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sharkbait77 · 4 years ago

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The Sun Sets With You

Chapter One: The Season Begins

Summary: A simple yet despondent farm life suddenly sparks with new hope when an unusual traveler makes your town his latest stop and brings with him intriguing and promising viewpoints and no one to share them with. Until he meets you.

Pairing: Ezra Prospect x f!Reader

Rating: M

Warnings: Despondency, depressive undertones, death of a parent, grief, unsolicited advances, age old sexism, strained parent relationship, nosy neighbors, food, lmk if I missed any pls!

W/C: 3.2k

A/N: And here we go! The first chapter! Welcome & thank you for tuning in, it means the world, truly! As I mentioned before, this story may not be the best for some, so please heed the warnings & proceed with caution. The sadness will not consistently be in each chapter, that much I promise, but we have to get through it right away so we can understand our dear Reader’s mindset as of right now. NO EZRA YET, SORRY! And like I said before, this is probably not totally historically accurate, so take everything with a grain of salt pleeease. Other than that, enjoy!

Tags: @the-ginger-hedge-witch @asta-lily @honeymandos @pascalpanic @aliwritesfic @mandocrasis @hnt-escape @winter-fox-queen @barbossa2319 @sarahjkl82-blog @day-off-inkyoto @pedrocentric @astoryisaloveaffair @ezrasbirdie @danniburgh @foli-vora @lucrezia-thoughts @djarinsbeskar @chasingdreamer @quica-quica-quica @meesterblack @amandalovess @hunterofartem1s @pedro4ever @mishasminion360

Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Chapter Two

~APRIL FIFTEENTH OF EIGHTEEN SIXTY-SEVEN~

Your eyes flutter open on instinct as the sun rises against the pale blue of the sky, its ochre rays peering from behind the grassy hills and across the wheat fields while waking the birds. They start their day with a song, shaking their feathers and stretching their wings as they merrily fly through the air in search of their morning meal. The hens that found solace in their coops from the stark chill of night chatter amongst themselves as they roam around their pen and the lone rooster releases its shrill call, a signal for the day to begin. Beat you again, you think.

The sun rises a little higher now, the bright of day in full effect as it fills your room with its intense luminosity. You lie in bed a moment longer, watching the dust mites float through the air and dance in front of your nose with each exhale of breath you release. Signs of life all around you, from the dew drops that formed on your window in the early morning to the muscles within your very skin twitching as you climb out of bed. Every little thing teasing and taunting you of significance, of meaning just on the horizon, yet so far out of your reach.

This is your life. Each and every morning, day, and night is as repetitive as the last. Wake up before the rooster crows and stare into the minute cracks rippling through the ceiling, envious of the pollen that manages to escape through and longing for you to shrink microscopic enough to hide away as well. Fill your basin with cold water you had gathered the night before to wash yourself quickly before your father wakes. Clothe yourself in your underdress, long sleeved, blue work dress layered on top with the sleeves rolled up, an apron cinched at your waist, and dirty and worn, black boots laced up tight enough to prevent you from minding the ache they feel as the day progresses.

You look at your reflection in the hazy mirror as you braid your hair; the drabness of the glass only accentuates exactly how you perceive yourself. The girl staring back at you was but a shell of the one you knew before. Before, when you still had ambitions that would have led you far from this town. To a place you could live anew. Now, just an empty being as one day fades into the next. Eyes that no longer gleam, hair that no longer shines, skin that no longer glows.

You had given up long ago of any hope and dream of something more, surrendering to the bleakness and repetitiveness of this life when your mother passed. A promise on her death bed to help care for your father any way he needs. And this is what he needs. You, here on the farm, helping tend to the chickens and the cows and the small shop he owned in town. The one your mother ran that was unceremoniously thrust onto your lap. The organ within your chest beats solely to pump the blood through your veins and keep you breathing, if only for the promise you made to your mother.

You fasten the gold chain around your neck, a locket with a faded photograph of your mother hidden within hanging to your breast. You tuck it into your blouse to keep her close to your heart and head down the ladder, stepping lightly as to not awaken Pa any earlier than necessary. Your Pa, an old man now with hair white as snow, only having turned the shade since Ma left.

Wrinkles crease deeper into his skin and the bags under his eyes droop slightly to his cheeks now on his once chiseled face. His strength has dwindled within the last year, and with no other siblings to share the burden of the farm, you knew you could not leave your Pa to deal with it by himself. So your own dreams and goals were swiftly thrown into the dirt to be rained on and turned to mush, impossible to be picked up again.

As you finish grounding the coffee beans and throw them into the pot of already boiling water resting on the range, Pa begins to stir and soon after wakes up, the aroma of caffeine acting as his own signal to wake. Leaving the house to give your father privacy to dress, you head to the hen coop to gather a few eggs for breakfast.

You take a deep breath of the crisp morning air, the smell of apple trees at the front of the house, then the smell of grass with fresh dew, to the smell of hay and chicken feed as you get closer to the pen they are corralled in. As you head back into the house, Pa is already seated at the small, round table with his tin of coffee.

“Good morning, Pa,” you greet softly.

“Good morning daughter. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Grace to our health, Pa,” you say, as you always do when he gives you his thanks.

Financially, you and Pa were well off enough; you still couldn’t afford luxuries like sugar, but you were able to live comfortably with only the necessities and the occasional new pair of boots. You were grateful to have the farm and the shop, both reliable sources of income for your small family, and you were blessed that Pa was still able to work the fields, but you know as time passes and his joints weaken, you would then need to take over the labor. There was truly no path for you to leave this life.

The older women around town had begun to whisper about you, not necessarily trying to keep their gossip from reaching your ears. They were just as bad as the hens that cluck around their pen all day. A never ending chatter of you being stuck in the house or the farm or the shop, working as an old maid for the rest of your life.

You’re still fairly young, just over two decades of life in you; sure, the girls you once played in the streams with as children were all married women now and on their third, fourth, fifth child, but you didn’t feel the desire to find a husband just to bend to the simple mold of life this society has cast. If you were to still have any control of your life, it would, at the least, be that.

You crack the eggs into the beaten and tired pan over the range, letting them cook to completion before removing and plating them, along with a roll of bread and the butter you had just churned the day prior. You walk over to Pa and place his portion down before working on your own. Pa sends up a quick prayer and starts to eat. His prayers turned to letters to Ma, but he never failed to speak them before every meal or before bed, sometimes even when a sudden abundance of eggs were laid or vegetables had sprouted during the night.

“The season is nigh for corn and potatoes,” Pa mumbles and you feel your heart sink to your feet.

You had forgotten about the season, when Ma and Pa would work the fields together endlessly, sweating through their work attire to be washed every evening. You still feel the creak in your elbows to this day. It is the busiest season, bringing in the most coinage for the year, but now that it was only you two, you worry about juggling between the shop and the farm.

“Pa, how will we manage?” You voice your concern. Pa takes a deep breath.

“You will hang a notice in the shop when you go today,” he says matter of factly. “Ask Mr. Williams if you are able to hang one on his window at the post as well.”

“And what shall it say?”

“‘Seasonal laborer wanted – will provide lodging with pay’.”

“Where will he stay?” You inquire.

“The barn; we will provide him blankets and he will be free to use our wash basins when needed and we will offer him meals.”

“It will be a lot of money expended, Pa; will we be all right?” You ask as you sit at the table with your plate and coffee tin.

“We will make do, daughter,” he says, the finality in his voice signaling for this conversation to cease. “We will not be able to pay handsomely or feed him much, but we require the extra hand if we are to pass the season.”

“Yes, Pa.”

You lower your head and eat your eggs in silence. You don’t pray anymore, not necessarily feeling the need since your Ma was taken, as well as your aspirations. Pa finishes his coffee, leaving the dishes in the wash basin and grabbing his hat, walking outside into the fields to begin preparations for the season. You sigh; the tears that have long hidden in your ducts refuse to spill out to bless you with relief.

The last time you properly cried was for Ma; every day you feel them there, the pressure building in the corners of your eyes, but nothing ever falls. A mind trick, you suppose, to force you to focus on the more important things. You don’t have the time to spare to release them; your mind and body are now slaves to the farm and the shop.

After your breakfast, you walk to the wash basin with your dishes, hand pumping the water from the pipe just off the side and using the homemade lye soap you learned to make from your mother. Once the dishes are washed, dried, and put away, you walk over to the black safe in the corner of the room, turning the dial to its correct numbers and pulling out the metal lockbox from the inside.

It carried within it the sales ledger for the shop and the velvet bag for the coins. Pa empties the bag every day as he looks over the ledger, placing the coins into another metal box that only he has the key to. He gives you coin anytime you ask, as long as it is needed for the shop or food for the house and, occasionally, on special days.

You pick it up and take it with you to the front door, pulling your bonnet and fabric bag from the hook they hung on. You stick the lockbox inside your bag, as well as the key assigned to it, and head outside. Pa is already far into the fields, hacking away at the dirt and smoothing it out for the new growth. You don’t bother saying goodbye; he knows where you’ll be. Where you’ll always be.

Living alone with Pa became quite challenging, you were disheartened to learn. You’ve always had a loving bond with him since you were a child; maybe he expected the same from you as he did from Ma, but he still managed to make his lessons on the farm enjoyable, doting upon you as any loving father would. Now? The anguish you both have felt since losing the feathery soft and caring love of your mother strained the relationship between you two.

What was once a thick belt of leather that connected you now pulled further and further apart until it became as frail as rubber, threatening to snap at a moment’s notice. You love your Pa; of course you do, and you know he loves you too. If only you could grieve together.

Upon entering the town, the people are going about their normal routines. The baker stacking the fresh loaves of bread in his window, the shoe shiners along the streets working tediously on men’s boots, the hens clucking – the older women gossiping away passionately about whomever they desire. As long as it isn’t you today.

You reach the shop, key in hand as you unlock the brass keyhole and turn the knob, the small bell dinging above you as you enter. You flip the sign in the window from the side that reads ‘Closed’ to the side that reads ‘Open’ and you pull back the shut curtains, allowing the light of day to flow into the small room.

Heading back to behind the counter, you remove the lockbox from your bag and set it on the shelf underneath in its usual resting place. You barely have a moment to remove your bonnet when the bell dings and you look up to greet the person who has walked in. Wonderful.

“Hello, my sweet,” the man husks and you find it difficult to choke back the bile rising in your throat.

“Hello Silas,” you say flatly. “Is there anything I can help you with today?”

“Darlin’, you know exactly how you may be of service to me.”

Silas Taylor, a boorish man of thirty-eight years, has desperately been attempting to attract your affection for the past two years. He had the decency to respect you and Pa after your mother passed, halting his advances for all of one week. Considering his age, he did not show any signs of maturing, both in his looks and his brain. One might even label him handsome, were he not such a crude and overbearing personality.

Ma and Pa had bid you to consider his proposal, but in time came to understand he was not the best man you could have as a husband. Pa despises Silas, has even told him so to his face, yet it did not cause Silas to stray from pursuing you. Disrespectful, despicable, a generally awful person, Silas is.

Why he had you locked on to his sights, you weren’t sure. You never gave him the opportunity to court; staying cordial as to not make an outright enemy of him, yes, but never once have you made it apparent you enjoyed his attention. Nevertheless, he continued.

“Silas, please. I must ask you to leave my shop if you are not interested in a purchase,” you implore, hoping he will understand your position and take his leave.

“But, little one, I am very interested in a purchase. What must I do to make you my wife?” He grins, as charming as the manure out in the fields. In a flash, your vision goes red as you replay his statement in your mind.

“I am not for sale, Silas. That is the most offensive remark you have said to me yet,” you declare harshly, the acidic bile in your stomach turning into a burning rage.

“There must be something that can be done, my sweet. You name it; the most lavish jewels and dresses your pretty, little mind can dream of,” he presses on with a smile only found on masks to scare the children with.

