphere erupting between your bodies. “Since I met you,” Tony murmurs under his breath, pulling taut the elastic keeping both of you in place.

The attraction you feel to this man is mind-blowing. You never considered yourself to be the kind of girl to swoon over an older man, the “daddy” type just not your type. And after the countless stories you’ve heard from your friends and co-workers about his conquests, you only grew more and more discouraged to open up to him about your past, the past you share with Tony Stark.

But the man in front of you, this fascinatingly mysterious individual, he is not the Tony Stark you see in the papers or on the television screen. He has a certain vulnerability to his confident posture, a couple cracks showing here and there. You wonder how often his porcelain exterior has been broken by the blunt knife of time and the ever-spinning wheel of fate, having experienced you fair share of setbacks as well. Lucky you, able to spot a tormented soul like yourself from miles away.

“My name is Y/N,” you tell him with an earnest smile and he visibly beams at the reveal of your name.

Conversation flows easily after the first introductions have been made and as Tony spins you around from one song to the other, the sincerity of your laughter and the sparks behind his dark eyes create a chain reaction of electricity, the current running from your fingertips straight to his heart and vice versa.

You tell him about your job as a novelist but warn him to not be fooled by this, you’re not here on business tonight. Tony replies with a sarcastic joke and offers you some more insight into his life as an Avenger. Bruises start to show as you pinch through the red and golden haze surrounding Tony’s Iron Man persona and you feel him slowly becoming accustomed to your blunt honesty.

Tony takes a great liking to your quirks and cannot stop himself from wanting you. “Let’s get out of here,” he commands kindly yet with an urgent undertone.

Tony stops moving to the music, instead opting to guide your fingers through his and escape the festivities together. He guides you to his private quarters and with a feverish kiss he lets you know exactly what he wants and judging by the heated touches on your skin, he wants it now. God knows you want it, too, but you’re not ready for this kind of intimate connection just yet.

“Tony, stop,” you pant with all you willpower, his hands hiking up the silken material of your dress. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

A moan slips from your throat as he gently cradles your jaw, exposing the length of your neck to him, and starts to blow raspberries from your collarbone to the tip of your earlobe. “Sounds to me you’re quite enjoying it,” he mumbles as he nibbles on the shell of your ear.

“I don’t do one-night-stands, mister Stark,” you snap at him, immediately regretting how harsh you sound.

The unexpected authoritative tone to your otherwise velvety voice takes him off guard and he instantly regrets having stalked you like a predator does with his prey. Remorse apparent on his handsome features, he withdraws himself from you and slowly walks over to the balcony. Following suit, you come to stand next to him and lean your head to rest on his shoulder, fingers united once again and your arm linked with his.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” you apologise, “I – I’ve never felt this way about anyone before and I don’t want to spoil it by… you know… I don’t want to wake up to an empty bed, just another name on your list of women you’ve spent the night with.”

“I understand,” he replies, pecking the crown of your head. Although Tony knows he’ll never be more than just another planet spinning around in your universe, he at least has to try and figure out the gravity that pulls him from one constellation to another. “But you’re not just another girl, Y/N. I feel something more for you and that scares me. It scares me that not only do I want to sleep with you, but I also want to get to know you better.”

You remain silent for a few heartbeats, feeling like a captain lost at sea. Taking a deep breath, your heart commits itself to a free fall as you meet Tony’s affectionate gaze. “So how are we going to do this?”

Tony’s lips murmur something into your hair and when you lift your head to look into his eyes and ask him again, his lips connect with your forehead, giving you all the information you might ever need. Sighing deeply as you snuggle into his side, your mind briefly fans the subject of Julia and Howard’s love story, wondering if this is how she must’ve felt when she first laid eyes on Howard Stark.

“I’ve only ever been in love once,” he confesses gingerly. “She left me because I didn’t love her the way I should’ve loved her. But I promise to you this, if you love me like I love you, I swear I will love you forever. We’ll do it step by step until we’re both sure this will last.”

Part 3: Wastelands

Tagging: the ever-wonderful @beccaanne814-blog @avengerofyourheart @a-little-hell-to-raise @unpredictable-firecracker @marvelingatthewonder @mrshopkirk @hardcorehippos @iiharu-kunii @knittingknerdy @winterwolf57 @winterboobaer @shamvictoria11 @thedragonblood @hymnofthevalkyries @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @ourpeachskies @austinamelio @howlingbarnes @4theluvofall @themcuhasruinedme @theoneandonlysaucymo @hymnofthevalkyries @amrita31199 @kiwi71281 @jaegers-and-kaijus @katbird787 @spaceprincessofmanygalaxies

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glittership · 5 years ago

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Episode #77 — "The Quiet Realm of the Dark Queen" by Jenny Blackford

Direct download here

And here’s the RSS feed: http://glittership.podbean.com/feed/

Episode 77 is part of the Autumn 2018 issue!

Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/

The Quiet Realm of the Dark Queen

by Jenny Blackford

Dumuzi—my beautiful brother Dumuzi, lovelier than the first green shoots of barley rising from the dark mud of an irrigated field—Dumuzi was dead.

Father had not spoken for six days. Not long ago, he’d been a great king in the fullness of his manhood, but now he was hobbling around the halls of the palace like an old grasshopper waiting for death. His hair was gray; his face was grayer still.

Mother was quiet at last. For six full days and nights she’d wailed and screamed on her wide bed of gold, tearing her soft face and her lovely breasts with her nails, pulling great lumps of curled and scented hair from her luxuriant head, berating all the gods for their cruelty to her. The people said that she was no mere mortal beauty but a goddess walking on earth with us, and she did not disagree; but even if this were true, it did not diminish her fury against the other gods.

[Full story & transcript after the cut.]

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip Episode 77 for the longest March, 31st, 2020. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Our story for today is The Quiet Realm of the Dark Queen by Jenny Blackford read by Marcy Rae Henry and Amber Gray.

Before we get into the story, I’ve got a few things to say. First of all, much love to everyone out there in the world as we face this pandemic together. Love to all those who are suffering, whether from the virus itself, from loss of or fear for loved ones, from financial uncertainty, or from the fear of what the next day will bring. As in most times of extreme disaster, we’re seeing both acts of extreme sociopathy and extreme kindness. Please do what you can to stay safe. Once you’ve got your own oxygen mask on, see what you can do for others.

GlitterShip was originally going to run a full-sized Kickstarter in an attempt to increase our rates, but a combination of finances, time, and the magical world of Keffy-is-still-working-on-a-PhD made that deeply unfeasible, which only became moreso when the pandemic started really ramping up in the States.

That said, we are running a much smaller Kickstarter at https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/keffy/glittership-a-queer-sfandf-magazine-going-for-year-4 in order to fund the next year of GlitterShip through the end of 2020. The much smaller amount is designed to get us through the year and pay off some previous incurred debts. That said, there are also a few stretch goals just in case. If we go considerably over our goal, we’ll pay authors more, yay! As of this recording on March 31st, the Kickstarter is about 2/3 of the way funded. The Kickstarter is live until 9pm United States Eastern time on Friday, April 10, 2020. Thank you so much in advance for helping me keep GlitterShip going.

Finally, this episode is from the last issue, but there’s going to be a new issue released extremely soon as we get back on track!

And now, onto “The Quiet Realm of the Dark Queen” by Jenny Blackford, read by Marcy Rae Henry and Amber Gray.

Jenny is an Australian writer and poet. Her poems and stories have appeared in Cosmos, Pulp Literature, Strange Horizons, and more. Pamela Sargent called her subersively feminist novella, The Priestess and the Slave, “elegant”. She won two prizes in the 2016 Sisters in Crime Australia Scarlet Stiletto awards for a murder mystery set in classical Delphi, with water nymphs. You can find her at www.jennyblackford.com.

Marcy Rae Henry is a Latina born and raised in Mexican-America/The Borderlands. Her writing and visual art appears or is forthcoming in FlowerSong Books’ Selena Anthology, Thimble Literary Magazine, New Mexico Review, The Wild Word, Beautiful Losers, The Acentos Review, World Haiku Review, Chicago Literati, The Chaffey Review, Shanghai Literary Review, Damaged Goods Press/TQ Review. Her publication, The CTA Chronicles, received a Chicago Community Arts Assistance Grant and Cumbia Therapy, her collection of Spanglish stories, received an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship. Ms. M.R. Henry is currently seeking publication of two novellas. She is an Associate Professor of Humanities and Fine Arts at Harold Washington College Chicago.

Amber Gray is a theatre artist and lover of stories. She enjoys mimicking and creating character voices, especially in song, for her own amusement and the annoyance of those around her who have to put up with it. Thank you to Marcy for being such a good friend and neighbor, and for inviting her to have such a fun time with this project.

The Quiet Realm of the Dark Queen

by Jenny Blackford

Dumuzi—my beautiful brother Dumuzi, lovelier than the first green shoots of barley rising from the dark mud of an irrigated field—Dumuzi was dead.

“My life is nothing without him,” she’d screamed again and again. “Why did you not take me instead, or my husband, or my worthless, thankless, useless daughter?”

I was the useless daughter, of course. I had failed to save my brother from the demons that hunted him to the Underworld. My mother would never forgive me.

Finally, Mother swallowed enough sweet wine laced with poppy juice and honey from the alabaster cup I held to her lips to bring merciful sleep. Death would perhaps have been more merciful for her.

As I put down the cup and smoothed her hair, my mother woke herself just enough to hiss, “Far better that you had been taken, daughter, than him, Dumuzi, the beloved of my heart. Why did you not give yourself to the demons instead? Why did you let them take him? Why? How could you let them take him? My Dumuzi!”

And, truly, I understood. My brother Dumuzi had been more than beautiful, when he had walked this earth.

My suitors—brought by my father’s wealth and my mother’s beauty—had been enthusiastic enough, over the years, until each in his turn had seen my brother. Only a few men are immune to the charms of a pretty boy, and will always prefer the soft roundnesses of woman to a boy’s firm flats and hollows. Even those men, those devoted lovers of women, wanted my brother more than they wanted me, once they had met him. But all left the palace disconsolate: Dumuzi had eyes for none but peerless Ishtar, daughter of the Moon, queen of heaven and earth, goddess of love.

