#even when people axing each other and its raining men

[empty-dream]

Just keep dancing

[emyn-arnens]

At the River's Edge

Merry & Goldberry | G | ~900 words | AO3

Merry led his pony down the forest path, minding the roping tree roots that snaked across the path and keeping a wary eye for the creeping vines that sought to catch his ankles and his pony’s hooves and root them both where they stood. He liked to think he had a better head for keeping to the path now, having passed into the Old Forest many times (for he thought it wise, now that he was Master of Buckland, to keep good relations with the master of the Old Forest, just as many of his predecessors had done before him). Even when the paths seemed to shift, he could find his way out, and he was better able to sense the workings of the forest upon his mind before it was too late. Whether this was through any skill of his own—a growing woodcraft for strange and too-awake forests, perhaps—or because he walked the forest under the goodwill of its master, he did not know.

But it did not do to be overly confident of one’s abilities in the Old Forest; the trees sensed it and resented it, remembering the hobbits who had boldly come in with their axes and hatchets and chopped down enough trees to create Bonfire Glade. Though the trees now stood in sleepy stupor, they dreamed still of anger and of bitter days and stirred in half-asleep wrath, their hearts eaten with anger and turned black within their trunks.

Merry sidestepped another creeping vine and was about to turn his pony away from the curving line of the Withywindle when he heard singing spilling down the river path, rippling like water. He strayed toward it, minding that he did not wander too far from the path. Surely it was Goldberry, whose voice fell like rain upon dusty earth. He did not often see the River-daughter when he came into the Old Forest, for she roved up and down the Withywindle, and Tom’s house, when he could be found in it—though he usually found Merry first—stood far to the north of the main course of the river.

Indeed it was the River-daughter. Goldberry, singing a lilting tune as she walked amongst the lilies of the Withywindle, hailed him, and he drew near, bowing in greeting. As he did so, a glint of blue upon her breast caught his eye. It was the brooch Tom had taken from the Barrow-downs, and its blue stones caught the light of the sunbeams filtering through the trees and shone like blue fire upon Goldberry’s breast.

“Well met,” she said.

He returned the greeting rotely, his mind caught by the brooch. With a shiver, he remembered the barrow the brooch had been recovered from and the terrible dream he had woken from: Men with cruel faces, their eyes gleaming in the light of their torches, closing in on him in a fence of bristling spears, and then a spear piercing his heart—

“Who was she, who once bore that brooch upon her breast?” The words escaped him before he could think better of them. “When he found the brooch, Tom spoke of her as if knew her.”

Goldberry paused, and it seemed to Merry that she looked not at him, but at some distant past. “No one now remembers her name but for Goldberry and Tom. Hers is a sad tale, as are all the tales of those who lived in those days, when the kingdoms warred against each other, and the rivers of Eriador ran bloodied and troubled; more sorrowful still are the tales of those who bore the brooch before her, in days even more troubled. She who once bore this upon her breast fled her lands with her people and took refuge in the Forest. She came to the Withywindle seeking solace from her grief.”

“You knew her? But was it not many centuries ago that Cardolan fell?” Merry had suspected Goldberry to be long-lived—perhaps even as ancient as the Elves, or older even than they. But it was strange to think that she might have lived in these lands before the barrows filled with evil spirits and anger consumed the Old Forest, before hobbits had even come to the Shire from the east.

Sorrow washed over Goldberry’s face. It was an expression strange and unfamiliar on her merry features. “I am the River-daughter, and the river does not forget those who commit themselves to its keeping.” She grew quiet and still, and Merry dared not break the silence. 

Then her features shifted like the surface of a lake stirred by wind, and her voice was once again warm and merry. “But come, the unquiet graves lie too near for such talk, and the day is fair and warm. Let us turn our minds to happier thoughts, and leave the past where it lies.”

She began to sing again, a washing song that washed Merry’s heart clean of the memory of dread that had resurfaced, and she placed into his arms dew-clad lilies for him to take home to Estella.

Merry turned, his heart light and his ears full of Goldberry’s singing, and thought no more of evil Men and unquiet graves.

[leebird-simmer]

Russian Fairy Tales Test Prep: Pagan Deities

The best known roster of pagan deities is that of the six whose statues Prince Vladimir erected upon assuming sole rule of Kiev. According to the Primary Chronicle for the year 980, he “placed idols on a hill, outside the palace yard, a wooden Perun with a silver head and a golden mustache, and Khors and Dazhbog and Stribog and Simargl and Mokosh.” Missing from this list is Volos/Veles, the god of cattle (skotnii bog) and commerce, whose veneration in ancient Rus’ is widely attested, and by whose name (along with that of Perun) ancient Russians ratified oaths.

A. Perun/Bog

1. equivalent to: Lithuanian Perkunas, Latvian Perkons, Albanian Perendi, Roman Jupiter, Greek Zeus, Hittite Teshub, Norse Thor/Donar, Celtic Taranis.  2. primary sources: Nestor’s Chronicle, mid-6th century Procopius, 10th-century Varangian treaties 3. primary story: a creation myth, in which he battles Veles, the Slavic god of the underworld, for the protection of his wife (Mokosh, goddess of summer) and the freedom of atmospheric water, as well as for the control of the universe. 4. dvoeverie: After Christianization in the 11th century CE, Perun's cult became associated with St. Elias (Elijah), also known as the Holy Prophet Ilie (or Ilija Muromets or Ilja Gromovik), who is said to have ridden madly with a chariot of fire across the sky, and punished his enemies with lightning bolts.

In Slavic mythology: Perun was the supreme god of the pre-Christian Slavic pantheon, although there is evidence that he supplanted Svarog (the god of the sun) as the leader at some point in history. Perun was a pagan warrior of heaven and patron protector of warriors. As the liberator of atmospheric water (through his creation tale battle with the dragon Veles), he was worshipped as a god of agriculture, and bulls and a few humans were sacrificed to him. In 988, the leader of the Kievan Rus' Vladimir I pulled down Perun's statue near Kyiv (Ukraine) and it was cast into the waters of the Dneiper River. As recently as 1950, people would cast gold coins in the Dneiper to honor Perun.

Appearance & Reputation: Perun is portrayed as a vigorous, red-bearded man with an imposing stature, with silver hair and a golden mustache. He carries a hammer, a war ax, and/or a bow with which he shoots bolts of lightning. He is associated with oxen and represented by a sacred tree—a mighty oak. He is sometimes illustrated as riding through the sky in a chariot drawn by a goat. In illustrations of his primary myth, he is sometimes pictured as an eagle sitting in the top branches of the tree, with his enemy and battle rival Veles the dragon curled around its roots.

Perun is associated with Thursday—the Slavic word for Thursday "Perendan" means "Perun's Day"—and his festival date was June 21.

Reports: The earliest reference to Perun is in the works of the Byzantine scholar Procopius (500–565 CE), who noted that the Slavs worshipped the "Maker of Lightning" as the lord over everything and the god to whom cattle and other victims were sacrificed.

Perun appears in several surviving Varangian (Rus) treaties beginning in 907 CE. In 945, a treaty between the Rus' leader Prince Igor (consort of Princess Olga) and the Byzantine emperor Constantine VII included a reference to Igor's men (the unbaptized ones) laying down their weapons, shields, and gold ornaments and taking an oath at a statue of Perun—the baptized ones worshipped at the nearby church of St. Elias. The Chronicle of Novgorod (compiled 1016–1471) reports that when the Perun shrine in that city was attacked, there was a serious uprising of the people, all suggesting that the myth had some long-term substance.

B. Kors/Xors/Chors

- most frequently mentioned Slavic god, after Perun - dvoeverie: appears in the apocryphal work Sermon and Apocalypse of the Holy Apostles, which mentions Perun and Khors as old men; Khors is said to live in Cyprus. Khors also appears in the apocryphal text Conversation of the Three Saints, a text which combines Slavic + Christian + Bogomil traditions. In it, he is referred to as “an angel of thunder” and it is said that he is Jewish. - his functions are uncertain and there are multiple interpretations of his name.

1. Sun God hypothesis: associated with Dazhbog; in The Tale of Igor’s Campaign, Prince Vseslav, who “came to Tmutarakani before the cocks" and "Khors ran his way", traveled from west to east and thus reached the castle before the cocks crowed, and in this way "overtook" the Sun; his name means “rays.”

2. Moon God hypothesis: Prince Vseslav was called “wolf” and his journey takes place at night when the sun is absent from the sky; his name does mean “rays” but they’re the moon’s rays and not the sun’s rays.

3. Fertility God/Vegetation hypothesis: link between Thracian & early Slavic cultures indicates Kors is more of a Dionysus-type figure, who dies and is risen; like Dionysus, Dazhbog (who Kors is often linked to) has a double nature (Eastern Slavs assign him solar qualities, while Southern Slavs assign him chthonic qualities).

C. Dazhbog

1. equivalent to: Khors (Russian/Iranian), Mithra (Persian), Helios (Greek), Lucifer (Christian) 2. primary sources: John Malalas, The Song of Igor’s Campaign 3. family: Son of Svarog, brother of fire god Svarozhich, husband of Mesyats (the moon), father of the Zoryi and Zvezdy 4. primary myth: He resided in the east, in a land of everlasting summer and plenty, in a palace made of gold. The morning and evening auroras, known collectively as Zorya, were his daughters. In the morning, Zorya opened the palace gates to allow Dazbog to leave the palace and begin his daily journey across the sky; in the evening, Zorya closed the gates after the sun returned in the evening. 5. dvoeverie: There was a belief that each winter he would enter people's homes and gift gold to those who had been good. That belief passed into Christianity, especially in Serbia, and this visitor was called Polo��ajnik. During Christianisation, his cult was exchanged with the cult of Saint Sava, while Dažbog became lame Daba - the most powerful demon in Hell. Reasons why he was demonized are various, possibly because his cult was the strongest in Serbia or because he was considered also as the god of Nav, the Slavic underworld and world of the dead.

In Slavic mythology: Dazbog was the Slavic sun god, a role that is common to many Indo-European people, and there is ample evidence that there was a sun cult in the pre-Christian tribes of central Europe. His name means "day god" or "giving god," to different scholars—"Bog" is generally accepted to mean "god," but Daz means either "day" or "giving."

His totem animal was a wolf, therefore wolves were sacred animals and killing them was considered a great sin. Wolves were considered to be messengers of Dazhbog, while he himself could shift into a white wolf.

According to one myth, Svarog became tired of reigning over the universe and passed on his power to his sons, Dazhbog and Svarogich.

Appearance & Reputation: Dazbog is said to ride across the sky in a golden chariot drawn by fire-breathing horses who are white, gold, silver, or diamonds. In some tales, the horses are beautiful and white with golden wings, and sunlight comes from the solar fire shield Dazbog always carries with him. At night, Dazbog wanders the sky from east to west, crossing the great ocean with a boat pulled by geese, wild ducks, and swans.

In some tales, Dazbog starts out in the morning as a young, strong man but by the evening he is a red-faced, bloated elderly gentleman; he is reborn every morning. He represents fertility, male power, and in "The Song of Igor's Campaign" he is mentioned as the grandfather of the Slavs.

4. Stribog

Very little is known about him, although he was clearly very important to early Slavic peoples. In the epic ”Slovo o polku Igorove “ it is said that the winds, the grandsons of Stribog, blow from the sea. This leads to conclusion that Stribog is imagined as an old person, since he has grandsons. The grandsons were the winds from all directions.

Eagle was the animal consecrated to  Stribog. Plants consecrated to Stribog were hawthorn and oak. When pledges were made, Stribog was often warrantor. Festivities in Stribog’s honor were organized in the summer as well as in the winter. They were probably organized in the summer  in order to invocate winds and rain, while in the winter they were organized in order to appease him. In the period of Christianization Stribog’s characteristics were overtaken by St. Bartholomew and Stevan vetroviti (windy).

5. Simargl/Semargl

- may be equivalent to Simurgh in Persian mythology, who is portrayed similarly (winged lion and/or dog). He can also take human form. - God of physical fire (as opposed to celestial fire; that’s Svarog) - He is said to be the husband of Kupalnica (or Kupalnitsa), goddess of night, from whom he got two children: Kupalo and Kostroma.

Zorya, solar goddesses who are servants or daughters of the deity Dazhbog, keep Simargl chained to the star Polaris in the constellation Ursa Minor. Should he break free and destroy this constellation, it will cause the world to end.

Why would he be worshipped in Rus’, you ask? A couple of possible answers: a. Eastern Slavs borrowed Simargl from Sarmatian-Alanian people and worshiped him. b. Eastern Slavs never worshiped Simargl. Just at that time, a significant number of Kiev residents were of Khazar and Sarmatian-Alanian origin. Vladimir included their deity in the pantheon to get their support.

6. Volos/Veles (also Vlas, Weles Vlasii, St. Blaise, or Blasius)

1. equivalent to: Velinas (Baltic), Varuna (Vedic), Hermes (Greek), Odin (Norse) 2. primary sources: The Tale of Igor’s Campaign, old Russian chronicles 3. primary myth: a creation myth, in which Veles abducts Mokosh (the Goddess of Summer and consort of Perun, God of Thunder). Perun and his enemy battle for the universe under a huge oak, Perun's holy tree, similar to both Greek and Norse (Yggdrasil) mythologies. The battle is won by Perun, and afterward, the waters of the world are set free and flowing. 4. dvoeverie: Velia remains a feast of the dead in old Lithuanian, celebrating the border between the world of the living and the world of the dead, with Veles operating as a role of guiding souls to the underworld. The battle between Perun (Ilija Muromets or St. Elias) and Veles (Selevkiy) is found in many different forms, but in later stories, instead of gods, they are complementary figures separated from one another by a furrow plowed by Christ, who converts them. Veles is also likely represented by St. Vlasii, depicted in Russian iconography as surrounded by sheep, cows, and goats.

In Slavic mythology: A second creation myth associated with Veles is the formation of the boundary between the underworld and the human world, a result of a treaty forged between Veles and a shepherd/magician.

In the treaty, the unnamed shepherd pledges to sacrifice his best cow to Veles and keep many prohibitions. Then he divides the human world from the wild underworld led by Veles, which is either a furrow plowed by Veles himself or a groove across the road carved by the shepherd with a knife which the evil powers cannot cross.

Veles is associated with a wide variety of powers and protectors: he is associated with poetry and wisdom, the lord of the waters (oceans, seas, ships, and whirlpools). He is both the hunter and protector of cattle and the lord of the underworld, a reflection of the Indo-European concept of the netherworld as a pasture. He is also related to an ancient Slavic cult of the deceased soul; the ancient Lithuanian term "welis" means "dead" and "welci" means "dead souls."

Appearance & Reputation: Veles is generally portrayed as a bald human man, sometimes with bull horns on his head. In the epic creation battle between Velos and Perun, however, Veles is a serpent or dragon lying in a nest of black wool or on a black fleece beneath the World Tree; some scholars have suggested he was a shape-shifter. In addition to domestic horses, cows, goats, and sheep, Veles is associated with wolves, reptiles, and black birds (ravens and crows). 

Reports: The earliest reference to Veles is in the Rus-Byzantine Treaty of 971, in which the signers must swear by Veles' name. Violators of the treaty are warned of a menacing punishment: they will be killed by their own weapons and become "yellow as gold," which some scholars have interpreted as "cursed with a disease." If so, that would imply a connection to the Vedic god Varuna, also a cattle god who could send diseases to punish miscreants.

7. Mokosh

1. loosely comparable to: Gaia, Hera (Greek), Juno (Roman), Astarte (Semitic) 2. epithets: Goddess Who Spins Wool, Mother Moist Earth, Flax Woman 3. primary sources: Nestor Chronicle (a.k.a. Primary Chronicle), Christian-recorded Slavic tales 4. dvoeverie: With the coming of Christianity into the Slavic countries in the 11th century CE, Mokosh was converted to a saint, St. Paraskeva Pyanitsa (or possibly the Virgin Mary), who is sometimes defined as the personification of the day of Christ's crucifixion, and others a Christian martyr. Described as tall and thin with loose hair, St. Paraskeva Pyanitsa is known as "l'nianisa" (flax woman), connecting her to spinning. She is the patroness of merchants and traders and marriage, and she defends her followers from a range of diseases.

In Slavic mythology:  The origins of Mokosh as mother earth may date to pre-Indo-European times (Cuceteni or Tripolye culture, 6th–5th millennia BCE) when a near-global woman-centered religion is thought to have been in place. Some scholars suggest she may be a version of Finno-Ugric sun goddess Jumala. 

Mokosh, sometimes transliterated as Mokoš and meaning "Friday," is Moist Mother Earth and thus the most important (or sometimes only) goddess in the religion. As a creator, she is said to have been discovered sleeping in a cave by a flowering spring by the spring god Jarilo, with whom she created the fruits of the earth. She is also the protector of spinning, tending sheep, and wool, patron of merchants and fishermen, who protects cattle from plague and people from drought, disease, drowning, and unclean spirits.

Although the Great Goddess has a variety of consorts, both human and animal, in her role as a primary Slavic goddess, Mokosh is the moist earth goddess and is set against (and married to) Perun as the dry sky god. Some Slavic peasants felt it was wrong to spit on the earth or beat it. During the Spring, practitioners considered the earth pregnant: before March 25 ("Lady Day"), they would neither construct a building or a fence, drive a stake into the ground or sow seed. When peasant women gathered herbs they first lay prone and prayed to Mother Earth to bless any medicinal herbs.

Appearance & Reputation: Surviving images of Mokosh are rare—although there were stone monuments to her beginning at least as long ago as the 7th century. A wooden cult figure in a wooded area in the Czech Republic is said to be a figure of her. Historical references say she had a large head and long arms, a reference to her connection with spiders and spinning. Symbols associated with her include spindles and cloth, the rhombus (a nearly global reference to women's genitals for at least 20,000 years), and the Sacred Tree or Pillar.There are many goddesses in the various Indo-European pantheons who reference spiders and spinning. Historian Mary Kilbourne Matossian has pointed out that the Latin word for tissue "textere" means "to weave," and in several derivative languages such as Old French, "tissue" means "something woven." The act of spinning, suggests Matossian, is to create body tissue. The umbilical cord is the thread of life, transmitting moisture from the mother to the infant, twisted and coiled like the thread around a spindle. The final cloth of life is represented by the shroud or "winding sheet," wrapped around a corpse in a spiral, as thread loops around a spindle.

Our brief survey of agrarian holidays indicates that the peasant’s central concern is fertility and that special rites in the cemetery and/or rites involving a symbolic death & resurrection are a major component in these celebrations.

Belief in the absolute sanctity of “Mother Damp Earth” (Mat’syra zemlia) has been central to folk belief throughout the centuries. In remote areas, old people observed a ritual of asking the earth’s forgiveness prior to death into the 20th century. A number of scholars have maintained that peasants transferred attributes of earth worship to their particular veneration of Mary as “Mother of God.”

Fedotov: “At every step in studying Russian popular religion, one meets the constant longing for a great divine female power, be it embodied in the image of Mary or someone else. Is it too daring to hypothesize, on the basis of this religious propensity, the scattered elements of the cult of a Great Goddess who once...reigned upon the immense Russian plains?”

[redorich]

Soooo.... is there more of that Hermit!Tommy battle?

here’s the last part :)

Xisuma stalks through the rubble of the Dream SMP, armored boots crunching on gravel and broken glass. Fundy, as far as he knows, is still face-down in a river somewhere. As rain pours down his visor, seeps into the cracks, and sparks his electrocuted skin, Xisuma wonders what’s drawn him to water so much today; here he stands, watching the water below him churn underneath the docks and eat away at the shore. Xisuma himself stands high above it all, atop a small, jagged mountain.

He hears the tell-tale shing of a riptide trident. Thank every star in the void-- if Xisuma has to deal with a channelling trident right now, after his last fight, he thinks he may just sit down and quit. Even though he can already tell who’s behind him from their warped presence alone, Xisuma turns wearily to face his next opponent.

Dream stands before him, breathing oddly in a way that indicates at least one cracked rib. His mask is shattered, and more of his face is bloody than clean. From the looks of things, Techno must have scratched him on the thin skin above his eyebrows. Xisuma knows intimately how that wound bleeds profusely, how it gets into one’s eyes and makes it impossible to see. Dream’s obviously coming down from a potion high, and his netherite chestplate is in shambles.

"So much for 'Technoblade never dies', huh?" Dream says confidently. Xisuma can see right through him; despite Dream's easy smirk, he's barely able to stand.

Xisuma's long past the point of asking nicely for his opponent to surrender. He says nothing, and a purple glow oozes up from out of the ground; the stone beneath the men's feet is overlaid with a runic circle: a tell-tale sign of admin magic.

Dream's not as experienced in admin magic, but he's an excellent fighter. Instead of meeting Xisuma's magic with his own, Dream bursts forward in a bout of speed that causes his fractured ribs to shriek in protest, and knees Xisuma solidly in the solar plexus. The hermit wheezes and his runic circle falters, but he does not respond. While he pours all his being into this work of admin magic, Dream is free to ravage his physical form, already battered as it is by Fundy. Dream’s axe is long gone, as is his sword, but his fists are more than enough.

“So you’re just going to give up?!” Dream demands. “You won’t even bother to fight me head-on, you’ve got to waste all your energy on some magic attack that won’t even work? I’ll kill you before you can set it off. You’ll have died for nothing. All your people will have died for nothing.”

Again, Xisuma says nothing. Rage bubbles up from deep inside him. He allows Dream, the vile admin, to rain strike after strike upon him while Xisuma musters the power necessary for his magic attack. Fuck Dream. If Xisuma focuses enough, he can convince himself that the rain hurts worse than any pain Dream can inflict. Even as Dream claws at Xisuma’s throat, digs his fingers into already-bleeding wounds, even as Xisuma’s vision grows steadily darker, the electricity sparking through his veins keeps him wide awake. He will win this fight-- there is no “or die trying”. He will win. He will survive. He will persevere. He will...

Xisuma stumbles. The magic circle dims for a moment. How long can he keep this up?

“Just die already!” Dream growls out. “There’s nothing you can do--!”

From high in the sky, obscured by inclement weather, a red blur divebombs rapidly and throws all its weight into kicking Dream in the head. He falls like a stone, groaning. “What the fuck..?”

Grian stands proudly, elytra fluttering in the harsh wind. Behind him, Tommy launches up into the air with a riptide trident and lands at Grian’s side.

Dream’s mind is overheating. It’s firing on all cylinders and then some, trying to process and calculate everything. Tommy’s escaped from prison. He’s got a trident, but no armor-- Grian must not have had a spare set, and as it is Grian’s vulnerable because he’s wearing an elytra instead of a chestplate. Damn it, why didn’t he keep track of the sky? How many other enemies are hidden within the dark storm clouds? Can he kill Xisuma before Grian attacks? Does Grian have a weapon? He must have been the one to give Tommy the trident, but Tommy’s been away from where he belongs-- under Dream’s heel-- and Dream can’t predict whether or not Tommy will attack him.

“Hello, Dream,” Grian says mildly, breaking Dream out of his own head. It’s an almost friendly tone, but it still sounds ominous.

Dream is instantly proven right when Grian holds out his hand for Tommy to return the borrowed trident. The moment the weapon touches his fingers, he yanks Tommy in front of him, pins him in place from behind, and holds the deadly gleaming trident prongs to the teen’s neck.

“Grian, what--?!” Tommy yelps, then whimpers when Grian roughly jostles the trident.