‘Pretty’ and ‘little’, amongst his unwelcome endearments, are the words to send your mind into a downward spiral to declarations that you’d rather not say unless you were alone, lest he take offense and decide to wreak havoc on you and Pa. You put your foot down and grab his arm roughly, pulling him with you to the front door. He only laughs at the scene unfolding, rather pleased with himself that he’s ruffled your feathers so.

“Silas, I am no longer asking. Please leave,” you say as plainly as you can, doing your best to keep the tremble of anger out of your voice.

“Fine, fine,” he chuckles satirically. “Until our next meeting, my love.”

He pulls your hand to his lips, his strength surpassing yours and his thick, wiry mustache rubs harshly against the tender skin of your hand. You furl your lip and flare your nostrils, unable to contain the look of disgust on your face as he glares at you perversely with his black eyes. You tug your hand away and the bristly hair under his villainous nose scrapes you with the motion.

You stand with your jaw clenched and hands balled up in tight fists at your sides, your fingernails digging into the skin of your palm as you watch him walk away, leaving puffs of dirt trailing behind with each cocksure step he takes. If you were to only be allowed one person to despise in your lifetime, it would be Silas Taylor.

“Dear, are you well?”

A gentle, aged voice calls out to you from behind. You whip around quickly, your skirts twirling as you face the elderly woman that has hailed you.

“Mrs. Williams,” you greet, willing your fury from the unpleasant interaction to rest for the time being.

“Was that Silas Taylor you were speaking with?” She asks.

“Yes,” you exhale. “Yes, it was.”

“He’s a quite handsome lad, dear. It is known all over town how you have bewitched him. Why do you not accept his proposal?”

Adelaide Williams; the sweetest among the hens, but still a hen nonetheless. You sigh deeply to yourself, deciding not to engage in the conversation with the one woman who treats you with any shred of respect and kindness, even if her ideals still match those with the others in town.

“Mrs. Williams, while I have you in my presence, may I ask a favor?” You appeal.

“Why, of course, my dear!” She smiles, all thoughts of your personal affairs exiting her imagination.

“Do you suppose it would be alright to leave a notice at the post office? We are asking for help on the farm for the season.”

“Yes, dear, it’s quite alright,” she smiles, her wrinkly skin creasing along her cheeks and eyes.

“Thank you; will you wait a moment while I draft it?”

She nods and follows you inside the shop, slow in her old age. You quickly grab a sheet of paper and a fountain pen, inscribing the words your Pa informed you to write in large enough letters.

“I imagine this season will be most difficult without your mother. I am so very sorry, dear,” Mrs. Williams says as you write and your hand quakes slightly at her comment. “How have you and your father been managing?” Cluck, cluck, cluck.

“Not without difficulty, Mrs. Williams, but we manage nonetheless,” you say courteously, not wanting to relay any information that could be the next piece of news to travel through the grapevine. You finish the notice and hand it to her.

“Shall I direct him here or to the farm?” She inquires as she reads the note, perhaps looking for anything contradicting what you already stated would be written.

“The farm, more suitably, so he can speak directly to my father,” you reply. “Many thanks to you and Mr. Williams,” you end with a sweet smile.

“No thanks are required, my dear. Anything to help you and your father. Your mother was a wonderful being. I was proud to have known her.”

Another quake. You nod politely, letting her hold your forearm as you walk to the front door. The bell dings as it opens and you watch her while she walks down the wooden pathway to the post office. Once you’re sure she’s well on her way, you turn back inside and draft another notice for the shop window before you begin arranging the merchandise for the day, taking inventory of goods that are depleting, and checking order forms belonging to families around town for produce off your farm.

A most provincial and forlorn life, indeed, that you will have to bear until the end of your time here on Earth.

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Chapter Two

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missingjackklinehours · 3 years ago

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Mo(u)rning Dove

@spnarchangelweek <3

Rating: Teen & Up (Gen Lucifer & Gabriel)

Warnings: Major Character Death, Derealization

Fic & Playlist available on AO3! (feel free to read under the cut, however!)

Dendrite; His wings are like crystallized dendrite, Lucifer notices.

Intricate patterns of iridescent gold branches engraved in each fulgent feather of his. Rays of daylight that dare reflect off the Messenger’s butterscotch wings are ardently absorbed to preserve his internal light—He burns far brighter than any star could begin to comprehend.

Lucifer can feel his warmth when he allopreens Gabriel’s dendrite-etched feathers. The thriving fledgling squirms uncomfortably under his working hands, his budding golden feathers twitching with each gentle pluck. His petite form leans away from Lucifer’s algid touch, and he whines with a callow pout when Lucifer prudently guides him back. Lucifer attempts to soothe his baby brother, amicable words of a story falling from his polar lips to allay Gabriel’s discomfort; Gabriel always loved his stories.

The gold expands as he develops. Complex veins of sunlight-drenched sheen contour the coverts of his pinions. The shinier they get, the brighter he burns and the more pleasant light he intakes. Gabriel emits brilliant luminescence like no other, and his sun-kissed wings like dendrite are proof.

Lucifer combs through gold with every softly recited word of a tale. Gabriel has grown to melt into the Morningstar’s wintry touch, listening attentively to the plot of his elder brother’s story. He is eagerly expectant; His big brother always comes to him with newer, longer, better anecdotes during preening season. Gabriel adores every one of them, though when he feels Lucifer culling the last of his unkempt and grimed feathers, he pleads with full, star-struck sky eyes to hear the lullaby that first lulled him to sleep, long ago. Lucifer teases him with fondness in his irises, but he gives in—He always does. It’s hard to say no to Gabriel when he looks that jubilant.

“... dream on, dear little child…”

Gabriel has already complied to the lullaby’s verses by the time Lucifer adeptly tweaks the last sliver of gold. The Morningstar’s waning notes fade out, though his boreal fingers still find themselves in between honey, dendrite-embedded feathers. Gabriel snores like a little beast, and Lucifer can’t help but grin at him as he gingerly caresses his slumbering brother’s effulgent wings.

The luster of his gold is brightest against the pristine cream of misted clouds. By the time Lucifer teaches Gabriel to fly, he’s become a beacon in the night. Lucifer’s frosted fingers tag one of his younger brother’s radiant wings, sniggering as he calls out “you’re it!” and soars swiftly in the other direction of Heaven’s lilac skies. As much as he tries through his giggles, Gabriel can’t keep up, and they both know it.

He’s growing too fast. At times, Lucifer reminisces on the distant era he was able to hold Gabriel in his arms. His dendrite-pattern had hardly blossomed then, and Gabriel’s gold hadn’t shimmered as bold. As he looks at his younger brother now, he sees curious divinity. Gabriel’s getting old enough to where Lucifer can’t shield him from danger, and it makes the elder angel anxious.

The snow of the Morningstar’s fingers drag further, deeper into gold. Gabriel’s wings are evolving, the golden bliss of his spirited light washing vividly over Heaven. The Messenger no longer leans in, nor away from Lucifer’s preening; He simply hums, swaying in rhythm with the breaths of Lucifer's story. No matter how old he gets, he always loves to listen to his big brother’s voice. When Lucifer is nearly finished grooming auric feathers, he happily anticipates Gabriel to plead with him to sing their lullaby. Instead, Gabriel turns to him, and his golden light seeps through his wide smile, a trickle of celestial sun through pearly teeth.

"Luci, can I pretty please do yours?"

Lucifer is taken aback. Gabriel has never offered to preen his feathers; Lucifer's wings hadn't been preened since Michael had taken up his part of Heaven's responsibilities—It had been a long time. Lucifer’s matured wings flex automatically in thrill at the mention of grooming. Gabriel acknowledges it, and he brightens, if possible. His little brother is giving him that look, one of so much inspired euphoria with such a rush of nostalgic innocence that he looks no different from the very first time Lucifer preened his teensy, yet complex feathers.

Lucifer can’t refuse.

His wings of vermillion are far larger, though far more disheveled than Gabriel’s have ever been; The young Messenger has always had Lucifer to care for him. Gabriel’s clement hands are profoundly gentle, like refreshing spring rain drizzled on feverish skin or a tenderhearted baby dove nuzzling gratefully against its mother. Even at viscid spots where his vermillion adheres in thickly bedraggled clumps as a result from neglect, Gabriel’s touch remains serene and delicate. Lucifer feels more tranquil than he has in centuries—It’s as if he’s mindlessly drifting amongst endless indigo seas of winding galaxies and Gabriel is sweetly guiding him by the hand through the silver of stars. Lucifer now understands why Gabriel loves Heaven’s preening season.

A faint ghost of a mellifluous melody draws him from his wafting reverie. Gabriel is humming, a saccharine purr carrying a familiar harmony; It’s their lullaby. Lucifer picks up on the part his baby brother is humming, and he nimbly sings along. He watches intently with a splitting simper when their sitting shadows in front of him swell as Gabriel’s golden light brightens merrily at the pleasant sound.

“... in the sky, stars are still fading away…”

Gabriel’s effulgence is rapidly dawning to be more blinding than any entity in existence. His stellar golden feathers branch out further and his daedal dendrite details seem to crystallize in a more radiant fashion. Lucifer genially revels in his bright brilliance everytime they unite. Though, it’s far from the only thing that’s improving in Gabriel; He’s much quicker than before. Lucifer has to exert all of his energy to keep ahead when briskly gliding away from his little brother after he tags his butter-flushed wings. He deliberately assumes that Gabriel will inherit his Heavenly duties soon, with his speed approaching the potential Father saw when he named him as Heaven's Messenger.

Gabriel isn’t the only one who’s changing.

Lucifer is altering—morphing—wavering. The Mark of Cain is an irritant upon his ivory skin, his grace, his mind. He’s growing colder, and he feels the need to be enigmatic. Father is never wrong, because Father is absolute. It’s firmly ingrained in his mind, and it’s been that way since he was a fledgling. Lucifer repeats it to himself as he observes Lilith, the first woman, refuse subservience to her created equal, Adam. He watches silently when she leaves the perfect haven Father had meticulously created for her, and he watches in bemusement as a flock of his determined siblings attempt to forcibly return her to Eden. She is resilient, and Adam is egotistical and very flawed; Lucifer desperately tries to comprehend why his Father, instead of establishing that they are equals, creates Adam a new partner and banishes Lilith from ever returning to Eden.

Father is wrong. When the belief dawns on him, Lucifer has an epiphany—a twisted thought follows. The Mark of Cain sears like it never has before; A scorching white fire that engulfs his entire being, scalding the abundance of all his infinite eyes and fiercely igniting his vermillion wings in grandeur flames. Despite the famished embers from within, he feels frozen and trapped under a bulky sheet of ice, breathlessly viewing his life continue without him as he drowns in desolate, boreal seas.

Lucifer has unequivocally changed; He is different. Gabriel is the first to notice.

Preening season has arrived. Lucifer is much colder, and the raw bite of his frost elicits a vicious shiver when his fingers pluck gold feathers. His cautiousness is replaced by dissociation, the younger angel is wincing. Lucifer feels distant, and Gabriel thinks he is lightyears from his brother despite him being mere inches away.

Lucifer abstractly traces dendrite when he’s nearing the final unkempt clot of feathers, absentmindedly humming a familiar tune. This time, Gabriel says nothing. His scintillant wings tense up at bitter ice fingertips picking at his golden light.

“... down here, a dying dove crawls…”

The lyrics have changed. Lucifer feels numb; Gabriel feels scared.

It’s the last expression Lucifer sees from Gabriel, and it’s the last thing he remembers when he returns from Eden. He is abruptly a liar, he is a liar without deceiving. He is no longer the Morningstar. He is the Serpent.

Michael’s rigid voice is echoing, lightning is cracking, angels are wailing. His Father's—his Father who is wrong—light feels cold. Lucifer can’t hear, feel any of it. The thrum of a familiar lullaby is beating in his ears. All harshly fades away when he promptly perceives that the burning white fire that had smouldered within him is suddenly reality, and it is reflected on vermillion wings. He is physically falling, a lightheadedness clouding his consciousness, and when he forces open his forlorn eyes against the whizzing wind, he sees smoke. Lucifer screams.