I had not always been in second place. I was the firstborn child of our parents; when I was a toddler, I was my father’s delight, my mother’s plaything. Father ordered his artisans to make me golden carts with silver wheels, and dolls carved from fragrant cedar with eyes of lapis lazuli and hair of gold. Mother dressed me in tiny versions of court ladies’ dresses in blue and purple, fringed with silver and pearls, tinkling with the myriad silver moon-crescents sewn to them. But in my fourth year, my mother’s belly swelled again.

Even as a newborn babe, Dumuzi shone tender as the spring sun on a field of emmer wheat. I was forgotten. Kings and wise men came from the ends of the earth with gifts of jewels and spices, merely to gaze on my brother’s shining face. The peasants bowed down to him; the slaves openly worshipped him as a god.

But now that Dumuzi was dead, now that the demons had taken him to the Underworld in exchange for his lover, the goddess Ishtar, no man could bear to look upon my face; they turned their heads in angry grief for my brother. Women screamed and wept, tearing at their cheeks and their clothes. If they had dared, they’d have attacked me with their bare hands.

Even the sheep, which Dumuzi had loved above all other beasts, refused to walk to their grassy fields. The noises that they made were so full of grief that they would have brought sorrow to the heart of the most joyful stranger. The sun was hot in the sky, burning the crops, and the fertile irrigated fields were cracked, dry mud. Only the old vizier came to my room and wept with me for my brother’s death. Perhaps the people were right; perhaps it would have been better if I had died, instead of him.

But it was not my fault that Dumuzi was taken from us as ransom for Ishtar. Only the gods knew why the goddess had challenged her sister’s power in the Underworld and been trapped there. I had done my best to protect my brother, as an older sister must, when demons were sent to drag him to the Underworld to take mighty Ishtar’s place.

The demons had threatened me with death when they searched for him; they even tried to bribe me with precious water and with fields of grain. But my brother was my river of precious water; he was my field of grain. I could never have betrayed him. It was not me who gave him up to the demons, but his childhood companion, his dearest male friend, who took the bribe. But no one cared. They loved my brother Dumuzi so much that they loved his friend for his sake; my less lovely face reminded them too much of my beautiful sibling.

After another night of evil dreams, I could not bear it another moment. A little before noon, I went to the Field of the Winged Bulls.

The life-sized sculptures of the human-headed bulls that guarded the entrance to the palace, strong golden wings tucked against their massive basalt flanks, made all who saw them catch their breath in fear and awe. Though the bulls’ magic protected the city, few other than the members of our family had ever seen the models for those sculptures in real life.

The winged bulls and their mates, in the flesh, were more glorious in appearance and in power than words could tell, but they detested the eyes of human strangers. A plump, bejeweled dynasty of blond slaves from the north tended to all their needs: combed their glossy blue-black hides, polished their golden hoofs, fed them the figs and dates, sweet grapes and honey cakes that they craved; but I was the only living human, other than their slaves, whom they permitted to enter their compound.

The human-headed bulls lazed with their herd in the shade under the date palms, in the vast enclosure that they had requested a thousand years ago, when they’d taken up residence in the city. The huge twin males, rulers of the herd, lay perfectly still, not moving a feather or a shining hair, while the three queen females slowly fanned them with their wide golden wings. Six or seven smaller beasts, close to fully grown, lay quietly around them. Even the frisky calves, their wings mere buds on their shoulders, were relatively placid in the heat, scuffling quietly in the grass for fallen dates.

The two great bulls spoke steadily to one another, their deep voices strange and sonorous to human ears. Their faces looked human, but the sounds that they could make in those deep chests were beyond the reach of any man or woman, or ordinary animal, alive. No human had ever learnt more than a few words of their language. They far preferred for us to speak to them in courtly Sumerian or everyday Akkadian, rather than to hear their ancient, sacred speech distorted and defiled by human mouths.

They would not tell us—not even me, their longtime favorite—where they had come from before they took refuge in our palace, except that it was somewhere long ago and very far away. “You wouldn’t understand, child,” they’d said when I’d asked them, when I was young. “It was our destiny. It was in the stars. We are here, now. That’s all you need to know of where we came from.” They’d looked so sad, as they answered me, that I never dared cause them sorrow by asking again.

The deep poetry of the twin bulls’ ancient voices as they conversed in their own language was strangely soothing. I stood leaning against the warm stone wall of the huge enclosure listening, not comprehending anything they said, but slowly growing calmer, until they spoke to me.

“You are unhappy, Geshtinanna,” one of them said. “Is it your brother?”

I nodded.

“Of course,” the other said. “How could things be otherwise, when humans are involved? And the people blame you, though you are surely blameless?”

I nodded again. I did not want to burst into tears in front of the bulls.

The first one said, “Even we were powerless to prevent this fate from falling upon your brother. How could your people believe for a moment that you had the power to challenge the will of the gods?”

I squeezed my eyes tight shut, but fat tears ran down my cheeks nonetheless.

The three dominant females spoke together for some time, after that. I wiped my tears on the hem of my dress and watched their grave conversation. Their voices were like the sound of great bronze bells, sweet but dangerously strong. The males listened, silent like me, as the massive females spoke, each in her turn.

At last, the largest of the females flicked a golden wingtip against my hand, gently as a kiss, and gave me their decision: “You must go to the wise woman, child. Go to Siduri, the woman who brews her beer and keeps her tavern at the end of the earth, by the shores of the Waters of Death. She will advise you what you must do.”

Mother had told me tales of Siduri, of course. Siduri’s tavern, with its peerless beer-vat made from pure gold, stood by the fabled Garden of the Gods, full of vines hung with gems, shrubs with jewels instead of flowers, fat gemstones in the place of fruit. Mother described it endlessly, greedily. Perhaps the people were right; perhaps Mother was a goddess in truth and belonged there in the jeweled garden. Perhaps she would have been happier there. But the place held dangers as well as riches. A single drop from the deep abyss of the Waters of Death could kill in an instant.

“But how do I travel to the ends of the earth, to consult Siduri?” I asked the powerful inhuman creature lying on the grass in front of me. “I am a woman virtually alone, ignored now in my parents’ own palace, though I was born a princess here. Even with the strongest men from my father’s army, I could not hope to travel through the well-armed kingdoms and the trackless wastes between our city and Siduri’s tavern. Even a hero would surely die in the attempt.”

The human-faced female who spoke now for the herd spread out her golden wings in a graceful gesture. “You see my children, and my sisters’ children, all about you. The oldest of them was born some centuries ago, now, and they are almost full-grown, though still young by our standards. We have taught them all we know: astronomy, astrology, cosmogony, theology, geometry, mythology and more.”

I just nodded. What could I say?

She went on, “We will send Kalla with you on your quest, child. She is not much more than three hundred years old, or thereabouts, but she is wise for her age, as you also are.”

One of the young winged cows lifted her head, then and looked at me. Her eyes were the hard, pure blue of the best lapis lazuli, but fierce intelligence shone in them. But did her mouth tremble with suppressed fear? I tried to smile bravely at her. I was a princess. A princess might know fear, but she must never show it.

The older female spoke again. “You and Kalla will do well together, we believe.” She sighed. “We hope so. This quest could be more dangerous than any that we have attempted for many years.”

Fear touched me with its black wing, then, but what could I do? My life in the palace, or anywhere in Father’s kingdom, was insupportable. Each moment pricked me to the heart like a sharp bronze dagger. A quest to the ends of the earth and perhaps beyond with a wise, if young, winged beast could hardly be more painful, or more difficult. It was more than likely, I knew, that I would die; but Dumuzi was already dead. What was my life worth now?

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Father’s elderly vizier had coached me well in diplomatic language since my toddlerhood, training me to be a good queen when the time came, but this was not one of the endless number of situations that he had covered.

“Go now, child,” the old female said, “and prepare yourself. This will be no ordinary journey. Pack a little food and water, yes, but other things too. And return soon. It would be best for you to leave before the sun is low in the sky.”

I made a formal gesture of thanks, as the vizier had taught me, and rushed back to my room. To my relief, I reached the room before I burst into flooding tears.

After I composed myself and packed, I went to say farewell to my family.

In my mother’s room, the chief of her women barred the way to her bed, hissing like a snake in an irrigation ditch.

“Geshtinanna! Who do you think you are,” she said, “coming to torment the Queen? You let Dumuzi die, you slut, you useless bitch. Do you think she ever wants to see your face again? Do you think she will ever again call you daughter, after what you did? Go!”

I went, saddened but dry-eyed.

My father, in his throne room, looked at me, then away. The vizier by his side, his hands shaking, pulled at my father’s elbow. “It is your daughter, my King,” he whispered. “It is Geshtinanna. She comes to speak with you.” But Father’s eyes, and mind, were somewhere else, somewhere not good.

The vizier followed me to the door. “I am sorry,” he said. “Your father the King…he is not himself, these days. He will recover, in time. The doctors say so. We must wait patiently.”

“Yes,” I said, then turned to leave.

He looked stricken. “It was not your fault,” he said, in a rush. “The gods know, it was not your fault. The people are like silly sheep. Even their leaders are like sheep. It was not your fault.”

I gave him the formal embrace of sincere thanks which he had first tried to teach me when I was a clumsy four-year-old princess. We were both in tears when I left the room.

Soon, though, I stood again in the Field of the Winged Bulls, this time with all the pieces of my old life that I intended to take with me when I left the palace. Around my neck I wore a necklace that Mother had given me when she still loved me, flat red-gold links with a cow carved from lapis lazuli hanging down from the central point, and from my earlobes dangled crescent earrings covered in golden granulations, also her gift. On my hands were three rings set with hunks of carnelian, sapphire and emerald, all from my father, each given to mark an auspicious birthday. My right wrist bore a bangle of bright beads from the Indus Valley, a gift from Dumuzi, and my left ankle held an anklet of heavy gold inscribed with the signs of the greatest gods, the symbols of the Sun, the Moon, Venus, Mercury and Mars.

There were gold and less precious objects—brooches and pins and other small gewgaws that I could exchange for what I needed on the journey—in a soft leather sack concealed under my dress, and another one, flashier, with less gold in it, tied to my belt. In a bag strapped over my shoulder I had a water-skin, plus soft cheese and juicy half-dried figs; they would last maybe two days. The journey could take months, or never end; I would get more food and drink when I needed it, or not at all.