“No,” Dream breathes. His heart drops into his stomach. “Don’t you dare.”

Grian smiles. “You were right, Dream-- I never cared about Tommy. None of us did. We hermits always want what we can’t have. Diamonds are too easy for us. Netherite means nothing. We saw Tommy, and we knew he was running from the man who owned him. Now we own him. And I’m the one who gets the privilege of killing him, so you can never have him!”

Dream’s face, bare as it is, is painted clear to see with fear. Horrified, he wheezes through his pain with wide eyes. He’s still on the ground.

“Do you have anything to say, Tommy?” Grian asks sweetly. “Any last words for Dream?”

Through teary eyes, Tommy looks down at Dream. He bites his lip, fists his hands in the spare fabric of his pants. “Dream...” he says hesitantly, then grins widely. “Get fucked, green boy!”

The purple runes at their feet flare brightly. Dream snaps his gaze to Xisuma, who has gone completely forgotten in the whirlwind of revelations. Tommy and Grian, who Dream now understands faked the whole hostage situation, both tackle him to keep him from exiting the magic circle.

Dream wakes up when he does not remember ever losing consciousness. He's still in the exact same position was was in last he remembers, so he can't have been out for long. There’s a beat-up guy in armor, a guy in a red sweater, and... Tommy. Oh Lord, Dream thinks, what has he done?

He looks down from the mountain and sees blood and bodies everywhere. He did this. This is his fault.

“Stand down!” he yells as loud as he can. It’s not like it’ll make much of a difference; there’s not many people left alive to stand down.

Grian edges closer to Dream, who still hasn’t gotten up. Dream doubts his legs will support him.

“Hey, shh, we can fix this,” Grian says.

Dream fists his hands in his hair, tears beading in the corners of his eyes. “There’s nothing left to fix! Why aren’t you killing me? Your people are dead, too!”

Xisuma flinches, but Grian’s face hardens slightly. “You’re the admin here,” Grian says, “all you have to do is bring them back.”

“But-- but they-- canon lives--”

Tommy interrupts Dream. “Canon lives?! Who was it that came up with the idea in the first place, huh? Was it you?”

Dream’s shoulders slump and he hangs his head in defeat. “...Yes.”

Grian slaps him upside the head. It’s not hard enough to do any damage, but Dream is already so wrecked that it sends his head spinning.

“Idiot,” Grian says. “It was the dreamon, not you. Nothing’s stopping you from reviving everyone.”

“They’ll just start fighting again,” Dream says, grasping at straws.

Xisuma shrugs, though it looks painful. “Then turn PvP off.”

“...They’ll kill me. I’d deserve it.”

Tommy puts his arm around Dream’s shoulder, helping him sit up all the way. This is so fucked, that the kid-- literal kid-- Dream tortured and manipulated is showing him pity.

“It wasn’t you, who did those things,” Tommy says, as though he can read Dream’s thoughts. Perhaps he can. Dream’s face is very expressive, he knows; it’s part of why he wears the mask in the first place.

“It was, Tommy. You of all people should understand this, you should hate me the most! I remember everything I did to you,” Dream cuts himself off, takes a ragged breath, and continues. “I remember planning out what I did, feeling satisfied with it, the blood was on my hands.”

Tommy frowns sharply, though his arm still hasn’t left Dream’s shoulders. “So that’s it, then? You’re too much of a pussy to even try? If it’s really your fault, then you should be the one to fix your mess.”

Now that, that Dream can understand. He nods shakily, calling up an admin console. “When I’m done, put me in the prison. I don’t want to hurt anyone like this ever again.”

The two hermits look at each other unhappily over Dream and Tommy’s heads, but say nothing. They watch as all across the server, mutilated corpses dissipate into fine white pixels, and people begin to respawn. The hermits and Dream SMP citizens alike raise their weapons, but find that PvP does no damage any longer.

Dream is crying.

“Come with us,” Grian offers on a whim. Xisuma startles, but sees where Grian is going.

“Yeah, why don’t you come to Hermitcraft? You can be alone there.”

“Why can’t I be alone here?” Dream asks sullenly.

Tommy grins. “Think of it like a therapy vacation.” When the two hermits laugh, he laughs with them. “Worked for me, didn’t it?”

Holding out a hand for Dream with deceptive casualness, he waits with bated breath for Dream to take it. Dream hesitates, wondering if he should, if he deserves it.

Fuck it. He may not deserve it, but he wants it. To Hermitcraft he goes.

[stagkingswife]

2 and 20 for the ask game! ^^

2) What draws you to your gods? What do you like about them?

I’ll be honest here, as much as I dislike the language of “calling” that is often used to describe why people pick the entities they do, but it really is the best word for how I feel. I don’t think my gods “called” to me necessarily, I use “calling” here more like how some people describe their careers as a calling. I was chosen sure, but like how one gets chosen to do a job. I had the right skills, knowledge, personality, etc that at some point Oisin decided to pick me to do this work he needed on behalf of his family.

I love how old they all feel, even Wren who presents as a child. I’ve had encounters and relationships with a lot of entities in my 25 years, and The Forgotten Ones are the most ancient entities I have ever felt. So returning them and bolstering them with my worship feels like an act of preservation. I also love how much they clearly love one another, they are clearly a close knit family. Despite the hardships they may have gone through that lead to their fracturing they all put the rest before themselves.

20) List a few deities you worship and associate each with a quote you think represents them best

I hope you’re prepared for a lot of lyrics from musicals and quotes from fantasy novels…

Drove: “Even gods understand that a shepherd can’t neglect the sheep. A god who didn’t understand would not be a god worth believing in.” Terry Pritchett - Wee Free Men

Amaranth: “Try to remember a time of September when grass was green and grain was yellow.” The Fantasticks - Try to Remember

Clovis: “Look I made a hat, where there never was a hat.” Sunday in the Park With George - Finishing the Hat

Flint: “The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination.” Albert Einstein

Axe: “I love not eh bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” - JRR Tolkien - The Two Towers.

Pesse: “Feel her bow rise free of mother sea, in a sunburst cloud of spray. It stings the cheek while the rigging will speak of sea miles gone away.” Stan Rogers - Bluenose

Or - “foam is white and waves are grey, beyond the sunset leads my way.“ Bilbo’s Last Song

Skelly: “Out of what we live and we believe, our lives become the story that we weave.” Once On This Island - Why We Tell the Story

Vega: “Are you lookin' for the moon? Would you dance with her tonight? Would you chase across the shadows as she goes slippin' out of sight? Leavin' common sense behind you for a joy that ends so soon, Rushin' through the forest blind, never knowin' what you'll find” Tom Paxton - Looking for the Moon

Wren: “Well, what you get does the wind talk? What nationality is the storm? What country do the rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does the thunder go when it dies?” Ray Bradbury - Something Wicked This Way Comes

And I tried sooooo hard to find quote, or lyrics, or anything I liked to reflect Oisin and Brona, but I think I am too close to those two, too lost in their vastness to pick one aspect or facet to capture in a quote. I tired, but I kept finding additional quotes for the others by accident.

From the polytheist ask meme.

[maandarinee]

what are all the podcasts you listen to?

anon I'm so glad you asked

Since it is a pretty long list including synopses (stolen from the podcast feed or website because I'm Bad at summaries and in some cases it's been a while since I listened) I'm going to put it under a cut.

I've separated the list into "Complete" (either finished or cancelled) and "Ongoing" podcasts. Some have additional comments by me. Current favorites are marked orange. My eternal beloved are Our Fair City and Wolf 359.

Complete

ars PARADOXICA: "When an experiment in a time much like our own goes horribly awry, Dr. Sally Grissom finds herself stranded in the past and entrenched in the activities of a clandestine branch of the US government. Grissom and her team quickly learn that there's no safety net when toying with the fundamental logic of the universe."

Blackwood: "Five years ago, Molly Weaver, Bryan Anderson, and Nathan Howell started a podcast focused on the local legend of a monster called The Blackwood Bugman. Quickly, the investigation grew out of their control, as they discovered that, not only are the legends seemingly true, many people in Blackwood have turned up dead or disappeared without a trace." --> [this feels like the Blair With Project, but as a podcast. Didn't get a second season due to no funding, but it works as a standalone]

Dreamboy: "Dane, a spun-out musician spending the winter in Cleveland, Ohio, has two main goals: keeping his job at the Pepper Heights Zoo and trying not to waste all his time on Grindr. What he doesn’t expect is to get swept into a story about dreams, about forevers, about flickering lights, about unexplained deaths, about relentless change, and about the parts of ourselves that we wish other people knew to look for. Oh, and also a murderous zebra." --> [very NSFW; does cool things with music! Didn't get a second season due to no funding, but it works as a standalone]

King Fall AM: "...centers on a lonely little mountain town's late-night AM talk radio show and its paranormal, peculiar happenings and inhabitants." --> [cancelled after 100 episodes, ends on a huge cliffhanger]

Our Fair City: "A campy, post-apocalyptic audio drama." --> [I know the description sounds like nothing but just trust me, I love it so much]

Steal the Stars: "...is a gripping noir science fiction thriller in 14 episodes: Forbidden love, a crashed UFO, an alien body, and an impossible heist unlike any ever attempted."

Stellar Firma: "...a weekly Science Fiction, Comedy podcast following the misadventures of Stellar Firma Ltd.'s highest born but lowest achieving planetary designer Trexel Geistman and his bewildered clone assistant David 7. Join them each episode as they attempt to take listener submissions and craft them into the galaxy's most luxurious, most expensive and most questionably designed bespoke planets. However, with Trexel's corporate shark of a line manager Hartro Piltz breathing down their necks and I.M.O.G.E.N., the station's omnipresent and omniinvasive stationwide A.I. monitoring those necks to within 3 decimal places, they'll be lucky to make it a week before being slurried and recycled into raw human resources." --> [semi-improvised, I thought I'd have a problem with the improv bit because that's not usually my thing, but no, I absolutely devoured this]

TANIS: "...is a serialized docudrama about a fascinating and surprising mystery: the myth of Tanis. Tanis is an exploration of the nature of truth, conspiracy, and information. Tanis is what happens when the lines of science and fiction start to blur." [+ spinoff The Last Movie] --> [I have no clue what the hell is going on here]

The Black Tapes: "...is a serialized docudrama about one journalist's searc for truth, her enigmatic subject's mysterious past, and the literal and figurative ghosts that haunt them both."

The Magnus Archives: "...is a weekly horror fiction anthology podcast examining what lurks in the archives of the Magnus Institute, an organisation dedicated to researching the esoteric and the weird. Join new head archivist Jonathan Sims as he attempts to bring a seemingly neglected collection of supernatural statements up to date, converting them to audio and supplementing them with follow-up work from his small but dedicated team. Individually, they are unsettling. Together they begin to form a picture that is truly horrifying because as they look into the depths of the archives, something starts to look back…"

Time:Bombs: "...a new audio drama podcast about the hilarious world of bomb disposal. Ride along with EOD technician Simon Teller on the busiest night of the year for him and his team - when business is, quite literally, booming."

Wolf 359: "Life's not easy for Doug Eiffel, the communications officer for the U.S.S. Hephaestus Research Station, currently on Day 448 of its orbit around red dwarf star Wolf 359. He's stuck on a scientific survey mission of indeterminate length, 7.8 light years from Earth. His only company on board the station are stern mission chief Minkowski, insane science officer Hilbert, and Hephaestus Station's sentient, often malfunctioning operating system Hera. He doesn't have much to do for his job other than monitoring static and intercepting the occasional decades-old radio broadcast from Earth, so he spends most of his time creating extensive audio logs about the ordinary, day-to-day happenings within the station. But the Hephaestus is an odd place, and life in extremely isolated, zero gravity conditions has a way of doing funny things to people's minds. Even the simplest of tasks can turn into a gargantuan struggle, and the most ordinary-seeming things have a way of turning into anything but that." --> [starts funny, turns very intense]

Ongoing

Alba Salix, Roya Physician (+ The Axe & Crown): "A witch, her apprentice, and her fairy herbalist treat the ills of a fairy-tale kingdom." + "Gubbin the troll tavernkeeper deals with his clueless new landlord, his shady niece, and some new competition."

Archive 81: "A found footage horror podcast about ritual, stories, and sound."

Arden: "A (fictional) true crime podcast about cold cases and the reporter and detective who try to solve them."

Brimstone Valley Mall: "The year is 1999. Lurking somewhere between Hot Topic and the food court, five misfit demons from Hell kill time inciting sin in a suburban shopping mall. When the lead singer of their band goes mysteriously missing, the demons only have two weeks to find him before they play the biggest gig of the millennium - or face the wrath of Satan herself."

CARAVAN: "First rule of Wound Canyon: No one who gets in, ever gets out. So when a brilliant, ghostly specter flies through the sky amid the rain and lightning, Samir stumbles off a steep cliff and into a hidden world, one in which demons, vampires, and all other manner of paranormal creatures take sanctuary." --> [also pretty NSFW and horny in general]

Death by Dying: "The Obituary Writer of Crestfall, Idaho finds himself deeply in over his head as he investigates a series of strange and mysterious deaths… when he is supposed to simply be writing obituaries. Along the way he encounters murderous farmers, man-eating cats, haunted bicycles, and a healthy dose of ominous shadows." --> [I had to stop listening to this in public because it kept making me undignified laugh and snort noises]

Desperado: "Blood magic, Voodoo magic, old gods, new gods: We've got it all! Follow the story of misfits from all over the world, as they try to survive and protect their heritage from modern-day crusaders."

EOS 10: "Doctors in space, a deposed alien prince, a super gay space pirate and a fiery nurse who'll help you win your bar fight."

Girl In Space: "Abandoned on a dying ship in the farthest reaches of known space, a young scientist fights for survival (and patience with the on-board A.I.). Who is she? No one knows. But a lot of dangerous entities really want to find out. Listen as the story unfolds for science, guns, trust, anti-matter, truth, beauty, inner turmoil, and delicious cheeses. It’s all here. In space."

Janus Descending: "...follows the arrival of two xenoarcheologists on a small world orbiting a binary star. But what starts off as an expedition to survey the planet and the remains of a lost alien civilization, turns into a monstrous game of cat and mouse, as the two scientists are left to face the creatures that killed the planet in the first place. Told from two alternating perspectives, Janus Descending is an experience of crossing timelines, as one character describes the nightmare from end to beginning, and the other, from beginning to the end." --> [absolutely harrowing horror]

Love and Luck: "...is a fictional radio play podcast, told via voicemails and set in present day Melbourne, Australia. A slice of life queer romance story with a touch of magic, it follows the relationship between two men, Jason and Kane, as their love grows both for each other and their community." --> [soft and gay, feels like a warm hug]

Potterless: "Join Mike Schubert, a grown man reading the Harry Potter series for the first time, as he sits down with HP fanatics to poke fun at plot holes, make painfully incorrect predictions, and bask in the sassiness of the characters." --> [the only non-fiction podcast on the list]

Primordial Deep: "When a long extinct sea creature washes up on the shores of Coney Island, marine biologist Dr. Marella Morgan is contacted by a secret organization to investigate the origins of the creature’s sudden and unnatural resurgence. Soon, she and a team of experts find themselves living on the research station The Tiamat, traveling along the abyssal plains as they search for answers far below the waves. But there are dangers in these ancient waters. Reawakened, prehistoric monsters are rising from the deep -- jaws wide and waiting, and in the darkness, something is stirring."

Red Valley: "No one at Overhead Industries wants to talk about defunct research station Red Valley, and account man Warren Godby is out of his depth. When he meets Gordon Porlock, a disgruntled archivist with a bag of tapes from the station’s last known occupant, they will begin a journey to the limits of experimental science, confront horror and trauma from the past, present and future, and try to remember the cheat codes from Sonic the Hedgehog 2."

Rusty Quill Gaming: "An actual play podcast following a mixed ability group of comedians, improvisers, gamers, and writers as they play through the extended, tabletop roleplaying campaign Erasing the Line, an original game world of the GM’s crafting." --> [took me a while to get into because I have trouble focusing on non-scripted things, but eventually I got really hooked on the plot and attached to the characters. This podcast is really fucked up at times if you think about it]

SAYER: "A narrative fiction podcast set on Earth’s man-made second moon, Typhon. The eponymous SAYER is a highly advanced, self-aware AI created to help acclimate new residents to their new lives, and their new employment with Ærolith Dynamics." --> [feels like Welcome to Night Vale but narrated by GLaDOS from Portal]

StarTripper!!: "Join Feston Pyxis on a road-trip through the cosmos, as he leaves behind his old life in search of the best and wildest experiences the galaxy has to offer!"

The Amelia Project: "...is a secret agency that fakes its clients' deaths, then lets them reappear with a brand new identity! A black comedy full of secrets, twists... and cocoa."

The Big Loop: "...a biweekly anthology series. Each episode is a self-contained narrative exploring the strange, the wonderful, the terrifying, and the heartbreaking. Stories of finite beings in an infinite universe." --> [I don't like anthologies, except this one]

The Bright Sessions: "Dr. Bright provides therapy for the strange and unusual; their sessions have been recorded for research purposes." --> [think X-Men, but with therapy instead of a school]

The Deca Tapes: "Recordings have surfaced of ten people that are locked into the same space together. We don’t know where they are, or if they'll get out. But the answers must be somewhere on these tapes."

The Silt Verses: "Carpenter and Faulkner, two worshippers of an outlawed god, travel up the length of their deity’s great black river, searching for holy revelations. As their pilgrimage lengthens and the river’s mysteries deepen, the two acolytes find themselves under threat from a police manhunt, but also come into conflict with the weirder gods that have flourished in these forgotten rural territories."

The White Vault: "Follow the collected records of a repair team sent to Outpost Fristed in the vast white wastes of Svalbard and unravel what lies waiting in the ice below."

Tides: "...is the story of Dr. Winifred Eurus, a xenobiologist trapped on an unfamiliar planet with hostile tidal forces. She must use her wits, sarcasm and intellectual curiosity to survive long enough to be rescued. But there might be more to life on this planet than she expected." --> [think The Martian, but on a water planet]

Unwell, a Midwestern Gothic Mystery: "Lillian Harper moves to the small town of Mt. Absalom, Ohio, to care for her estranged mother Dorothy after an injury. Living in the town's boarding house which has been run by her family for generations, she discovers conspiracies, ghosts, and a new family in the house's strange assortment of residents."

VAST Horizon: "Nolira is an agronomist tasked with establishing agriculture in a new solar system, but when she wakes up on a now- empty colony ship, the whole of her plan disappears. The ship has been set adrift, with numerous mission-critical problems requiring immediate attendance outside of her area of expertise. Nolira is aided by the ship’s malfunctioning AI, which acts as her confidant and companion during the fight for survival."

Victoriocity: "Even Greater London, 1887. In this vast metropolis, Inspector Archibald Fleet and journalist Clara Entwhistle investigate a murder, only to find themselves at the centre of a conspiracy of impossible proportions."

We Fix Space Junk: "...follows seasoned smuggler Kilner and reluctant fugitive Samantha as they travel the galaxy, dodging bullets and meeting strange and wonderful beings as they carry out odd jobs on the fringes of the law."

Welcome to Night Vale: "Twice-monthly community updates for the small desert town of Night Vale, where every conspiracy theory is true. Turn on your radio and hide."

Within the Wires: "Stories told through found audio from an alternate universe."

Wooden Overcoats: "Rudyard Funn and his equally miserable sister Antigone run their family's failing funeral parlour, where they get the body in the coffin in the ground on time. But one day they find everyone enjoying themselves at the funerals of a new competitor - the impossibly perfect Eric Chapman! With their dogsbody Georgie, and a mouse called Madeleine, the Funns are taking drastic steps to stay in the business…" --> [one of THE funniest podcasts I have ever listened to]

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame VII

Author's Note: Not much to say here, but the story's content will start to go up in rating after this, so prepare yourself for some wild changes coming! Thanks as always for being such a fantastic audience :)

Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 2336

Warnings: language, mentions of blood, master/servant dynamic

Victory had been claimed for the sons of Ragnar. They managed to secure their hold over York, banishing the idea from the Saxons' minds that they could ever again rule the city. Hostages had been taken, and through the blood and the rain, they had seen themselves suffer their share of wounds. All battles came with a price.

Ivar had acquired his injuries, most being from arrows. After he had been tended to by healers and cleansed of blood, the damage had taken its toll and the pain had set in. He was carried to his chambers by Ubbe and another warrior. Hvitserk had not been able to lend a hand as he had sustained a spear to the leg. When first brought the news of his brother's injury, Ivar had felt a stirring of worry, and hatred towards the dead Saxon soldier. For a moment he had wished for Hel to raise the dead once more if it meant he could feed the Christian his axe. He did not want to lose another member of his family, not after his mother or even Sigurd.

The pains of war felt like a bizarre punishment after the glorious charge he had led. His body betrayed him, reminding him of his humility as a cripple once the agony of his legs joined with the burning of his battle wounds. He remembered little of the healers prodding at him and had fallen into a restless sleep, halfway between consciousness and oblivion. 

When he came around again, he was roused by the smell of flowers in the dead of night. A fire was burning low in the hearth, and as he turned his head towards the table at his side, a clay vase had been filled with those familiar purple blooms. They had a delicate, sweet smell, the likes of which he had never seen around Kattegat. The harsh winters of home were something he doubted they could have withstood. 

Ivar shifted carefully, trying to sit up when he took notice of the dip in the bed beside him. You were above the furs, sitting upright with your back against the wall at the head of the bed. Ólaug, or Catherine; he wasn't certain what to call you. You must have meant to sit down only for a moment but had fallen asleep instead. His eyes traced over the restful look on your face, a pleasant change from the terror that had been there the last time.

Remembering everything Hvitserk had told him, he was brought back to a state of frustration. He didn't want your fear, he wanted your admiration. You had passion when you spoke with him, something that had been driven out by this treacherous spy.

Ivar brought his attention back to his sleeping nun, taking in the rest of you. His gaze was drawn to the particular detail of your exposed calf. Your frock had ridden up to your knee, leaving your lower leg open to the air. He often found himself mesmerized by the beauty of women's legs, admitting only to himself that it was because of his disgust for his own. The smooth curve of your calf met a delicate ankle, that extended to a long, narrow foot. 

He wanted to feel the heat of your soft skin, and there was no battle with temptation as he brought his hand towards the exposed flesh. His rough knuckles dragged down on your smooth skin like hail against a silk sheet. The sensation was heady, and the walls of the room felt closer from the rush of lust. Ivar was emboldened. He wrapped his hand around your ankle, forgetting from your time as his thrall that you were a light sleeper.

Your head that had been tucked into your chest jerked up, and you lurched forward, startled awake by his hand. Your eyes met and Ivar could see the same fear there that took hold of an animal before it was about to bolt away. He wasn't going to tolerate that. In no mood or condition to chase you, Ivar tightened his hold on your ankle and tugged you down on the bed with harsh force. You let out a sharp gasp, unable to collect yourself before he had you trapped below him. Everything hurt, but he struggled through the discomfort as he held himself up by his arms above you.

"I did not invite you to share my bed, Christian."

"My apologies," You sputtered. "I'm only here because your brothers do not know which slaves they can trust."

Ivar let out a huff of annoyance, unadjusted to his brothers' concerns for his well-being. It was behaviour he had come to expect from his mother, and maybe Floki. "Right, a spy who is a threat to my life, and whispers in your ear."

Your eyes that had been downcast returned to his face. "Hvitserk told you?"