Vermillion is ablaze. He is frightfully alone as he fleetly plunges into an unknown abyss, an alien place that is farther from home than he can begin to comprehend. A despairing attempt to frantically flap his wings ensues, but they only twitch. He tries again in a panic, and the insatiable white flames tease him with a hungry smirk. The Serpent relents in his feeble attempts to salvage his wings, squeezing his eyes shut again and dreadfully awaiting impact.

Lucifer can’t help but wonder if gold would be more successful.

He is going to be the dove. He is the dove.

𓏧༻🕊️༺𓏧

Gabriel is grown; It’s Lucifer’s first observation.

A foolish little part of him expected him to never age, forever remaining the same sweetly innocent fledgling that Lucifer once held lovingly in his arms. Forever lasting the same playful angel that struggled to tag him back. Forever retaining the same ambitious persistence to hear his big brother’s stories. Forever seeping golden washes of sunlight through his toothy beams, harboring the brightest light in existence within his being.

This time, it's Gabriel who has changed; He has dimmed significantly. Lucifer misses his light.

Lucifer maps the faint outline of his brother’s golden wings with his eyes, burnishing cracks through the universe’s perceptibility to accommodate him. Lucifer had frequently thought about the refined softness of the gold between his fingers when he was imprisoned, and he’d pondered about who would care for them while he was away. Who would pluck his fledgling’s feathers during preening season, who would tell him stories and lull him to sleep? In this moment, Lucifer can see that nobody has; Gabriel’s gold is matted and besmirched.

Gabriel was alone, just as he had been.

He wields a blade, Lucifer acknowledges. Gabriel intends to kill him, despite the blatantly obvious fear in his true form's numerous uncertain azure eyes. Lucifer can sense it from miles away. It’s the same look he’d worn when Lucifer had last allo-preened his brother’s butterscotch wings—The look he’d bore when Lucifer sang the last notes of their lullaby, one he’d twisted to mirror his emotions at the time.

Gabriel’s hands slightly tremble as he raises his blade behind his brother, reluctantly creeping forward. Lucifer’s tarred wings twitch like they did when he fell, and he imperceptibly rubs at the deity blood stuck between his fingertips in anticipation.

He doesn’t want to be the dove again.

He turns. The fear in Gabriel’s irises is more decipherable, so visible that Lucifer can nearly catch up on all the millennia he’d missed in this very moment. Lucifer is catatonically speaking, though he barely understands it himself. The blade is resting like bait against Gabriel’s skin, a tense pressure that Lucifer can almost feel against his own chest.

Lucifer wants to see his baby brother’s light again.

He does. The blade is abruptly buried in Gabriel’s being, and his brother’s fear is gone. Intense radiance of pure, euphoric sunlight envelops Lucifer as Heaven’s Messenger’s last flicker of light shines, just as he was meant to do. Brilliant light is blinding; Gabriel’s is alluring. Lucifer is warm for the first time since his wings were searing, and he thinks he hears the memory of Gabriel humming their lullaby. Gabriel feels like home, he feels like the fledgling he once knew. Lucifer feels like himself again. He sees gold.

It’s over as quick as it began.

Lucifer is alone again. Though, now, he stands over the fledgling he’d raised, the fledgling he cherished, the fledgling he loved—His fledgling. His wings are no longer gold, no longer luminous. They are gloomy, blackened shadows against the hardwood floor. Lucifer’s stomach twists in knots, spurts of swelling emotions he hadn’t felt in years swirling sourly in his being, and he drops Gabriel’s blade.

Gold is black. Gabriel is gone.

That same foolish part of him expected there to be nothing but raw sunshine where Gabriel now lies, for his vessel to evaporate and his grace to rejoin the bright star he was created from. Instead, he sees vermillion; a thin stream of it dripping in blots against the floor.

Lucifer can’t help but notice the way his blood oozes in a familiar dendrite pattern. Dendrite; Gabriel, a grand cluster of light so brilliant, his gold wings streaked with crystallized branches of it.

The Serpent leaves, the whispers of a certain tune in his head. He hopes it can conceal the shrieking sound of his own convoluted thoughts.

He doesn’t want to be the dove again. Gabriel takes his place.

#spnarchangelweek #Lucifer and Gabriel #lord im sorry yall this one is sad #IM DYING HAHAHAHAA THE GIF IS FRIED 😭😭😭#archangels spn #spn archangels #my fics

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scorsoneamelia · 3 years ago

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It’s snowing out and scout and Amelia force link outside to make a snowman and then they have hot chocolate and all of that

AH!!! you don't even understand how excited i was to write this one!!!!!! thanks for this prompt!

AND AHHH i posted twice in one day?! that’s craaaazy.

i felt like making this post much more appealing to the eye and i added an amelink photo because my heart is so warm for them 🥺

Snow made the world seem more quiet; more muffled, like it there was a thick blanket covering Earth’s surface. Crystals landing on top of the tree branches and bushes, freezing the leaves slightly making the world look so much more beautiful. A fresh snowfall always hit differently, always leaving a warm feeling in your chest and the prescriptive of the world changes. It was covering the roads and sidewalks, as well as the grass and the outside was completely white. So white that it was almost too bright, enough to make you squint and wonder if sunglasses for the snow were a real thing.

There was a large snowfall overnight, so much snow that the cars were completely covered and Amelia might get buried, Link thinks, and Amelia disagrees because she’s not that short. The temperature dropped very low which resulted in the edges of the windows outside to frost over, the inside of the house being colder than usual and that’s probably why Amelia was throwing one of Link’s oversized sweaters over her head. She knew she was drowning in it, but the fact that it was much larger than any of her clothes and it was more comfortable, she was going to wear it anyways because it was also warmer.

It was their day off, and Link would never agree with what she had planned for the day but it was snowing and Amelia wanted to make sure everyone knew that. The crystals falling from the sky were larger than usual, almost resembling hail although it was snow and it was adding more feet onto the pile of snow that was already covering the ground.

“It’s a wonderful day,” Amelia hummed while entering the living room where she was met with Link and Scout, who was busy playing with his toys on the floor. “It’s snowing.”

“It has been all week,” Link pointed out, his eyes glancing up to Amelia who stood in front of him, her smile so big that it even reached her eyes. “It’s cold.”

“So,” she threw her arms in the air, a soft squeal leaving her lips. “Bundle up! We’re going outside!”

His eyes locked on hers now, his eyebrows furrowed together because he thought that was insane. “Amelia, it’s freezing out there.” But she ignored him, placing her hands underneath Scout’s arm pits and lifting him from the ground, resting him on her hip.

“Scout, what do you think about building a snowman?” It didn’t take much for Scout to get excited, but this time, his jaw dropped and his blue eyes lit up and he was cheering. It was his fourth winter and he has learned to love the snow, something he obviously got from Amelia and not Link.

Before Link could interject, Amelia was already dressing Scout into warmer clothes, slipping mittens onto his hands and a hat, along with a pair of winter boots. Despite the layers and layers of clothes she had already put on him, she put a scarf around his neck to make sure he was warm.

After dressing him, she dressed herself throwing on a winter jacket overtop of the oversized sweater and warming her hands with a pair of gloves. Link watched her in awe as she struggled to put the gloves on, as if it was the most difficult task and she could barely move because of the winter coat and very baggy sweater that she was wearing. She put a beanie-like hat on her head, a fuzz ball sitting at the top that bounced whenever she moved.

“Link, c’mon.” She begged, grasping her mitten covered hands together. “It’s snowing.” She said again as if he had forgotten.

Impatiently, Amelia waited for Link, leaning against the door with her arms crossed while occasionally letting out an impatient huff as if she was waiting forever. “You know, I’m not a very big fan of the snow.” He commented, putting his own gloves on. “Every year, the winters get colder and the summer’s get hotter,” Amelia knew what was coming next. “I’m not afraid of anything except for climate change--”

“Are you done?” She interrupted, her eyebrows raised and even Scout too, was leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. Link would call them dramatic, but he was in awe when he looked at her cause the hat was clearly too big for her head and even trying to cross her arms was impossible. And he couldn’t say anything to Scout because he was doing the same thing as his mom, a scowl on his face.

The door was being pulled open and the two of them had to squint, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the sun rays reflecting off of the snow, hitting their eyes at an angle that could have blinded them. They could see their breath when they breathed out and Link was already shivering as if it was that cold.

Scout was already starting, making a small snowball and rolling it into the snow to make it bigger. Ignoring Link’s shivers, Amelia joined her son and soon after so was Link.

Their snowman was big; tall, at least taller than her. Link could reach the head and although Scout and Amelia couldn’t, Link could so that means she was going to come up to the snowmans shoulder. (or what was supposed to be a shoulder)

Somewhere between building a snowman and the two of them bickering about the fact that she couldn’t reach, a snowball fight broke out because Scout said so. The snow was soft, not too hard or wet ,but the both of them made sure to gently throw the snowballs at Scout, maybe a bit harder at each other. There were continuous giggles falling out of Scout’s mouth, which was only causing Amelia to laugh as well. There was a light in Link’s eyes, the same light that was there when he looked at her, the same light he had when he told her he loved her for the first time, the same light that made her fall in love with him. A light that made her feel special, his eyes sparkled and he looked at her like she was his world. (and to Link, she was his world.)

She fell back, a sigh escaping her lips, with her back laying flat on the snow and she looked up at the sky, soft snowflakes landing on her face, wetting it slightly. Link joined her, laying flat on his back as well but instead of looking at the sky, he was looking at her. White snowflakes were dotting her dark brown hair, some of them landing on her eyelashes and there was a soft smile on her lips. Her chest was slowly rising and falling, and his hand was reaching for hers.

Her eyes moved away from the sky and she turned her head to look at him, her blue eyes looking brighter against the white world around her and her eyelashes were wet. “You’re so beautiful,” and her eyes lit up as well, her smile growing bigger.

“I’m in love with you.” She breathed, the sparkle in her eyes brighter than usual and she was smiling with her mouth closed, a dimple forming on her cheek.

“I’m pretty madly in love with you.” He said back, the snowflakes were getting bigger and now her hair was almost white, but it was also soaked. Leaning over slightly, their lips were connected and his lips were soft, not as soft as hers were though. Link thinks she’s the only one he’s ever truly been in love with.

______

Their snowman eventually ended up tipping over, the head and arms falling off in the process. Link was upset, saying it was a waste of time and he almost froze to death for it to end up just falling over, Amelia thinks he’s dramatic now. He kept whining about the cold so Amelia took the initiative to make hot chocolate for the three of them, Scout noticing before Link did.

Scout and Link’s cheeks were rosy, and Link kept sniffling because the cold made his nose runny. Her body felt numb from being outside in the cold, the now warm fireplace heating up her body. Her hands gripped around the cup as she lifted it to her lips to take a sip.

“Winter has got to be the worst season,” Link said, drinking his hot chocolate as well and Amelia was rolling her eyes. “It’s wet and it’s cold and-“

“And it’s fun!” Scout interrupted, earning a loud laugh from Amelia because he wasn’t wrong, it was fun.

“Don’t be such a grinch.” She mocked, a smile eating away at Link’s face. Amelia thinks this night was perfect—- hot chocolate, snow, her two favorite people; she didn’t need anything else. She was content.

It was snowing harder this time, the sun was starting to set and the moon was peaking it’s way into the sky. Amelia thought the snow looked prettier in the moonlight rather than the sunlight, but Link disagrees.

She was the most beautiful.

#stories #OMG SORRY IF THIS SOUNDS RUSHED GDKSJX #amelink #amelia shepherd #amelia #amelia x link #atticus link #link and amelia #ameliafics #ameliashepherd #greysanatomyfics #greys anatomy #amelinkfics

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ecto-stone · 4 years ago

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V-Journal <Halfa>

Entry 6: 17/08/2004

Halfa

-Being that dangling between the threat of life and death it self.