Kalla was at one end of the compound, alone. I walked over to her.

“You must settle yourself behind my wings,” she said, flicking her tail nervously. “I will carry you where the elders say you must go.” Her blue eyes glanced at the herd at the other end of the compound, then looked back down into my face.

I was going to ride on her back?

“Oh,” I said, looking at that glossy expanse of hide, higher and wider than my father’s royal throne, almost as wide as my bed.

But what had I imagined? That we would walk together sedately through the palace gates, with the people waving us on our way, and proceed on foot to the ends of the earth?

Kalla’s tail flicked again. I could feel her anxiety overlaid on my own. This would be her first time away from her herd, and it would be no easier for her than for me. But she was too stressed to understand that I—a princess, but all the same a puny human female—could not vault onto her back, higher than the top of my head. What could I say, that would not cause her shame in front of the herd?

What would the vizier do, that consummate old diplomat, in my position? His daily lessons had almost become second nature: I must let Kalla work out the problem for herself. I put up my right arm, tentatively, and touched her high on her ribs, barely brushing the glossy blue-black hairs. Her head turned and her eyes followed my movement and the extension of my arm. She blinked in what must have been a mixture of dismay and amusement.

“I’ll kneel for you,” she said, and settled gracefully onto the grass.

It was my turn for dismay. How could I sit on so wide an expanse of back? Kalla was three or four times the size of the asses and wild donkeys that men rode. The dress I wore was practical and simple, plain linen, well designed for dusty travel, with no golden fringes, no tinkling ornaments. Nonetheless, it was too tight for me to stretch my legs so far.

There was only one real possibility. I bent down to my right ankle and ripped the linen of my dress up to mid-thigh. I could pin it together when I needed to be respectable again. Then I lifted my bared right leg over Kalla’s shining back—when I touched her hide, it was like silk from the fabled Orient, beyond the sunrise—and sat. My legs were wide stretched, and it would be painful in time, but for the first time in my life I was grateful for the tedious stretches and long poses of the lessons that I’d been forced to take, for the sacred dances day and night before the gods in their solemn festivals.

“You will not fall,” Kalla said, but her voice sounded a little nervous to me. “Don’t be afraid of that. The elders have arranged for an attachment spell to keep you safe. If you want, through, you can put your hands under where the wings connect to my shoulders. They tell me that you can hold firmly there without hurting me.”

I felt thick muscle under my hands, sunwarmed and strong as stone. I grasped as tightly as I dared.

Kalla stood up onto all fours so carefully that I scarcely shifted, though I was seated so precariously there on her flat back. She turned then towards the herd, which had carefully been ignoring us. The winged beasts were better diplomats even than Father’s vizier.

Kalla cried out to them in her own language, in her voice like a well-tempered bell. Her wide golden wings had already started beating.

“Farewell,” I called, more softly, and waved. “Thank you.” By the time I’d finished speaking, we were in the air above the palace, then flying south-east along the River.

It was as if my gilded silver bed with its duckdown-stuffed mattress had taken wings and started to fly through the sky. I felt as safe sitting on Kalla’s back as I would have on my own bed, and no more likely to fall off. Kalla’s passage through the air was stately, but, even if she hadn’t told me, it would have been clear that a magical force was operating to keep me safely positioned on her shiny-smooth skin. Luckily so: a tumble would have seen me dead, smashed and drowned in the great river which was our kingdom’s life. Mentally, I thanked whichever of Kalla’s herd it was who’d thought to use the spell.

The river Buranun—our land’s lifeblood—was even lovelier from the air than from the earth. I gazed down on its turns and bends, the reedy marshes full of waterbirds, the farmlands irrigated with its water, and the great stone temples of the gods. Sometimes, when we were high or it was close, I even caught sight of our river’s eastern twin, the Idigna. The vizier had taught me the names of the cities there, and their various strengths and weaknesses, in case Father chose one of their foreign kings as my husband. I’d never thought to see it from the air.

No one down below took the least notice of us. “I’m flying high enough that even the sharpest-sighted won’t be able to see anything distinctly,” Kalla said. “They won’t understand how big I am; they’ll think me an eagle, or something of the sort. And they won’t see you at all, Geshtinanna. You’re much too small, you tiny human. It would take two or three of you to make one of our newborn calves.” She laughed deep in her massive chest; after a moment, I laughed too.

We flew for many days, or perhaps months, stopping in the evening only when Kalla sighted a small town, a few isolated farms, where she could stay concealed in the shelter of trees or rocks while I found a farmer’s wife who would be happy to give me food and fill my water-skin for a small piece of gold, even though I was a woman travelling alone. When it grew dark, I slept curled against Kalla’s warm back, comforted by her firm bulk. Her quiet snores made my sleep sweet.

On the first evening it could have been pure luck that I was met with nothing but kindness by a woman busy in her farmhouse. No threats, no violence, no greed at the sight of my gold. But I had learned too much of human nature, both in theory and in practice, to think it normal or natural, after three nights.

“I don’t know,” Kalla said, when I challenged her about the mystery. “It’s not magic, or if it is I’ve never learnt it. The places I stop in just look right, feel right. They call to me.”

“Snakes and dogs know when an earthquake is coming,” I said. “Birds fly north from our marshes, every year, and back again, and winged butterflies build themselves from creeping caterpillars in their cocoons. The wise men call that unknown knowledge instinct. Perhaps you have an instinct for kindness.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Kindness is good. It is worth seeking.” She looked thoughtful, after that, until she slept.

The next night, as we lay together in the grass under some fig trees, and I apportioned her the larger share of the dates that I’d received from yet another pleasant woman, I asked the question which had worried me since my childhood, when I used to watch the blond slaves tending to the herd’s needs: “How is it that your people are so large, and yet you eat so little?”

“Hmm,” Kalla said, flicking the tips of her wings in amusement. “No one has dared ask us that before. But the answer is simple: we eat merely for pleasure, not out of physical need. We need no food as you humans do, or your animals. Would you like more of the dates?”

“Thank you, but no,” I said. I was blushing with embarrassment. All my childhood, Kalla’s herd had lazed in the compound at the palace, flicking away flies, munching slowly—but they were not mere cattle. Far from it. I said, “I should have known better. I was taught better. You are not mortal, as we are, but guardian djinn, more akin to the gods than to us.”

“Yes, it’s something like that,” Kalla said, laughing the strange, deep laugh of her kind. “We absorb the energy from the sun, as plants do. But it’s too complicated to explain. Push those delicious-smelling fresh dates closer to my mouth, human, and stop worrying about it.” She grinned, then, and used a golden wingtip to brush my head softly.

I tried to treat Kalla more deferentially after that, more as one ought to treat an immortal guardian and less as a friend, but I kept failing. It was like water in the desert, after all my lonely years, to have someone to talk to.

One evening towards the end, as I dismounted, Kalla told me to get all the food I could carry, when I went to the farmhouse nearby.

“Can you see those mountains in the distance?” she asked. “Those little bumps on the horizon? They’re the Mountains of Mashu, the boundary of your human realm, higher and wider than you can imagine. Some say they’re impassable, that they stretch to the heavens. We will come to them tomorrow. There will be streams of pure water, but no farms—no human beings who eat the food that you do.”

After that, we flew not over fertile river plains or even desert but over the rocks and boulders of the mountainside. In the evenings, Kalla refused any of my stores of fruit and cheese.

“I’m not sure how long this will take, trying to skirt around the side of these mountains,” she said. “You need those good-smelling edible things, and I don’t. No, don’t argue, human. I’m older than you. And much bigger.” Her face was serious; only the twitching of her tail told me that she was teasing.

After nine days of mountain flying—cliffs and ravines, springs and cataracts, stands of tall pines and regal cedars—the stocks in my food-pouch were almost gone. I tried not to worry. I had enough for tonight, just barely.

“Look,” Kalla said, around noon. “The glitter, below us. It is the Garden of the Gods, I’m sure it is.” She sounded relieved. Surely my guide and protector had not doubted that she could find it?

I looked down, and gasped.

I had grown up in a palace, surrounded by the riches of men and gods. I used to eat from silver plates, and drink from a golden cup set with gemstones. Mother glittered like the stars in the night sky when she was hung about with gold and jewels for state occasions, and Father’s green alabaster throne set with carnelian and chrysoprase glinted in torchlight.

But this was a garden as big as our city, or larger, with each shrub, each tree, each lush vine scattered with bright jewels in place of fruit and flowers. It was just as Mother had told me, but larger, brighter, more real—and more divine. This was indeed the Garden of the Gods. How had I dared come here?

My awe and wonder at the jeweled garden only increased as we flew closer and I could see more and more gemstones encrusting the plants. And then I saw the sea. It was like our River in flood, but impossibly wide. It stretched to the far horizon and beyond. And then the truth hit me: the Mountains of Mashu, the Garden of the Gods, the wide blue sea—I was where Kalla’s elders had sent me, the fabled ends of the earth. I must find Siduri and ask her advice.

As it happened, I didn’t need to find Siduri. She came to meet me while I was still scrambling down from Kalla’s back.

“We must talk, girl,” Siduri said to me, then looked at Kalla. “You—guardian being—what is your name?”

My massive mount said, “I am Kalla, Goddess.”

Goddess? Of course, I thought. People called Siduri a wise woman, but how could she live here, brewing ale in a vat given to her by the gods, unless she too was one of them, a goddess in her own right?

Siduri nodded. “Kalla, you may now graze on the fruits of the Garden of the Gods.”

Kalla bowed before Siduri. Her human-seeming face was almost impassive as that of the carved bull statues that guard my father’s palace, but I could see the suppressed joy around those stony blue eyes. Kalla moved sedately towards the glowing jewels, her body a picture of restrained decorum.

“The jewels of the gods are a delicacy for Kalla’s kind,” Siduri told me. “They give them strength and wisdom.”

I just stood there helpless before the goddess, my knees trembling, my mind almost blank. Siduri took me by the hand, led me to a bench in front of her tavern, and gave me a silver cup of ale, also pouring one for herself from a golden jug.