"My brothers tell me everything. You were mistaken to think otherwise."

He reached for your arm between them, the one covered with the cloth bandage. You were quick to snatch it away, your face coloured in shame. Ivar brought his hand up to your cheek instead, stroking below the bruise that he had yet to get a full explanation. "Stop that, please," You whispered. 

"You believe I'll hurt you, even after I've shown to be generous towards you."

"But I am only a slave, and I mean nothing to you. If you killed your brother, what chance do I have of being spared?"

Ivar frowned. It seemed the spy had filled you in on more than just the Bishop. "You know about Sigurd?"

 You nodded. "I know you murdered him, like Cain slew Abel."

He did not know of these men for whom you spoke of, but he had the unfortunate feeling that the comparison was not of flattery. Now that you knew things about him that he would not have shared likely, he felt at a disadvantage. He eased away from you, only for you to let out a cry of surprise as he pulled back.

"Ivar," You exclaimed, shoving your palm at the center of his chest so he would lie back down.

He spotted or rather felt what you had seen. It seemed one of his wounds had opened up on his side, the blood leaving a cold, damp stain on his tunic. You leapt up and over him, setting to work on filling a bowl with water. Your fast pace that you had set was dizzying. Ivar watched as you opened up the leather pouch that had been abandoned on the table until now. It contained healing supplies. Your lack of hesitation for what you grabbed proved you were capable, and you were back at his side without pause.

"Off with this, please," You instructed him to shed his tunic, and you had water touching skin the moment he had discarded the soiled clothing. "Look what you've done."

Ivar had never seen you look so disapproving. It was endearing. That you had scolded him by name had not slipped past his notice. "Ivar?"

You paused long enough in your work for your eyes to widen with understanding. "Oh, forgive me. I should not have been so bold."

He turned more towards you while you continued to work, giving a small shrug in response. "It is my name, and I am no longer your master. Perhaps you should cease with formalities."

"No, it wouldn't be proper. You are still a Prince, and leader of an army."

"Then I must insist on calling you Ólaug." 

He let out a hiss as you took the needle to his skin, halting only a moment to let him adjust to the discomfort before moving to close the wound. You shot him a small smile, and he grunted from time to time with each passing of the point through his flesh. 

"But that's not my name," You insisted as you tied off the end of the stitch, cutting away the remainder of the loose thread with a small knife.

"And it isn't Catharine," Ivar shot back. "So tell me, who are you?"

You sat back on your chair, resting your hands in your lap. They were pink and red from his blood, with dark grime under your short nails. A healer's hands. His own were rough and stained with blood, but from taking lives, not saving them.

"Why is my old name so important? This is the second time you've asked it from me."

"I've never known someone to abandon their name. Your God asks strange things of you."

"As I'm sure yours do as well," You said with no unkindness in your tone. "May I ask about the markings on your back?"

"Your men do not have tattoos?"

You shook your head, eyes wide and full of curiosity. "The body is meant to be untainted, and we should be satisfied with what God gave us."

And yet they made women cut their hair before entering a nunnery. Ivar did not say as much. You were finally allowing your guard to slip, falling back into another one of your conversations that he'd missed. 

"We do not read or write in books as you do, but we preserve our stories in runes and symbols. Tattoos are just another way to honour the Gods."

"Did they hurt?"

Ivar let out a gruff laugh. "I was born into suffering. I hardly remember what it felt like to have the colours bleed under my skin. But any sacrifice to the Gods is a privilege, be it in pain, or a life."

"I don't understand how your gods could demand the life of their people," You said, a distraught look falling over you.

"And I don't understand why you Christians nail your people up on crosses."

"It is an act of punishment and humiliation for the criminal. It should dissuade others from committing the same sins."

Ivar smirked. "But we're the savages?"

"I don't claim to be a delegate for all Christians, but I don't believe you are savages. I sometimes think we are similar."

Viking and Christian alike; impossible. "You are naive to think that."

"Maybe so," You said, coming to a stand as you started to clean up your supplies. "But this fighting for York could have been prevented if the King had settled on negotiations with you and your brothers. Our holy Father blessed us all with free will, and we chose to fight and kill, just as your people have."

"A war is a strange place to search for peace," He retorted.

You let a chuckle escape, turning to him with a face flooded in pink. It was beautiful. "Indeed."

There was a prolonged stretch of silence, neither one of them filling it until you returned to sit at the foot of the bed. Ivar liked to think you were comfortable enough in his presence for the moment that you had not felt the need to fill it with empty words.

"Is peace what you want for your people?" He prodded while shifting underneath the furs.

"I'm not in a position to speak on such matters as this is the most exposure I've seen of battle. I suppose peace is better than tending to bloody men, and women waiting at home for husbands and sons who will never return."

"And what about you? If you could wish for anything in this world, what would it be?"

Your face turned to weariness, and for a moment he suspected he had offended you. He would have offered to take the words back if it would have helped, but you chose to answer.

"I wish I was happy," You said in a voice so low that Ivar had almost missed what you had said. But he had heard, to which he frowned in confusion. "You thought I would ask for freedom?"

"Isn't that what all those in enslavement hope for?" He rebuked. 

"Before I was captured by you heathens, I was still a prisoner. This is just a different cage."

"I thought being a nun was an honour?" He couldn't help but sneer the words, but you did not appear dismayed.

"When I joined the convent, it was for a sense of duty. It brought me contentment, but there was no joy in my days." 

You brought your legs up onto the furs, settling in without regard of whom you were close to. Ivar was pleased by your unintentional behaviour, mesmerized by your fingers as you trailed them through the thick pelted covers.

"I don't understand," He spoke up eventually, long enough to break his concentration on your stroking of the furs.

"Of course you don't. You are a man, a Viking, and a prince. Your life was marked with freedom of choice the moment you drew breath. If I was granted freedom this very moment, where would I go?"

'With me', he thought but did not say the petulant thought aloud. If it was happiness you desired, then he would give it to you.

"I've intruded on you long enough. Would you like me to leave?" You enquired,  moving to stand.

"No, stay," he commanded without thinking, and the harshness of his voice caused you to flinch. Taking a quick breath through his nose, he tried again. "Tell me about Cain and Abel."

You eased back onto the bed, choosing to stay out of arm's reach as you delved into your tale. Ivar listened, enraptured by the passion that took over you in the telling. His own heart was beating with a different excitement, and he wondered how much longer he could keep his adoration from you. You were a Christian disguised in heavy frocks and gaudy crosses, but beneath all of that lurked a free woman longing to burst forth, and Ivar was going to draw her out.

Taglist

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[charm-in-spades]

DΣᄃIMΛƬIӨП

Themes: Blood, War, Revenge, Death. | Mood: [♠]

The sky was at war with itself. That could be the only conclusion, looking up into the churning mass of obsidian and greys. These were the thoughts of a senior Decurio while overseeing the midnight patrol that evening.

If he peered up long enough into the swirling abyss, he could imagine its churning shapes instead as a mosh pit collision of combative front-lines while the thunderous booms and brilliant flashes became explosives detonating within the masses. The crooked lightning itself he saw as long and jagged shrapnel, while the rain fell as a million tiny payloads that would reshape the swampy landscape below.

The super-cell was a freak storm unlike any other that had not been anticipated by the vet, and its sudden appearance and continued growth set the Imperial on edge. His men were also nervous, and tittered anxiously amongst themselves. He was the leading rank, but like him, they were also seasoned soldiers so their behavior stood out to him as further reason for concern. There was something unnatural in the rain and the groan of the furious wind. It became apparent to the Decurio that they would need to return back to the castrum.

Visibility had been reduced to several fulms at best in the torrential downpour and even with the height gifted to him by the magitek sky armor he piloted, he could make out little of anything between the dark trees. He found his worries heightened by the irritable response of static over the communication lines when he tried to radio back to base and inform them of his decision. No response.

What the decurion did not realize was that return was no longer an option for them.

When he did, the realization came too late. Something slammed into the hull of his sky armor, causing it to teeter precariously. The head of an axe had embedded itself into the plate exterior, pinning one of his men to it's side and completely skewering another. The corpse hung loosely, like a marionette with its strings cut. The soldiers were confused at first, unsettled the next as the cadaver began to do an unnatural jig.

The axe had begun to tremble violently, vibrating against the armor it had lodged against before it seemed to wrench free from the body of steel and fling itself back into the night. They could see nothing in the dark, but when lightning flashed overhead, briefly illuminating an imposing shape at a distance they did not hesitate to open fire. The moment erupted in chaos.

It was not a pretty sight, and each flashing burst of gunfire and lightning revealed a scene more gruesome than the last as brief instances of darkness were punctuated by the screams of soldiers being cleaved in several parts. He had never witnessed such savagery, as a sanguine spray splattered across the outside of the protective glass shell that surrounded the cockpit.

The decurion could no longer see anything from within the confines of his vehicle which did not respond to any of his frenzied console commands. Flashing red emergency lights from within told him that its primary functions had been compromised and so he watched helplessly as his men dove for cover and fired at a figure that moved so seamlessly between them and the environment. There was a militaristic efficiency between each death and the next and by the sixth felling, those that were left had become desperate to avoid their own ends.

They gave ground quickly and retreated behind his machina until he could no longer view them. The officer heard the cry signaling explosive measures, and he saw the beeping canister soar through the sky towards the figure who had chased them back. He moved impossibly fast, his axe glinting against the thundering sky as it connected with the grenade and launched it back towards his vehicle. It landed between the legs of his Predator and the Decurion was helpless to escape the blast.

His world erupted in fire. The shake and boom of it deafened him while the groaning crunch of metal and screaming tinnitus pierced his skull. There was smoke in his lungs, the ground had become the sky and he could not feel his legs. Blind now in one eye, it took time to make sense of the battlezone around him. His men were still shouting, and he could not save them. Only watch them fall victim to what could only be described as a terrible force of nature.

The sloppy earth seemed to churn and shift as if a restless giant tossed and turned beneath its layers, and seemed to conform to the will of the unknown assailant. At least, it seemed that way to the Decurion, who could not trust his vision in entirety as at times it seemed soldiers were simply swallowed by the very ground they stood upon.

The mud became further saturated by the bloodshed, tears and the constant downpour as jagged pikes of rock and spears of lightning decimated the people he had once fought with and likely would now die with. The man, if he could even be called that, began to pulse and crackle like the sky itself, warping the environment around him in a magnetic polarization. The smell of ozone and charred bones permeated the air and made the officer nauseous. He did not consider himself a man with a weak stomach.

It was both methodical and destructive, the ways in which the Decurion’s people were dispatched. Some did not die immediately, and those soldiers were finished off with swift and savage blows from an axe. The brute collected his weapon from the husk of a soldier with little regard, and with his halved-vision the Imperial could see clearly the savage before him, and the seeping red that bled from his eyes in a wispy, crimson trail of mist. The Decurion might have been hallucinating, but he found himself asking,

“What are you?”

The beast turned its head.

𝚃o 𝙱e 𝙲ontinued...

[a-smile-hides]

HIS LAST PRAYER - I.R.

Pairing: Ivar x reader

SUM: Lying in the dirt, Ivar’s final thoughts go to the one who had his heart as he says his final prayer.

Warnings: mentions of battle, blood, death, character death, angst (this time I did succeed), battle of York (but then a bit rewritten so it fits into the story, hope you don’t mind), seriously this one is a bit darker...

A/N: Although the battle scenes are based on what we see in the show I feel like I should warn you all for what I wrote. But still, I actually… really like this one.

__

The sounds of war could be heard from far away.

The sound of swords clashing against each other, horses neighing as they fled from the scene, abandoning their owners. The sound of men screaming in agony as their souls left their bodies and death came to them filled the area. Mixed with the heavy rain and wind that didn’t seem to stop, the sight and sound filled anyone with horror.

On the side of the battlefield, lay a broken chariot. The horse that once stood proudly in front of it and pulled its master to the battle now lay motionless before it. Slain by those that had destroyed the chariot it tried to protect. Like true cowards, four men had sneaked on the king and attacked him from behind. First, they pulled him off his wagon and removed anything that could be used as a weapon from his body. Then, as he was still in shock and trying to recover from his dreadful fall of his chariot, the men used all their might to destroy his chariot, making sure that he couldn’t escape. After they kicked and tortured him, the men left him to bleed to death under the pieces of wood that they used to beat him.

It was almost funny, how those soldiers just found their courage and attacked him, right when he had pierced their king’s heart with his arrow.

Ivar laughed at the thought. Had they found their bravery a bit sooner, then they wouldn’t have lost their king. The only one who fuelled their beliefs in being able to win this battle. Without him, Ivar knew they had won another battle. Right now, his forces were slowly winning ground, slaying one soldier after the other.

Ivar tried to fill his body with that good thought and forget about the throbbing pain in his left shoulder, where one of those cowards stabbed him with a sword. He gritted his teeth when another nasty wave of pain went through his body, making his vision go blurry. Not one of his soldiers, not even one of his older brothers had come to his aid yet. But maybe it was better that way. Like this, they were able to finish their fight, win this battle and conquer a new land. Like this, he would be remembered as a great king. One that fought alongside his men and died with them. One that was a true hero and would live on forever because of stories that would follow when one spoke of his name.

Real heroes never die, right?

Ivar chuckled as he heard your voice say those words. He quickly took in a deep breath when another wave of pain went through his body, but allowed himself to be warmed when he thought of your sweet voice whispering those words to him when he decided to go with his father on that cursed journey.

You had sat beside him in the great hall when he had agreed to go with his father to England. Not muttering a word of objection. Never expressing your worries. It was when you were sitting next to him on the beach, looking at the men that Ragnar had bribed preparing the ship, that he had told you about his mother’s prophecy. And even though he didn’t show it, you heard the fear in his voice when he mentioned the storm. You had fallen silent after the news, not knowing what to say. Until you surprised him with your words of ‘wisdom’. 

***

“Real heroes never die, right?” you muttered softly.

Ivar snorted, looking towards the ships again. “Since when have you come to that conclusion?”

You let out a breath, hiding your face behind your hair.

“Real heroes never die. Isn’t it so in all the stories and legends Floki told us when we were children?”

Ivar nodded his head.

“You’re a loyal man, Ivar. Never have you betrayed your father nor said a foul word about him. You crawl around in the dirt, but your head is held up high. Your mind can think of great things no other will ever come across. One day, you’ll be great Ivar. You’ll be feared and hated for sure, but many will find you great.” You sighed, turning your head towards the man beside you who looked back at you with widened eyes. “It isn’t your time yet, Ivar. You will return to Kattegat. And after you have lived your life and conquered the world… Your name will live on forever.”

Ivar looked ahead of him again, not saying anything. His shoulders were just as tense as they were when you approached him, his face still showed that scowl that had been there his mother told him about his evident death. You closed your eyes, thinking that your words probably caused more harm than good. Placing your hands next you, you stretched out your legs and prepared yourself to stand up. Maybe it was better to leave him by himself with his thoughts.

Until a warm hand stopped your movements. A blush warmed your skin as he slowly weaved his fingers through yours. His gaze was still pointed at the ship before him, but a small smile now evident on his lips.

***

Ivar breathed out a laugh as his mind went back to that moment. After he had returned to Kattegat, he got lost in the mission to revenge his father. But still you stayed by his side and went along with the brothers to kill King Aelle. It was like he had a shadow who never left him. But he didn’t mind it. As you were the one person who he could always lean on.

Until that battle in York.

***

You were amongst the many men and women who had to climb up the walls of York and open the gates for your comrades. It was shocking at how easily those soldiers guarding the walls were slain. As you stood on the top of the walls you laughed heartily as you saw Ubbe skilfully navigate himself to the gates. Once he reached it you used the reflection of the few beams of light the sun managed to get through the clouds on your sword to signal Ivar. You saw him nod your head at you. With that, you quickly got down the wall, wanting to be in the action once Ubbe opened those gates.

As you finally got down, you saw Ivar on his chariot screaming and doing everything he could to make his horse go faster. His brother Hvitserk was right by side, a wide grin on his face, ready to go into battle.

Chuckling at the two boys, you walked beside Ubbe who watched his fellow Vikings run into the city, slaying everyone that came across them. Nodding your head at him, you ran forwards too, stopping only when a man charged at you. Your goal wasn’t to get the highest kill count right now, it was to get back to Ivar.

As you turned a corner, you saw everyone gathered before a building. All of them looking eagerly at the big, wooden door. Ubbe walked forwards, stopping at Ivar’s chariot before walking towards Hvitserk. As they met in the middle of the crowd, you hopped onto Ivar chariot. Mirroring his smirk once one of the men opened the doors.

A low murmur that sounded like a prayer in a language you didn’t understand, came from inside, making you roll your eyes. Until suddenly, a scream echoed through the city. Somebody had finally discovered that you were all paying them a visit.

Immediately after, chaos followed. All who could, entered the church, using their weapons to stab the men or women that stood before them. Hvitserk slashed his sword against a man lying on the ground, screaming in his face. People were running around, screaming and praying. While you and Ubbe slowly entered the church, Ivar crawled in. An evil smirk plastered on his face. Clearly, he was much more comfortable in this mess. On your left, you saw Hvitserk get under the skirt of one of the women, Ivar laughing at him as he passed them. Feeling nothing but disgust for the scene in front of you, you pulled Hvitserk of the poor woman, who ran away as soon as his presence left her. He turned around angrily but held back his shout of annoyance once he met your hateful gaze.

You looked up once you heard Ivar scream, fearing that he might have hurt himself. But once you found him between the mess of slain people, you wished your eyes had never set on him. Ivar had the bishop of this city pinned under him. He laughed evilly at the man as he took the small cross in his hands. Shaking your head, you looked to the side helping the men and woman collect all the valuables.

As almost all of it was collected, most of the men went back inside the church to see what would become of the bishop Ivar had captivated. Even if you were a Viking and had slain countless of men on the battlefield before, this was too much. A battle wasn’t the same as what had just happened in here. Inhaling deeply when you heard the man utter out his last prayers, you entered the church again. Just in time to hear Ivar say “Now you can kiss your cross” before letting his men pour melted gold into the bishop’s mouth. Just in time you averted your eyes, but the gurgling sound still filled your ears.

Your nose scrunched in disgust as the mangled corpse of the bishop passed you, being dragged forward by the horse Ivar had demanded. With a scowl on your face, you marched towards him, stopping right before him. A grin was plastered on Ivar’s face. He looked proud of the damage he had done.

As he stared up at you, his heart fell when he saw the disappointment in your eyes, shielded by the angry scowl on your face. You always stood beside him, openly supporting and defending him with all your power. But tonight, you had seen a sight of him which you didn’t like. And Ivar knew it. He saw it all in your eyes. But he ignored the pain in his heart and smiled. A soft chuckle passed his lips. Soon another followed as he pressed his axe against the side of his head. You turned your back to him, walking away as fast as you could as he kept on laughing wickedly.

***

Ivar groaned at that memory. Ever since that moment, he felt like he had lost you. You were repulsed by his actions and kept your back at him for a while. And he hated himself for not picking his ass up at that moment and get you back.

For a life can end with a blink of an eye.

***

You were fighting alongside Ubbe in the streets of York. Ivar had done it again. Everything was going to plan as good as one could hope for. With Ubbe on your side, you ran forwards attacking every man that dared to cross your path. As you came to an open place, your eyes widened when you saw Ivar in the middle of it covered in blood, leaning against his chariot. Armed with only one axe. He screamed at the men in front of him, who for some reason stood frozen still in front of him. No one seemed to dare to step closer and go for the easy kill. You stepped out, even if Ivar and you weren’t on great terms at the moment, you still cared for the man. But Ubbe stretched out his arm, stopping you. As the other part of your army arrived, Ubbe demanded them to wait. You looked at him confused, watching how Ivar still sat there alone, challenging the men in front of him.

Slowly Ubbe stepped forward, before he finally shouted the order to attack the Christians.

Immediately you ran towards Ivar’s chariot, standing protectively beside it blocking any soldier that came towards Ivar. You screamed at a few men around you, forcing them to form a shield wall around him.

Ivar grinned at you, before shouting at the dying soldiers in front of him again. You rolled your eyes, leaning down next to him. The both of you stared at each other, his wicked grin never leaving his face. Until he saw something in the corner of his eye. Suddenly he started laughing evilly again, tapping his hand against the side of his axe. That made you look up, where a man stood, pointing his sword at Ivar in a threatening way. You stared angrily back at the man, until an arrow suddenly pierced Ivar’s leg. He seemed unfazed by it and quickly snapped in half. But you looked around, trying to out where the arrow came from. As you looked up, you felt your heart beat against your chest in fear once you took side of 10 archers lined up beside each other. Each of them aiming in your direction.

Before you could shout a warning, each of them took their shot. As you watched the men around you fall one by one, you pushed Ivar down on the ground.

He grunted once he made contact with the cold and harsh ground, looking up at you in anger.

“Shut it.” You whispered, before taking in a deep breath.

You smiled slightly as you saw Ivar look up at you in concern, his eyes scanning your face. As you suddenly took in a second deep breath, you let out a small whimper before resting your head against his chest. Ivar reached up, lifting your head with his hand. His head shook lightly from side to side, hoping that it wasn’t what he thought.

But Ivar wasn’t a fool.

He knew once he saw your lips form a small, apologetic smile, that what he feared was true.

“Real heroes never die.” You muttered, before going limp against his chest.

***

His eyes had filled themselves with tears when he relived that moment. Once you had closed your eyes and leaned your head against him, the young man had let out a painful roar, alerting his brother Ubbe of the situation. He was the one who had taken your body of him, but he couldn’t convince Ivar to move. He had stuck by your side for the remaining time. As he should have from the start.

After that, all things had gone sour. He had quickly found a new girl, marrying her when he went back to Kattegat. Blinded by his grief and the love he felt from her, he let her poison his mind and destroy everything around him.

It was only many years later that his mind became clear again, when Hvitserk was fed up with Ivar’s behaviour and dared to speak your name in his presence. The name had become a taboo in time. The memory too painful for the young king.

It was then, the moment Hvitserk shouted your name at the top of his lungs, that his eyes had finally opened.

And even though Freydis tried all her tricks to convince Ivar of her goodness, the man had seen the truth. And most importantly, the wreckage that had become of his kingdom. He had banished her from the grounds, leaving her to die in the woods.

Ivar had become a king again. Not a puppet in her petite hands. He made sure his people had food again, made great trading agreements and send out raiding parties. And after a while, Kattegat became healthy again. In such a way that Ivar decided to conquer again, together with the aid of his brothers Hvitserk and Ubbe.

But the king of Kattegat had made his final move. Ivar knew this battle would be his last. He knew it would end in a victory for him, but he would not be able to see that happening.

His eyes were closed as he uttered out a last prayer to Odin. He didn’t ask for his name to be spoken of for many generations. Nor did he ask for his brothers to truly forgive him for all his wrongdoings. In his last prayer, he spoke only about one person. The woman that had been on his mind since she left him alone on the battlefield. Since she died saving his life.  

As he finished muttering his words to the all father, he opened his eyes again. His vision was blurry, but the smile on his face widened.  