Like Wise they have many type:

+Nature occurance via getting caught in a natural open portal/Mono Core:

Are rather short lived. Longest lasting one usually can only live for 1-2 year. But if the transition fully to death stated didn’t result in their core crack leading to fading then said Ghost would gain the ability to open Portal Between realm.

+Forced/ Alchemist / Occult method:

Usually result in victim death, not just the kind of fading away. But the Victim use in these said method melt into some sort of mindless green goo monster that latch on anything with soul signal to drain the victim of it.

>Do Not :Touch them or use Ecto base attack or Spirit magic on them. >Kill method: At Least Sun Surface Lv of Fire or Sub Zero Deep Frost +Illegal Ribbone Stealing+Occult+Natural Birth: Base on document i scavanged from the wasted GIW headquarter, infancy death rate and miscarried are high. >My lil Angel Baby Daughter Ellie is born from this method >She is the only success speciment out of hundred if not thousand fail attemp at trying to recreated me. ^ The project is shut down 10 year ago after the GIW got completely obliterated by an Unknown Focus Ghosts Attack. I will make sure it stay that way, thing like this should never happened again >Ellie a Shinning ray of sunshine . My lil girl also have same dual core as me althought her Ghost core are stronger then her Spirit Core. Making her really weak and pront to sickness if over use ghost Power. ... Spirit core<Fire>-Ghost core<Wind> >Age 11. Death caused: Core failure >Obsession : None <Althought she really love Speeding around and looking at the Star in the Sky, We actually went to the moon once, little to say it was haunted... by alien ghost. Horrible vacation yes. But good memories to look back and laugh about also yes.> +Scientific Method/ Chimera Soul / Unworld Vampire Ghost +Dual Core, Each core have it own personality and core Element Example: Main Spirit core Vlad (Fire)- (Earth) Ghost Core Plasmius <Imagine wake up having memories and look of a monke , sharing everything with said monke and no memories of what you are, that what Plas describe chimera soul halfa to be like ...Also he name himself that not me. To me it like having an annoying lazy evil twin living rent free in your head> +After getting flunk back few hundred year in time. I discovered that i’m immortal. I look like i haven’t aged even a day ...My look change depend on how mentally mature i’m or feeling at the moment. Seem like after Ellie passing away i have been rapidly aging to the point that i can actually grow a goatee now. +I can’t be killed, if one Core is exhaused the other core will take pilot sit in place of the exhaused core, this cover the case if both core got damage, I would go into a comatoes State that last for few month, my body got auto poof back to my Ghost realm. When both core is fully recovered i poof back to existence . Simple. Plas theorize that this ability might come from the states of mind that i’m at when i die, A soul ready to move on to next life, which created an enclose life,death and rebirth cycle. +Anatomy wise: Halfa anatomy are similar to Normal Human with slight alteration in ghost form that replaced or organic matter with ectoplasm.< that cover the inside too> +Obsession: I personally don’t have one < no plas that just me being a normal football fan> - Plasmius on the other hand antique ,Snow globe and shiny artifact < For old ghost it hard to figure out what their true obsession is caused their current one is a very twisted unrelated version of the original obsession, I suspect it having something to do with Family seeing how equally enrage Plas is when Our lil girl got hurt. Only time we ever agree about something> +Scientific Method / Perfect Synth/ Purgatory Avatar: +Daniel James Fenton, Age 14. +Dual core, Both are perfect copy of each other and operate in synth. Element originally i thought the boy just have 2 element like me, Turn out he have all. The Boy develop power at an incredible Speed, What took me 20 year to Develop took him mere 3 month. +At first i thought he is also a short lived one due to how scrawny and sickly he look. Turn out Daniel is just living under constant stress and unknowingly shift his own form to reflect that, He is doing much better now, getting taller and looking way more lively then when we first meet. <was he an immortal Halfa too ? i can’t tell> +After the Ghost king incident....Sometime i can see a faded glowing Green crown appear on his head. Seem like after the Original King is nuke off from the plane of existence. The crown/ ring link to his reign melt off. Many powerful ghost in the zone is being mark with this green crown... It seem to signal that the ghost is a King candidate marked by Purgatory it self... +Obsession: Space/Love? +For some reason he can access all ghost domain without the Host ghost permition. Poor kid don’t even know he been breaking into ded people house until i point it out after he just walted into my personal locked Domain. >Those idiot Gov GIW organization never learn, How many time must i Distroy this stupid organization. This time they even attemp to replicated the event that give daniel power.....But from this i also discovered that fatality rate in these experiement is 100% on all subject <even after transition to death, the should be form ghost core never form, they just got straight up got erased>....We must have something that those poor soul don’t have to survived and be cursed with this aren’t we .

#Hachi Text #DP paranormal AU #Vlad Journal

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shiny-jr · 5 years ago

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❝ 𝒴𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝓇 𝒴𝑒𝓈 ❞

Yandere!Hunter x Reader - Dante Senguri

The plot of this one shot is from an old series of mine, it is based off of a small story called "The Most Dangerous Game.” Dante Senguri is my own character!

“Yes or yes?”

"Just a bit longer, and you'll be back in the wild." You purred to the young striped tiger that lazed at your feet, stroking the predator's cheek and tracing your fingers to his ear where you scratched gently. Listening to the content purrs of the large cat.

This large feline friend was Tony. A tiger that had been merely a cub shot by hunters in the jungles and left to perish and die. But before he could bleed to death, you and your crew discovered the poor creature in a pool of his own blood. Sedating the young predator until he passed out, you and your crew began to get to work in order to patch up the tiger temporarily at least until he could be treated properly. He was taken to a larger metropolis where more could help him. There he resided at the zoo for a good while with you as his caretaker. But after he had fully healed and he was now old enough to live on his own, it was time to release him back into the wild where he belonged. Which is why you were currently on a boat to the jungle where he had been found, you currently sat in the lowest deck with Tony.

Tony perked up when the sound of sliding metal could be heard. You stood as did Tony as well, stepping out as you watched the tiger remain fixated on a contraption that taught him how to capture his meal. The large piece of meat swung back and fourth on the hook, all around the room just as Tony took off to pounce.

Bolting the iron door shut behind you so no poor wandering sailor would stumble upon Tony. You walked away and made your way up the flight of stairs onto the main deck. Once there your fingers trailed across the railings as you watched the seemingly endless vast waves of the ocean drift in the dark of the night underneath the stars that dotted the sky above. In your hand you examined the pocket knife you had recieved from the zookeepers where Tony had stayed at. The handle was a normal steel but shiny gold colored carvings were engraved in it, depicting the faces of many different animals. From prey to predators, lions to birds, wolves to deer, etc.

It was a sweet parting gift from the kind people there. One gift you would not give up to anyone.

When the loud blasting horn from the ship you were on signaling dinner rang out, it startled you and caused you to released your grip on the pocket knife. You lunged for it. A short quiet cry emitted from your lips when you realized you had reached too far out and lost your balance. Your cry was drowned out by the horn and you tumbled into the crashing waves.

Struggling and paddling to the surface, you gasped for breath and desperately tried to call out for help. But you were slapped in the face with a wave of salty water from the moving boat, pushing you down under for a few precious moments. The taste of the waves left you gagging, but you tried swiminging towards the moving boat. Further and further away, the chance was slim of you even reaching the swift boat or even being heard over the waves and horn. Still you yelled as loud as you could, keeping yourself afloat. But no one heard you. Quickly the boat's lights receded into the darkness of the night, until they were bleached out entirely into a night as dark as ink.

You were stranded. Stranded in the middle of the ocean. With nothing. No food, no water, no mode of transportation. Just the clothes you wore and a pocket knife. You remained afloat in silence, terrified of what was to come. Until you heard a sound. A familar sound that brought a wave of relief washing over you. The sound of far away waves crashing onto a surface, a shore of some kind. You heard it, distant but it was still there. So you swam towards the sound, not quick and panicked but slow and carefully strokes to save your energy for whatever awaited you.

Slowly but surely you approached the island, and saw the silhouettes of the land. Trees, jagged rocks, and other plants. Reaching the shore, you coughed and sat up. Looking all around you for any signs of civilization, but there was none you could spot.

Then there was a cry. A cry and scream of terror and anguish, complete pain and horror. It came from deep in the darkness. It frightened you, sending a shiver down your spine. Some kind of predator must've captured another animal. You did not recognize the cry, but you did not wish to at the moment. It would be best to avoid whatever it came from.

BAM!

The echo of a shotgun rang through the land. You weren't alone.

Your exhausted form stumbled up, sand falling from your skin back to the ground. If you took one step the sands would be gone and be replaced with the thick vegetation of the dense jungles. It was not safe to stay on the shores, you could easily be spotted. So you forced yourself into the jungle past the trees.

The gunshot meant there were people around. People meant there was food bound to be around. But the people. What kind of people would reside here? Where were you? On the shores of an island or bigger piece of land?

Cautiously you walked along between the jungle and shore, watching everything with each step you took. The plants were difficult to recognize but after only a couple of minutes, you stopped in your tracks after spotting something peculiar.

It was evident that a large creature had been in some trouble. Some of the plant life was crushed and trampled, while one patch of weeds were blotched with crimson. There were deep tracks in the damp earth, leading in the direction of the jungle. The glint of a shiny object reflecting the light of the moon caught your eye. Reaching down, you plucked it from the ground. An empty cartridge. This proved there was someone here and judging by what you have just seen, it wasn’t too long ago when they stood where you are currently standing.

The shell of the cartridge was rather small compared to the large tracks of the creature that had struggled here. Whoever had the gun tried to shot a fairly large creature with a small gun. You were puzzled and concerned. What exactly happened here?

Upon closer examination, you noticed a foot print. The print of some kind of boot most likely. The print pointed towards the jungle again. You had hope now, and a good reason to enter the depths of the jungle. Eagerly you hurried along, gripping the pocket knife in case anything came at you. Occasionally stumbling over a stray log or stone popping out of the earth. But making process as an edge of the sky began to turn lavender and the sun’s rays of light peaked out ever so slightly.

Yet after walking for who knows how long, against the fading darkness you spotted a glimmer of light. Those lights multiplied as you began to jog towards them. Closer and closer you got. At first it looked like a small village, but as you stepped closer you realized it wasn’t a village but a large estate. A mansion. A giant mansion situated on top of a large precipice with cliffs surrounding most of it, the cliffs dropping down on the shores and crashing waves with jagged rocks below.

Mirage. It must’ve been a mirage! Who in their right mind would build this mansion in a jungle island in the middle of the ocean?

Yet when you reached out to touch the gate, you felt the cold steel against your fingertips. It was real. This was no mirage. Slowly tugging on the gate, the steel door creaked open and you squeezed in. The cobblestone path led you to an elevated patio, cautiously you continued until you reached the towering doors. Reluctantly you tapped at the doors, waiting for someone to answer while placing away your pocket knife.

Your ears perked up, hearing footsteps on the other side. But the door remained closed. Again you knocked twice. Only then did the door fly open and you were nearly blinded by the bright golden lights. Additionally you were met face to face with a blonde middle aged made holding a revolver pointed directly at your forehead.

"U-Uh..." You gulped before slowly raising your hands, showing you had nothing. "I don't mean to intrude, but I fell off the boat I was traveling in. I ended up here...My name is (Y/n) (L/n) from (home country)."

The man's peircing menacing gaze did not change, never allowing the revolver to falter. He had heard you, but there were many threats on this island and who knew if you were trying to trick him or not?

"Allow them in, Joe. Don't keep them standing out there in the cold!"

A young man stepped down the last remaining steps from where he had stood to listen to you introduce yourself to the man names Joe. If you had stumbled inside this mansion and spotted the man before you, you would've mistaken him for a ghost or vampire. His skin tone and hair color was a white as snow, his strange eyes were a soft pink that was the same color as his plump lips. The man dressed in a fancy attire with a white ironed shirt, tailored black pants that reached to his ankle, and brown leather shoes of high quality.