“But now,” she said, “you must drink my ale. I have few mortal visitors, here at the ends of the earth, but my ale is excellent.”

I sipped; it was the best I’d ever tasted, better even than the finest of wines in the palace.

“It is excellent indeed, Goddess,” I said. “Thank you.”

“So tell me, girl,” Siduri said. “Why are you so sad?”

That much was simple. “Demons dragged my brother, beautiful Dumuzi, down to the Underworld.”

“Ah, I heard about that. So you are the sister, valiant Geshtinanna, who tried to protect him.”

Unshed tears made my throat hoarse. “I failed.”

The goddess shook her head. “Whether you had failed or not, your brother would have died soon enough. He could perhaps have had ten more years, twenty, maybe even fifty, but death comes to all mortals. It is best if you accept it. Take joy in everyday pleasures: warm baths, clean clothes, good food and drink, making love with your husband, feeling your child’s hand in your own.”

Wise men and poets had said the same thing since the dawn of time. It didn’t help.

I said, “That is excellent advice, Goddess, I have no doubt. But my city is falling to ruin. My mother has had no rest since her son was taken by the demons, and my father the king will not speak even to his closest advisers. Even the slaves and the sheep lament him. The sun burns the crops, and our fields are cracked, dry mud. To escape the sorrow of my brother’s death, I would need to leave my city and my people, never to see them again, and still I would feel their grief and anger.”

Siduri poured herself another cup of ale. “But, Geshtinanna, to leave her family is the lot of all women, whether peasant, noble or goddess. Every woman of marriageable age must leave her father’s house and her mother’s rooms and live instead in a house of strangers. The more exalted the family, the farther the woman must travel from her home.”

I sipped cool ale from my cup before I replied. “That is all too true, Goddess. Indeed, if any of my suitors had paid my bride-price, he would have taken me far from my parents’ palace. His mother would have become my mother, and his father my father. Perhaps, indeed, I would never have seen my own parents again, nor the place where I was born.” Still, it did not help.

The goddess gestured around her. “So why are you here?”

The words came unbidden to my lips. “I must find Dumuzi.”

I hadn’t known, until that instant, what I was going to say. But it was true: the purpose of my quest was to find my brother—in the Underworld. Everything in my life pushed me towards that destiny.

The goddess sighed. “I was afraid of that. Your mortal race finds it so hard to accept death, though it is your lot.”

Death is not the lot of the immortal gods, I thought. Why must it be our lot? Why must we accept it? But I did not speak.

Siduri drained her cup. I looked down and found that mine, too, was empty. The goddess said, “If that is what you want, you must go to the Dark Queen, Ereshkigal.”

Ereshkigal, the Queen of the Underworld, the Queen of the Dead. Ishtar’s sister.

For a moment, the world went hazy-white around me. If I had not been sitting on the bench, I might have fallen. But I remembered the vizier, and how he had trained me. I took a slow, deep breath, and lifted my head high.

“How do I find Ereshkigal?” I asked.

“Ah, that’s an interesting question,” the goddess said. “For mortals, there are many paths to the quiet realm of the Dark Queen. I could slip a simple poison into your cup, or touch you with a single drop of the Waters of Death out there—” the goddess pointed to the sea, moving blue-green against the shoreline in front of us “—or merely wish you dead.”

Gods! I took another deep breath.

Siduri touched my hand, gently and kindly, and said, “But you are fortunate, Geshtinanna. Kalla will take you to the Underworld.”

My heart shuddered at the thought of exposing Kalla to that danger. “Can I ask that of her?”

“Perhaps you could not,” the goddess replied, “though she is no mortal creature. But I will ask her, and she will not refuse me.”

Soon I sat again on Kalla’s broad back, my heart hammering, my fear-cold hands gripping the muscles below her wings. Siduri’s kiss of farewell burned on my cheek.

This time I took no fruit, no water-skin. There was neither eating nor drinking in the Underworld.

Kalla said, “It would be best if you closed your eyes, Geshtinanna. Your kind is not designed for a journey such as this.”

I squeezed my eyelids shut and felt a sudden sensation of dropping through the void. My bowels were cold. There was darkness and confusion all around me: first whirling heat and pressure on my head and body, then a windy emptiness and a searing cold. I heard cries of terror, whimpers and moans. It could have lasted a moment or a year.

Then all was still and quiet, and I opened my eyes. I was in a great cavern, naked as a newborn baby, and stripped of my seven pieces of jewelry, gifts from my family and reminders of my past. Kalla stood beside me, shining blue-black in the light of the torches on the rough-cut walls.

In front of us stood the Queen of the Dead, Ereshkigal, incomparably lovely in her nakedness. A horned crown sat on her glistening hair. Strong dark wings hung behind her, from shoulders to knees. Her hands were almost like human hands, though her nails were talons, but her feet were the strong claws of a bird of prey. Those terrifying feet gripped the backs of twin lions, and two great owls, each as tall as a ten-year-old child, flanked her. She was as beautiful and as terrible as an army arrayed for battle.

“What do you want, mortal woman?” Ereshkigal asked. Her voice was that of a lion calling in the night, or of a huge owl hunting before moonrise. My breathing quickened at the sound, despite my fear.

I could not lie to her. “I have come to seek Dumuzi,” I said.

The goddess bared her teeth, and the hairs bristled at the nape of my neck. She said, snarling, “Are you sent by my treacherous sister Ishtar? Are you one of her devotees?”

I trembled. “No, Goddess. I have no love for mighty Ishtar. I am Dumuzi’s sister, Geshtinanna. My brother was Ishtar’s husband, then her ransom to leave this place. The demons sent to free your mighty sister snatched my brother Dumuzi and brought him here, to your dark realm, in her stead.”

The goddess settled her glorious wings against her back. “Surely my sister sent you. All men and women who walk on the earth serve the Goddess of Love and Battle.”

I shook my head. “I do not do the will of Ishtar, no matter how great she is, and how much adored. If it were not for Ishtar and her love for my brother, he would still walk on the earth, living and breathing. Why would I do her bidding?”

“Then why are you here?” The goddess glowed with unearthly beauty. Her breasts were like ripe pomegranates, her eyes the color of the night sky. I felt myself falling, helpless, into that deep, starry sky.

I took a breath. “Truly, Goddess, I am here for my own sake, and my mother’s, and my father’s, and my city’s. My parents are mad with grief. Our city falls to ruin. The sun burns the crops, and the fields are dry. Even the slaves and the sheep lament him.”

The goddess Ereshkigal asked, “Do you desire to come here, as his ransom, to take his place? Do you wish to live here in my kingdom?”

I gasped and knew that this was what I had sought without understanding: to live forever in Ereshkigal’s dark realm, in her fearful presence.

I bowed my head, ashamed. “My brother Dumuzi’s beauty made him a god, or equal to one. He was beloved of a goddess. He was enough to ransom Ishtar, great goddess of the earth and sky, from your power. I am a mortal woman. Am I enough to free my brother, and take his place?”

Ereshkigal frowned. On her face, even a frown was glorious. “Perhaps not, my mortal Geshtinanna,” she said. “But I will beseech the gods on high that they might allow the exchange, if that is truly what you wish.”

She gazed into my eyes, into my soul. I fell into her darkness, and stars swirled around me.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes. It is truly what I wish.”

The goddess put out a sharp-taloned hand to my right breast—was she going to kill me now, slash me with those glittering claws? I held my breath, waiting for pain and death.

Instead, Ereshkigal pinched my nipple, tenderly. Fire ran through me, but it was the fire of pleasure, not of pain. Again, I gasped, and blushed.

The goddess smiled in delight. “You tell the truth, mortal. Truly, you do wish to dwell here with me.”

“Yes,” I said. I watched her hands, her eyes. I needed her to touch me again.

“You and I have something in common,” the dark goddess said. “We are both sisters of siblings beloved by all.”

“Yes,” I said. Touch me.

“Beautiful Dumuzi, lovely Ishtar.” She stroked my ear, my throat, with those clawed fingers. I shivered, but I was not cold.

“Yes.” Please, touch me.

The goddess kissed my hair, my cheek, my lips. “To me, you are more beautiful than Dumuzi.”

“To me,” I said, catching my breath, “you are lovelier than Ishtar.”

The gods on high decreed that I, a mortal woman, would not suffice to ransom Dumuzi entirely, but that I could take his place in the Underworld for half of every year; for that time, my brother would walk the earth.

It was enough. Our city rejoiced, the sheep jumped in the fields, the irrigated soil abounded with crops, and Mother and Father were filled to overflowing with happiness. I was pleased for their sake, but I could no longer live there, with them, after all that had happened.

For half of each cycle of the sun, now, I dwell in Ereshkigal’s dark realm, sharing her fierce pleasures. No woman knows greater bliss. But when Dumuzi returns underground and the sun is hot in the sky, I am compelled to return to the world of the living. I travel the earth, then, with Kalla, best of companions. If you look carefully enough at the hawks and eagles that fly high in the sky, one day you might be startled to see her golden wings flashing in the sun. Look for me riding on her back.

END

“The Quiet Realm of the Dark Queen” was originally published in Dreaming of Djinn, edited by Liz Grzyb and is copyright Jenny. Blackford, 2013.

This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library.

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Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a whole new issue and a GlitterShip original, “The Ashes of Vivian Firestrike” by Kristen Koopman.

Episode #77 — “The Quiet Realm of the Dark Queen” by Jenny Blackford was originally published on GlitterShip

#GlitterShip #lgbtq fiction #queer fiction #short stories #science fiction and fantasy #podcast

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jflashandclash · 6 years ago

Text

Traitors of Olympus IV: Fall of the Sun

Thirty-Nine: Kalypso

I Argue with an Inanimate Object

Kally almost slapped the Cloven Terror helm in surprise, but realized exactly how dumb that would look since she was wearing it. “You can talk?” she said out loud. “Um, to me? You’re alive?”

She glanced towards the battle and felt a horrific sense of vertigo. As her gaze went to the peripheral of her vision, it expanded, showing everything on either side of her: the way Percy screamed on his throne, the two giants battling near them. Maybe near? Her depth perception failed.

Disoriented, Kally returned her gaze to Alabaster, where his pale face stared back, patiently letting her get adjusted. Her vision returned to normal.