“Real heroes never die”

[foryouthegays]

Nothing bad ever happens at a festival. [Dream SMP] liveblog w/ timestamps

yes im still a techno apologist i love him too much [edit after he ‘betrayed’ tommy: yallre still tommy apologists after this???? lmao cringe /hj i think that theyre both right, but techno should be angry about it]

good technolaughs: 00:14:15, 00:50:50

other: (00:01:31 techno calls phil his friend,,,,,i love them) (00:16:55 tommy calls phil ‘dadza’ aww) (00:20:30 do do doo) (00:47:20 HEHH????) (00:56:15 SELLOUT TIMER POGGGG with dream! and then again at 01:06:55 and 01:25:20) (01:20:20 fundy is dead pog blood for the blood god)

posted the summary right before this :D

ik i say this every time but his startin’ the streammmm is so good i love it

a;ldkjfa 00:00:25 ‘whY IS A BOTTLE CONSIDERED A FRIENDLY CREATURE-’

also techno calling his audience ‘boys’ gives me so much gender serotonin ty mr blade ily

00:01:30 PHILZA MINECRAFT!!!!!

00:02:00 ‘im going to be headed to a festival today :D’ ‘oh you got an invite?’ ‘...im gonna be headed to a festival- [laughs]’ a;lkdsjfa love techno

phil is such a horrible person i love him. ‘dont kill too many people!’ 

phil n techno bullying tommys house,,,;alksdfjas

ALJDFAFDK 00:05:55 ‘the economic consequences of murder’ 

HI TOMMY

i love all the ‘inventor of minecraft, philza minecraft!’ jokes theyre so funny jhfdskla

ALS;DKJFA AT 00:07:30 TOMMY ASKS WHAT ENIGMA MEANS I LOVE HIM A;LDKFJA

i love tommy bc he just. he just says things. ex, 00:08:30, ‘it is likely, everything is likely when I am me, and I am always me, until the day I die. when I die, this world will be stupid.’ like how does he THINK of that???? what is his brain like???? i love him

‘technoblade, I only jump on poor people.’ 00:09:05

techno n phil have such similar vibes. like theyre both sarcastic n bounce off each other so easily,,,,,i want a full stream of them again, turtle time n a new home were AMAZIN

techno is literally tommys dad hes like, ‘do u have everything you need? do you have the potions?’ its hilarious

00:12:00 PHIL LOOK OUT ITS A BABY ZOMBIE <- another one of my favorite phil jokes

00:12:15 TOMMY AXE OF PEACE????

00:14:10 ‘wait a minute, its raining!!! see ya, looser!!!! HAAAA!!!!!!! OH NO ITS SNOWIN’ IM GONNA DIE- thats fine, its fine, AAAHHAHAH” sky/bed wars energy 

00:15:45 what do u MEAN u arent against dream. i mean it makes sense, bc tommy isnt ur brother in canon nd hes just a kid u found nd helped but SIR?????

00:16:55 DADZA ALDSKJFAF

AL;DKFJA 00:17:15 ‘i dont think we’re in l’manburg anymore, tommy’ 

technos such a nerd abt directions i love him

ALKDSFJAFA 00:19:45 ‘hey, hey, notice that cool guy who used to live in lmanburg, that always built massive cobblestone towers?’ ‘uhhh yeah, that idiot’ ghjkfdsl techno ur so mean to tommy

tecnos yellin voice is so pretty

A;LSDKFJAS OPERATION INFILTRATION THATS A GOOD NAME 00:23:00

00:25:35 ‘you guys have fortnite?’ techno,,,

00:27:50 [about dream] ‘i think we’re quite a long way past making an enemy, technoblade.’ tommy has some good lines sometimes

aldkaf ‘i dont even see stars,,,’ ‘thats depressin’ ‘..yeah’ i love techno n ranboos mini conversations 

DREAM JOINED THE SERVER OH GOD. 

00:30:40 :CRAB: DREAM IS HERE :CRAB:

gjfsdfk tommy is so bad at directions is great

i love technos ‘????’ in chat when he has to be quiet its so funny. like he could easily mute and say things but its for the Immersion jhfgsdk 

also yall look at how much technos stuttering in his typing he has to go back at like, every other letter to retype it 00:36:15

A;SDLFKJAS HE LITERALLY TYPES ‘WHY CAN I NOT TYPE’ GHKDFJ

00:37:15 50V2 50V2 50V2 also dream sounds so mad

00:40:40 “HE WOULDN’T LIE TO ME, DREAM, HE’D LIE TO YOU, BUT HE WOULDN’T LIE TO ME.” OH MY GOSH

00:41:10 “i mean, you’re out here, accusing him of crimes, and you’re saying just because he’s defendin’ himself, that makes him guilty?” HELL YEAH TECHNO also oh, yeah, whatever, laws, cringeee

HFGJKSD TECNO RANBOO FRIENDSHIP STRIKES AGAIN!!!!! LOVE THEM

ASLDKJFASL AND THE FACT THAT TECHNO CHOOSES RANBOO TO MESSAGE,,,,LOVE THEM

[presidential alert, the boys are FIGHTINGGGGGG] a;lsdfja 00:43:30

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE

HOLY SHIT TOMMY

00:45:05 ‘THE DISCS WERE WORTH MORE THAN YOU EVER WERE’  OH MY GOD

technos right, silent pvp is awkward as well

oh boy dream has alllll the discs

00:46:40 

“Techno...this isn’t me... this isn’t...I mean, I look around, and I’m not the person I want to be. I- I mean... I’m so sorry. Techno, if this is who I am, then I don’t want to be me anymore, man. I- I’m sorry. I’m with Tubbo.”

HOLY SHIT TOMMY JUST BETRAYED TECHNO RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM OH MY GOD PHILZA RLLY IS THE ONLY PERSON TECHNO CAN TRUST

oh holy FUCK technos change in tone from “TOMMY WHEN I SAID- Tommy, perhaps I wasn’t clear yesterday. When I said that I’m going to destroy L’Manburg, and that you don’t have to help me, when I said yOU DON’T HAVE TO HELP ME TOMMY, I MEANT THAT YOU COULD SIT IT OUT, NOT SWITCH SIDES, AND FIGHT AGAINST ME!”

also “youRE BETRAYING ME, IS WHAT YOU’RE DOING, TOMMY” god i love technos yelling voice,,,

hoLY SHIT TOMMY ‘im worse than everyone i didnt want to be...’ DUDE CHILL ITS TECHNOS THING TO HAVE GOOD LINES 00:47:55

the contrast between tommy saying the whole ‘‘it is likely, everything is likely when I am me, and I am always me, until the day I die. when I die, this world will be stupid” and “i know what ive done, and I hate me for it” is just,,,,that HAD to be planned, right???????? theres no way he thought of that on the spot 

“thank you, for giving me the disc, but I just want to say that you’re an idiot” gfkhjsld DREAM you homeless fool 00:48:30

AL;SKDFJAS TECHNO TALKIN TO US VIA CHAT IS SO FUNNY ‘THIS HOMELESS MAN IS SPITTING BARS’ I LOVE HIM SO MUCH GJFKDS 

“you just gave me the ONE THING I needed to destroy L’manburg.” 00:49:05 ohhhh thats why techno ‘betrayed’ tommy jkghsfd because someone directly lined up with his ideals??? because he was just betrayed, and hes hurt, and he saw someone standing up for his ideas and future actions? every single one of u anti c!techno people r fuckin idiots i stg /hj /nm /lh

i love techno yelling at tubbo its so funny to me. like sir u are bullying a small child aldkfjalja

00:50:30 YOU CAN HEAR TECHNOS SMILE WHEN HE SAYS ‘OH IM LIKING WHERE THIS IS GOING’ AHHH I LOVE HIM!!!!!!

LASDKJFALSFJ I LOVE HOW DREAMS LIKE NAH I AM N O T CALLIN IN THAT FAVOR FOR THIS, UR GONNA DESTROY LMANBURG NO MATTER W H A T

GOOD TECHNOLAUGH AHH  YES LISTEN TO THAT JOY!!!!! THAT WAS A SOLID FIVE SECONDS OF TECHNOLAUGH!!!!!

ALDSKFJASF TOMMY KILLS TUBBOS DOG 

00:52:30.

“Tommy. Give me back my axe. You’re not worthy, I was wrong.”

“...no. No! You know what, Technoblade? I am worthy. And you’re not- you’re not gonna side with Dream to take down L’Manburg, are you.”

“I- I’ve been so transparent about how I’m going to destroy the government, I’ve explained my reasons, like, I’m destroying it because of a, b, c, they executed me, they betrayed me, you betrayed me... you know what, Tommy? You’ve made a decision today that can’t be undone, and you know what? I respect you, Tommy. You’re free to make your own choices, wrong as they are, that’s what anarchy is about. It’s about freedom, to do what you want. But all I have to say, Tommy, is that I hope you don’t come to regret it. “ OH MY GOD

also he just LEAVES :LDFJSLDKFJSF AND GOES BACK HOME IGHALSDFJALKF

A;LDKJSFAS DREAM TECHNO SELLOUT POG

a;ldkfja 00:57:10 ‘i’ve always said, you know, if you’re a viewer, the only support I need is your viewership. UNLESS YOU’RE A MILLIONAIRE IN WHICH CASE, RUN THOSE SUPERCHATS LETS GO” i love techno 

also dream :handshake: phil

green

 ALSDKFJALSF HE ALREADY FORGOT WHAT HAPPENED HES SUCH A NERD 00:58:00

AND THAT ‘I HAVE CONFIDENCE’ AN HOUR IN,,,,IM SO GAY

01:01:20 have yall noticed how much techno says ‘i hate this so bad’? its p often. i think he says it in his recent vid w skeppy as well

ok at 01:02:20 techno says to dream ‘this seems like the beginning of a beautiful partnership’ 

and at 01:34:10 of ‘nothing goes wrong’ techno tells tommy ‘this seems like the beginning of a beautiful friendship’ and i just,,,,,the PARALLELS they had both just found out abt the wither room but with one techno was showing him the whole truth and was vulnerable, kinda asking for friendship but the other is unstable and based off of....i want to say fear? mutual gain? 

i love it

01:08:40 techno doesnt trust dream pog

nother speech pog 01:09:10

“you know what I’ve learned, Phil? It’s that common interests are what bind people together, more than trust or anything, because I trust Tommy, I brought him in, I gave him food, the armor on his back, I made him weapons when everyone else ditched him, and what does he do?? He just goes crawlin’ back to the guys that exiled him. I can’t trust people on friendship alone, alright? Just common interest is the only thing I can trust, and we [Techno and Dream] have a common interest, we are going to destroy L’Manburg tomorrow, Phil, it’s gonna be gone, it’s gonna be a chunk error.”

01:14:48 all men do is betray technoblade, eat hot chip, and lie ALSDFJALDSFKAJSF IM LAUGHING SO HARD also why does techno casually use words like ‘exodus’ i love him but why

Run.

THE CAT SEES US. ITS MCGONAGALL A;LKDFJALF 01:22:45

‘we should make a parody of YMCA. dddd m c a’ blitz 2??? cmon techno u know u want to 01:23:25

technos glasses break at 01:26:50 a;ldskfjaf

awww techno got phil like 300 primes bc of the sellout nd techno gained 11,000 subs a;ldkfjaf w o w

[st-just]

Some writing from a game

Because I’m like..60% happy with it and I feel like it should have a potential audience of, like, at least a dozen people. 

(Also, if you look very closely you might be able to see the influence of the last couple things I read)

The palace of the Melquart was as poorly defended as she had been promised – the nephilim garrison were either dead or damned, depending on the rumour you believed, and either way far away in the old capital. The local troops were mostly gone as well, sent to suppress a rebellion among the hill tribes – by the time they realized the reports and requests for aid were forgeries, it would be far too late. Even the guards which remains wouldn’t prove much use, their evening meal having been liberally spiced with sedatives to leave them slow-witted and sluggish. Everything was, in short, exactly how Itireae ir’Naeh had been promised it would been, carefully arranged to ensure the once-princesses homecoming would be as smooth and frictionless as possible. Not that she looked much like a princess anymore, of course – months of exile in the badlands had taken their toll, even before the injections of quicksilver and adamant had left her with monochrome eyes and sickly blue veins pressing against her skin. Still, she would gladly make every sacrifice and compromise over again, if it brought her here. After all, what good was a child who wouldn’t do what was necessary to avenge their father? With her new sight, the iron frame of the palace’s upper windows shone in the pre-dawn light, and it was a simple matter of will pull herself towards them – by now the pulsing, burning pain from her veins was almost a comfort, as she gracefully flew through the night to alight on the windowsill. It hung open in the warm fall air, and it was barely any effort to pull herself inside. She moved fast. Even if she couldn’t see the golden treasures piled high in the Melquart’s bedroom, she knew her way their by heart. She passed five guards on her way, and four four didn’t break her stride – a handful of iron needles pulled from one of the pounces hanging off her belt and pushed with more force then an a longbow towards each made sure they never got up. The last was someone important – a royal bodyguard or captain, sleeping on a bed in the antechamber to the Malequart’s apartments. He she recognized – he had just as happy to have a place of honour at her fathers side, before the giants called down fire from the sky and massacred his entire host. And so she paused and drew her glass daggers, and took the time to make sure he recognized her before she let him die. The Melquart was a Lumor, god-blooded, close to three yards tall, with flowing, braided crimson hair and a matching beard which grew fiery in truth when he was enraged – as he was now, charging through the door of his apartments in nothing but a robe, sacred and deadly bronze axe held in both hands, to find his bodyguard bleeding out before him. Which nicely distracted him as Itireae sent the first barrage of iron needles and blades flying towards him from her perch on the ceiling. His roar as the blades dug into his back and spilled his sacred blood was so loud it was almost painful to hear. But then, she wasn’t the intended audience – and his divine grandfather seemed to understand perfectly. The room filled with a wrathful and ruddy light, and Itireae had to leap to the floor to avoid the blast of divine fire the lumor threw from his hands, letting out a gasp of pain at her awkward landing on the stone floor. The holy runes etched on the Melquart’s axe glowed with an angry red light as he approached her, nothing but pure, deadly rage in his words. “I don’t know what you are, but if you start begging now I’ll just cut you down. Keep fighting, and you’re going to suffer. Burning slow so all the other humans know the penalty for striking the blood of the Sun.” Whatever reaction he expected, Itireae’s unsteady laughter wasn’t it. Her hands trembled as she spoke, grabbing a thankfully unbroken vial off her belt. “Me? I’m no-one, not after tonight. Just one more debt you monsters never bothered to settle.” She poured the vial down her throat, and tried to ignore her body screaming in protest as she started burning its contents before they were metabolized. A thin trail of black, acrid smoke leaked from her mouth, as her veins began to glow an unearthly blue. And the Melquart, axe raised for a killing blow, staggered and gasped in pain. Her fingers were bloody, gripping the seams between stones on the floor to keep from being slammed into his chest – but it worked. His fire went out as the light faded from his eyes, the blades buried in his back pulled through his heart and lungs until they pierced the skin of his chest as well. She made sure, of course – used her glass daggers to cut his throat and put out his eyes, and open every major vein and artery. And then, satisfied, she set to work cleaning up after herself. It was close to noon when she finally limped to their meeting place, lightly scorched from divine flame and throat too raw to speak from rushed alchemy. Still, her patron was waiting for her, wearing the face of the well-fed caravan driver she had travelled here with – though that disguise was beginning to crack, every hair already a pristine white and eyes faintly glowing, color starting to fade from their outfit. Turning to her with a slight smile and a nod, they said “Given the fire at the palace, I trust you have settled your personal affairs?” At her nod she gestured to the horses “Then we should be going. You have a higher purpose now, and the journey will give you time to consider a suitable new name.” They made good time on the trip south, as behind them the last vestige of Phanosine rule in the far east collapsed into succession struggle and anarchy. ----------------------------------------------- Tymon Sol managed to survive in the forest on his own for nearly two weeks. As soon as the strange, massive ships had been sighted and the chief and captains ordered their men to assemble, he’d heard the whispers of ruin and disaster on the wind. By the time the strange, green-coated soldiers had arrived and demanded unconditional surrender, her had already donned his mother’s mask and cloak, and taken everything he could carry. By the time the first cannon fired, he was so far away he could barely hear them. He had found an ancient tree, and made a camp beneath its canopy, hiding it from man and beast, rain and wind, anything the flew or crawled or bit or stung. Since then he had almost never taken off the cloak or mask – hiding him from anything but the spirits, and letting him see their guidance to the food and water he needed. All of which was to say, he had finally begun to feel safe. And so he was not at all prepared when something was waiting for him. It was dressed like an officer of the soldiers who had invaded his village, though its uniform was decorated with gold brocade and some sort of extra decoration. And otherwise totally devoid of color – snow white hair, pale skin, and clothing that remained pristinely and perfectly white even as it stood in the mud and leaned against his tree. Its eyes glowed faintly with a cold light, and when he looked at it he saw all the spirits who had protected his camp had shied away from touching it. It, meanwhile, looked down at a pocketwatch in its hand with apparent fascination. Either unable to perceive Tymon beneath his cloak or unconcerned with his presence as he stared and froze in panic. After a long, terrifying minute the watch let out a chime and it spoke in a soft, pleasant voice. “You are quite difficult to find, ghost-child. Before your spirits gaze I swear not to harm you, but I hope you will not force me through this effort again.” Trying to remain calm, he circled around it, trying to see if there were any other soldiers. Eventually, satisfied to find no footprints or hidden men, he responded, speaking from the mouth of a bird perched above her. “What do you want, then? You’re one of them, aren’t you? The soldiers who destroyed my home?” It sounded genuinely sorrowful as it replied. “That should not have happened. My peer was here as a mercenary, a role which does not agree with them. They were needlessly harsh, in the interests of haste, and the marines followed their example as well as their commands.” “Then, what, you’re here to say you’re sorry? Offer to build me a new house? I swear I won’t accept an-” “Please listen before you speak rashly child. I am not here to offer empty words or simple blood money. Might you here my offer, before you reject it? If you do, then I will accept your answer, should you desire, leave you be.” “...alright, fine. Talk.” “Your family is fascinating. Five generations of power and worth carefully gathered, every action judged, the petty gods of nature whispering in your ear, whatever life you wished to have forgotten under the duty you inherit. It’s a great burden, for someone so young. And it will not grow any easier – the island’s new princes are brutes, liars and cheats. You could resist them, and see your family suffer, or serve them, and forsake every fragment of purpose within you.” “My family? Who do you mean? Have you done anything to them?” It smiled, slightly. “Yes. One hundred thirty-eight potential heirs, although beyond the first dozen they are wholly unprepared and would despoil your inheritance quite quickly. And absolutely nothing, beyond identifying them. I would like to help them, offer them new lives with warm homes, food and medicine, and the assurance that they will never have to worry about being hunted down. But for that, you will have to come with me first. You will do good on a grander scale, and in return none of them will ever want for safety or comfort. Would you not at least consider the deal?” It paused then, waiting for a response. Tymon didn’t have one. After a silent eternity, it closed the pocket watch and gave a slight shrug. “I will return at this time tomorrow. I hope you will be here.” It walked out of the tree’s canopy and stood in the sunlight, took a deep breath and looked directly at the sun. And then it was gone. Tymon spent the next day and night performing every augury who could think of – it had never been a talent of his, truthfully. But the answers were all resoundingly clear. When the soldier in white returned the next day, he was waiting for it. -------------------------------------------------------- Three months latter, and the people who had once been Itireae and Tymon were ready. The ritual was not exactly difficult – it did not take a great deal of power, and could theoretically be performed anywhere. But it was exceedingly intricate and precise. Hira stood before the two kneeling inductees, both dressed in the dull grey robe and bright red fez of a Janissary without official rank. The room they stood in had, minutes before, been almost claustrophobic. But as the seven layers of exactingly drawn circles on the floor began to glow and turn in time with some grand cosmic clockwork, the walls and ceiling faded away. They were outside, and the night sky was bright and full of stars – though the constellations were foreign to them, and the light cold and alien. “Do you forsake inheritance and legacy, kith and kin, family and tribe? Do you forswear all covenants you have made, and revile all those who would demand your loyalty by love or affection?” The two answered at once “I do.” “Do you pledge yourselves to the service of Principle, to the creation of a rational and compassionate world, and the interests of the Esheri Republic, selflessly and without expectation of or right to comfort, safety or power?” “I do.” “Do you accept your role as the agents of history, and that you will be called to use and expend yourselves as necessity requires, without regard for you own selfish wants or particular affections, and will die and be forgotten with no memorial but the world you will help create?” Again they replied “I do”. As they did, the alien starlight seemed to solidly around them, pouring down their throats as they spoke, marking them indelibly. Hira smiled widely, opening her arms in welcome as she spoke “Then rise, Avra and Erem, and join us in engineering paradise.”

[spookyspaghettisundae]

What Came From the Impossible Corridor

As the sun shone brightly over the city, rain-drenched rooftops glittered and glowed in blinding rays of light. Thin plumes of smoke rose from the chimneys of houses and factories alike, blending in with the curtain of clouds as they parted to reveal a crystal-blue sky.

In the absence of mist and gloom, now silence suffocated the streets. Devoid of people despite the broad daylight of noon. The bustle of crowds stayed absent. A beautiful day in the sprawling harbor city, yet only one person wandered through its streets. All alone. Stranded in an otherwise empty world.

A little, confused boy swiveled, and pivoted, and stumbled his way forth, heading nowhere. Looking for others but finding nobody. Empty shops. Dead markets. Shining puddles splashed underfoot, metal hinges creaked when he pushed past ajar doors to peer inside of homes that looked like their inhabitants had all just deserted them.

Tables set with steaming food, served in plates and bowls, but nobody to eat. Shoes and jackets left by the doors even though a wintry chill still gripped the city. Fires still crackled in hearths and ovens, offering nobody warmth and with pots and pans still frying or boiling in abandonment.

The wee lad cried for his mother. Then for his older siblings. His friends and neighbors. Even for his father. He did not want to return home, but believed that having ran away from it was what had wrought this strange and empty world. He knew not where else to turn to. Even if it meant confronting the dread of facing father.

He arrived at the house of his family. The Von Brandt mansion. Vines strangled all the walls and gates that warded off the cobblestone roads from its overgrown garden. Time and weather had worn down the wood and brass of his family’s crest beyond recognition. A husk of prestige long gone, faded and forgotten and disgraced.

Silhouettes loomed in the windows, staring at the boy through sightless eyes. Barely as visible as the ghostly curtains that concealed them, swaying in the wind. They glared with contempt.

Shadows. Ghosts of the past.

High time to face them.

The boy—Johnn—approached the entrance to the old home he had spent half his life growing up in. His little arm trembled as it reached up to clutch the handle. And pushed inside. The door’s wood groaned as it gave way but yielded without resistance.

And across the threshold, inside stepped Johnn, the young man, fully grown and in his prime. No longer trembling. No longer afraid. Curious he was, more than anything. Eager to meet those shadows and bury them in the past where they belonged.

Stepping inside the center of the gaping entry hall, where a wide staircase spiraled around the room and rose to the lofty heights of the home’s upper stories, crowned by a wide-open hole in the ceiling. Water dripped from the frayed edges lining the gap where roof used to fully cover the edifice. A sheen of wet and cold had coated all the banisters and soaked all the decaying old carpets.

Ghosts bounced around and danced past him. Echoes of giggles and laughter, memories of better days. Days before things had soured between his father and himself. Days before his family fled the country, when the crown convicted the Von Brandt name of brigandry, courtesy of their youngest son.

As his thoughts turned to such places, so darkened the adjoining hallways and doorways to rooms throughout the mansion. The shadows crept from them, phantoms that converged on the entry hall, surrounding Johnn.

Nothing about this unsettled him. Everything made perfect sense.