Joe lowered the revolver and stepped to the side, opening the door wide open for you. The albino man walked away from the stairs and welcomed you inside. "It's such an honor to meet you, (Miss/Mister) (L/n)!" He took your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing your backhand. "I've been a fan of your work for years. Oh, where are my manners? I've yet to introduce myself. I am Dante Senguri." Dante waved off Joe who closed the door shut and walked off to the side while the albino returned his attention back on you. "I'm sorry if Joe frightened you. He's not the brightest but is the strongest, he's my guard and assistant. He's also mute. Again, sorry if he offended you in anyway."

"I see..."

"Here, I'm sure you must be fatigued after I heard what you've been through. You are just on time. Now I have you for company at dinner." The charming man smiled gently before requesting, "Joe, will you go get some extra clothes?"

Joe silently exited the room to go fulfil Dante's request. Leaving you and the albino alone for the meantime.

"They might be a tad bit large but it'll be better than your soaked clothing." Dante assured, escorting you to the giant dining hall.

The dining hall was stunning. The walls were lined and framed with antiques and portraits while a large chandelier hung from above. A fire place held the crackling flames that engulfed the pieces of wood. One side of the wall was nearly entirely stain glass with the moonlight reflecting through. In the middle of the room was a large oval shaped table surrounded by wooden chairs carved elequently and decorated with plush pillows. The table was clothed with a white linen and porcelein china was arranged neatly. Yet one thing caught your eye when you sat down on one seat and Dante pushed you in to the table.

High up on the wall above the antiques were a line of "decorations." Mounted heads of dozens of animals. Bears, buffalo, caribou, deer, lions, moose, rams, rhinoceros, tigers, wolves, etc. You scrunched up your nose in disgust and your eyes traveled further to the ivory of rhinocerous, skins and bones of tigers, tusks of elephants. All previously stated objects from animals were illegal to sell and own.

"You don't like them?" Dante inquired innocently, tilting his head in a way that matched a curious dog's mannerisms and habits.

Before you could answer, Joe walked in the room. With one hand he set down folded clothes onto a nearby chair for you to change into later. In his other hand he held a tray that carried rare and exquisite range of drinks that include wine, beer, champange, tea, coffee, etc.

"(Y/n), which drink do you prefer?" The albino questioned so Joe could serve you what you would want.

You responded with your prefered drink, and you recieved it much to your surprise. Next, you were served plates of multiple different kinds of foods. Appetizers, side dishes, the main dish, and a wide aray of desserts. Dante wasted no time in beginning his dinner, encouraging you to do the same. "Don't worry, (Y/n). Here at my home, we only eat the best. We feast like kings here. So go ahead, try something. Anything."

Hesitantly, you did. You spooned a few items onto your plate. Not able to help it, since you were starving and fatigued. As you began to dine, Dante kept the conversation going smoothly.

"Well, isn't it all divine?"

"Yes, actually. Better than anything I've ever tasted." You replied after slurping the bowl of soup you had and continuing to the other plates. Dante seemed to be a generally nice and welcoming man, yet there was one thing off about him. Whenever you happened to look up, you always found Dante gazing at you intensely...as if he was a predator and you were prey.

"Good to hear." The albino smiled, flashing his pearly teeth that were practically as white as his hair. When he finally looked away, he forked a piece of well-cooked meat and placed it on his tongue. Savoring the flavor and devouring it before he finally spoke again, "I've had something on my mind as of late, since I saw you at my door step. You must be curious about how I know you, yes? Well, ever since I was young I was fascinated with animals just as you are. Often I read your publications, articles, and books. Your work led me to my one true passion, (Y/n) (L/n), and that is hunting."

Right. Hunting. That explained all the severed animal heads and body parts decorating the walls. It took much not to utter something rude. "Of course. What a...an intriguing collection you have..." Again your eyes traveled over to the heads of the animals. One caught your eye and that was the head of an abnormally large American Bison. "That's quite a bison. I don't think I've ever seen one that large."

"Oh, that creature! Yes, he was a monster of a bison." Dante seemed pleased that you were curious in his oddities, delighted to tell you more of them. "It was nothing, that beast. Yes, it did fracture one of my bones but I took it down without anymore trouble." He smiled charmingly. He was trying to impress you, wasn't he? "The American Bison is child's play compared to other larger game. But! Here on this island, I challenge myself everday to hunt the most dangerous game of all." A glint shined in his eyes, reflecting his eagerness at the words he proclaimed to you.

The most dangerous game? What would that be? Obviously not the American Bison as stated before. Was it the large Grizzly Bears of the north? White Polar Bears of the poles? The African Rhinos with their sharp horns? Crocodiles with their wide jaws and sharp teeth? Could it be the Cape Buffalo which was widely known as the Black Death throughout Africa? Or the swift spotted Leopard? The wild maned Lion, the supposed king of the jungle? Maybe a massive and heavy hippo? The giant intelligent elephants? The common feral hog or wild boars of North America?

“The most dangerous game? So there are threatening creatures on this island?” You inquired curiously. If there actually were treacherous animals present on the land, you must have been lucky as to not run into any of them.

“The most vicious.” Dante nodded, taking a sip of the cocktail in his hand. “Only for the most prestige hunter.” Grinning confidently, referring to himself in such a boisterous manner. “Of course, I have to gather them and bring them here for the fun to begin.”

“What is it that you bring here?” Your interest was peaked. Maybe if you found out where the animals he got were from, you can prevent any more of the poor creatures being sent to this island to the slaughter. “Lions?”

Dante smiled, “No,” he said. “Lions ceases to interest me some time ago. There was no fun in hunting the felines anymore. They became predictable and repeatable, leaving me bored out of my mind. There was no thrill, no fun in it anymore. (Y/n), I live to fulfil my desires, and those desires include finding the perfect source for thrill and fun.”

It was when dinner was finished did Dante Senguri lead you through the hallways of his elaborate mansion. Allowing you to first change into something similar to what he wore, before showing you everything he had to offer. Presenting you the exhibit of rare items and objects he owned, while chatting to you.

“I invite you to join me on my hunt. It’s always been a dream of mine to have such delightful...company for the game.”

”But what is it that you-“

You were cut off by Dante who interjected, knowing full well what you were going to ask. “I’ll tell you, my fox, and only you.” Shushing you while placing a single finger in front of your lips while chirping in a cheerful and eager tone of voice, “You will be amazed, astonished even! I invented the most special and difficult way for the game of the hunt. A new sensation that sends thrills through me each time, a prey that will never get boring to hunt!”

”Alright...” You watched the albino man with suspicion and caution. Where exactly was this conversation going?

”Some men are creative. Born to be poets, authors, artists! There are some born in the luxurious life of comfort or the dirtiest slums for the beggars. Me? I was created to be the best hunter of all!” Dante exclaimed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he continued to proclaim, “When I was young, around the age of five, I was given a slingshot for my birthday. My parents expected me to shoot mockingbirds or canaries but I took down large pelicans, swans, and turkeys. They weren’t mad, they were amazed at my excellent accuracy. Then when I was only eight years old I killed my first crocodile. When I was drafted into the military it was such a boring experience, there were no animals to hunt. Yet it made me realize something later in life. I have hunted every animal known to man.”

Dante placed aside the empty glass cup, continuing to walk as he brought you along. Squeezing your shoulder lightly.

”After I got out of the army, I continued to hunt. Grizzlies in the east Rockies, Crocodiles along Africa’s rivers, Lions in the Savanna. All boring, boring, boring. I collected my belongings and left to the jungles in search of Jaguars, Ocelots, Pumas, Anacondas. Supposedly some of the most cunning and dangerous animals that reside in the Amazon. Boring. Even the newest animals were boring.” The albino sighed, “None of them stood a chance. They were no match for a hunter like me. My wits and strength was much more compared to them. It was a disappointment. I lied in my tent after hunting the puma for the fifth time, before I realized with terror that hunting was beginning to bore me! Hunting had been my life, so how was I supposed to live without the thrill of it? I did not want to break down and become a hollow version of my former self, if I lost my one passion. Don’t you feel the same?”

You thought about it for a moment. Losing your one true passion, and never getting a replacement. Losing your passion for caring and helping animals, and never getting it back. You didn’t even want to imagine that. So yes, you felt the same way. Nodding slowly in response.

Dante smiled down at you, twisting a strand of your hair between his fingers. “I have no desire to become hollow and dull. So I just had to figure out a way to spice up the hunt, there had to be a way. And there was. So I asked myself, why was the game no longer interesting? No longer thrilling or exhilarating? My fox, can you guess the answer?”

”No...I have no clue.”

”Hunting had ceased to be a challenge. It was too easy, and I always caught my prey. There is nothing more boring than perfection. No animal could provide that excitement anymore. That’s not my ego talking, that is fact. Animals have nothing but their limbs and instincts. Instinct can not compare to reason. When I realized this, I was devastated.”

You stopped in your tracks just as Dante had. Looking up at the albino, waiting for him to finish. What was his solution to his problems?

“The memories of my army days inspired me. It helped my passion to live on.”

”What was it? What in those memories inspired you?”

Dante Senguri smiled, as if overcoming the most troubling obstacles of all time and reaching his desired success. “There was one option. I had to invent a new game to hunt.”

You were absolutely baffled. A new animal? Was he insane? No one can just create a new animal! “You’re joking."

“You’re expression in amusing, my fox. But I have to tell you, I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I built this abode on the island I bought. This island is perfect with its array of jungle mazes, sloping hills, mosquito infested swamps-“

“What about the animal?”

”Oh, it provides me with the most excellent hunting in the world! No other game can compare to it. Everyday I hunt in the evenings, and I never grow bored. Because this game can match my wits and abilities.”

You blinked. No. He couldn’t be talking about...

”I aimed for the ideal game and I achieved it. Courage. Cunning. Reason. The game has it all and more to keep me entertained.”

“No animals reasons.” You interjected immediately, trying to distance yourself from the albino who simply pulled you closer.

“My precious fox, there is one that can.” He smiled at you and gently traced a finger along your cheek.

”You can’t-“

”Why not?”

”This is some sick joke.” You remarked. There was no way Dante was being serious.

“This is no joke. I am serious. It’s hunting-“

”That’s not hunting, what you’re doing is murder!” Immediately you pushed him away, you had to stay away from this murderous psychopath.

Dante laughed at your words before once again speaking to you, “I don’t wish to believe that a person as wonderful and ideal as you believes that human life is truly valuable. Surely your experiences in the wild-“

”Did not make me an insane murder with no proper logic,” You finished stiffly, standing your ground against Dante.

Dante continued to laugh, “How adorable! You really are endearing!” He gripped your shoulders, “You’re so experienced yet naive at the same time. So brave, so adventurous, so unique...You’re a diamond in the rough, a jewel among jewels! You’ll change your mind if you join me, my fox.”

”Thanks but no thanks, I’m not a murderer or a hunter, I’m a conservationist.”

”How rude.” Dante sighed sadly like a dejected child. “You turn down my generous offer and refer to me with that unappealing title. Life is for the strong, the weak are meant to perish. Weak are meant to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. I will use my gift. I will hunt anyone who washes up on my shores: Men, women, adults, children, American Natives, Asians, Africans, Hispanics, Whites...Now tell me, my treasured fox, are you the strong or the weak?”

You ignored the question and asked one of your own, “They’re humans. Have you no pity? No mercy?”

”It is precisely because they are humans. That is why I use them. They provide me thrill, fun, and pleasure. They can reason, they put up a fight, they are clever, they are dangerous.”

You had to get out of here. Aiming to knee the albino in his weakest spot, he caught your knee and scolded you. “Please, be civilized. This isn’t a bar fight, have some class.”

You stumbled back and glared at the man. “Civilized? Class? And you shoot down innocent people for fun?”