Not all of us. We reflect the monsters they want to be. Ajax thinks silence is terror; Axel, the calculated insertion of an intelligent beast; Alabaster…

There was a wry laugh.

Besides, I was the first. I needed to come with an instruction manual.

Everything hummed. Kally could feel energy surge through her body. Green sparks erupted from the broken corner of the helm.

Alabaster reached a hand out, pressing one of his rune pouches into her palm. He weakly gestured towards her Argonaut statue in her other hand.

We made something for you, but, with my master in his current state, you must cast the spell. We had no time to test it.

Kally wanted to inform the talking helmet that this was epic and cool, but they picked the wrong person. She wondered, if she had known this was how things would turn out, would she have followed Axel and Pax out of her school a few months ago?

Without hesitation, she knew the answer was yes.

“I can’t use magic,” she said.

All creatures possess the ability to use magic. It’s whether you have the aptitude to excel. Now, cast with me.

The words raced through her mind. Later, she would need to demand when Alabaster had the time for prepping this spell and exactly why he hadn’t done it before. She took Alabaster’s hand and the spell pouch, and pressed it against the Argonaut statue. If she had to guess, that statue was giving her the most skeptical look possible. When her mouth moved, she couldn’t tell if it was the voice of the helm or her own.

“Incantara: revertetur,” Kally said, the helm’s darker tone whispering in harmony with hers.

The statue glowed green as the rune pouch melded into the metal. Kally wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen. She didn’t feel any different, though Alabaster now looked paler. Knowing her luck, she just used all of Alabaster’s magic reserves to make her weapon cuss in squirrel instead of anything useful.[1]

His quivering hand pointed behind her. His eyebrows furrowed, but that could have been from the pain. The ambrosia didn’t seem to have much effect on his broken jaw, though she guessed he would need a bit more than a godly pain killer for that.

She didn’t like the idea of leaving Alabaster by himself, barely conscious, and unguarded. As though he could read her mind—maybe he could with the helm on—he withdrew his pistol and set it on his lap.

“Okay,” Kally said, her voice cracking, “Okay. I’m going to go help the others. But, uh, I need you to protect this.” She took off her messenger bag and set it beside him. “Make sure no one else reads my journal,” she said lamely, since she couldn’t get herself to say, Yea, don’t die while I’m not looking. Or while I’m looking. Just don’t die.

Alabaster rolled his eyes. Then, looked like he might throw up from the motion.

As gently as she could, Kally kissed his forehead.[2]

Then, she stood up and turned to face the battle. Preparing for the nausea and disorientation this time, she glanced to the edge of her peripheral, feeling her vision expand like a panorama photo.

There was another monster on the field she hadn’t seen before. She didn’t remember anything in Greek mythology like this; it was huge, towering over the Roman’s field lights, matching the size of Eris. At first, her stomach clenched to think they’d have to fight another god, but it slammed into the goddess of Chaos with a, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.”

“Pax?” Kally said stupidly.

The creature was humanoid, but it looked nothing like her not-really-ex-boyfriend. Talons busted through the back of both the monster’s combat boots. Its fingers were twice the length of a normal human’s or demigods, with black more talons further extending the digits. His forearms and thighs seemed twice as thick as usual.

Poking through the Silver-Tongued Snake’s helm, which had also grown, the face under was narrowed and pointed, not squishy.

When he struck Eris, Kally couldn’t follow the speed of his movements, like seeing a snake or bird wind up for an attack, then only seeing the aftereffects.

Ah, a feathered serpent. How utterly appropriate, the Cloven Terror muttered.

With each slash of Pax’s talons, Eris giggled hysterically, regardless of whether she successfully blocked or not. Ichor splattered her clothing; Kally couldn’t tell if it was from Eris or Pax. Each time Pax drew close, she’d lash haphazardly out with a jagged knife coated in some black liquid and a smattering of his glittery blood.

Every time they stepped, the ground shook.

If Kally were looking at them with her normal eyesight, Pax would appear to be gaining the upper hand: Eris was rapidly losing ground. With the expanded vision, Kally could see Eris backing them towards the strawberry fields, where one misstep from their knife-talon family squabble could squish a stray camper or ghoul.

Eris wouldn’t mind some flattened comrades. Kally suspected creepy eagle-snake Pax might be a bit traumatized if he had to pick demigod skeletons out of his boots.

Behind them, the camp was in mayhem. Clarisse La Rue, several other Ares campers, and one or two Apollo children tried to corner Python. The massive drakon snapped around, swallowing one camper in a single strike.[3]

The Romans were fighting their way through hoards of ghosts and ghouls to form a single rank and protect their sides. There were so many undead, several ranks were isolated and couldn’t make it to the conglomeration around the barracks or strawberry field.

Some of the Greeks rushing out to help collapsed onto the ground, unconscious. Certain ones would stagger back to their feet, then turn on their allies.

In the distance, by the cabins, Phobetor tried to keep piping on his flute for his sleep-hypnosis, but Hazel Levesque and Lou Ellen prevented him from gathering a sleep army. Each time one of the magic-users blasted or slashed him, he lost one of his sleep walkers.

Although Greeks and Romans had been unprepared and several were dead, Kally felt like they were doing pretty well without the main heroes helping.

In her counting of the gods that had been present at the Pax Tree Growing Party, she realized she was missing one: Atë.

A puff of smoke whirled into existence by Clarisse La Rue’s legs. Kally didn’t see Atë fully materialize, just her tire iron smashing into the daughter of Ares’ calf.

Clarisse crumbled to the ground.

Kally clenched her Argonaut statue, focusing her vision on the smoke, allowing the panorama to narrow to her normal vision. Somehow, someone needed to stop Pax’s half-sister. How was she supposed to predict Atë’s movements to hit her? The goddess of Ruin and Mischief only seemed to appear at the least convenient place possible. (Something to add to the list of uncannily similarities between Eris’ children.) Otherwise, her victims were randomized.

Don’t take aim. Just throw instinctively. Don’t even look, the Cloven Terror helm instructed.

Yea, throw blindly into the middle of an active battlefield. What could possibly go wrong? Kally thought, disliking the helm’s ill-timed sense of humor. Knowing my luck it’ll miss, fly several hours away and clock Jason Grace in the head so the others can’t save Hemera.

You are a child of prophecy. You predict the rash and unpredictable ruin of others, it responded, seriously. And, on the Jason Grace comment, I’m not seeing a downside.

Lou Ellen must have told Hazel to help the Roman ranks. The child of Pluto had turned to race towards where the Romans were about to be overwhelmed by a troop of undead, despite a friendly rhino’s attempts to mow the enemy down. As animal choices go, Kally winced at what Frank had picked with his recent concussion.

As Lou Ellen moved her mouth to prepare a spell, something to deflect Phobetor’s oncoming hatchet attack, smoke vortexed near her.

Kally took a step backwards to prepare a throw with her discus.

You’re too late to save the daughter of Hecate. Accept that you cannot save everyone, then blind throw. Being the Cloven Terror, you must embrace that the end will justify the means.

But if there’s a chance—

She wanted to argue, but a surreal sense of disassociation stunned her mind. Kally felt like her thoughts had detached from the battlefield, from knowing Lou Ellen as Alabaster’s quirky half-sister, from caring that a demigod could die if she didn’t help them.

A tugging sensation pulled at her stomach as her eyes fluttered shut. While Kally stepped forward into a full rotation, building up the power of her throw, she pictured Atë’s terrifying red eyes.

Power surged from her body’s swing, from her step forward, up her spine, through her arm as she arched it, and finally, releasing through her fingertips.

A hissing sound left her hand.

Kally opened her eyes, searching for Lou Ellen.

Her discus steamed and glinted gold in the field lights, but it wasn’t going anywhere near Lou Ellen.

It hissed straight towards the rhino smashing through enemy ghouls.

Oh gods, I’m going to hit Frank and give him another concussion, Kally thought.

When the helm said she needed to accept she couldn’t save anyone, she didn’t think it meant she’d be murdering a Canadian.

In a split second, she glanced over to Lou Ellen, across the battlefield. The child of Hecate lay on the ground, unmoving.

Rage filled Kally. “Why did you make me do that?!” she shouted, wondering who was wearing whom.[4] She went to tear the helm from her head in a panic.

A black wisp of smoke puffed out ahead of the rhino.

As Atë went to strike Frank’s skull with her tire iron, Kally’s discus smashed into Atë’s arm. The tire iron flipped harmlessly into a ghoul’s head.

Atë vanished again.

The rhino stopped short, looking very confused, or Kally imaged that’s how a confused rhino would look.

The discus—instead of slamming into the ground—did something very odd. The hissing golden metal sizzled green. It slingshot back towards them.

Kally froze as the helm laughed darkly. If I wanted you to kill the praetor, I would have made you do far worse. Hecate’s Helms are more powerful when we work in harmony with our masters. Why do you think the Leonis Caput has weakened so? Now, I suggest you either duck or catch.

The discus was closing in, fast. All the times Kally had hit people with it, she never thought about how much it would hurt to be on the other end. Maybe Alabaster’s spell was the most extreme of rejection letters, Uh, sorry, it isn’t going to work out. I’m too awkward to say that, so I decided it would be easier to kill you with your own weapon. It’s me though, not you.

Kally sidestepped and extended her hand. As the discus passed her, she grabbed it, spinning with the momentum to decelerate the metal without ripping off her arm. In a weird, reverse spin, she stumbled to a stop.

Kally’s breath felt ragged. She tentatively touched the helm. Yea, it had been right about Atë, but she did not like that moment of forced battle apathy.

We’re not done here. Now, fight in the same manner you threw.

“I say when we’re done. I’m wearing you, not the other way around!” Kally said, though her mind was focused on, In the same manner I—?

Confusion gave way to a horrific sense of dread.

Reflexively, Kally lifted her discus to be level with her throat.

As she did, nails made a screeching sound against it. Something struck her discus, hard.

At least it was that instead of her neck.

Kally stumbled backwards, alarmed to see black smoke swirling on either side of her and unprepared to fight a goddess.

Sorry I’m running so late! My brother and my new sister had their Nikah yesterday, so we were celebrating that alongside Easter and it has been a crazy busy month. Hope everyone had/is having a great Easter/Passover/return of Persephone!