A shadowy hand rested on the banister, gliding down its length without ever making contact. Light shone through its incorporeal form. More such phantoms joined this presence, as they slowly descended. Walking, pacing, prancing; they flocked closer and closer towards him.

His eyes fluttered open. Awake. What a strange dream. It haunted him. He wondered what had become of his family. Surely, they had found a way to eke out an existence in the new world, far from the crown’s clutches.

Then reality set in again.

He wiped his brow where hair clung to his forehead, sticky and wet with sweat. Cold and clammy, just like the caves they had hidden in.

Nora. He sat up and watched her motionless face for a long time. Studied every detail, every scar. The gentle breeze sweeping through these underground chambers swallowed her shallow breathing.

She slept so peacefully.

Wrapped in so many bandages that she almost looked like a mummy, stolen away from a tomb, from the lost desert kingdoms—were it not for the dark spots that had soaked those bandages with the lifeblood that had escaped her body from countless injuries.

With care, he unraveled the yields of first aid he had provided her with, cautiously lifting an arm to tenderly unwrap the old bandages and apply new ones. Then a leg. Even her head. She slept through it all.

No matter how tough she always acted, now she made no peep when he moved her limbs to gingerly clean and dress those wounds anew, finally wrapping them in fresh bandages. She remained unconscious despite how long it all took. Once done, he began to worry if she would ever wake up again.

To assuage his own fears thereof more than he hoped it would have any effect, like it did in the fairy tales, he planted a tender kiss on her chapped lips, then brought a tin cup to them, administering cool and refreshing water which he had collected from the underground stream.

She had slept for almost a day and a night and Johnn vividly remembered one of the former Merry Lot, an old companion of his who never woke again after suffering similarly grievous injuries.

Such grim thoughts flirted with the lingering, haunting sensations of the dream he had awoken from. He tried to ignore them and restlessly wandered. The ruminations drove him to the edge of the hidden docks where saltwater sloshed against a pier made of rotting wood. Moments passed, melting into minutes of him gazing into the bank of fog that obscured the horizon, creeping around the crags that concealed this secret pirate bay. Almost as powerful as the strong scent of the salty sea, the smell of winter and snow poured in from that cavernous entrance.

A little bit of light, piercing the fringe of these unhallowed caves, casting long shadows from the stalactites and stalagmites and the empty crates and chests that lined the walls surrounding the pier.

On his way back to her, he paused by the pile of ashes. Every time the breeze whistled by, it lifted off flurries of soot and scorched remains. What little was left over from the huge fire he had made. The embers crackling and rising from it sprung from something resembling a distant memory, even though their heat and glow had enveloped him just the day before.

He had watched that fire burn at its brightest and returned to watch it dim after consuming the shattered wooden throne of the slaver pirate, Shark-Eyes; and his collection of books, each one unholier than the other; and the remains of the alchemist who had terrorized the city in a string of grisly murders, the one dubbed the Outer Wall Reaper by the papers; and every last admixing reagent and metal syringe he had found among the monster’s belongings.

All gone. All molten slag and ashes, now taken by the wind, swept to sea, bit by bit.

Johnn left them behind and returned to the chambers where old bunks used to serve as a haven of rest for the pirate gang. Where Nora still slept, tucked away in his blanket and cloak, with his bag serving as a cushion underneath her head.

He smiled wistfully but not of joy. A short-lived relief, the feeble semblance of cheer soon faded from his mien.

Johnn turned and wandered again, exploring the now-familiar tunnels and cavernous chambers, hewn roughly by pickaxes. Space carved into the stone by the outlaws, shaped not for aesthetics but pragmatic practicality. Perhaps he might find other vile things to destroy. Anything else he could do to erase the memory of the monsters who had once inhabited this cove.

Perhaps he could drag those awful iron cages and sink them in the edge of the ocean. To remove every reminder of just how much all those men and women and children must have suffered in captivity before Shark-Eyes sold them off to distant shores.

He wandered past the private quarters of the evil captain. Metal scraping over stone and the chopping of damp wood still rang in his ears, a residual haunting of his fit of rage in which Johnn demolished fancy furniture that Shark-Eyes and his men must have stolen from elsewhere. The debris still lay there, scattered out and awaiting its own funeral pyre.

Johnn knew what chamber came next. He somehow tasted something metallic again—just like back then. Explored the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue, the ridge where he once bit himself. A scarred reminder of how he had survived the warlock’s paralyzing gaze and then slain him.

And a reminder of far greater loss.

He steeled himself and kept his gaze fixed upon the ground as he paced past the spot where blood had stained the stone, never washed away, even after what have must have been a year since shedding.

Broad daylight shone in through a natural opening to his left, and a table in the center, split by that same rusty axe in his hands the day before.

No anger welled up in his gut this time. Only sorrow and grief. He recalled how his friend’s body had laid there, contorted, and mangled, and with only half a face left to recognize. Slaughtered by that terrible wolf-beast.

Terry had looked so small. His empty eyes so serene.

More splotches of discoloration remained in lieu of the absent body, long-dried bloodstains now hauntingly illuminated by the light shining in through the narrow rift in the wall. Preventing any chance at forgetting the past.

Johnn’s stomach knotted. His neck hair bristled, and his hand instinctively came to rest where he could quickly sling out his knife. An instinctive and ingrained motion, a visceral response to something utterly wrong.

A new passageway had appeared. Out of nowhere. It had been there all this time, right?

A yawning, dark corridor, leading out of this room, opposite from where he had entered. Misty tendrils crept out of it. As the breeze swept through these hidden caves, whistling through its winding halls, incomprehensible whispers spilled from that twisted hallway.

It had not been here one year prior. It had certainly not been here the day before.

The mists clawed at a shape as it emerged from that impossible corridor, a shadow approaching with slow steps. It stopped right before any sunlight could lend it definition. A wavering apparition, somehow not real. Yet there.

Johnn squinted and he gripped the handle of his knife.

The shadow took one step. Then another. Always one step closer. Then stopped. Just close enough to the light to reveal a face.

Still impossible to fully fathom, the hollow and pallid countenance of Terry stared back at him. Eyes that once shone a beautiful golden in the sunlight, now empty and milky-white. A haggard figure, a shadow of his former self. The ghost’s body displayed the horrific injuries that had killed him.

It could not be. In the impossible corridor stood an impossible thing. Johnn, however, knew better. Knew ghosts were real. Phantoms could dwell in old, cold places. Wraiths and revenants could return to torment the living.

Without breaking eye contact, under watch by the ghost’s curious eyes, Johnn’s hand crept to his other dagger. The one forged in iron for such entities specifically.

Terry sighed, “How many?”

A chorus of whispers followed from the impossible corridor behind him.

Although Johnn refused to acknowledge the question, he understood its meaning.

Like the little boy’s arm, reaching out to the handle of his home’s door, trembling, so did his voice now, as Johnn asked in response, ever so softly, “How many? How many perished in our quest?”

“How many?” asked Terry again. And others. Johnn could not distinguish the other voices, but they rang familiar, and Terry spoke not as one, but as many.

The darkness emanated from him like misty tentacles, lurching, inch by inch, crawling through cracks and over jagged stone where daylight cast shadows. Creeping ever closer towards Johnn, meandering, threatening. Like a carpet of snakes fanning out.

The trembling in his voice ceased. Made way to a sterner tone. Just like in the dream, where the boy crossed the threshold into the old mansion, and inside stood the young man.

To Terry and the other ghosts, he resolutely said, “We all knew what we were getting into. We all know what we did. I will never forget that. I will honor your memory. Keep it alive.”

A symphony of gasps billowed out from the corridor behind Terry. The mist around him shuddered as if a gust of wind affected it.

“No need to hold on forever,” whispered the ghosts in unison. Almost soothingly. “You can be with us again.”

The tendrils had almost reached Johnn. Part of him had no intention of fighting back.

Hissed the wind, “Forever.”

A violent gust caught Johnn’s hair, and he slung out the iron blade. The face of Terry blended into others, different visages of suffering and death. Screaming faces, silenced long ago. Tortured grimaces frozen in time. Those he held dear, enemies he had ended, people he had never seen in his life, all together now. Souls trapped between worlds, ready to lash out at whatever doomed ones lingered in this damnable place.

The dull sheen of the dagger flashed in the slivers of light as Johnn swiped at thin air. Tendrils of shadows dispersed where the knife cut, but there were so many. They had almost overwhelmed his senses. Shrieking all around him, whipping him back and forth. Almost lulling him into surrender.

Clamping his eyes shut and fighting back blindly, before his mind’s eye, the image of Nora’s face outshone all. That serene, comatose calm of her sleeping peacefully in these caves, all alone, with nobody else to look after her as she recovered from her countless injuries. The thought of her face grounded Johnn, even as he continued to swing and thrash and fight for his life. The memory of them holding hands in a lonesome hut, fingers interlocked. Another swing, another refusal against the pull of dark powers.

The final reason he fought. Now doing his damnedest to keep the wraiths from himself. He spiraled and spun around. Pirouettes of deadly swings and jabs that would have cut flesh deeply and struck vital spots. Connecting to nothing, only dispelling singular shadows as the rest converged on him.

The wraiths formed a cloud. More and more kept pouring out from that hellmouth of the impossible corridor, the hallway that had not existed until now. The corridor that should not have existed in the first place. Where more whispers continued to spill from, underlining the enraged shrieks.

Terry’s pallid, sunken face grew as he lunged at the friend who had led him to his death. Then the faces of others. Friends and foes alike, they all attacked now in unison. Ghosts who had lost every sense of who or what they once were. Hell-bent on destroying the one person who reminded them of the horrid ways their lives all ended, bereft of any understanding as to why. Or what had followed.

Johnn’s movements slowed until he tripped, stumbled. Slipping from icy grasping hands that were no hands, staggering past shadows that existed somewhere between the real and the imagined. They would wear him down soon and drain his hope. Take his life.

Never had he encountered so many angry ghosts in one place.

He gritted his teeth and fought with every fiber of his being. Thought of Nora. Refused to give up. But the dance of the pales overwhelmed him.

The chorus of gasps repeated, swelling with excitement and subdued rage. Against the laws of nature, something that was nothing grabbed hold of Johnn’s limbs. Wrapped around them, like living shadow. Wind, colder than winter, cut over exposed skin as it swept through the corridors with each ghostly gasp. As if the caves breathed, teeming with evil. The tips of Johnn’s boots scraped against stone as the spirits lifted him off the ground.

Then the chorus exploded into pained shrieking and frenzied screams. Phantasms recoiled, gripped their nonexistent heads. Cried to heavens that they refused to enter. Agony and fear, mirroring the many ways they had all lost their lives before falling into this tortured damnation they lingered in.

Dropping him, Johnn fell to his knees, clutching his throat where invisible hands had started strangling the life from him. As he coughed and choked and retched, strands of dark mist billowed out from his mouth.

Furious, the cloud of wraiths scattered in every direction. Like a swarm of insects and vermin, the last of them, including Terry, retreated towards the shadows and cracks between the stone. Where the angry ghosts disengaged, the beams of light that sliced through the chamber intensified—or returned to their natural brightness. The cloud of living darkness withdrew farther and farther, no longer suffocating the man, nor the chamber. The cloud receded farther yet, back into the impossible corridor from whence it came.

Soft footsteps echoed through the other, opposite, original corridor.

Someone approached.

Someone tangible. Someone far more real than unreal. A tall and slender silhouette. Johnn’s vision blurred, and he first confused that figure for Nora approaching. A short-lived confusion, dispelled by how freakishly tall that figure truly stood.

Engulfed by the light shining in through the crack in the wall, not his beloved had arrived. In her stead stood an unnaturally tall man, garbed in flowing robes of garish colors, and wreathed in jewelry made of glittering gold. His features just human enough to be upsetting, but not human enough to betray their otherworldly nature.

Slung around a slender neck, a bizarre scarf framed a narrowly pointed jaw and chin, underlining a sinister smile. A leaf-riddled crown rested atop a sculpted brow. Eyes, pitch-black like those of a doe, glistening and beautiful and intelligent and malevolent all at once. A face far too long to be human and too symmetrical to be real.

Yet here he stood.

Fair folk.

Johnn choked again, catching his breath, and his eyes locked onto the dropped iron dagger before he dove for it.

Too late. The fair prince flicked his wrist with a dismissive gesture and that dagger scurried away from Johnn’s grasp, flung by an invisible force, hurtling towards the crack in the wall, and plummeting into the crashing ocean waves outside.

The fair prince stopped and stood still, hugging himself in an eerily graceful fashion. Those doe-like eyes wandered, scanning Johnn up and down, studying every detail of his countenance.

Johnn smirked and averted his gaze. He would not even bother getting up from where he knelt. Not give this being the satisfaction. He slammed the bottom of his fists into the rough stony ground. And again.

He laughed and coughed once more. The pain of being strangled by ghostly hands still lingered. The irony of escaping one death by unnatural things just to find an end with another both annoyed and amused him.

“What do you want now?” Johnn asked, through more choked laughter. “Payback for killing your fair queen?”

Without even glimpsing it, he could sense the smile growing wider across the fairy’s face.

“Why—yes. Yes, indeed. I have come to pay you back.”

Expecting to stare at the business end of a spear made of roots and thorns, instead a long, slender hand stretched out in front of him. So thin and lithe, with long, sharp nails, black as wet dirt, but with the palm facing heavenwards, offering, and inviting. Even as the eerily tall figure loomed above him, several heads taller than a man should stand, the fair prince exuded a strange air of vulnerability. So slender that he almost looked fragile.

“Please, let me help you up onto your feet again,” the prince said. His voice ran silkier than his robes. Dangerously alluring. “‘Tis the least I can do for thee. Why, I do not believe you have yet fathomed just how much I stood to gain from Queen Magnificent’s demise.”

The corners of his lips twitched with glee. Evil and beauty alike glinted in his eyes.

Johnn bit his tongue. Literally. Not as hard as he had when he had broken a warlock’s spell, but just enough to ground him. To center his thoughts. Pain, weaponized to focus his senses. He also bit his tongue in another sense, and refrained from informing this fair folk emissary that, technically, it had not been him who had killed the fair queen.

He even refrained from thinking her name. Just in case the creature could read his mind.

The bandit rolled his jaw and then set it. Grabbed that slender hand with a trembling that stemmed not from fear anymore, but restrained anger. The prince’s fingers softly wrapped around Johnn’s hand, almost lovingly. Smooth skin against the human bandit’s hand, so velvety that it could make silk blush.

With a strength that reflected his height, he effortlessly and gently pulled Johnn up until the man stood before him. Back on his feet, Johnn arched a brow on purpose, trying to project an air of superiority despite the incredible danger he still found himself in.

Even at full height—and Johnn was by no means short—the fair prince stood three heads taller than him, like a living and willowy tree.

The fairy stepped away from him and his robes fluttered, reminiscent of the living shadows, the ghosts that had just assaulted Johnn. Gemstones and gilded edges upon the unusual attire gleamed as they traveled through rays of light.

Another step away, with such long legs that the distance quickly grew, the fair prince hugged himself again. Still smiling, he bowed deeply, prompting Johnn to blink in confusion.

“I am Thalomirian,” said the fair prince. “But you, Johnn Von Brandt, you may call me Prince Charming if that rolls easier off that poor mistreated tongue of yours.”

Johnn nodded over to the impossible corridor which should not exist. The shadows beckoned there. Though the wraiths had withdrawn even deeper into its darkness, shying away from the fairy, their presence lingered.

“Why bother saving me from that? Don’t your kind revel in watching our kind suffer?”

As he turned to lock eyes with Prince Charming again, the fair prince had vanished. Warm breath brushed over the back of Johnn’s neck—pleasantly. Thalomirian stood behind him, had somehow crossed the distance without sound or motion.

“Not all of us are the same, my sweet,” Prince Charming cooed in his ear.

His arms wrapped around Johnn in what could easily be confused with a loving embrace. Warm. Breathing. Conflicting emotions wracked Johnn. His hair stood on edge and he feared the sheer might that radiated from this being. But whether or not any magick sourced such strange emotions, he also felt safe—and oddly excited.

“You see, never before have I wandered your world, as I see no good coming from any relations between our realms. If things went by me, and not by the late queen and her silly little son, then I would have severed all ties long ago.”

“What do you want,” Johnn said. Less like a question. More like a gasp.

“Like I said, I come to extend a courtesy. My gratitude. Please, understand how much it means that I traveled here, exposed to the rot of your world. I can feel myself dying with each breath, while in my world, my tale lives eternal.”

Johnn swallowed. Wanted to hear him out as much as Thalomirian seemed to enjoy hearing himself speak. But even as he melted into Prince Charming’s warm embrace, Johnn’s biting wit and defiance finally surfaced.

“Alright, job well done. Gratitude accepted and appreciated. Move along now?”

Lips like a brook’s cool water brushed over Johnn’s cheek as the prince kept him close.

“I believe I can see what Magnificent saw in you.”

Johnn swallowed the thick lump of nothing in his throat and said, “I, uh, accept your thanks. I mean, truly, thank you. Uh, I much rather live another day than die to whatever—well, whatever darkness has reached out to drag me to hell on this fine day.”

He bit his lip and the prince’s embrace loosened. Hands glided from his sides as Prince Charming let him free, sliding away as fancifully as the otherworldly robes billowed through the breeze, fluttering as the fair prince paced away from him, towards the light.

Casting a shadow upon Johnn as he stopped there, gazing out into the ocean, with his back to the bandit-turned-unlikely-hero.

“Magnificent’s court had a bad habit of mingling with your kind too much. I believe those days are long gone. It is time for us to move on to other worlds before the stink of yours seeps too deep into ours,” said the prince. “And our interim leader sees things the same way, I believe.”

Johnn wrestled with his senses. The odd attraction to Thalomirian’s vicinity, mixing with his revulsion of such unnatural creatures—well-knowing how many of his men and even his foes had fallen to the whims of gruesome goblyns and barghests and other awful fair folk that haunted the Blackwood. Johnn sorted through these clashing emotions, cutting through them with an imaginary dagger until he found the questions he truly needed to ask.

“Are you—am I understanding this right? You are saying your kind is just going to—up and leave? For good?”

The whispers from the impossible corridor had fallen dormant. The white noise of ocean waves lapping at the cliffs outside the cave filled the thoughtless silence that followed.

Then the prince broke that silence, “For good, my sweet.”

“Good, then. We won’t have to put up with you threatening our world anymore? One less headache to contend with, I suppose. A little victory, I guess,” Johnn mused, then bit his tongue again—realizing that now might not have been the best time to taunt an immortal.

Thalomirian did not turn fully, only reared his beautiful head. Shot Johnn a sidelong glance. Where the bandit expected a glowering glare, only something serene glittered in the prince’s eye. And pity.

“All of us should have withdrawn already. I came here despite Mother Frost forbidding us passage through the rings. But I had heard from Cimari of you and the little sparrow. Still alive, despite the tales of so many things out there conspiring to kill you, including our own. I came here for the first and last time, despite how much I despise your world. Just because I wanted to thank you personally. And it is rather fun to defy Mother Frost, but I digress,” said the prince.

Stunned, Johnn offered no response. Prince Charming smirked.

“In this doomed world of yours, our blood once ran deeper than the roots of your trees. Our essence saturated the veins of the earth far deeper than your kind could ever mine, even with all your greed. No, my sweet. This is not doing you any favor, as much as I am loathe to be here. As much as it amuses me to defy Mother Frost. No, my sweet. Our kind’s absence will leave a deep, dark hole. And what, do you think, will fill that void?”

Prince Charming slowly and gingerly stretched out an arm. One of those slender fingers unfurled, a sharp talon left to point at the impossible corridor—the place that should not exist.

Johnn swallowed another nonexistent lump.

He knew not the precise nature of the answer, but knew the answer, nevertheless. The prince filled in for him.

“Dark things are drawn to dark places. We are not the only kind that visits your world. There are others. Not just lost souls and misguided spirits mistaken for gods, but things. Unspeakable things you should fear more than your kind ever feared us. Things you cannot appease by giving them fanciful names or revering us in adoring tales. Things not placated by the devoted rituals of your dying tribes.”

The shadow cast upon Johnn lifted. Thalomirian had vanished once more. Johnn sensed the fair prince to be standing behind him again. Always that alluring shadow. Some part of him wanted to turn and face the embrace he expected to follow.

But none came.

Whispering behind him, Prince Charming said, “Things that do not leave behind adequate replacements for all they take. Things that covet. Things that fester.”

The fair prince’s voice swelled. Dropped to a raspy baritone, more menacing than ever before.

“Things that corrupt.”

Johnn swiveled, stone and wooden debris crunching underneath his boot’s heel. Prince Charming was nowhere in sight. A bodiless voice that filled the awful chamber.

The impossible corridor caught Johnn’s eye again. The dark mist there still clawed at him, reaching outward, held back only by the sun’s light and the fairy’s fading presence combined.

“In time, you will see how your lands twist and turn and transform. What our kind wrought—our many gifts to you—shall all be undone.”

“The nights that grow longer every year?” Johnn asked with a growl, with his defiance rising anew. The fear of the ghosts in that impossible corridor fueled a wrath that eclipsed whatever charm the fairy exuded over him. Or perhaps Thalomirian’s distance afforded him such agency. “The suffocating fog that grows thicker and more abundant with each cycle of the moon? Well, all the better if—”

“We never authored such change,” Prince Charming said resolutely and honestly, yet growing distant. “The things that I spoke of. The corrupting things. They have done that, and they will continue to do so. Wonder not if your little demesnes and houses and castles come alive with those dark things. If they twist and transform and turn against you. Walls that never let you go. Rooms that refuse to forget any transgressions—real or imagined.”

The prince’s voice shrank with each word, betraying the creeping range as it increased, leaving Johnn and this world behind.

Johnn spat, “And corridors that appear out of nowhere? Filled with droves of angry fucking ghosts?”

Not bothering any longer to spot the fair prince, he kept his eyes trained on the impossible corridor. Wary of its apparitions emerging from there again.

No answer.

A sweet and melodious laugh echoed through these unhallowed halls instead.

Then, almost like a whisper, Prince Charming said, “My sweet. My patience and my courtesy extending to you have overstayed their welcome, I reckon. I advise you make haste to leave this filthy little hole. The only thing that can hold them off was that little iron toothpick of yours that I tossed into the ocean.”

He needed not be warned twice.

Johnn fled.

His imagination ran wild with imagery of the shadows pouring out from the impossible corridor, like running from an undead tidal wave. Giving chase. He struggled to keep his emotions in check—would not feed their hunger, not slake their thirst for his fear, not offer them any energy or power by granting them as much as a glance.

Nowhere on his way did he encounter Thalomirian. Prince Charming would never show himself to the bandit ever again.

Running through the natural corridors, the rapping of Johnn’s boots against stone echoed far and wide, drowning out any ghostly whispers. His own labored breathing and the rushing of blood in his ears did the rest. He sprinted back towards the side of his beloved charge.

Almost skidding past the passageway that led inside the sleeping quarters of the long-gone pirate gang, he braced himself against the wall and stumbled inside, pushing by the rotten bunk beds, and coming to a halt where Nora’s sleeping body lay, still wrapped in blanket and cloak.

Johnn dropped down beside her. Clutched her shoulders.

Shook.

Gently at first. Then fervently. Panic gripped him harder than he held her.

“You need to wake up. Now,” he said. Voice trembling, like the boy’s little arm, reaching out to the handle of the door. Only he did not cross the threshold yet. “Please, wake up!”