”So determined, so virtuous, so amusing~...I assure you, my fox, I treat my guests with the utmost of care and respect until their time comes. That would be horrible of me if I didn’t do so. Trust me, they receive good food and exercise until they’re in perfect game condition. You’ll see.”

”What do you mean...?”

”Tomorrow I’ll take you there. I’ll show you that they’re all right. But they’re not the most entertaining bunch. Just a few dozen, a crew mixed with Polynesians and Spanish men. Their ship crashed on my shores. Unfortunately, they’re a lesser lot. Most of them more accustomed to the decks of a boat out on the sea than compared to the green jungles. Except for a few, that is.

It’s a game. I suggest to them that we hunt. I give the prey a sack of food, a canteen of water, and a hunting knife. Then I allow them three hours to a head start while I prepare. I have only a small pistol. So if the game manages to avoid me and survive for three days, they win respectfully. But if I find them.” Dante smiled, “I win.”

”And if they refuse to participate in your ‘game’?”

“Of course I let them chose! What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t allow my guests to chose? But everyone chooses the game! No one wants to be handed over to Joe. He’s a savage that has his own ideas of fun.”

”What if they win?”

Dante smirked confidently as he mused, “Well, no one has ever bested me.” Then he added swiftly, “Don’t think me rude or cocky. I’m simply sure none of the previous prey could have won in anyway they tried. There was one man who almost won. But I had to use the hounds to secure my victory.”

He gestured to the wall, showing you a picture of the hounds. In the picture he stood in the back, in front of him sitting in a line was a large pack of dogs. Labrador Retrievers, Beagles, American Foxhounds, Pointers, English Setters, Dobermans, Rottweilers. So so many dogs that helped Dante track down his victims.

"Now I wouldn't think of taking a step outside the house, my fox. My hounds are allowed the roam at night and often drag runaways back to my doorstep." The albino man hummed and glanced at you, "Next, I'd like to show you my new collection of heads. Would you join me to the east wing?"

"Would you please excuse me for tonight, Mr. Senguri. I'm not feeling too well, and I'm exhausted."

"Ah, true..." Dante sighed as he mused, "It's only natural after you made it here. You'll need a good long sleep, and by tomorrow I hope you will feel good as new." The albino man smiled eagerly as a thought returned to his mind, "I nearly forgot to ask for your permission! I will make this simple for you. (Y/n) (L/n), you have two choices. Yes or yes? I'm terribely sorry but you, I won't allow you to have the option of Joe. I need to hunt you, you've been the object of my curiousity and admiration for years. So choose only one of the two: yes or yes?"

You gulped at the close proximity of the murderer in front of you. He smiled down at you, silently urging and pressuring you to hurry and chose.

"Come, my fox, make your choice. Yes or yes?"

Never would you say yes to his proposal! But since he refused to allow Joe to have his fun with you, maybe there would be something else you could do if you said no. Just maybe.

"Since when was I so selfish? Did I ever want something this eagerly...? Hah, you should hear that things those people say to me before the games begin. They insult me, beg for their lives, try to bribe me. Everyone is surprised at how shameless I am." Dante scratched your head ever so carefully as urged, "Go on. Come on and tell me yes. You see everything I created here? My scenario has become more daring than I thought. I'd say this plan is perfect for my objectives. Now, I don't care what others may say about me. But you better tell me yes."

"What if-"

"No. I'll stop you there." Again he shushed you by placing a finger in front of your lips. "I don't want to hear it unless you are accepting. I have decided yes. Now it's time to hear your answer. I want you to mean it, don't guess. Be serious about your reply, don't ask a question. Don'e give me that unsure side-to-side, I want that confident up-and-down. There shouldn't be any n's or o's in your response. I'll erase them from today, so there's no need to think for too long, my precious fox. The answer is, repeat after me: yes."

Slowly you lowered your hands, slowly reaching into your pocket behind your back so Dante would not see what you were holding. "Alright..." You sighed out, staring up at the albino's surprised but delighted expression.

"Alright, what?~" Dante cooed, "Let me hear a clear answer, my fox."

"Alright...I refuse!" Slipping the knife into your hands you aim the knife at his heart, about to plunge the weapon into his heart. Yet his quick reflexes and surperior strength caught the knife in his hands.

Never did Dante Senguri stop smiling as he plucked the knife out of your grip and examined it, "What a pretty weapon you have here..." His eyes trailed back to you, "I'll give it back to you at a later time." With that said he slipped the knife into his pocket. "You know, (Y/n), you inspired me and puzzled me when I first began reading your works. You bring out my hidden selfishness, I didn't even know I had until you showed up. Your eyes and my curiosity about you, make my heart burn up. My heart is burning burning burning with passion and desire. So you better hurry, my little fox, I'm beginning to get impatient."

The loud chiming and ticking of the grandfather clock caught both your and Dante's attention. It told the time, displaying XII. Meaning it was midnight.

”To make it simple, whatever you choose, you will be with me.” Dante said simply, without a moment’s hesitation. He smiled before adding, “I just want your consent, it would be ungentlemen like of me if I didn’t. I’ll wait as long as it takes, I’ll keep you until you accept. It may seem a bit absurd, and you might say I’m insisting you. But you won’t regret it if you accept...Here, go on and rest now. It’s late and you need your beauty sleep, I suppose it’ll give you time to overthink my proposal, my precious fox.”

”I...I bid you goodnight.” You immediately took off, trying to ignore Dante’s raised accented voice behind you growing distant with each step you took.

”It saddens me you can’t join tonight.” Called out the albino man. “I’m expecting an interesting game this night—a big and strong Polynesian native. He appears capable and clever!—Good night, my fox, I hope you dream of your thrilling future here.”

Retreating to the room and as soon as you were inside, you closed the doors shut. You were exhausted so you did the only thing you could do, rest. Changing into silk pajamas left behind, you then lied on the plush bed. Twisting and turning, over and over, your eyes wide open. You couldn’t get a wink of sleep out of fear and anxiousness. When you heard footsteps out of your guest room followed by a clicking, you stealthily made your way to the door. Twisting the knob, it refused to open. You went to the window and looked out past the glass panes, realizing you were on the second floor. Maybe you could get down to the ground safely, if it wasn’t for a pair of Dante’s hounds gazing up at you expectantly. Slowly you went back and lied down, curling up under the sheets as you hugged yourself. Again and again you tried to achieve some sleep, yet just when it seemed as if you would finally catch a few z’s, the sound of a pistol rang out faintly from the dense jungles.

That next day, Dante Senguri did not make his appearance until late that evening. He dressed himself in an ironed black shirt, with a blue coat over that, black tailored pants, and polished brown shoes. Immediately the albino man found himself concerned with your well being.

“Oh, my night? Well to put it simply, it was terrible.” Dante sighed as he sat beside you in the dining hall, “I’m troubled, my fox. Last night I was beginning to get the slightest feeling of boredom.” Then he smiled at you, “But you can chase all those unwanted stultifying feelings for me.” While taking a second serving of waffles he continued explaining his troubles of last night. “You see, last night’s game was not as good as I originally had hoped. The man lost his head. He left a boring trail in his wake that offered no challenges, trying to confuse me by going in circles, the imbecile! The thing is, those too long on a ship lose their sense when it comes to land navigation. They preform repeating and common tactics that are most annoying!”

He really was annoyed by that...

Dante glanced at you before kindly offering, “Would you like another serving, my fox?”

”Mr. Senguri, I’d like to leave this island at once.”

The hunter sighed, seemingly hurt by your words. “Why would I ever let you go? You’ve been the best company I’ve ever had. Beside, my precious fox, you’ve only just arrived yesterday. You haven’t even gone with me to hun-“

“I want to leave today. I have important business, sir.” You seethed, staring into Dante’s red eyes filling with irritation before that emotion was suddenly gone and replaced with some positive feeling but twisted thought.

At first he remained silent as he placed another serving onto your plate. A smile curled at his lips. “Tonight,” said the hunter, “we will hunt, you and I, my precious fox.”

You shook your head no. “No, sir. I will not hunt.”

"I am not sure what you’ll choose, so I prepared these options. You may choose only one of the two: Yes or Yes? I am not sure what you want, so I prepared those options. Make your choice, my fox, come on. Yes or yes?" The man mused as he admired you, "Maybe not, maybe yes, make it more clearly. Show me how you feel, dear. Open your ears. Don’t you hear it? Its simple. Like stated previously, you will only be my game. None other’s. I am always serious when it comes to the matter of hunting. You really are an inspiration. I drink to you, (Y/n) (L/n), my precious fox, to an opponent finally worthy of my skill--at last!" Dante raised a glass in the air, but you merely sat and stared at him. "Trust me, dear, you'll find this game well worth playing." He smiled eagerly as he continued, "You against me, skillful versus skillful. Your brain against mine. Your strength against mine. Think of it as an extreme game of outdoor chess. And the stakes will be high, wouldn't you say?"

"And if I win-"

"I'll finally acknowledge a defeat, the first one in my books. That is, if you can stay alive until midnight on the third night." Placing the glass down, "IF you do happen to win, Joe will escort you to a mainland port." He saw the doubt clouding your eyes, "Fret not, my fox, I always keep my word. Always. Respectfully, if you lose you will stay here on this island. Do we have a deal?"

"...No-"

"Too bad! I've already decided for you!" He turned to glance at his assistant, "Joe, will supply you with the proper outfit, food, and...oh, I nearly forgot." Fishing the knife out of his pocket, he placed it in your hands, curling your fingers around the weapon and gently tapping your knuckles. "Your knife, my fox. Mustn't forget that. Oh, another thing!" He stood straight as he warned you with a sad frown, "I advise you avoid the swamps of the southeast. There's quicksand there. One imbecile tried to cross and got stuck along with one of my hounds named Max. You can only imagine my feelings, dear. Max was my most beloved and prized hound...Well, pardon me, my fox. I always take a nap after my lunch, I would love if you joined me but I imagine you'd want to begin your head start. Don't worry, I won't follow until dusk. Hunting is much more exciting at night than the day, don't you think?" Dante Senguri smiled and bowed to you before taking his leave, "Good luck, my fox. Don't disappoint me~"

From another door entered Joe carrying a set of simple black clothing and a sack of food.

You fought your way through the dense jungle and underbrush until the sun began to set, leaving the sky shifting to a dark colored palette. You had to think of something! Some way to help your survive! Yes, you had created a complicated trail, it wouldn't be enough to throw of that murder. You knew that much, at least. At first a wave of panic and horror hit you as the gates closed behind you and you were left alone. But know, you were beginning to gain courage as you devised up tactical plans to best Dante Senguri. Surely if you continued straight, you run in with the sea. That wouldn't help. So you continued with leaving behind confusing tracks, much like foxes did.

When night overcame the island, you had scratches and bruises but you continued on. Eventually, you stopped. It would be insane to continue in the dark while Dante was probably beginning his sick little game. Plus, now you needed to rest after leaving those twists and turns of trails behind. "I've played the fox, now I-I...need to act as the cat." You concluded that as the best option as you discovered a large tree nearby.

With its thick base and multiple large branches spread out covered with leaves, it would be sure to provide temporary cover. So you climbed the large tree and took the opportunity to stretch out and rest on the large branches.

Even that damned hunter Dante Senguri could not track you here, surely. Only a demon, the devil himself, could follow such a complicated trial through the brush after dark.

...

A quiet night rested on the island but sleep refused to grace you. Hours passed when the sky began changing to a gray hue, you nearly fell off the limb of the tree when the frightened squaking of a bird startled you. It came from some steps away on your left. Something was coming, slowly but cautiously, coming the same way you had come from. You stuck to the large branch, flatening yourself to the surface and through the ticket of leaves, you watched intensely...And that figure of something approaching was of a man.

It was Dante Senguri. He made his way along, utmost concentrated on the ground before him as he stepped forward. Suddenly he halted his steps almost right underneath the branch you lied on, dropping to his knees and studying the ground. You wanted to pounce on him like a panther, but you retrained youself once you saw the automatic pistol in his pale hands.