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed :D I feel like Kally needs to find a partner with better communication skills….

[1] Magnus might say this is very useful.

[2] Mel’s betanote, “AWWWWWWWWWWWW HOW GENTLY DOMESTIC!” Jack, “Alabaster would resent that comment.”

[3] Mel’s betacomment was just a picture of Meg from Disney’s Hercules from the moment he was eaten by the hydra <3

[4] Bought to you by the accidental alliteration association.

#Heroes of Olympus #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Traitors of Olympus #fanfiction #HOO #PJO #TOO #Kally #Ate #Alabaster's Helm....?#I'm noticing a trend of talking inanimate objects in my own books #and highly dysfunctional relationships #maybe I should be talking to someone....#naaaaaaaaa

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thatcrazyfanfictionwriter · 6 years ago

Text

Secret of the Sewers: Miwa in Japan

In the city of Tokyo, Miwa sat in the back of a taxi cab, looking out the window listlessly. A sense of homesickness had creeped into her heart at the sight of all the towering buildings. Though it had only been her home for a few months, she was already missing New York. Still, she knew that there was work to be done here in Japan, and that she had to do it.

"We're here." The cab driver declared, the taxi coming to a stop.

Miwa looked up, seeing the large walls that surrounded the Foot Clan dojo. She sighed, getting out of the cab and grabbing her suitcase. She slowly walked towards the dojo, the large gates opening for her and allowing her inside. A line of Foot Soldiers in traditional uniforms stood on either side of the path, as if watching her every move to prevent an escape. As the gates closed behind her, she couldn't help but jump.

"I feel like I'm being marched down the Green Mile." she muttered.

She continued making her way to the dojo until she reached the front door. She took a deep breath, then pushed the doors open. There, she was greeted by even more Foot soldiers, a lone man standing at the head of it all. The man was complete bald, save for a thick mustache that traveled from his upper lip to the sides of his mouth. His face was serious, and his posture was that of someone who was expecting trouble. Miwa approached him, setting down her suitcase before bowing before him.

"Master Tatsu." she greeted. "It is an honor to see you again."

Tatsu said nothing. He just glared at her in contempt, much to her dismay. She cleared her throat, determined not to let it phase her.

"I've come to lend my services in restoring the honor of the Foot Clan."

"A task not easily done, considering all that Saki has done to drag the name of the Foot through the mud." Tatsu snarled.

Miwa winced, realizing just how difficult this was going to be.

"Master Tatsu," she began, "I am not your enemy in this. I am a victim of the Shredder, just as the rest of the clan. I was lied to, led to believe that what Saki was doing was for the benefit of all. I realize now how wrong he was, and how wrong I was for believing him. That is why I am here. To atone for my sins as Karai."

"Pretty words." Tatsu dismissed. "Saki spun many a web of lies with naught but words. These webs nearly cost the Foot everything. If the Foot is to be restored to its former glory, action will be needed, not more words."

Miwa bowed her head.

"Yes, Master Tatsu." she replied.

"One more thing." Tatsu spoke up, drawing Miwa's attention a second time. "Should you give me reason to suspect your ties to the Shredder aren't as renounced as you say, I will not hesitate to take you out. Is that clear?"

Miwa gulped, but remained where she was.

"Yes, Master Tatsu." she answered.

"Good." Tatsu nodded, gesturing to a pair of Foot soldiers. "These two will escort you to your chambers. Tomorrow, we will begin your retraining."

Tatsu then walked off, leaving Miwa to be escorted away.

...

Miwa's room was a smaller one, with a basic futon, a table, and a dresser. She began unpacking, pulling several pieces of clothing from her suitcase before finally pulling out a fair sized picture frame. It contained a copy of Raph's drawing of the entire family, all of them smiling and holding one another. Miwa smiled at it, her fingers gently pressing against the image of Splinter.

"Miss you, dad." She let out.

The final item she pulled out was her Shell Cell. She held it in her hand, contemplating using it before eventually setting it aside.

"You knew this wasn't gonna be easy." She said to herself. "There were going to be hard feelings. You just need to prove yourself. You can do this. You have to."

...

The next day, Miwa woke up early for training. She put on the Foot training uniform she had, reporting to the dojo. Other students were there, swapping idle chatter with one another. However, once she entered the room, it all slowly died away. She gritted her teeth in embarrassment, but tried not to let it show as she took her spot on the mat. She kept her eyes firmly planted on the mat, doing her best to ignore the hateful and suspicious glares thrown her way. And that was when she began hearing whispers amongst the others.

"Shredder's daughter... She's got some nerve showing her face around here."

"Can't believe they even let her in here. I bet she's a spy."

Miwa clenched her fists, trying her best to ignore them. Thankfully, all the gossip ended when the dojo master entered. He looked amongst the ninjas before him, his eyes eventually falling on Miwa. He scrutinized her for a moment before pointing at her.

"You." he called out, causing her to jolt up. "Come here."

Miwa wordlessly did as she was told, bowing politely before standing at attention.

"A true warrior must know how to take out an opponent quickly and efficiently." he instructed before turning to Miwa, his hands behind his back. "Attack me, girl."

Miwa nodded, then went for a basic punch. The dojo master easily caught her arm, twisting it painfully before shoving her into the mat. All of the onlookers watched, letting out 'oohs at her swift takedown. The dojo master released her arm as she sat up, shaking his head.

"Sloppy." he chastised. "One would think the daughter of the Shredder would know better."

Miwa winced at the title, slowly getting back to her feet. She rubbed her arm as she faced him once again.

"Attack me." The dojo master demanded. "Harder!"

She launched forward, trying several times to land a hit. The dojo master stepped back and dodged each blow, jumping just in time to avoid a sweeping kick. As he came back down, he delivered a kick of his own to Miwa's ribs. She grunted, crumbling to the ground and clutching her side.

"Disgraceful." he muttered, shaking his head in disappointment.

Wheezing, she got back up, still holding her side. She then charged one last time, swinging her free arm. The dojo master merely caught it, flipping her onto her back before planting a foot on her stomach.

"Is this truly the best you have to offer?" He questioned.

She said nothing, just struggling to breathe under the weight of his foot. Eventually, he let out a dismissive sniff, removing his foot and turning his back to her.

"Return to your place." he ordered.

Miwa got up, her body aching as she sat back down. All of the other students were snickering and jeering, having clearly enjoyed the show. Despite this, Miwa just focused on the master, doing her best to ignore them.

...

She was still quite sore as lunch rolled around. Everyone was gathered up in groups across the mess hall, chatting and enjoying themselves. Despite the plethora of people, Miwa never felt so alone. She took her lunch, setting herself up in the corner of the lunchroom and preparing to eat alone. Before she could, a shadow fell over her. A sense of dread filled her before a kind voice spoke up.

"Mind if I sit here?" she asked.

Miwa looked up, genuinely surprised. Standing before her was a girl about her age with alabaster skin and long black hair that covered one of her eyes. She gave Miwa a warm, gentle smile, one that completely disarmed the kunoichi.

"Uh, not at all." she answered.

The girl sat down, offering a hand to Miwa.

"My name's Aya." she introduced. "But everyone calls me Shinigami."

Miwa took the hand, but was confused.

"Why are you nicknamed after a god of death?" she questioned.

Aya chuckled.

"I'm a Yakuza orphan." she explained. "My parents were killed when the thugs trashed our family's sushi restaurant. By the time the Foot found me, I'd killed the thug responsible. I was five."

"Damn..." Miwa let out, wincing in sympathy.

"Yeah." Aya shrugged. "The nickname stuck, especially after I became the best knife thrower in my squad. But, I digress. What's your name?"

"Miwa." she replied.

Aya nodded in recognition.

"Oh yeah." She let out. "You're the one everyone's talking about. I could have sworn your name was Karai though."

"Not anymore." Miwa corrected. "That's the name the Shredder gave me... when he stole me from my true father, Hamato Yoshi."

"Whoa..." Aya murmured. "So the rumors are true."

Miwa nodded, then Aya looked back and forth before leaning in.

"What about the other rumors?" She questioned. "Y'know, about Yoshi being turned into a rat?"

"It's true." Miwa answered.

"That's incredible" Aya let out. "How is that even possible?"

"That is an incredibly long and convoluted story." Miwa answered. "I doubt you'd be interested in it."

Aya just leaned forward, placing her chin on her hands. Miwa chuckled, practically hearing the stars twinkling in her eyes. She sighed, and opened her mouth to begin the story. Before she could begin, a large hand came down on the table, startling both girls. They looked up, seeing two of the larger and more intimidating members of the Foot trainees looking down at them.

"Hey Shinigami." One of the trainees spoke up. "What are you doing over here with the traitor?"

"She'll stab you in the back if you aren't careful." the second one warned.

"Leave her alone!" Aya snapped. "She's not like that."

"You kidding?" the first trainee scoffed. "Look at her. She's a chip of the old block."

"Once a traitor, always a traitor." The second trainee insisted. "Mark my words. It's only a matter of time before she stabs us all in the back just like her old man."

Miwa looked away, clenching her fists again. Aya growled at this, getting to her feet.

"Shut up!" she screamed.

Rather than intimidate them in any way, the two trainees just seemed amused.

"Well, well, look at this." the first one chuckled. "The angel of death is protecting the turncoat. Guess death and destruction really do follow you everywhere."

The second one grabbed Miwa by her hair, pulling her head back and growling in her ear.

"You'll never be one of us." he swore. "You'll never be anything more than the spawn of that filthy traitor."

Miwa's fist clenched, her anger rising.

"I'm not his daughter." she snarled. "I'm just another victim, like everyone else."

Aya then grabbed the second one by the arm, meeting his gaze with a cold gaze.

"Let her go, now." she demanded, her voice as icy as her stare.

"Or what?" the trainee taunted. "You gonna cry?"

Aya extended her free arm, a knife popping out of her sleeve and into her hand. She held it up and twirled it in her fingers, her eyes never leaving the trainee.

"Let her go, or I'll cut your fingers off." she promised. "It's your call."

The bully snorted and released Miwa, shoving her into her tray. She grunted, sitting up and brushing grains of rice off her face.

"Your little bodyguard can't protect you forever, backstabber" The second trainee warned.