Like a miracle, her eyes fluttered open.

“I know this is a lot, but we need to get out of here,” he said. The boy dared to cross the threshold and the trembling made way to certainty. They had made it this far, and the man he was now would always refuse to surrender. “Now. Something unstoppable comes and we are not safe here.”

She blinked in confusion. Understandably so.

He leaned in and pecked her on the lips with a cheeky kiss. Earned himself a slap on his cheek that stung long after the clap of her palm had finished echoing through the caves.

But like the heat of its sting, it invigorated him. He grinned. She sighed and shook her head. Grinned as well.

No second too soon had he helped her up, she stumbled onto her feet. Her legs buckled like a newborn foal, nearly giving out. He braced her before falling, then she found her footing. Nora’s fingers uncomfortably dug into his arm, painfully squeezing it.

He tugged. She snatched their bags and followed.

Unlike Johnn, Nora visibly struggled to make sense of what was happening. He ushered her down the next hall, drawing closer to the rotten pier, where they could climb back out up the cliffs, and return to the Blackwood.

Unlike him, she looked over her shoulder, past her beloved. Her eyes grew wide with fear.

He made the mistake of following suit. Curiosity did always get the best of him.

Something followed them. Something invisible and intangible, yet painfully present. And woefully furious. One by one, this force snuffed out each torch, each gaslit lantern lined up behind them.

On wings of terror, the couple ran even faster.

What came from the impossible corridor gave relentless chase.

—Submitted by Wratts

[scarlettwitcher]

Baby Girl Chapter One

Summary: Y/n tried to avoid her past with a certain Statesmen but when they’re partnered back up for a mission that could cost millions their lives, Y/n must make the right choice. (This is the Kingsman: The Golden Circle movie basically in writing with reader insert. I recommend watching the movie, it’s amazing! It’s on Amazon Prime Video.)

Characters: Agent Whiskey, Agent Gin(Y/n), Tequila, Ginger Ale, Eggsy, Merlin, Champ, Harry, mentions of Poppy, Charlie, and Clara in coming chapters..

Word Count: 2.327

Warnings: Canon typical violence, angst, cursing, fluff here and there, uh guns?

Author’s Note: We’re finally here! I have been working so hard on this series and I have finally finished it! I’m so excited to be sharing this. Shoutout to my lovely @giftofdreams​ for being an amazing beta and friend. Also send my girl @queenxxxsupreme​ some love. After this series, I’ll be working hard on my requests and on my existing August Walker Series. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget it babes. Thanks for all the love I receive daily! If you’d like to be a tag, please send in an ask! As always, thanks for reading, feedback is always welcome/needed. Also, please reblog! I know this fandom is kinda small but I’d love for people to find this fic. I just worked so hard on it and I want it to get the love it deserves. Love to you all!

The loud sound of rain burned into Eggsy’s ears as he stared at the broken-down building in front of him. He didn’t know whether he should scream, cry, or curse anyone who was listening. He looked up to see a black figure walking towards him, holding a black bag. He immediately reacted, pulling out his gun, aiming it straight at his head. As the figure stepped closer, Merlin's face became visible to him but he never lowered his gun. Slowly the both of them started to walk towards each other as Eggsy gripped his gun harder, feeling it's weight get heavier with every step. “Someone decides to wipe out every Kingsman property, every agent, and somehow, conveniently, you weren't at home.”

Neither of them stopped walking towards each other, walking between all of the rubble of Eggsy’s blown up home. “I could say the same thing about you.

Finally, Eggsy stopped when he was a few feet away from Merlin, his voice cracking from emotion. “What, you think I'd kill Roxy? And my mate, Brandon, and my fucking dog?”

“No. You think I would?” Eggsy kept his gun trained on Merlin as he swallowed thickly. Merlin held up the black bag towards him, opening it up and pulling a robotic arm, holding it up. “This thing hacked us. Clearly, this arm can be remotely controlled. I'm only alive because my address wasn't on the database with the agents. Whoever Charlie's working with doesn't think that mere staff are missile-worthy.”

Eggsy scoffed angrily as he lowered his gun, his voice raising an octave. “This ain't funny. Roxy is dead! Everyone's dead! Gone! Do you even care?”

“Pull yourself together. Remember your training. There's no time for emotion in this scenario.” Eggsy nodded quietly in understanding. “Now, as all surviving agents are present, we follow the doomsday protocol. When that's done, and only then… you may shed a tear in private.”

Eggsy sighed deeply as he nodded. The loud sound of thunder echoed between the two men filling in the absence of conversation. The deaths of all the Kingsman weighed heavy on their hearts. “Okay. What's the doomsday protocol?”

“We go shopping.” Both of the men decided to take the night off and try to sleep. It was a restless sleep for both. First thing in the morning, they both headed for Berry Bros & Rudd; Wine merchants. They walked in dressed to the nines. Merlin approached one of the workers. “We're from Kingsman. We'd like to buy some wine and use tasting room number three, please.” The man in the shop nodded quickly, before taking both of them towards the room. The man left, leaving Eggsy and Merlin alone. “Not one of my predecessors has ever been in this situation before. Thank God.” Merlin walked towards a distinctive place in the wall, recognizing a familiar shape. He pulled out a pendant, exactly like one Harry had given Eggsy when he was younger. “A-ha. Remember this?” He showed it to Eggsy who smiled softly, remembering its significance. 

“Yeah, how could I forget?” Eggsy watched as Merlin turned towards the wall, slipping the pendant into the shape, fitting perfectly into the molding. Loud sounds of locks being opened and gears turning filled the room. The wall slid open, revealing a black safe. 

Merlin pointed towards the safe as he spoke to Eggsy. “Whatever's in that safe is the answer to all our problems.” Merlin got to quickly opening the safe. Pulling the door open, his brows furrowed in confusion as he leaned closer to see what he was looking at. “Huh.” He pulled out a bottle of whiskey with clear big letters that read “Statesman” on the front. He showed it to Eggsy who looked confused.

“Is that it?”

“I suppose that must be upper-class humor.” Merlin looked down at the bottle, analyzing it for a few seconds before looking back up to Eggsy. “I don't get it.”

“Me neither. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?”

“I think we should drink a toast to our fallen comrades.” Merlin served both of them cups of the Whiskey. Eggsy grabbed one and held it up towards Merlin as he grabbed his own cup, doing the same. They clinked their cups together. 

“To Roxy.”

“Roxy.” Merlin oohed in admiration of the taste. Eggsy nodded his approval as well as they served another round, doing what they had previously done again. “To Arthur.”

“Arthur.” They both drank their whiskey before Eggsy stopped in thought. “Mmm. Should we do one for JB?”

“I think we should.” Eggsy pulled out a chair, sitting across from Merlin as they poured more whiskey. They took a drink for every fallen Kingsman. Leaving the bottle almost empty, Merlin started to cry, wiping at his eyes in pain with his handkerchief. “I should have seen it coming. Charlie, the taxi. It's all my fault.” Both men had forgone their jackets and glasses as they spoke.

“No, that's bullshit, Merlin. It ain't all your fault. You're the best, bruv. Honestly, without you, I'd have lost it a long time ago.”

There was a moment of silence between the two as Eggsy placed his hand on Merlin's shoulder. Merlin stayed quiet before reaching for the almost empty bottle. "I think we should drink to Scotland."

Eggsy quickly took the bottle away from Merlin. "I think we've probably had enough, to be honest." He analyzed the bottle as Merlin cleaned his glasses. 

"You're probably right." Eggsy stared at the bottle. Looking closer he saw a small print at the bottom of the back of the sticker, 'Distilled in Kentucky'. The K looked very familiar to him before it clicked. 

"Merlin."

"Aye?"

"I think we're going to Kentucky."

"Fried Chicken? I love fried chicken."

"No, proper Kentucky. Look." Eggsy placed the bottle on the table as Merlin slipped his glasses on. 

"You know what else I love? Country and western music." Before Eggsy could say anything, Merlin started to sing. Eggsy was annoyed but listened quietly anyways. "Country roads, Take me home, To the place I belong.." The boys moved quickly, getting what few things they had left before flying over to the distillery. They noticed a tour happening as they arrived and they followed behind as the woman spoke. She didn't let them into a large warehouse, explaining something about how the temperature is perfect for the barrels and both men stopped. Eggsy scanned the door with his watch, nodding towards it. 

"Biometric security scanner just to protect a few old barrels of whiskey? Pull the other one, love." 

Merlin fiddled with his tablet as Eggsy watched him. "Got it." The door slid open behind Eggsy. They looked around before skidding in. Eggsy kept his hand up with his watch, surveying the area. They looked around amazed at all of the giant barrels. 

"Are you getting anything?"

"Not yet."

"Fucking hell."

"It's a shame it's not scotch." Merlin's tablet started to beep loudly. "Hang on." He looked at the image, showing underneath them was the base. "According to this, there's a huge underground structure right beneath us." Merlin walked quickly to the end to place his tablet down, grabbing an axe placed lazily on the side. "And if my calculations are correct…" He moved towards the main barrel in the middle, holding the axe tightly. "This is the way in." Without a second thought, Merlin hit the wall with all his strength, denting and making a hole on the barrel. Whiskey gushed out of it and both men panicked. 

"Fucking hell, Merlin. Shit." Merlin moved quickly, covering the hole with his hand. 

“You know, my mama, she always told me us southerners get our good manners from the British.” A man slowly walked towards them, holding a shotgun loosely in his hand as it rested on his shoulder. Eggsy tried to act casual, crossing his arms and leaning on the barrel as Merlin kept his hand on the hole he created. “I was thinkin', ain't that a pity. Y'all kept nothing for yourselves. Y'all ain't never heard of knocking before you enter?” The man turned his head slightly, smirking before spitting to his left. 

“Well, actually we had an invitation. Didn't we?” Eggsy looked over at Merlin as he nodded quickly.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, did you now?” The man watched them unamused.

“Yeah. It came in the shape of a bottle. We're from the Kingsman tailor shop in London. Maybe you've heard of us?”

“Oh, the Kingsman.”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. That's where y'all got them fine suits and them fancy spectacles y'all got on?” The man pointed towards them with the end of the shotgun, acting like he knew what they were saying was enough.

“Exactly.” Merlin nodded his head enthusiastically, almost as if he hoped they made the right decision. 

“That's right.”

“Y'all look damn sharp. Let me see if I got it right, here. You want me to believe that it's normal for a tailor to hack through an advanced biometric security system with nothing but a little bitty old watch on?” Eggsy clenched his jaw nervously as Merlin frowned. They were starting to realize their name meant nothing. Merlin looked over at Eggsy with concern as Eggsy rolled his eyes, staring the man down.  “I can promise you,” The man grabbed his shotgun, loading it as he twirled it effortlessly in his hand, aiming it at both of them. “That dog don't hunt.” With the shotgun, he motioned for both of them to get down. “So why don't you go on and get down on your knees and tell me who you really work for.” 

Eggsy raised his eyebrows, mocking the man before looking over at Merlin tight-lipped, as Merlin nodded, silently saying, ‘okay, you asked me to’. He removed his hand as the barrel started to leak again, dropping whiskey all over the floor. The man quickly sucked up some saliva, spitting it across the way on the hole, covering it perfectly.  Eggsy looked at Merlin with disgust before turning back towards the man with the same expression. “That's 1963 Statesman Reserve. You just made it personal.”

The man walked towards both of them, as they ran towards him at the same time as well. Eggsy raised his fist, ready to punch but the man ducked and hit him in the back with the shotgun. Merlin lunged for him next. The man hit him in the abdomen, looping his arm around Merlin’s and used his body weight to throw him against the barrel, knocking him out cold. Eggsy took out his gun but the man used the shotgun to trap his arm between his body and the shotgun before swinging it around and smacking it out of his hand with his shotgun. The momentum of the hit threw Eggsy on his knees as he swung the shotgun into his ribs, swinging it the other way around. Eggsy blocked the hit but still groaned in pain as the hit threw him against the barrel. The man pinned Eggsy’s arm with his shotgun before moving quickly to flip through Eggsy’s watch until he found the stun option. He pulled Eggsy off of the barrel and angled it so he shot himself with the dart. Eggsy stared at him in surprise as the man smirked. Eggsy moved to touch his neck where the dart was as he went limp on his legs. “Who the fuck are you?” Eggsy stepped back once before falling onto his back, blacking out quickly like Merlin. 

“You’re right. You are getting better Tequila, almost as good as me.” The man, Tequila, looked up to the left where you slowly stepped out of the shadows. You licked your lips as you walked over to the limp bodies on the floor. You bent down beside Eggsy and reached out, touching his watch admiring the technology. “I guess you didn’t need me after all.” 

Tequila smiled and shook his head as he nudged Merlin with his foot. “Now darlin’, don’t say that. You know I love having you around.”

“Well, duh. I’m a fucking catch.” Tequila laughed out at your comment before moving to grab Merlin, throwing him over his shoulder as he motioned towards Eggsy with a nod of his head. 

“Can you handle him?” You frowned and shook your head. You were smaller than Eggsy and even though you were strong, you weren’t that strong. 

“I can drag him.” You grabbed his arms and slowly pulled him towards the real elevator, dragging him inside as you huffed. He was heavy. Tequila laughed as he watched you and you glared at him. 

“Did you hear?”

“What?”

“Whiskey might be coming down this weekend. Something about a meeting.” You visibly tensed as you clenched your jaw. You took a deep breath as Tequila watched you concerned.

“I didn’t know. How long?” You didn’t even realize you whispered this until Tequila reached over pulling you into his arms. The big lug basically swallowed you in his big arms but you didn’t care. You wrapped an arm around his waist before letting out a shaky breath. 

“Just for the weekend. Has he tried to talk to you?” You shook your head as the elevator stopped, indicating you were on the floor you needed. “Good. How about we go to that restaurant I told you about?”

“Sounds nice Tequila. We’ll take Ginger. She’s really been wanting to go there.”

“It’s a date.” You giggled at his remark. You grabbed Eggsy once more, slowly dragging him towards the interrogation room you had. Once Tequila secured Merlin into his chair, Tequila moved quickly, securing Eggsy beside him. You sat in the far side of the room as Tequila took his place in front of the both of them, leaning on the table. He licked his lips, trying not to show how much he would enjoy this as he leaned over, slapping the both of them out of their unconsciousness. This was going to be fun.

Forever Tags: @iwantthedean @authoressskr @sorenmarie87 @reigningqueenofwords @goldenolaf25 @giftofdreams @winchesterprincessbride @chelsea072498 @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian @itakeawfultoawholenewlevel @fictionalabyss @gabby913 @angelkurenai @sea040561 @sleepylunarwolf @smoothdogsgirl @carryonmyswansong @feelmyroarrrr @evyiione @sofreddie @sis-tafics @nitelotus @trexrambling @dancingalone21 @manawhaat @mermaidxatxheart @winchest09 @ellen-reincarnated1967 @mrswhozeewhatsis @just-another-busy-fangirl @lovebodymindstuff @backseat-of-deans-67chevy @chook007 @akshi8278 @evansrogerskitten @bringmesomepie56 @persephonehemingway @blacktithe7 @donnaintx @queenxxxsupreme @whitewolfandthefox @riviawitch3r

Kingsman/Agent Whiskey Tags:  @thesadvampire @le-roman-rose @mcudisiac @someone-take-my-bagelseverywhere @chibi-liz05 @marvel-avengers01 @themandjalorian @floccodineveautunnale @jassiepoohbear @gollyderek @retrobhaddie @wolf-lover74

[webster-akgae]

Far Cry From You pt.1

The damp squelch of the dark earth below the alpha’s boots was the only sound to echo across the desolate land. Pale red puddles splashed under his feet as well as bodies of both his men and his enemies lay still at his stride. His furs and armor were caked with blood, his sword that was still dangling in his grip was stained crimson from battle, even his face was splattered with it. Rain steadily fell from the sky in light droplets that began to slowly wash away the dirt and grime from his hair.

The pungent stench of bloodshed and ash burned his senses though the only relief was the numbness that flooded his body. He had made it out unscathed through the fray except for bruises and gashes along his sides and arms. It was nothing an alpha like him couldn’t handle, he’d had much worse over his years of engagement, but the rush of adrenaline that had been fueling him since the early hours of the morning when the skirmish had just begun was starting to drain from his system. He was in urgent need for rest, but his gait was determined even though it turned into stumbles as he struggled for breath.

The foreign warmth in the air had been tugging at his lungs for the months he’d been in the southern lands. The exhaustion that weighed his bones only aided its work to make him want to collapse. The north, his birth place, was bitter cold this time of year, but the southern part of the Amer kingdom still felt like summer even in the dead of winter. Joseph was used to seeing bodies frozen in the ground with blood so violently vibrant against crystal white snow it made grown men puke, that was what he knew, what he could deal with. The cold wind biting your skin and burning your lungs as you fought for your life, not the consuming heat that made you want to sink into the ground. But most of all, it made him angry. The soft breeze against his cheek was all too forgiving.

It reminded him too much of a certain, lost omega.

The alpha knew he should be moving in the opposite direction to go back to the makeshift base his battalion had taken for shelter. The aid station would gladly give him a hot meal and a bed to rest in, and damn did that sound fantastic compared to the ache in his body, but the pain in his chest hurt far worse. His grip on his sword’s leather handle turned his knuckles white from the pit sitting in his stomach. Everything in him wanted to move faster, to run until he could see it, praying nothing had changed since the last time he’d been there, over six years ago when he was just a pup. But he knew that was for not.

The last time he’d ever stepped foot in the southern lands was when he was no older than twenty five. Even as a rowdy cut up of an alpha, he saw that the southern lands were beautiful. It was at a constant state of youth, the trees and grass always remained lush and green as did the farming and cattle herding country. The very grounds vibrating with life and joy, the people were kind and welcoming to the surly northerners that passed through their homes. It was a fair sight to see, but he could never have imagined what was to come.

Looking upon the ruins of each home filled him with dread. The barbarians of the east had pillaged even the slightest of structures until they’d become nothing but piles of waste and ash. The livelihood of so many people lost at the hands of mongrels who only sought for power. Bodies of men and women littered the ground, some whose flesh was black and bubbled from what sick celebration had gone on once they’d trekked far enough into the southern kingdom. His clan had arrived just as their pillaging had begun to calm, when they were too busy warming their asses by the burning bodies of the innocent. Joseph’s throat itched to growl just to think about, but he couldn’t seem to conjure a thought as he saw it.

Six years ago, he could only stand and ogle at the grandiose edifice that stood right in the edge of the village’s commotion, just over a wide, dark wooden bridge where under crystal clear water flowed through a narrow rift in the ground. Rows and rows of flowers and grape vines that were always being tended to were scattered all around the grounds. It was obviously made for the wealthy with its grand height and sturdy build, it stuck out from the rest like a gold coin in a sea of copper. It was beautiful just as the soft soul that called it home, but even the most precious of lives and strongest of holds couldn’t have stopped the army of barbarians that ran through it like a playhouse.

It was nothing more than a crumbling mountain of wood surrounded by trampled, lifeless flowers. The shine of the carefully carved wood was now blackened by the devilish glee their enemies had taken with setting it ablaze. But it somehow still stood as the rain poured down its broken body like a fallen soldier. The alpha’s grip on his sword became impossibly tighter.

Joseph had felt many things in his life, but grief and regret were not among the welcome.

He was a brave man, he’d led his men into battle, into victory, enough to say so. But he couldn’t take a step closer to the bridge no matter the willpower he could manage.

“I’ve failed you.” The alpha whispered out into the bitter air though he knew no one would hear.

The quiet was replaced with the struggle of someone’s breath, but Joseph didn’t budge at the throat that was cleared to try and garner his attention. “Captain Liebgott?” The next try only made him sigh.

“How many of our own?” The alpha’s voice rasped.

“Of our ten thousand, nearly twelve hundred.” The shaky voice replied.

His hand idly twisted the heavy weight of his sword, “Theirs?”

“Obliterated, captain.”

Liebgott hummed and turned to the man, he was someone he didn’t particularly recognize but he was never one for caring for the messengers, “Gather the fallen men. They shall be buried in our homelands before the next full moon.”

The man swallowed, “The rest?”

“Burn it. Burn it all. Let nothing stand that will remember what happened here.” Joseph didn’t bother to stop the growl in his voice.

Without a second glance to the messenger, he fell to his knees and sunk his sword into the ground and prayed to whatever was above.

-

“David!”

The omega couldn’t hold back the loud giggle that fell from his lips as he braved the treacherous, winding stairs of his home. The blurs of family portraits and hideous banners passed by him in a whirlwind of color. His bare feet padded against the brandished wood floors and echoed up to the high ceilings. His heart pounded in his ears as the similar footsteps got closer and closer, his maid chasing after him in hopes of dressing him up for another of his father’s visitors.

His long, dark brown hair was hanging in soft rivulets down to his shoulders. His maids managed to weave braids into the top section of his hair before they’d made the mistake of leaving him alone for more than a few seconds. He was dressed in nearly nothing, a frayed tunic that was no longer than his knees and cinched at the waist with a leather band. It was indecent for anything else other than his maids and his father, but he’d done worse in the company of guests.

He just needed to make it past the throne room, to the gardens, from there he can hide out in the hydrangea bushes. Almost there-

“-honored for you to have welcomed us into your home, Hersir Webster.”

David nearly tripped down the next set of stairs and only managed to catch himself by snagging the sharp edge of the newel cap. Just one more story would have him down to the throne room and through the doors to the garden, but he hadn’t expected for their guests to be more than a visiting lord or someone from the next clan over, not a dozen vikings poised right on the polished wood floor of his home.

Immediately the omega could see and smell they were different. They weren’t southern warriors, that much was obvious from their thick pelts and cropped hair. Most southern warriors brandished their hair in long braids while most of these men had shaved sides and long coils of hair from their crown. They had a distinct smell that was familiar to David that he’d picked up on travelers, it was of the pine trees that grew in the north, like the woods had stepped forth into his house. They were intimidating even to watch from above. Most were alphas, he could tell by the overall domineering scent and musk.

He’d heard plenty about northerners. They were quite different from his people. They were raised by ice and frost and made for hard living. There was no use for farming due to almost constant snow and ice so hunting was priority, even omegas learned how to wield a sword or use a bow and arrow to survive. The stories he’d heard from the traveling merchants made his skin crawl though at first he’d refused to believe them, but the grueling look of these men below had him somewhat in belief.

The south didn’t prioritize armory or military like that of the north. From what southern warriors he’d seen most bore their chests bare and fought with long swords or spears, these men carried with them some small daggers on their sides and hips, some with both a bow and arrow as well as a sword, others even with dual axes sheathed in their belts. The north had almost routine skirmishes along their border with rouge clans who got too close looking for food, so most alphas and omegas were trained from a young age what survival really was, and David couldn’t deny he could make out violent stains along many of their visible weapons.

“There you are!” His maid cried as her feet clattered down the stairs.

David’s head snapped up as her exclamation echoed over the room. “Get back here before your father catches you!”

The omega had been so startled he hadn’t realized the chatter below had become dead silent. No doubt there were eyes peering up at him where he was still crouched down, if he’d been privy to it all he would have known to pull his tunic down over his thighs.

“That’s quite alright, Melda, I’m sure he’s ready to greet our humble guests!” The baritone voice of his father called out from below.

David froze in horror.

“I’ll bring him down then. He does so awful at times like this, hersir.” He shook his head so hard in her direction, not daring to look down.