As if puzzled, the albino man shook his head. He stood and straightened his posture, while you held your breath and remained as still as possible. Inch by inch, Dante's red eyes traveled up the tree. Searching for an obvious sign. His sharp eyes stopped before they reached your branch, a smile spread over his lips. Almost deliberately he mused, "What a cunning little fox..." He turned his back on the tree and carelessly walked away, back along the trail he had come from. The crushing of plant life underneath his boots grew fainter and fainter until you could no longer hear him at all.

You finally breathed, allowing all the pent up air to go out as soon as you could no longer hear him. The first thought that came to your mind made you feel sick and extremely concerned. Dante could follow a trail through the woods at night, much like a hound. Secondly, you did not want to believe that Dante was so good and so confident when it came to hunting, that the man knew he was there on the tree...The albino was playing around with you! The thought made you shudder. Why else had Dante smiled and said those words? Why else would he turn back? The evidence was there and the truth was clear.

When the sun's rays pushed throught the morning mist, you realized that Dante was saving you for more entertainment for another day. He wanted his fun, he did not wish to be disappointed. The albino was the predator, you were the prey. It was then that you experienced the true meaning of terror.

"I can't lose, I can't...I still have so much I want to do, I can't die or stay here."

Sliding down from the tree, you resumed the chase and headed towards the woods. Your mind was set and you forced the machinery of your mind to function. A few hundred yards away you stopped at a large dead tree leaning on a smaller living one. Placing the sack of food to the side, you unsheathed your knife and began to get to work.

When the job was done, you rested behind a fallen log about a hundred feet away or so. Close enough to see yet at the same time far enough to let you bolt in the worse case scenario. You did not have to wait long for the predator returned to find and play with the prey.

Coming up the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound came Dante Senguri. Nothing escaped those piercing red eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark no matter how faint. So dedicated was the albino to his stalking that he was upon the contraption you made before he noted it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the man sensed the danger and leaped back with swift agility. But he was not quick enough, for the dead tree which had been delicately adjusted on the cut living one collapsed onto the albino. Striking him with a blow on the shoulder, but if it weren't for his caution or swiftness he would have been crushed underneath the contraption you created. He staggered but did not fall, continuing to grip on the pistol in hand. He stood there, rubbing his now injured shoulder as a grin creeped onto his features.

The man laughed loudly. "(Y/n)!" He called out, looking around for any sign of you as he continued to grin. "Very nice! Very very nice! I applaud your attempt, it was wonderfully done! If it weren't for the knowledge I have and my wits, you would have caught me! You are proving much much more interesting than I originally imagined, my fox! Please, do keep it up! I'll be gone only but a moment to have my wound treated, it'll be a moment. I'll return, my dear. I'll come back for you."

When the albino man had took his leave, you resumed the chase once again. The contraption remained collapsed on the dirt ground. You stared at it before continuing. If it weren't for Cleo, a jaguar who had nearly been crushed by the same contraption a few years ago, you may have been at a dead end. The feline was severely injured and you were tasked with caring for her after the incident, there you had examined the trap that had harmed her. The Malay Mancatcher, a trap used mainly in Southeast Asia. The same trap you used against Dante Senguri.

You continued the trail for hours until darkness came. But you still continued on. The ground gew softer, the vegetation grew denser, and the insects bit constantly. Then as you took another step forward, your foot sank in some ooze. When you tried to wrech it back, the muck stuck like glue keeping your foot in place. With violent effort you got your foot loose, now knowing that you were in the swamp Dante had warned you about.

You looked down, the softness of the earth had bestowed an idea upon you. Stepping back about a dozen feet or so from the quicksand, you began to dig into the damp earth. Digging digging diggning until the hole reached well above your shoulders, you climed out and searched for pieces of wood. You gathered them and sharpened them like knives to fine points, carving them into stakes. Carefully you slid back into the hole and planted the stakes inside with the points sticking up before climbing out. With nimble fingers you wove a carpet of weeds, branches, and blades of grass that would cover the mouth of the pit. Finally, sweat covered and tired, you rested behind a lightening charred tree.

You knew well that Dante Senguri was approaching, you could hear the padding of his feet on the soft ground and you detected the scent of his perfume wafting through the air. Yet somthing was off. He was coming faster with unusual swiftness, no longer looking to the trails for guidance. You waited and waited, you could not see them...Finally when you heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave away, hearing the sharp scream of pain as the stakes found their mark. You wanted to leap for joy, but you stayed put. When you peeked past the tree, you reeled back only to see Dante holding a lanturn above the pit.

The Burmese tiger pit. Another trap introduced to you in unfortunate circumstances. Tigger the tiger was an older feline who had been trapped in the Burmese tiger pit. The poor creature fell in and was forgotten, nearly bleeding to death because of the stake stuck in his side. You were there when he had to be sedated and pulled out, you were there to see the pit and hear how it was bulit. Another trap you used against Dante Senguri.

"You've amazed me yet again, my clever fox. But must you have done this to one of my favorite pets?" He sighed softly, "Poor Bailey, fallen into a Burmese tiger pit...That's unfortunate. Again, my dear, you score.........Hm...I wonder how you will stand against my entire pack? I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for the most amusing evening."

At daybreak you began to stir awake, you found yourself lying against the truck of the charred tree not far from the Burmese tiger pit. But what made you wake was a sound. A sound that made you learn that you had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint but definitely there, and you recognized what it was. It was the baying of a pack of hounds.

You had two choices. You could stay where you were and try to fight back, which was basically suicide. Or you could flee which would only postpone the danger. For a moment you stood there, allowing the ideas to flow through until one wild dangerous idea crossed your mind. Hesitantly you gripped your belt and made your way away from the swamp.

The barking of the hounds drew nearer and nearer with each passing minute, giving you less time to think. Climbing a tall tree, you looked out to see a far away figure of Dante alongside the tall and big build of Joe holding the leashes of all the hounds.

They would discover you any minute now. Your mind worked quickly as you thought up a native trick you learned in Uganda. On your way sliding down a tree, you snatched a branch and fastened it to your knife. With the blade pointing down the trail, with a bit of vines you tied the branch back. Then you ran. Running as fast as you can. The hounds barked louder once they detected he fresh scent. You now know how a hunted animal feels.

You had to stop to breath, using your arm on a tree to support your weight. Yet the hounds stopped abruptly, and your heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife...

Eagerly you climbed the nearest tree to see what the results were. Looking back through the leaves, you saw that there was no movement. They had stopped. Yet your soared hopes had plummeted and crashed once you saw the figure of Dante Senguri still standing. But Joe was not. Joe was not as fortunate. The knife, driven by the recoil of the branch had not hit its intended target but plunged into another man.

The hounds sniffed the body of the large man, pressing their snouts against the corpse. Dante snatched up the leashes and clapped, “Well done! Magnificent! Possibly even superb! You truly are the perfect game!! So much trill, so much fun, so much adrenaline rush!”

You hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack of hounds began to howl and bark again, resuming the chase.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You panted, dashing through a blue gap between two trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Past the trees was the shore of the sea. Twenty feet below the sea rumbled and hissed, crashing against the jagged rocks. You hesitated, jump or stay. The sound of the hounds encouraged you to jump, and you did-before the jaw of a pointer had locked onto your ankle. Your scream of pain and frantic cries were nothing to the hounds who pulled you away from the edge with their teeth.

A sharp whistle cut them off, making them unhinge their canines from your skin and sit patiently with wagging tails. You were dragged away from the ledge, far enough so you couldn’t run and jump. When you looked up you met the confident and pleased gaze of Dante Senguri.

“Checkmate.” A smirk formed at his lips as he pointed a gun at you. “I must say, very well played, (Y/n). You’ve gifted me with the best time of my life.”

Choose only one of the two: Yes or yes?

”I’ve never felt so alive...! You have not a single clue how delighted I am at this very moment.”

Make your choice. Come on, my darling fox. Yes or yes?

”I’ll most definitely keep you around. Our conversations, your company, your skill, has provided me with far greater pleasure to me than anything else in the world!”

Take your pick, the choice is up to you.

”I will say no to your no, is it me or us?” He pressed the pistol against your heart, “I respect your choice but reject your rejection. There is only one answer, the choice is up to you. It’s all up to you, my precious fox.” Giving you a gentle smile as he caressed your cheek with his free hand, “Make your choice~ Come on, yes or yes?”

#yandere #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere guy #yandere male #yandere hunter #yandere author #yandere scenario #yandere oneshot #yandere writing #yandere imagines #yancore #shiny-jr

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imnotwolverine · 4 years ago

Text

The Monster’s Lair - A Baptism of Fire

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

< Chap 11 | Chapter 12 - A Baptism of Fire

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale, manhunt, blood, gore, death, vampirism, witchcraft, evil fairies, angst

Author’s note: It’s always so bittersweet to finish a long fic. For weeks it has been embedded in my brain, bubbling up on the most impractical moments. Business meetings? Yes. 3AM whilst trying to sleep? Yep. And of course.. once I found a moment to write, the muse was gone and I’d just stare at a blank page for a good hour. Now..after all those struggles..it’s finished. My baby’s finished! *sigh* THE POST-FIC VOID IS CALLING. 😩

Anyways, I’d love to hear from you, dear readers. Give me all your feelings, ideas, tips (and of course fic prompt ideas).❤️I love you and I hope you enjoyed the read!

Word count: 7.801

Reading music: Sowulu - Wulfwiga

(Link to my Masterlist)

Something was there.

Like she owned a sixth sense, she knew when danger lurked. And lurking it did. But quietly. Far too quietly. Flicking her ears the deer listened in more closely, the cold forest sounds muted by the thick layer of snow that covered the earth and greens. Winter was at its deepest and coldest now, meaning hunger pushed the herd further to the borders of comfort.

Turning her ears again, her eyes unblinking, she watched with large doe eyes into the dawn. Another whisper sounded through the trees. Hard to discern. But there. Something was definitely there.

Her heart started to gallop, but her feet remained stationary. Nothing around her seemed to be out of the ordinary, the world as white and quiet as ever before. Perhaps it had been a bird or critter. And perhaps it was death.

Her ears pricked around her head, but neither eye nor ear could spot anything strange. All she could see were the slow sun rays that had started weaving their way through the pine trees, starting yet another day in winter wonderland.

Though it was no wonderland for her. More like a fuzzy white nightmare. As she stood there she felt a strange daze fall over her, her limbs no longer her own as her heart beat for two. Gnawing nervously on the patch of grass between her lips, she tried to figure out what was happening to her. Was it an evil spirit? An omen?

A twig snapped and fast as lightning her hooves spurred into full sprint, back to the safety of the herd that had also started to scatter, away from the invisible danger. With leaps and jumps she rushed over the icy planes and snow-heavy branches, hoping to outrun whatever was hunting her so silently.

Birds chirped and snow fell, the sudden rumour in the forest having caused a flock of birds to set off. Perfect for the deer, as their flight made a soft powdery curtain fall behind her tail, her trail temporarily hidden from her perpetrator. Her scent, however, was not hidden. Nor was her heartbeat; now loud as a war drum in her furry chest. With her small hooves she landed on yet another icy patch, its menacingly slippery mirror reflecting hell as it lapped at her ankles.

But, by a fickle sliver of luck, she got away again. Her perpetrator had also slipped and with the thunder in her heart she raced on, legs scrambling and eyes wild.

Move, move, move! Run, run, run!

Having now lost track of her herd, she felt that same strange buzz in her veins. Like she was possessed. And the spirit inside her whispered; “Go to the light!”

Full sprint she set off to where the trees cleared out, the hunt leaving no moment to ponder and hesitate. The fairy spirit inside her now took over, her long legs stretching in large leaps, near making her fly as a merry chuckle danced through her twitching ears. Here more sunshine managed to break through the canopy, its rays glowing warm and yellow over powdery snow.

When she reached the final trees, a beastly growl was heard behind her. Her perpetrator was obviously not happy with this new direction. Would he maybe shy away? Break off the chase? Had this fairy saved her?