"And you made a big mistake today Aya, siding with that." the first one declared, gesturing to Miwa with his thumb.

"Then it's one of the best mistakes I've ever made." Aya retorted. "Now go bother someone else."

The two trainees walked off as Aya retook her seat. Miwa looked up at her, still brushing rice off her face.

"Thanks." she told her. "You didn't have to do that."

"Unlike the other idiots here, I can tell you're nothing like Shredder." Aya assured her. "You're a good person who made some mistakes, ones you're trying to make up for."

"I'm just glad someone understands." Miwa let out.

Aya took her hand, giving it a squeeze.

"The others will come around eventually." she assured her. "Just give them time. You'll see."

"I know." Miwa sighed. "I know."

...

Later on in the day, the two were called before Master Tatsu. They both walked into his office, bowing down before him. The master sat behind a low table, a cup of tea before him. He took a sip from it as he looked down at them both.

"I received a message today, saying that you two caused quite a disturbance in the mess hall." he told them. "You assaulted two of my prized warriors, Taichi and Yamato, and threatened them with a knife."

"Master, with all due respect, it was Tai and Yamato that started it in the first place." Aya argued. "They were manhandling Miwa and I was just trying to protect her."

"So you felt that you needed to escalate the situation by threatening to, and I quote, 'cut off their fingers'." Tatsu argued.

"Well..." Aya winced, realizing how bad this looked. "Yes, Master Tatsu."

"Your violent tendencies should be reserved for missions and training only, Aya." Tatsu insisted. "And as for you, Karai-"

"Miwa…" She interrupted. "My name is Miwa."

Tatsu's eyes narrowed at her before he went on.

"This disruptive behavior will not stand." he declared. "As punishment, you will both be cleaning the dojo tonight. For your sake, it best be spotless by tomorrow morning."

Both girls bowed again, answering in unison.

"Yes, Master Tatsu."

...

In the dojo, Miwa and Aya were down on their hands and knees, scrubbing at the floor with thick brushes and soapy water. They worked hard, the sun having already gone down and the hour growing later.

"This isn't fair." Aya groaned. "We were the victims here."

"It's okay, Aya." Miwa insisted. "I knew this wasn't going to be easy when I signed on. Honestly, I was expecting worse than childish bullying and trainer favoritism."

"Why are you just taking all this?" Aya questioned, setting her brush down. "You should fight back. They wouldn't mess with you then."

"No, that will just add fuel to the fire." Miwa replied. "Besides, it's called turning the other cheek."

"I'm pretty sure it's called getting your butt kicked." Aya challenged.

"Call it what you want." Miwa shrugged, resuming her work. "I promised myself I would be better than Shredder, better than everyone who I once looked up to. It's the entire reason I'm here."

"Well then, let's make your reputation as spotless as this dojo." Aya declared.

"We've got a lot of scrubbing on both parts if we want that." Miwa quipped.

"So let's get scrubbing." Aya told her.

Just then, the lights went out, leaving the two in pitch black darkness. Before either of them could react, they were both grabbed, hands covering their mouths to keep them from screaming. Bags were then thrown over their heads as they were dragged off into the darkness.

...

Miwa struggled as she was tightly tied to a chair, the ropes digging into her wrists and ankles. The bag was still over her head, so she couldn't see where she was. Aya wasn't doing much better. She'd been tied to a shelf, her arms above her head and her ankles lashed together. Both girls kept fighting to free themselves, but it was to no avail.

"Let us go!" Aya screamed. "You won't get away with this!"

Just then, a light turned on, the bags ripped off their heads. The sudden onslaught of light disoriented them for a moment their eyes adjusted. They found themselves in a supply closet, the cramped space filled with cleaning chemicals and other stuff. Before them were two Foot ninjas in their full gear, including their masks. Even so, the girls had a pretty good idea who was underneath it all.

"Really?" Miwa let out. "Petty bullying is one thing, but this is straight up kidnapping. Before you go accusing me of being like Shredder, you should look at yourselves in the-"

Miwa was cut off by a smack across the face. Shinigami let out an angry scream, only getting a punch to the gut for her troubles. Miwa looked back at the Foot that had smacked her, letting out a snort.

"You Taichi under there, or Yamato?" she asked.

The ninja pulled off his mask, revealing Taichi underneath.

"Knew it." she let out. "Look, I don't want trouble."

"Too late for that, traitor." Taichi remarked. "You're going to get what's coming to you."

"You and your little friend here." Yamato spoke up, grabbing Aya by the chin.

"Two things." Miwa declared. "One, she has nothing to do with this, so that was your first mistake. Two, if you're going to tie someone to a chair, make it a metal one, not a wooden one."

Miwa stood up, chair still attached, and threw herself on the ground. The chair legs snapped and freed her legs, jumping right to her feet. Taichi was caught off guard by the sudden movement.

"What the-?!"

Miwa quickly kicked Taichi in the stomach before he could properly regain his senses, then she turned around and used the rear of the chair to smack Yamato into the wall. The impact shattered the chair the rest of the way, even if her hands were still tied behind her back. She jumped, slipping her hands in front of her as the two boys closed in. she swung her bound hands at Yamato, smacking him across the face before elbowing Taichi. The enclosed space they were in did nothing to aid them, and the two boys were down in a matter of minutes.

"No wonder they used such a petty tactic to capture us." Miwa quipped. "So much for 'greatest warriors'."

She then searched the two downed warriors for a knife, cutting herself free before doing the same for Aya.

"Come on, we still have work to do." Miwa told her.

"What about them?" Aya questioned.

"If they do go to Tatsu, they'll have to explain their plan, as well as the fact they got their butts handed to them by a girl tied to a chair." Miwa rationalized. "Besides, that dojo's not gonna clean itself."

Aya smiled as the pulled the last of the ropes off of her.

"What do you think they'll say to explain all the bruises and cuts they'll be sporting?" she asked.

"Training incident." Miwa offered up. "Isn't that the usual BS?"

The two girls shared a laugh before returning to the dojo to finish cleaning.

...

The next day at training, Aya sat next to Miwa. Both girls had wrappings on their wrists and ankles to hide the rope burns. Taichi and Yamato were not so lucky, both boys sporting ugly bruises on their faces and black eyes. The dojo master looked at the two, clearly put off by their injuries.

"What happened to you two?" he asked.

Yamato glanced over at Miwa, the latter giving the boy a small smirk. After a moment, he answered.

"Just a late night training session gone too far, sir." He explained.

"We got a little rough with one another." Taichi added. "Nothing more, sir."

The dojo master paused for a moment, but dismissed it for the time being. Behind their backs, Aya and Miwa exchanged a fist bump.

...

At lunch that day, the two girls sat at their little table of solitude. Aya took a moment to check on their former tormentors, somewhat pleased to see that they were making their way towards the opposite end of the mess hall.

"If that's what the Foot has been reduced to, we really have our work cut out for us."

"I couldn't agree more." Miwa replied.

The two ate for a minute, then Aya noticed Miwa's gaze drift over to Taichi and Yamato. Her expression was an uneasy one, something that made Aya a bit worried.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "You look nervous."

"Nothing." Miwa quickly replied.

Aya leaned forward with a skeptical look. Miwa sighed and gave in.

"It's just…" she began, "I've got this feeling about them. Something about how they acted felt… off."

"What do you mean?" Aya questioned.

"The entire time they were talking, they never once mentioned Shredder by name." Miwa pointed out.

"Just said I was the 'daughter of the traitor'."

"Okay. So?" Aya inquired.

"Shredder had me convinced that my true father, Hamato Yoshi, betrayed the Foot." Miwa explained.

"Betrayed us all. What if…?"

She shook her head, turning back to her food.

"Nah." she dismissed. "I'm just paranoid. I'm letting a bad night get to me."

"Just relax." Aya insisted. "I'm sure they won't be bothering us anymore. Yesterday was just a pair of boys who thought they were all that. Now that you've established they're not, we've got nothing to worry about."

"Hope you're right." Miwa replied.

...

As Aya predicted, neither Taichi nor Yamato bothered them after that. Very slowly, Miwa began to earn the respect of her fellow trainees. There were still the occasional whispers and hateful glares, but with Aya by her side, Miwa could easily ignore them. A week of two into her training, Miwa finally decided to call home.

"Hello?" Splinter answered before the second ring could begin.

"Hey, dad." Miwa greeted. "It's me."

"Miwa." Splinter replied, a hint of relief in his voice. "It is so good to hear your voice again. I have missed you greatly."

"Miss you too, dad." Miwa told him.

"How is Japan?" Splinter asked.

"It's alright." Miwa replied simply.

Splinter chuckled on the other end.

"When your siblings say that, they are usually hiding something." he told her before his tone became serious. "Has something happened?"

Miwa sighed, then told him the truth.

"Things have been pretty rough." she admitted. "Most of the trainees, and even the Masters themselves, have trouble seeing me as anything but Shredder's daughter."

Splinter let out a sigh of his own, feeling sympathetic for his daughter.

"Fear and hatred are a poison that is hard to cure." he told her.

"I know." she replied. "But things are slowly getting better. I even made a friend who's willing to stand up for me, so there's that."

"Then it seems you are faring better than we are." Splinter admitted.

Miwa felt a lump of cold fear settle in her stomach.

"What happened?" she questioned. "Are you okay?"

"Do you recall when your siblings disappeared into space for several weeks?" Splinter inquired.

"Of course I do." Miwa replied. "We were all worried sick."

"It would seem that during their adventure, they made... rather dangerous enemies who tracked them back here." He explained. "They laid siege to New York, and revealed our presence in the city."

"No…" Miwa gasped, putting a hand over her mouth in shock. "You mean…" "Yes." Splinter said. "Everyone in New York knows about us now."

"Oh my God." She let out, horrified at the idea. "Are you guys okay? Do I need to come home?"

"We are all alright." Splinter assured her. "We have been laying low for a few days. With luck, the city will settle down and we can return to our lives."

"Here's hoping." Miwa said quietly.

Suddenly, there was a knock on her door. Miwa looked up at the noise.

"Be right there!" She called out before turning back to her call. "I've got to go."

"I understand." Splinter told her. "It was good to hear from you again, my daughter."