She shook her head back, “You must, now get on your feet.”

“But I-“

“Don’t leave our guests waiting, David.” His father called out once more.

Melda, her and that stern face of her’s and sturdy grip on his arm forced him up despite his whimpering for anything but. She roughly pulled his tunic down and ran a cold hand through his tousled curls until she huffed in resignation. Her thumb wet with her spit smudged over his cheek to which he whined and tried to cringe away.

She gave up with a huff and fixed her eyes with his, “Behave.”

David wanted to roll his eyes, but thought better of it as she challenged him to try something again with a furrow of her brows. “Fine.” He growled.

The omega didn’t dare try to look over the dark railing of the balcony again. He could feel piercing gazes on his body from the alphas below and he dreaded to be face to face to them. No one would hurt him, certainly not unless they wanted to face execution, but his back burned in embarrassment when the amused chuckles got louder. He wasn’t new to being around alphas, most of his bodyguards and personal servants were alphas, but these men were too foreign, too different for David to find comfortable. He’d been present in customary council meetings with close by villages filled with all kinds of alphas, but they weren’t these grisly, hard eyed, mean looking vikings that stood before his own father.

Men and women a part of the southern military weren’t faced with the same hostility northerners were, David remembered hearing his tutor explain to him when he was looking over the maps of the kingdom. He never pressed for more beyond that and he knew his tutor wouldn’t be inclined to tell him any of the gorey details, but the travelers that came to sell pelts always had the most colorful of words to quell his curiosity.

The stories he’d heard weren’t as finely cut as the ones in his books. Instead of romanticized words that swirled along the vellum pages and perfect description of the victors of history, there were curses and tales about bloodshed in misty white snow. There were names they’d say so beguiled, places they’d just exchange looks over, like they’d repeated this grand story before and David would allow his imagination to fill in the rest.

[fullmetalscullyy]

kidnapped secrets

Can write about how someone is trying to find the secrets of flame alchemy and riza is freaked out or something and hughes find out about the tattoo, just a thought that was in my head – raven on ao3

Maybe someone after flame alchemy discovered the tattoo and kidnapped riza and is trying to either restore the tattoo or get her to talk or something so the team has to rescue her but Roy's the only one who knows why and is the one who finds her/goes to extra lengths to protect the secret etc etc? - TheTeaQueen on ao3

i believe TheTeaQueen asked for this request months ago and i’m so sorry but it literally got buried in my wips. it was so similar to another request i received recently on ao3 so i’ve combined them both together. hope you enjoy! sorry for the long wait!

WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE

rated: M | words: 4522

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Riza replied coldly.

“I think you do,” the man before her smirked. His spine straightened and he walked away from her chair, coming to a stop beside a table. Riza bristled in her restraints, noting the number of wicked looking instruments that rested atop the wood. Her chest seized and panic began to well inside as her captor picked up a knife.

“Flame alchemy is one of the rarest forms of the science out there,” the man began, turning the knife over to look at the shining blade. He scrutinised it closely, using his shirt to wipe off some dirt. Then, it returned to the table. “No one in history has ever come close to obtaining its secrets, except for one man, of course.” This time he picked up an axe and ran his finger down the length of the blade. He hissed in pain and Riza watched as blood was drawn from the pad of his finger. Placing the axe back down, he wiped the digit on his trouser leg. “You, Lieutenant Hawkeye, happen to be in very close contact with this man. Colonel Mustang has often named you as his closest confidant, has he not? It would only be natural he shared where he got those secrets from, wouldn’t it?”

“Why do you think it’s the rarest form of alchemy?” she asked. It was hard, but she managed to keep the bite out of her words. It wouldn’t be wise to provoke him. “We’re work colleagues. Nothing more.”

“Ah, see,” the man argued. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

“How so?” she enquired.

If she could keep him talking that meant it would put off any blows until later. She needed to try and get as much information out of him as possible. It was obvious he was looking for the flame alchemy secrets. Even with the array on her back, it had been burned in the most important places so that no one would fully be able to understand it.

“You see, I’ve got men all over the city,” he drawled, like she was supposed to be impressed. “These men have keen eyes, however I suppose no one could hold a candle to you, The Hawk’s Eye.”

Riza shifted. She hated that nickname. It was born from murder. She wanted nothing to do with it.

Reaching behind him, the man picked up another knife. This one was shorter than the previous but curved menacingly at the end. He passed it from hand to hand, watching as the sunlight from above bounced off the steel and right into her eyes. He smirked. He was toying with her.

“However, these men aren’t blind, like you seem to think most people are.”

Riza turned guarded. Just what was he implying? Dread crawled up her spine, unwelcome.

“They have seen the Colonel frequently meeting up with someone during the night,” he revealed casually, as if he was talking about the weather outside. Riza’s stomach dropped. “Two o’clock in the morning seems an awful inconvenient time to have a house guest, doesn’t it, Lieutenant Hawkeye?”

She swallowed. “I wouldn’t know.”

He puffed air out of his nose softly. He didn’t believe her. His smirk remained.

“See, I think you would. Because these men stated this mystery guest had a striking resemblance to yourself. However,” he shrugged. “That might just be Mustang’s type. I wonder why that is though?” he grinned over at her. He brough the knife to a stop in his hands, no longer toying with it. He gripped it tightly as glee showed in his eyes.

Riza swallowed again. She was sure he could hear the motion. The sound rattled around her skull, just like his words did. They bounced off each other angrily, creating a panic.

Her captor stood. He advanced slowly, eyes never leaving her face. Instinctively, Riza leaned back in the chair. She couldn’t get far thanks to her restraints, however she still desperately wanted to put as much distance between this man and her. The end was coming, that much she knew.

The knife lifted to kiss the skin of her neck. Her captor’s face was right in hers as the blade travelled the length of her scar from the Promised Day. Riza shuddered.

“I will get those secrets from you, Lieutenant Hawkeye,” he purred. The sound made her feel sick. “Mark my words. Even if I have to remove it from your skin myself.”

Her eyes widened. How did he know it was a tattoo? Had he seen –

The glee on his face told her he knew exactly where the secrets were hidden.

“Thank you for confirming it for me. My men are bad people, but they would never stoop so low to watch you and your Colonel together. They have some form of decency, of course. It was just a lucky guess, because where else would they be, if they lay with you? If you could see them clearly, you would probably have deciphered them yourself. If you had them written down in a book, a certain Colonel wouldn’t be so protective of your body.” His gaze dropped, looking down at her legs. “Although, I can’t blame him, regardless of that fact.”

Riza’s skin crawled and bile rose in her throat. She felt violated with just one look alone.

“We did our research and I thought it was just love. That was why he cared for you so much. Turns out it was for the alchemy as well. His life’s work laid out on your skin.  Walking notebook for a man with an ego the size of a house. Why did you agree to do something like that, then follow him all those years? It must have hurt like hell.”

Riza didn’t have to give him shit, so she wouldn’t. He didn’t deserve to know her past or her reasons.

“Perhaps its more than love?” he pondered, straightening, and tapping his chin with the edge of the knife. His expression was thoughtful. “Perhaps blind devotion plays a part in it too? Has he locked you into some kind of deal? Your body, both for its secrets and the love you so obviously give him,” he grinned wickedly. “For his knowledge and power. A steep price to pay. Makes me wonder why a woman such as yourself, headstrong and more than capable to do great things, would trap yourself with the likes of him?”

This man knew nothing. Riza wouldn’t rise to his bait. That’s all he was doing. He probably got some kind of sick satisfaction out of his musings. Or loved the sound of his own voice. Both seemed likely.

“Silence huh? Maybe I hit the mark perfectly,” he snickered.

“Believe what you want,” Riza bit out. “Make your assumptions. You’re not the first.”

“Ah, ah,” he tutted. “But these assumptions are true, aren’t they? Well,” he corrected. “At least some are. I know that much. My assumptions are based on the majority of what I’ve witnessed.”

Riza glared at him.

Her captor sighed. “Not playing ball, huh?” He sounded so disappointed. “All right then. It’s no fun when people don’t play along.” Flipping the knife to his other hand, he advanced quickly.

Again, Riza reared back, but his hand on her head, gripping her hair painfully tight, kept her still. He pulled her head back, pressing the knife to her neck.

“If your throat’s cut, you won’t get very far,” he explained. “However, I think you know all about that already, don’t you?” he sneered.

There was a pinch in her neck as the blade pressed into her skin. It was the opposite side of her scar from the Promised Day.

She was panicking. Years of training meant nothing when she was transported back in time to the tunnels underneath Central. Her life fading before her eyes. Her blood flowing down a drain off to the side. Roy screaming at her…

Riza felt blood trickle down the column of her throat as flames engulfed her captor’s hideout. They were searing hot, carrying the echoes of screams along with it as the fire pushed further into the room.

She knew he’d come for her. But Riza also knew there would be consequences for her if he did.

A sharp jolt of pain in her left side had her eyes wide, eyes open in panic and fear. Riza’s breath was choked from her lungs as pain exploded in her oblique. Looking down, the knife her captor had been holding was sticking out of her body. It was removed quickly, but not before dragging through the fabric of her uniform and across a part of her back.

*          *          *

“Get in!”

Roy’s head snapped to his right, gripping the wrist at his shoulder protectively. Through the pouring rain on the dark night he spotted a car. Inside, Hughes was in the driver’s seat, his expression a picture of worry and urgency.

Altering his run, Riza stumbled beside him at the sudden change. She faltered, falling forward and she groaned.

“It’s all right,” Roy told her over the sound of the pounding rain. “It’s Hughes.”

“Hurry!” Hughes yelled.

Roy ripped open the door to the backseat and bundled Riza inside. He ducked instinctively as gunshots began to sound behind him, but Hughes had them covered. Through the open passenger’s window, he covered Roy. Giving up sitting in the passenger’s seat, Roy dived into the back beside Riza. He ended up on top of her after slamming the door closed and Hughes took off at breakneck speed.

“What the hell?” Hughes barked as he drove.

“Get us to the safehouse,” Roy replied. He was thrown onto the floor as Hughes braked suddenly then took a sharp turn to the right. His hand remained on Riza’s side to steady her.

She was in a bad way. Blood was covering Hughes’ backseat. It was seeping into the leather steadily, originating from a wound on her left side. More blood fell like raindrops from a slice on her neck, but it didn’t look deep.

He didn’t try to get back up beside her on the seat. He would only be thrown off again with Hughes’ frantic driving and may end up hurting Riza in the process.

“Riza?” Roy called to her. “Can you hear me?”

There was no answer.

“Riza?” He was desperate.

“Almost there,” Hughes called over his shoulder.

Roy reached for her hand and gripped it tightly. He wanted her to know he was there. That someone was here with her. Roy never wanted to let go.

Once stopped, Hughes was out the door in a flash and rounded the car to Riza’s head. He eased her out gently with his hands underneath her arms. He paused and apologised profusely as her eyes flew open in pain but were unfocussed. As Riza struggled in Hughes’ arms, Roy scrambled out and gripped her hand again.

“Riza? It’s Roy. We’ve got you, okay? Hughes is here too. We’re going to take you inside a safehouse. You’re all right.”

Her breathing was still hard, but her fight was waning. Her eyes were still unfocussed, but her head turned to look in Roy’s direction. He offered her a tight smile, not caring if she could see it or not.

“We’ve got you. I promise.” Roy lifted their hands and pressed a kiss to the back of hers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Riza paused for a second then her body went limp. Eyes fluttering closed, she nodded once.

“Let’s get her inside,” Hughes murmured. “The rain’s coming again.”

The weather appeared to be following them because as they reached the front porch, it was hammering down once more. Roy shivered in the cold air, already soaked through from his mad dash through the rain with Riza before Hughes found them. His clothes were sodden and his hair was plastered to his face, but still dripping with moisture. He didn’t care.

“Bandages are in the kitchen,” Roy directed Hughes as he eased Riza down onto the bed. It hadn’t been made so there was just a plastic covering over the mattress, however that was probably better. The plastic made cleaning much easier.

Hughes disappeared and Roy worked on peeling away her jacket and shirt to get a closer look at her wound. His stomach turned when he saw blood oozing from a sizeable stab wound. Anger propelled through his body and he wanted to kill whoever had done this to her –

“What the hell is that?” Hughes asked from the door.

Roy whipped around to face Hughes. His friend’s eyes were on Riza’s back. Glancing back, Roy noticed her tattoo was on show.

Fuck.

“Bandages,” Roy hissed at him. “Now.”

Hughes didn’t need to be told again. That explanation could wait, and Roy knew it would come. It was inevitable. He had to remove her clothing in order to get a proper look at the damage that had been done. Hughes was bound to see more than he should.

Roy hated to do this to her – he knew just how much she hated that tattoo and wanted to keep it hidden – but this would stop the bleeding. He had to do it. Without Hughes finding and helping them, she’d be dead. Roy would just have to deal with the consequences later, when Riza discovered someone else knew about her tattoo.

Protecting some of her tattoo, Roy draped her ruined shirt and uniform jacket over the rest of her back. He angled the fabric so it was only the lower left side of her back showing. There were no more injuries that he could see, thankfully.

Stop the bleeding, get her awake, then ask what happened.

Roy just prayed to everything that was holy on this earth that none of those bastards discovered the tattoo. He really hoped they didn’t.

*          *          *

“…that?”

“Hughes, voice down. Please.”

“I just don’t get it.”

Riza was startled awake. She groaned in pain as it all came rushing back to her. Her oblique throbbed and in her neck, there was a sharp pinching pain that wouldn’t let up. It nipped at her relentlessly.

“You did that to her?” she heard Hughes accuse through her fog of pain.

“God, no!” Roy exclaimed. “How dare you!”

“Well then, explain it to me, Roy! Because you do not want to hear the assumption that is rattling around in my head right now.”

“That isn’t my story to tell,” Roy hissed.

“It is, because that tattoo on her back is on your fucking gloves.”

Riza froze.

Hughes knows.

Shit.

She had to get up and tell him. She could appreciate Roy not breathing a word like she asked and like he promised, but Hughes wouldn’t rest until he got an explanation.

It took three tries, but Riza eventually managed to sit up. She had to bite her lip hard to stop from crying out. Panting, she swung her legs out of bed. With a hand clutched to her left side Riza shuffled towards the door of the bedroom. Upon opening it, she came upon their argument.

They were in a safehouse, Riza knew that much. She recognised it. In the centre of the living area, Roy and Hughes were locking horns. Hughes was facing her, eyes snapping to the new movement out the corner of his eyes. The fight fell from him as he set eyes upon Riza. He wasn’t supposed to be here, however Riza remembered Roy telling her they were in Hughes’ car while she was semi-conscious. He’d come to help, and she was grateful for that.

“Hughes,” she rasped. Her fingers gripped the wood painfully hard. She had to in order to stay upright. Any wrong shift and she’d crumple, but Hughes had to know. Roy had nothing to do with her tattoo.

“Oh, shit,” Roy exclaimed. He lunged for her, grasping her elbow, and gently but firmly removing her hand from the doorframe. He squeezed it tight. Roy’s face was one of worry and concern. “Riza?” he called to her, but she only had eyes for Hughes. “Go back to bed, please. There’s nothing to worry about right now –”

“It wasn’t Roy,” she continued, ignoring him. “The tattoo had nothing to do with him.”

Hughes swallowed, expression setting as his lips formed a hard line. Riza watched as he tried to calm himself.

“Riza, back to bed,” Roy urged.

“You have to believe me,” Riza ploughed on. “Believe him, please. He would never do something like this.”

Pain lanced in her side and she gasped, squeezing her eyes closed. Her body rolled in on itself and she gripped Roy’s hand in a vice-like pressure. Once her eyes were opened, all she could see were grey spots. They varied in size, revealing the real world back to her in brief flashes before another, darker one took its place.

“Riza?” Roy called to her. He sounded terrified.

“Wasn’t him,” she murmured as she began to fall.

Of course, strong arms caught her fall and lowered her gently to the floor.

“Don’t worry about it,” Roy begged her. “I’ll sort this,” he reassured. “I promise. Just rest.”

Was he crying?

Riza didn’t get a chance to find out because she was unconscious as Roy’s warmth encompassed her. For the first time in what felt like days, she felt comfortable and relaxed.

*          *          *

“She collapsed when standing in here.”

“Why was she standing?” Doctor Knox asked gruffly. “Should’ve been in bed,” he muttered to himself.

“I know,” Roy agreed. But he sounded defeated. Like he thought it was his fault she’d collapsed.

Maes sighed to himself as the two entered the room Hawkeye was recovering in. He knew he wouldn’t be permitted to follow, and Maes didn’t expect to be either. He doubted Roy would stop him, but he was incredibly protective of her right now, especially after he’d seen that tattoo, and Maes didn’t need to make his headache worse.

“Knox, I’d really appreciate it if –”

“I’m not going to gossip,” he interrupted, offended at the insinuation.

“No, I know, but –”

“This is off the record, Colonel.”

That ended that discussion and a part of Maes was glad.

“Thank you, Knox.”

Whatever that was on Hawkeye’s back was important and it had something to do with flame alchemy. Had she been taken for the secrets she harboured? They didn’t know yet. There had been no communication between Hawkeye and them yet. She hadn’t been conscious for long enough.

Sighing again, Maes sat on the couch. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose to try and ease the tension in his head.

It didn’t take long for Knox to finish up his treatment. Upon exiting the bedroom, he stopped and looked at Maes.

“She stays here for a week at the very least. That’s a medical order.”

“Understood,” Maes nodded.

“If she tries to leave, I will sign her off as unfit for work.”

Without another word, he left.

Roy didn’t leave the bedroom.

Maes contemplated knocking to see if everything was all right but ultimately decided against it. The house was finally silent, and it was nice.

Anger burst forth inside of him at the thought of what was on Hawkeye’s back. She’d insisted it wasn’t Roy, but it was tied to him in some way. He’d caught site of old scars too. Were they burn scars? His hand formed a fist on his knee. Maes always knew they were tied together in some way that went deeper than childhood friends.

Relaxing back into his seat, Maes let it go. Embracing the brief moment of peace after their frantic and adrenaline fuelled escape from Hawkeye’s captors, he would leave it. For now.

*          *          *

Maes was flipping through a book, too engrossed in the storyline to notice that Roy had fallen asleep on the armchair across from him. He’d barely been sleeping for the past three days. Hawkeye had yet to waken up properly after the medication Knox had ministered. She’d been awake in short bouts, but nothing substantial. Maes was incredibly worried about his friend, but Roy’s concern far surpassed his. Every time the house moved, he’d twitch and cock his ear towards Hawkeye’s room. Satisfied that he heard no movement, he would return to staring at the floor with his hands clasped in front of his face, elbow resting on his knees. Maes wasn’t sure if Roy even realised he was doing it. At night Maes would leave to go home to his family. By morning, he’d be back to find Roy sleeping uncomfortably in the same chair he was in now, but by Riza’s bedside.

It was troubling to see how much Roy was beating himself up about this, but it was also very telling. What Maes had assumed all along was in fact true. Roy Mustang was in love with Riza Hawkeye. It was obvious.

He was also too distracted to notice the door to Hawkeye’s room had opened.

“Hughes?” Riza asked.

Jumping in fright, Maes scrambled to sit up in his chair.

“Hawkeye,” he smiled, relief flooding him.

She paused, looking at Roy crammed awkwardly into the chair he was sleeping in. Hawkeye shuffled over and Maes just watched.

“He, uh, does that a lot,” Maes revealed.

Hawkeye nodded. “I know,” she admitted softly. “I noticed.”

Maes swallowed. Glancing at Hawkeye’s face, he noted the pained look on her face as she stared down at her commanding officer. Her fingers brushed hair off his face with such tenderness and care, he felt the urge to avert his eyes. He shouldn’t be privy to a moment like this.

“He shouldn’t, though,” she murmured wistfully.

Shifting uncomfortably, Maes interrupted her moment quietly. “How are you doing?”

“Sore,” she admitted. Hawkeye sighed, but it was cut off as she grimaced.

“Here, sit,” Maes offered, rising from his chair.

“Thank you.” It looked like she was regretting moving from Roy’s side, but her eyes never strayed far from his face.

“He’s all right. He’s taken it hard.”

Hawkeye nodded, pursing her lips. “I thought he might. Let’s let him sleep.”

“He loves you, Riza,” Maes revealed gently.

“I know,” she admitted in a whisper.

“You feel the same way, don’t you?” he pried.

Hawkeye met his eyes head on. “I do.”

Maes smiled at her sadly. “I thought you did.” He shook his head and sat back in the chair. “It’s some predicament to be in.”

“We made our bed,” she replied firmly. “Now we have to lie in it.”

“You’re allowed to be happy though, Riza,” he stated gently. “You were just following orders.”

“I’ve found I’m not the type,” she replied. “Not until we’ve righted our wrongs.”

Maes knew that would be her answer, but he had to try.

“Besides,” Hawkeye swallowed. “I knew I’d be used against him, or vice versa.”

“And were you this time?” Maes ventured carefully.

Riza paused, but eventually nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was hoarse. Fear spread across her face before she could reign it tightly in. “They wanted the secrets for flame alchemy.”

“You have them?”

Riza nodded. “My father tattooed them on my back to keep his work safe.”

Maes’ blood ran cold. Her father… Did that?

“And – And the scars?” Gracia often told him he was too nosy for his own good, but he had to know. He was all in now. There was no hiding it and there was no taking it back. Plus, it may serve him to know. He knew how much was at stake now when he went after the bastards that did this.

“That was him.” Hawkeye’s eyes flicked over towards Roy. Maes huffed in disapproval. “I asked him too,” she whispered. “After Ishval. I didn’t want there to be another Flame Alchemist. There couldn’t be. Not after what happened.”

Maes’ anger dissipated, fizzling out into nothing as he heard Riza’s voice wobble.

“He set me free. Roy freed me from my father’s burden.” Her breath caught and her body shuddered as she let loose a breath.

Slowly and carefully, Maes edged over and placed a hand on her shoulder. He gave it a squeeze of comfort. He couldn’t offer much more than that.

“I owe him so much. And while we can’t be together, that’s fine.” It certainly didn’t sound like it was fine. It sounded like she was struggling.

“You’re allowed to be happy sometimes, Riza,” Maes murmured. “It can help. Believe me.”

She shook her head. “It was because of us being happy that the array was found in the first place,” she replied fearfully. “Those men they – they saw us… meeting up.”

Maes’ eyes widened. His stomach tensed uncomfortably. Just what had those bastards seen?

“We can’t do it again,” Riza added. “We can’t.” She sounded so broken and helpless. “And I don’t know how to tell him.”

Maes’ heart hurt for his friends. They were well and truly stuck, and their worst fears had come true.

“You tell him the truth,” Maes replied simply. “It will hurt like hell, I know, but if you truly think it’s for the best, then that’s up to you.”

Hawkeye bit her lip, conflicted. This was an interesting side to her, Maes thought. He’d never seen Riza Hawkeye deal with matters of the heart before, and here she was, laid out before him. It was difficult to watch.

“Now you’re awake, Knox told me you’re not allowed to leave here until the end of next week.” Her gaze snapped up to his sharply. She was clearly disapproving. “If you insist on leaving, he’ll sign you off as unfit for work, and we both know that long, drawn out process isn’t worth it.”

Riza huffed, but she nodded. “All right.”

“I’ll work on the case. Roy stays here too, all right? Keep out of sight and stay hidden. I’ve been doing some digging and those men are still after you both.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Take care of him, okay? Don’t let him beat himself up too much.”