"Same to you, Dad." Miwa agreed. "I love you."

"And I, you." Splinter declared.

Miwa hung up and answered the door, where she was greeted by the sight of a breathless Aya.

"Aya?" she greeted in confusion. "What's going on?"

"Miwa, you have to come with me." Aya insisted. "It's Taichi and Yamato."

"What did those two do this time?" Miwa asked.

"It's what they're going to do that I'm worried about." Aya clarified.

She then took Miwa by the arm, both of them slipping out of the room.

"I passed by their rooms earlier, and they weren't inside." Aya explained. "It's lights out, so everyone should be in bed."

Miwa sighed.

"And here I was hoping they wouldn't be that stupid." she deadpanned. "Any idea where they are now?"

"Well, I've been keeping an eye on them ever since the incident, and they do like to retreat to the old garden shed when they think nobody's looking." Aya answered.

Miwa blinked in surprise, stopping for a moment.

"You…" she let out, "You were following them?"

"With your bad feeling about them, I just wanted to be sure." she rationalized.

Miwa smiled at her friend.

"Well, let's see what they're up to then."

...

Slipping out of the compound was easier than either of the girls could believe. Keeping to the shadows and being as silent as possible, Aya and Miwa trekked across the grounds, careful to avoid and guard patrols. After doing this for several minutes, they eventually arrived at the garden shed Aya had mentioned before. As they inch towards the door, they hear voices inside.

"She's been watching us too closely." Taichi said.

"Her little guard dog isn't helping either." Yamato muttered. "This is our first chance to contact you thanks to her following us."

Red flags shooting up like crazy, both girls lurk outside the door, making sure to keep quiet as they listened in.

"Your orders were to observe and not draw attention to yourselves." A new voice, one that seemed to be coming through a phone, snarled. "Or can you not obey the simplest of commands?"

"Our deepest apologies, sir." Taichi replied remorsefully.

"If this is what the Foot has been reduced to, then Master Shredder will never know his justly deserved vengeance." The new voice growled.

Both girls covered their mouths to keep themselves quiet, exchanging shocked looks.

"No. He will." Yamato swore. "I assure you of that."

"Then for both of your sakes, I urge you not to mess up again." The new voice warned. "For your next mistake will be your last."

Both boys gulped nervously.

"As you command, Master Khan." Taichi said respectfully.

Miwa went wide-eyed at that, recognizing the name all too well. She then grabbed Aya and pulled her away from the shed just as the two boy prepared to leave. Once they're gone, the girls retreated back inside.

...

The girls took refuge in Miwa's room, trying to come to terms with what they had just learned.

"They're loyal to Shredder." Miwa let out. "It makes so much sense."

"What are they planning?" Aya questioned.

"Let's try and figure this out." Miwa insisted, pacing around the room. "They've managed to earn the respect of Master Tatsu to the point that he's called them his 'Greatest Warriors'."

She stopped pacing, a sense of dread washing over her. Aya saw her stop, coming to the same horrifying conclusion.

"Oh no..." Miwa let out. "I know what they're planning."

"What?" Aya asked, already knowing the answer.

Miwa swallowed hard, turning to her friend.

"They're here to kill Master Tatsu." she answered.

Aya gasped in horror, jumping to her feet.

"We have to warn him!" she exclaimed.

Miwa quickly grabbed her arm, shushing her.

"We can't." she insisted. "He won't believe us. Remember, they're Master Tatsu's prized pupils, and we're the trouble-making outcasts."

Aya cursed, turning back to Miwa.

"We have to do something." she insisted. "We can't let them kill him!"

"We won't." Miwa promised. "But we have to be smart about this. We'll need to stop them, and prove that they were behind it all. Otherwise, they'll be free to try again."

"What do you suggest?" Aya asked.

"We figure out Master Tatsu's routine, and discover the best time and place to perform an assassination." Miwa answered. "Knowing those two, that's probably why they cozied up to him."

"I get it." Aya nodded in understanding. "If we figure out the best time and place, then there's a likely chance that's when Taichi and Yamato are going to strike."

"Exactly." Miwa declared.

...

The girls spent the next day subtly observing Tatsu. Through their observations, they found that the Master spent most of the morning in meditation before going out to observe the training. During the afternoon, he partook in his own training with the fellow dojo masters before retiring to eat. During the evenings, he assigned the nightly guards before calling for lights out, then spent an hour or so walking along the halls, ensuring everyone was in bed.

In her room, Miwa looked at the screen of her shell cell, texting with Aya. Neither wanted to risk sneaking out a second time, and thus stuck with texting one another to discuss their findings.

"What did you find out?" Miwa texted.

"Bad location during the day." Aya answered back. "Not enough entry points, and will be spotted instantly."

"Same for afternoon and most of the evening." Miwa told her. "Only real opportunity is post lights out rounds."

"Makes sense" Aya replied. "Question is from where will they strike?"

"Close quarters attack would be suicide." Miwa insisted. "If their attack on us is anything to go by. They'd try for a ranged attack."

"Sniper?" Aya suggested.

"Perhaps." Miwa replied. "A gun would be too loud though, and would give away their position, even with a silencer."

"Well, Yamato is top of the ranks in archery." Aya offered up.

"Then that's how he's gonna do it." Miwa declared. "What are good vantage points for an archer to go unnoticed?"

It took a moment for Aya to answer. When she finally did, it was a picture of what looked like a crude drawing of the compound. There was a pink M and a black A on the rough map, no doubt indicating the location of both Miwa's and Aya's rooms. There was a dotted line that was Master Tatsu's route, then a few red Xs along the outer wall. Miwa scrutinized the map, trying to figure out the best place. She then noticed one X relatively close to the pink M, her eyes narrowing.

"Hang on..." she let out. "Why didn't I think of it before?"

She set her phone down, going to the window of her room.

"Rule number one of assassination, always have a scapegoat ready." She hissed.

She looked out her window, scanning the area before eventually settling onto a figure hiding in the trees. In the figure's hands, she could see a bow being pulled back, an arrow ready to fire.

"Oh shell!" Miwa let out.

She bolted out of her room, just in time to see Tatsu rounding the corner. Moving as fast as she could, she ran towards him.

"Master Tatsu, look out!"

She tackled him to the ground, just as an arrow came flying through the window. It struck Miwa in the shoulder, causing her to cry out in pain. Tatsu pulled himself up and saw what Miwa had done, gasping in surprise.

"What is this?" He questioned.

"Assassin!" Miwa let out, holding her injured shoulder. "Outside! In the tree!"

Tatsu turned towards the tree and saw someone climbing out, trying to escape. His eyes narrowing, he busted through the window, giving chase.

"Stop that ninja!" He shouted.

Tatsu's shouting woke up nearly everyone up, Foot Ninjas pouring out of every door and window. Aya was among them, her eyes instantly locking on the running figure. Thinking fast, she drew several kunai knives from her sleeve, throwing them at the retreating figure. One of the knives nailed him in the leg, causing him to fall to the ground. Tatsu was on him in a matter of seconds, pinning him to the ground before pulling off his mask.

"Yamato?" Tatsu gasped, dropping the mask in shock. "You?"

A rustle of movement caught his eye, then he caught a second arrow aimed at him. Aya threw another knife, this one hitting pay dirt and sending a second ninja falling to the ground, the knife embedded in their shoulder. Aya grabbed them, dragging them over to Tatsu before unmasking them, revealing Taichi.

"Taichi as well." Tatsu let out, completely stunned. "But why?"

"Because they serve the Shredder's Faction." Aya declared. "Miwa and I heard them speaking with Khan."

"The Japan cell leader." Tatsu said quietly before turning to the two traitors. "Why?"

"Shredder was right." Yamato snapped. "The Foot Clan is weak!"

"He should be the one in charge, not you!" Taichi declared.

"You're wrong..." Miwa grunted.

The gathering crowd then parted as Miwa made her way forward, the arrow still stuck in her shoulder.

"The Shredder was wrong." She insisted. "He dishonored everything the Foot stands for. He deceived, manipulated, and did terrible things for his own selfish reasons. He got what he deserved."

Taichi snarled, then elbowed Aya in the gut, pulling the knife from his shoulder.

"Traitor!" he screamed. "You turned your back on your own father!"

He charged, but Karai easily kicked the knife out of his hand. Two trainees then pinned him to the ground as Karai caught the knife in her good hand, offering it to Tatsu handle out.

"Shredder. Is not. My father." she declared.

Tatsu took the knife from her, looking at her as if seeing her in a different light. He then nodded, turning to Taichi and Yamato.

"Take these two away." He ordered. "I'll take Miss Hamato to the medical wing."

The two were roughly escorted away as Tatsu took Miwa's arm. Aya was by her side as well, the two helping her to walk back inside.

...

The arrow was removed with little difficulty, and only some minor swearing on Miwa's part. Her wound was bandaged and her arm put in a sling, something that made her sigh.

"Guess I'll be stuck in one-armed combat for a while." she quipped.

"Just give yourself time to heal." Aya told her. "On the plus side, I'm pretty sure this incident will make life here easier for you."

"Hopefully." Miwa replied.

There was a polite cough, drawing the attention of the girls. They turned to the door, seeing Tatsu standing there.

"I would like to speak to Miss Hamato alone, if you please." he requested.

"Of course." Miwa told him, giving Aya a pat on the shoulder.

Aya nodded, then walked out of the room, leaving Tatsu and Miwa alone. Tatsu stood before her, his hands behind his back as he addressed her.

"When you came here, I told you that action would be needed if we were to cleanse the Foot of the stain of the Shredder." He told her. "Your actions tonight not only rid us of two traitors, but also saved my life."

He gave her a small bow.

"Thank you, Hamato Miwa." he said gratefully.

Miwa just smiled.

"I told you before, I came here to atone for my crimes as Karai." she reminded him. "Hopefully, this is only one of many good deeds I perform."

Tatsu lifted his head, giving her a genuine smile.

"Let us hope not all of them end in serious injury." He remarked. "I would hate to lose an honorable warrior."

He took his leave at that, and Miwa laid down. A smile slipped onto her face as a sense of contentment filled her heart. It had taken her literally taking a shot for him, but she had earned Tatsu's respect.

"Maybe this won't be so bad after all." she mused.

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