She snorted softly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to, even if I tried.”

“No, I wouldn’t be able to,” Maes interjected. “You, however, you will.” Hawkeye’s eyes made their way back to Maes’ and he smiled at her. Giving her shoulder one last squeeze, he stood from his seat. “He listens to you.”

Hawkeye glanced back to Roy, then nodded.

“I’ll be in touch soon,” Maes announced, shrugging on his jacket. “Remember, a week from Sunday, okay? That’s when you’re allowed to leave.”

“Thank you, Hughes.”

He smiled warmly at her. “Anytime, Riza. You know that. Give me a call if you need anything.”

Maes closed the door to the safehouse quietly behind him. With a determined and purposeful stride, he started towards his car. He had work to do. And, he wasn’t ashamed of his little white lie. Perhaps it would give the two of them some much needed time together, away from prying eyes, so that they may find some kind of peace and happiness together.

[katefiction]

Second Chances - Part I

by mrandmrswales (Emily) / August 23. 2013

This is slightly different to what I normally write but I’m quite proud of it so far! There should be another part to it, as its quite a long fanfiction. Thank you to the lovely Maria for helping me with the title, I was stuck about this but I think it fits nicely. Anyway, don’t forget to give me feedback and I hope you like reading it! (This is all fiction)

The first thing that 19 year old Catherine Middleton saw when her lids fluttered open that first morning was the sight of rain pouring down outside the thin glass window. The trees swayed vulnerably under the force of the cruel wind. Kate let out an inaudible groan and squeezed her eyes shut again, imagining that the rain and wind were nothing but the soundtrack to a typical morning at home. The previous night had been a haze of plane flights and driving through rocky terrain until a cluster of cabins had loomed out of the night. Kate and about 20 others had been herded from a car and split into one of the many cabins, males one way and females the other. By that point, everyone’s eyelids had been drooping and sleep had been a welcome relief.

‘All right everyone up!’

A shrill voice echoed through the hut and several loud groans echoed across the room. Kate grinned at the sound, remembering the fuss that would occur in the mornings at boarding school. She pulled herself up off the floor, her back protesting at the night slept on the floor. Her body would have to get used to it, she had 10 weeks left of this.

Half an hour later, the women were herded out of the hut, across the wet, cold yard and into a small kitchen. A huge vat of porridge bubbled on the small cooker and roughly 10 boys sat bleary eyed at a long bench while many more were gathered in a parallel room to be briefed by the other guides. A couple of hushed whispers and giggles erupted from behind Kate and she turned back to see the source.

‘Oh my god!’

‘I can’t believe it’s really him!’

Kate rolled her eyes and turned to sweep her gaze across the bench, her eyes eventually settling on a young man with familiar eyes and a mob of blonde hair. It was no other than Prince William.

————————————————————————————————————————————–

‘Hi I’m Will.’

‘Kate. Pleased to meet you.’ William met her gaze from under his blonde mop of hair and smiled bashfully. Kate turned to the sink to hide the sudden blush creeping up her neck.

‘Shall we get started?’

‘Yep. What needs to be done?’

‘I think the dishes and then the cutlery.’ Kate said, her gaze sweeping over the pile of dirty plates beside the two tiny sinks. Outside the window, the sun swept its golden rays from over the distant hills and the sound of their friends laughing and chatting filled their ears. ‘Let’s get it done shall we?’ Kate said at the envious look on William’s face.

‘So…um, where abouts do you live?’ William asked racking his brain for conversation starters. Kate smiled.

‘I live in a village called Bucklebury in Berkshire.’ She replied softly. ‘You live in London I suppose?’

William shrugged, ‘Yeah, but I also live in Scotland I guess. I go there quite a lot.’

‘Ah nice. I love Scotland.’ Kate replied with a reassuring smile.

William grinned, happy to have a mutual interest at last. ‘Yeah. It’s always been my sanctuary because the paps can’t get to us there.’ He replied casually and Kate shot him a glance. The idea of being chased around by strange men seemed absurd, but to him it was presumably normal.

‘What’s it like being royal?’ She asked suddenly, blushing furiously at his amused look. ‘Sorry..I..that was an odd question.’ She muttered, but William shook his head, turning back to the dish he was drying.

‘It’s just something that I’ve always been aware of. Mum always kept Harry and I grounded but the idea of being King always hung over me. I’m different, but I have always resented being so. The paparazzi make it harder of course because nothing is ever private to them.’ Kate smiled sympathetically.

‘I can’t pretend to know what it feels like to have old men chasing you around but I can guess. It must be really ghastly.’

‘Yeah it’s pretty bad. It makes finding girlfriends or making friends hard because they’re never afraid to hunt them down and find every last detail about them.’ William sighed and moved onto the next plate. Kate tutted and did the same, shooting glances at his hunched frame and floppy blonde hair. The idea of having a casual conversation with the future King of England at a sink in Chile seemed almost dream-like and unimaginable, but to her surprise it was so normal. He was just like any other 19 year old boy except slightly more experienced in life’s hardships.

‘So what university are you going to go to after the summer?’ She asked flippantly. William grimaced and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Oh I’m-’

‘KATE?!!! CAN YOU COME HERE PLEASE? MARK HAS SPILT WATER ON YOUR JUMPER!’ William was interrupted and Kate groaned.

‘Excuse me.’ She said and rushed from the room, William shooting an amused glance at her as she hurried from the room.

—————————————————————————————–

It was a crisp, cool morning as Kate left the cabins to make her way down to the woods where she was to chop wood with William. Dew shone like diamonds over the springy grass and the mist hung over the trees, cloaking the area in grey. The hill was steep and wet as Kate tentatively made her way down towards where William stood, already chopping wood. He looked up as she approached

‘Hello again, you and I always seem to be together!’ He grinned ‘Come to check I’m chopping right?!’

‘Yeah, Kirsty said she didn’t trust you not to accidentally chop your arm off’ Kate replied with a chuckle. William’s face twisted into mock hurt and he handed her an axe.

The two began chopping in contented silence, the sound of birds chirping joyfully and wood splitting under the blow of metal being the only noises that filled the valley. Kate looked up through her fringe at William, admiring the concentration on his young face, every now and again reaching to sweep a lock of golden hair away from his face. He looked at her suddenly and she blushed.

‘Admiring my talent at chopping wood?!’ He teased and Kate laughed.

‘Most definitely. One might even think you did it as a professional’ William tutted but smiled all the same.

‘So tell me about yourself. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘I have a younger sister and brother called Pippa and James. Pippa and I are very close because were quite close in age, whereas James is quite a bit younger than me. I love him very much though, although he does drive me mad sometimes! Although, Pippa drives me more mad! She knows how to wind me up better than anything.’

William smiled ‘Care to share how?’

‘That would be telling!’ The two’s eyes held each other’s for a moment and Kate felt a small blush creeping up her neck.

‘So.’ She said suddenly, shaking her head free from thoughts of drowning in his clear blue eyes. ‘You just have Harry? You get on well?’

‘Oh yes, Harry is one of my best friend. He, like your sister loves to wind me up though. Especially in public when I can’t do anything about it! Ever since Mum…died. We’ve been very close. I was the one that…told him.’ William’s eyes shadowed over and his face became sad, almost vulnerable. Kate said nothing, averting her eyes so as to give him a moment. She had never dreamt that she would ever hear William talking so openly to her of all people about his mother, one of the most famous women who ever roamed the earth and was so dear to him.

Before she could stop herself she blurted out ‘I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been.’

William looked at her and she saw his eyes soften slightly as they roamed over her. ‘It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. It tore him apart, and even to this day I’m the only one who ever truly knows how badly it did. You don’t recover from something like that.’

‘No.’ Kate said softly and stepped forward so she was level to him.

‘I miss her so much’ He whispered, his eyes locking with hers.

‘Your mother would be so proud of everything you’ve done. You’ve been a fantastic brother to Harry and you’ve held yourself together. That’s more than some people could do. She replied softly.

He looked at her for a moment ‘You’re a special girl Kate.’

‘I like to think so.’ Kate replied jokingly and he grinned, the sadness broken.

‘Shall we play a game?’

‘A game?’

‘Yeah. How about 21 questions? So I can really get to know you.’

Kate laughed ‘Go on then, but I can assure you I’m a very boring person.’

‘No more boring than me. Right, first question: How old were you when you had your first kiss?’

’16.’

What’s your favourite food?

‘Aw that’s a hard one. Umm… I’m going to go with my mum’s spaghetti bolognaise.’

‘Good answer. What’s one of your most embarrassing moments?’

‘The time I accidentally flashed my ‘behind’ at my housemistress. We used to do it at the boys and she walked in one time. Oh God it was so embarrassing.’

William laughed ‘Right, question number four: What is it of me that you like the most?’

‘Your eyes.’

William raised his eyebrows ‘anything else while we’re at it?’

‘Shut up and ask me the next question!’

‘All right! Favourite sport?’

‘Hockey’

‘Favourite item of clothing?’

‘My little black dress.’

‘What do you want to be when your older?’

‘I still don’t know. Something to do with fashion I think.’

‘Favourite colour?’

‘Blue.’

‘Favourite movie?’

‘Ummm. Probably-’

‘CATHERINE?!’

Kate jumped and William turned around. Kirsty, their activities leader stood at the top of the hill. ‘YOUR NEEDED UP HERE PLEASE! IS THE WOOD ALL CHOPPED?’

‘YES! JUST COMING’ Kate shouted back and began to gather her wood together. ‘Guess we’ll have to finish this another time.’

‘Guess so. Well see you later, I’ve just got a bit to go.’

‘Okay.’ Kate smiled and tore herself away, reluctantly heading back to camp, cursing whoever it was that needed her.

——————————————————————————————-

‘Good Morning everyone, today is the day when you meet the children at the nursery for the first time! Now you all have had training the last few days so you know what you’re doing. Just have fun and be gentle with them, particularly you lot!’ Kirsty their trainer said with a laugh, pointing at the men who were listening to her with huge grins on their faces.

Kirsty continued,  Kate and the others listening intently to their team leader as she ran them through the details of the school day. Kate had been looking forward to doing this rather than just doing activities at the camp as she loved children. From across the circle of people, she caught William’s eye and he grinned cheekily at her. The two had grown close as they were often thrown together in activities such as hunting, chopping wood or just washing up. She had even heard William say he preferred her company to some of the other girls who did nothing but ogle him or giggle when he spoke. All in all however, they all got on well and had become fast friends. Kate had grown close to many of the women and men, some older, some younger. William had become her closest confidant and the longer she spent in his company, the more Kate was beginning to fall for him. She had tried not to, especially as she knew he wouldn’t like her back like that. However, unfortunately when it came to love, logic never came into it. Kate stuck her tongue out at him and turned back to listening to Kirsty, trying to ignore the tingly feeling in her stomach from his smile.

Kate watched with a huge grin on her face as Will and Mark Turner careered around the patio with two 3 year old boys on their shoulders. A huge amount of noise was coming from all four and Kate and the other volunteers were all watching and laughing as the boys screeched with joy. The last two hours had been spent teaching the children to read and spell, with time imbetween for playing. The children were all very sweet and Kate had started to fall in love with several of the little girls who insisted on playing hairdressers with her long hair. Kate was about to turn back into the classroom to continue the English lesson she was teaching when William glanced up and grinned at her from underneath a lock of blonde hair. Immediately, a shiver ran down her spine and she smiled dreamily back. Beside her, her friend Ellie looked suspiciously at her. Kate caught her eye and blushed.

‘What?’

‘You’re not falling for him are you?’ She whispered back, concern mingling with amusement.

‘What? No of course not. He’s like my best friend!’

‘Yeah, but that look you just gave him was hardly platonic.’

‘Oh come on Ellie, he’s good looking but I don’t like him like that.’

‘Me thinks the lady doth protest too much’

Kate tutted and turned away, not wanting Ellie to figure out the truth from the blush on her cheeks. She knew it was ridiculous and she would get over him but in all honesty, she knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. She just hoped he would realise or even return her feelings.

‘Perhaps tonight at the salsa dancing he will whisk you onto the dance floor and kiss you passionately!’ Ellie whispered again. Kate snorted and returned her eyes back to where William was now cuddling several youngsters, however Ellie’s words niggled in her head. Maybe tonight was the night.

—————————————————————————————-

Kate shivered and warmed her hands over the roaring bonfire, captivated by the different colours dancing together in harmony. Beyond it, shadows of her friends illuminated against the night sky by the flames showed their bodies, dancing in harmony to the music that roared through the village. Laughter filled the air, partly to do with the alcohol supplied to them by the villagers and partly to do with the Salsa dancing, many partook in. Turning her head to the left slightly, she caught sight of William, leaning against the wall of a little hut, casually holding a glass of local beer. His deep laughter sent a shiver down her spine which she revelled in momentarily before chastising herself for allowing him to have that effect over her. Standing in front of him in a casual stance, stood Hilary Castle; her blonde hair glowing in the light of the fire and her lithe body leaning into him. She watched with jealousy as he dipped his head closer to her to hear what she was saying before laughing again, throwing his head back in mirth while his blue eyes twinkled. Unable to watch any longer, Kate stood up and wandered over to where the salsa dancing was taking place. Within minutes she was thrust into the arms of a slightly drunk village boy, the music running through her as she allowed her inhibitions to leave her.

It took one glance over to ruin the evening for Kate. All of a sudden, the warm tingly feeling from the dancing and the alcohol and the laughter left her. She felt numb, her eyes unable to tear themselves away from the sight of his lips moving over hers, their bodies pressed against the wall in eagerness and the glass of beer abandoned on the floor at their feet, its contents leaking over the grass. The shrieks of laughter from her drunk companions only reminded her that what alcohol she had consumed was not enough to numb the pain of him kissing someone else. Extracting herself from her partner’s iron grip, she hurried over to the bar and grabbed a glass of something.

‘You okay?’ Kate jumped and whirled around to face a young local. He had large brown eyes and floppy hair. He grinned at her ‘I’m Marcos’, holding out his hand to shake hers. Then, he pointed to the large glass she was about to knock back. ‘Do you just want to get really drunk or is there something wrong?!’ He asked, sounding amused. ‘That stuff is strong.’

‘Oh. Well…I just. Um.’ Kate stuttered, her brain refusing to form coherent thoughts. Then, on seeing his kind expression, sunk into the chair next to him and buried her head in her hand. ‘To be honest, I just want to block out the image of the guy I like snogging the face off someone else.’

‘Ahh.’ He replied, and took a measured sip of his drink. ‘Guy troubles.’ Kate nodded and gave a muffled sniff. ‘Well I know the perfect way of clearing your head.’ Kate looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.

‘What would that be? And don’t say Salsa dancing, I’m really not in the mood.’

He chuckled. ‘Salsa dancing, when done with a professional, is very sexy. It looks fantastic and is perfect for getting back at him. You don’t have to do much, leave it up to me. All you have to do is look interested in me, laugh and smile and he will be fuming.’ He replied, puffing out his chest proudly. ‘Come on!’

Kate hesitated. She didn’t want to be petty, but it did sound perfect at showing him she didn’t care. Plus it would save her from disgracing herself tonight and ending up with a colossal hangover in the morning. Giving him her hand, she allowed herself to be pulled from the chair and into the open, next to the roaring fire.

Kate was vaguely aware of the noise surrounding her as they cheered her and Marcos on. The music fired through her veins, stronger than what alcohol could have done. His arms around her were like an iron vice, but were gentle at the same time. Their hips moved in unison and his eyes bored into hers. If she didn’t know that the look on his usual cheeky face was for effect, she would think that he was a passionate lover. He spun her around, flipped her upside down and lifted her to the sky, all the while; never leaving her eyes. She played her part, laughing and smiling, although it didn’t take long for it to become natural rather than forced. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw William, watching. His features knitted together in a conflicted expression while Hilary stood beside him, cheering them on like the rest of the blurred faces around the campfire as she passed them. Marcos let out a small smile every time he saw her eyes dart away from his to see William.

‘It’s working’ He murmured, flipping her down again suddenly, a shriek of laughter escaping her lips as he did so.

The evening ended with them all singing around the fire, most very drunk by now. Kate herself was feeling a bit woozy, having had a few drinks with Marcos afterwards. She had caught William watching her, even so with his arm draped around Hilary, a woozy smile on his face and his usually clear blue eyes hazy. She ignored him, hoping that maybe he would see how much he had hurt her. Surely he knew that she liked him? Perhaps he didn’t. Kate had pushed that thought out of her head. Practically everyone else knew she liked him, surely he did too?

Kate collapsed into bed that night feeling happier than she had in days. Slowly the sounds of singing quietened down, and one by one, everyone had fallen into a contented sleep. Kate slept soundly, a small smile still playing on her lips. William however, lying next door, lay awake, the images of Kate pressed against another man with a huge smile on her face flashing through his mind, mingling with the ones of his lips pressed against Hillary’s. Confliction ran through him, was it possible he liked Kate? She was his best friend…but what about Hilary? He knew he liked Hilary also. Kate couldn’t possibly like him, he thought. Eventually William fell into a troubled sleep, alcohol numbing his thoughts.

————————————————————————————————————————————–

Kate let out a huge yawn as she made her way to the kitchen the following morning for breakfast. Truth be told she had a little headache, but nothing compared to what it could have been if Marcos hadn’t stepped in when he did. Wondering if there was some porridge, she opened the door and entered the small, messy kitchen. Her heart sank as she saw the one person she really didn’t want to see sat at the large table in the middle. He looked tired and was gulping down a cup of coffee. He looked up as she entered and smiled nervously.

‘Morning Kate’

‘Morning’ she replied, ‘Is there any porridge going?’

‘Yeah it’s on the stove’

Kate helped herself, trying to ignore the tense silence that passed between them. It made her sad, she didn’t want their friendship compromised. She smiled at him as she took a seat opposite him.

‘You look tired’ She commented as he knocked back the dredges of coffee from his mug. He shrugged.

’Yeah. Last night was quite wild.’

Kate nodded, her lips set in a tight line before she began to eat her porridge.

William lifted his head up from where they had previously been staring into his coffee cup and his blue eyes held hers for a few magical seconds.

‘What do you think of Hilary? Is she as nice as I think she is?’ He asked, trying to make light of the awkward situation.

‘Yeah, she’s lovely. Had a crush on you for ages. She wouldn’t shut up last night!’ Kate chuckled, but it sounded hollow and empty, a shell of its previous self.

William nodded nervously and opened his mouth to speak when the door flew open and William was interrupted. Hilary entered, in all her shining glory, her blonde hair done in a French plait and a tight white top highlighting her curves.

‘Morning!’ She chirruped loudly, settling herself next to William ‘How did you sleep Wills? Hope you spent all night dreaming about me like I did!’ Kate struggled to hold in a wince as she laughed loudly, flipping her hair back and thrusting her chest out.

William smiled, ‘Of course. Who could forget about you?’ Kate’s wince was even more obvious than before and Hilary turned to her, her eyes narrowed

‘Is something the matter? Your ruining the atmosphere between me and my boyfriend’ She announced to which Kate laughed hollowly.

‘Boyfriend? So shoving your tongue down a practical stranger’s throat one evening suddenly means you’re together does it?’ Kate stood up suddenly, picked her bowl up and dumped it loudly in the sink. ‘I’ll be in the village if you need me’ and swept out, leaving William and Hilary staring in astonishment after her.

————————————————————————————————————————————–

Hi Kate,

Pippa here! I miss you lots but I’m sure you’re really enjoying yourself out in Chile! I can’t believe that Prince William is in the same place as you!! You will have to tell me ALL the gossip when you get back! My friends and I are seriously jealous of you! A-Levels are as tiring as always, even more so without you to help me! I broke up with Louis and I really wish you were here to give me advice. It sucks but I’ll get over it. I felt it best as he’s leaving for Australia in a few weeks. Do you have your eye on someone? I bet you do! Anyway, Mum wants to add a note on so I’d better finish! Write back soon okay?

Lots of Love

Pippa. Xxx

Darling Kate,

I hope you’re doing well, I’ve been checking the weather forecast every day to see that you will be okay. You’re in for a bit of nice weather for a while so that will be nice. Thank you for the lovely letter you sent a few weeks ago, it sounds lovely out there. We miss you so much, James and Daddy send their love. James is in the middle of his exams so high tension running through the house on weekends! Pippa tells him to stop worrying but you know how hard it is for him! I miss being able to talk to you about things darling but I suppose I’d better get used to it since you will be off to University soon! Must end now darling as I’m running out of space. All my love and kisses

Mummy xxx

Kate smiled in amusement at her sister’s chatty expressions as she wandered away from the tiny post office in the village. Some of her anger and upset had cleared on receiving her letter and the sun shining made her feel brighter.

‘Hello again’ Came a familiar voice behind her and she spun around to face Marcos, his dark eyes dancing and his hair messy. ‘How’s your head?!’

Kate grinned despite herself, his smile was infectious. ‘Not too bad. Although watching Hilary and William snog over breakfast didn’t help my mood.’ Marcos frowned sympathetically

‘Not even the sexy salsa with a dashing signor helped?’

‘No.’ Kate sighed and began to walk, him trotting beside her as they made their way to the local crafts shop.

‘He’s an idiot then.’

‘No he’s not’ Kate replied before she could stop herself.

‘So are you.’ He said, rolling his eyes. ‘Come on’ and he grabbed her arm and herded her into the shop.

Half an hour later, Kate and Marcos came out of the shop, giggling happily about nothing. Kate felt considerably brighter than she had since she woke up and having bought a few goods for her family had cheered her up.

‘Don’t look now.’ Came Marcos’ voice suddenly, breaking into her thoughts as they made their way back through the village towards the cabins. Kate lifted her head and her eyes scanned the area, falling on the sight of two lovers kissing against a tree. She giggled,

‘Why? It’s cute, they’re just kissing!’                                              

‘No really. Don’t look Kate. It’s William and little miss leave-me-alone-to-snog-my-stranger-boyfriend.’ Kate’s heart plummeted into her stomach and she averted her eyes.

‘Lets go the other way’ She mumbled, but Marcos grabbed her arm and looked at her, his eyes blazing.

‘No. were going to walk right on past.’

‘Oh do we have to?’

‘Yes.’ And with that, he began to drag her up the path towards where they stood, arms entwined and heads bent.

She thought she’d made it past without either noticing, the cabins were so close and she was nearly there-

‘-Kate?’ She winced and turned apprehensively around

‘Yes?’

William was looking up at her, his hair messy and a guilty look on his face. Hilary stood beside him, also slightly rumpled and her lips swollen. William stepped forward

‘Are you okay? You seemed a bit upset this morning.’

‘Oh yes I’m fine! Absolutely smashing.’ She said cheerfully, desperately trying to keep sarcasm out of her tone. “There’s nothing like watching the guy I’m in love with snogging the face of someone else three times in the space of 24 hours” She thought.

William didn’t look convinced and opened his mouth to speak when Hilary stepped forward. She looked a little put out.

‘William. I know she’s your best friend but is there really any need to waste any more of our time together worrying about her? I mean she looks fine to me! Excuse us Kate, my boyfriend and I have some business to attend to.’ She said, a smug look on her face as she finished. She grabbed William’s arm at which he suddenly looked very irritated. Kate ground her teeth together and turned to leave

‘Come on Marcos. Let’s get a drink.’

Marcos nodded obediently and hurried after her, concern etched on his tanned face as she stormed off, all the while William staid rooted to the spot, watching her leave.

to be continued…