She had no time to wait and see. And thus with restless hooves she jumped into the open field. A field which wasn’t a field at all. It was a garden. Large terraces were layered over a hill, with on the very top a castle that was long past its glory days. And despite that, it looked like heaven’s gates, the sun casting a warm hue over the mossy stonework, snow glittering on its window sills.

“Go, go, go!” The fairy ushered, spurring on the deer to run on. Higher and higher. Deeper and deeper into the garden. Until finally she reached the gates to this heavenly hell.

“Good!” The fairy cheered. “And now you die!”

‘Hahaha..oh like you would.’ Belle cooed, teasingly rubbing her foot up the Master’s leg, their chairs settled next to each other before the fire. In their laps lay books, but they had long been forgotten as the two bantered on.

‘Do not underestimate my..-’ The Master’s scoffing words halted as he flicked his head away from her, eyes looking up and over Belle’s shoulder.

‘Is the castle falling to ruin yet?’ Belle chuckled, unaware of what the Master had picked up on - it happened on occasion that his attention would fly off like that. His head tilted up to the ceiling as he kept scanning for the source, thereby presenting something Belle had not spotted yet. Beneath his carefully tucked cravatte two angry looking marks appeared. Bite marks. Purple and blue, little veins around them bruised and broken.

‘AI!’ Belle shot up from her chair, book left in the seat as she rushed to push the white cotton further down. ‘You are hurt!’ She exclaimed, the Master’s heaven blue gaze now turning back to her. With a hesitant swallow he nodded, arms reaching out to pull her into his lap, ears continuing to prick and look for more strange sounds.

Belle still didn’t notice much of any foreign presence, her fingers looping around the knot of the cravatte to untighten it. ‘You should have told me.’ She chided softly, fingertips grazing over the edges of the broken skin. ‘Tis nothing.’ The Master brushed off, but Belle’s expression made it clear that she did not believe a word of it.

‘If it were nothing it’d have healed by now.’ She retorted, referring to the Master’s ability to heal at a phenomenally fast rate. ‘Let me at least clean it for you!’ And with that she hopped off his lap, skirts flying out of the library in a flurry. Grumbling the Master followed, eyes taking one last look over his shoulder, finding the library’s contents still slumbering.

What was it he was hearing? Was it his staff pulling a prank? The icy wind outside? He thought he had lived here long enough to know every single one of the sounds in this castle.

Turning his attention back to the long hallway, he followed Belle, eyes not leaving her again as he admired her slender frame. It had taken weeks for her to finally accept and wear the great many gowns his wife had left behind. But here she was. Wearing a particularly enchanting, silverish white dress, her hair put up nicely and lips curled in a rosy smile. She looked like an angel, and he couldn’t help but think of what his wife had been like. But Belle was more. Not only was she here. She was livelier…. Happier.

Happiness. It was a strange emotion to feel again. Even now the crooked pull of his lips felt awkward, foreign. But the pretty maiden before him didn’t seem to mind, her large brown eyes looking back at him as he trailed a few steps behind her.

‘Are you gonna hunt me down?’ She teased, eyebrow quirking with a challenge before she upped her step, dainty feet speeding down the long hallway. The Master chuckled.

Happiness. It was strange indeed.

‘Oh, you look at that.’ Plumette sighed dreamily, watching as the Master caught the giggling maiden before capturing her in a sweet kiss. The grandmaster clock grumbled something indiscernible, receiving a little gasp from the feather duster as she gave him a scornful look. ‘Say that again.’ She demanded, glaring at the clock that was close to a slumber - least to her amusement.

‘Time..’ He mumbled, before his eyes fully closed.

‘Time.’ She repeated, huffing slightly. “Time this, time that! ‘Tis a tale as old as time’ he says.” Ladieladiela! PFFT!’ She swivelled off to follow the two lovebirds as they hooked their arms around one another.

‘Well. I say it IS time.’

‘Time for what?’ The little teacup joined her from the kitchens, his porcelain body cleaned off and ready for a new serving. The duster eyed him as he panted to keep up, his porcelain foot hopping with great effort to follow her fast feather feet. With a dramatic twirl she halted and turned.

‘Oh..just look at how pitifully you run, dear boy!’ Her long lashes looked down upon him as the poor teacup shyly looked away, embarrassed by his inability to do what any young boy should be able to do. ‘I say, dear boy, that it’s time we get rid of this darn curse, that’s what!’

‘But ..but how?’ He asked desperately. He had long accepted that he would be a failure when it comes to young boys. He couldn’t play, couldn’t run, couldn’t climb trees. All he could do was hop and talk, hop and talk.

‘Well boy! It’s a curse! Curses can be done..and undone!’ And with that she turned back to watch as the Master tenderly folded a rogue hair back behind Belle’s ear, the sight making a small smile tug at Plumette’s pretty duster lips.

Well. That’s how.

‘We are cursed!’ The butcher rose his fist in the air, making the crowd in the great hall of the Les Comtes roar in agreement. ‘First the drought. The hunger. Then the killing of Ismael’s men in the woods…’ He pointed at the seat where a dark haired lady sat, the Grandmaster’s chair next to her empty. ‘..and the sudden death of our Grandmaster!’ - ‘AYE’ - ‘Tis true.’ The gathered men wholeheartedly agreed. More fists rose in the air, before the room calmed again, the mysterious raven maiden standing up from her seat to walk into the middle of the hall, attracting the men’s attention.

With cool eyes she looked around her, the roars dying down until the hall was quiet as mice. She was a beauty to behold and it had been only weeks since they had taken her on as the grandmaster’s wife. With the sudden demise of their good grandmaster, they were left with this calm apparition of pure divinity, her looks closer to that of an angel than of a woman made of flesh and blood. Slowly her long sleeve rose, a pale hand appearing from the burgundy robe.

‘I grieve!’ She chanted, her chest rising deeply before she turned her eyes towards the butcher, his lips falling open ever so slightly - enchanted. ‘So now. What do you suggest we do, good sir? How shall we avenge my dear husband’s death?’ Her voice played her role of grieving wife perfectly, though her cool eyes sparkled with danger.

The butcher swallowed back a lump and stepped in, eyes searching his fellow men for agreement. ‘I’d say..fair lady..’ He bowed his head slightly. ‘..we must avenge him indeed. But first we must find our lord. Ismael! He shall lead us on, as ever he has done.’

The men didn’t chant quite the agreement he expected, his eyes nervously peering left and right as he heard timid whispers about. Finally one man stepped forward; ‘Say nay, is it not strange, that he is not here? Where is he?! Our Grandmaster?!’

The long sleeved arm rose up again, silencing the roaring whispers. ‘We know not.’ She raised her chin slightly, as if the next news was cause for more grief. ‘He is not in his rooms. His bed is unslept. I fear..’ She lowered her gaze to the floor. ‘..he was taken as well.’

‘Tis like the fires!’ A scrawny man with wild eyes stepped forward. ‘The beast is coming into our homes, stealing our wives..children..and now also our new grandmaster!’ The crowd roared in agreement, but then a woman appeared from behind broad backs, her face scowling and voice straining to silence the crowd. ‘NO! SAY NO LIES!’ The rowdy men halted their loud chants. ‘Me and my children were SAVED, not stolen!’

And with that she gave a menacing look at the scrawny man who huffed in annoyance. Another few voices mingled in and before long the whole hall had erupted in another loud quarrel. Nobody was quite sure who was right, and what had been the Beast’s doing. But they sure were ready to avenge themselves, one way, or the other.

Halting his step for a moment the Master looked back over Belle’s shoulder, the long hallway before them soon to reach the entree hall. With a mindless lick of his bottom lip he pricked his ears, still not quite sure of what he had heard just now. It had most definitely not been his staff. An..animal perhaps?

Belle’s curious eyes looked up at the Master, her lips still curled in a soft, relaxed smile. ‘What is it?’ She asked gently.

‘A..deer..’ The Master frowned. ‘..or something like it.’

It was unusual for deer to get this close to the castle. They knew well that a predator lived here. And one would only go to a predator’s lair if they were young and naive or..hmmm…Or..Or chased..

Fuck.

Like the devil heard the Master’s inward grunt, the front door was barged open, icy winds spewing a whirl of snow into the entry hall.

FUCK!

Without thinking twice the Master lifted Belle in his arms, his long legs making a sprint for the first room to his right, his brain not even thinking of blocking the doorway; they needed to get out of here. Now.

Was it back? Was it back?!

With all the speed he could muster in his legs he ran into one of the windows - which thankfully were on ground floor level, his shoulder turning forward to brace for impact as they ran straight through the thin glossy pane. Belle yelped in terror, her ever-present smile having melted like snow before the sun as a thousand small shards of glistening daggers now brushed past them, licking their skin. It was a near miracle that the cuts left them unharmed, before the Master landed onto the soft snow outside.

With bewildered eyes he started running, away from the castle, his gaze noting that he hadn’t been wrong. There was indeed a deer before him, her swishing tail pointed up as she too ran for her life, long legs bouncing through the powdery white.

A terror clenched in his heart as he made his way down the many garden terraces, his feet knowing blindly where all roots and bushes were hidden in this fine maze of natural traps.

Behind them the loud growls of a beast were heard, also just as he expected. A deer and a beast, right here in his lair. What was going on? Was he about to lose his domain? Right now, in the broad daylight? FUCK.

He wasn’t the only one whose curiosity peaked. Sweet Belle had finally overcome the initial shock of the sudden chase, her large brown eyes daring to look around as the cold wind cut into her expressive eyes. Tears started to well - be it of shock or the icy air - and as she looked over the Master’s shoulder, all she could see were blurs. It was as if death itself was chasing them, a dark menacing cloud jumping out of the busted window, the cold wind licking at its feet.

‘Sshh.’ The Master hushed, twisting his tiring arms so she could no longer see. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was feeling so sluggish, but with Belle twisting like this in his arms, her weight seemed even greater. Just his luck. On the very moment of a great chase his veins pumped lead and his feet weighed like marble. And no matter how hard he tried to speed up, his pace just wouldn’t quicken.

With a light pant escaping his lips he looked at the deer, the animal now slowly losing ground on him as her legs were far less familiar with this terrain. Her glassy eyes stared back at him with a strange gloss. Almost blue in hue. As if possessed. Strange.

What was going on?

Growling deep in his chest the Master hoisted Belle a little bit higher in his heavy arms, teeth gritting as the deer now finally lost on him, his long legs managing to surpass her before they reached the treeline. Everything in his body seemed to object. Where usually a sprint like this costed him a little effort by daytime, right now it felt like he was running in a fever dream. Pushing hard, but barely moving. Perhaps the sun was particularly strong today - their rays hidden by a thick white nothingness. And perhaps it was the deep snow he was plowing through. Or the cold. Or ..Belle.

He had to admit he had started feeling strange these past couple of days. Especially when near her.

Looking down at the fair maiden, shivering and shaking in his arms, he couldn’t even think of asking her to run for herself. No. If really he wouldn’t make it, he’d stop and defend them as best he could. Even if he felt like a bag of bones. Weak and shaking from running just a half a mile.

After what seemed like the longest few minutes in their life, the Master and Belle managed to escape. At least, for now. The Master’s pace immediately dropped to a slow jog, his complexion no longer its usual smooth marble. With a delicate finger Belle traced the heated blush that had crept up his skin, the sensation so foreign as his lips parted in deep exhausted pants. Her cold monster was running hot.

That never happened before, did it now?

Looking back ahead she noticed where they were heading; the Le Comte estate. Which confused her. Why would the Master seek out human interaction, especially now as they were being hunted? Why was he leading them here? Quietly she wrapped her hands more tightly around his vest, the cold biting harshly into their clothes. Perhaps he just wanted to hide out here. Use the presence of humans as a distraction.

But it wasn’t that.

The Master leaped over the small straightshorn bushes and hedges, the garden a pretty geometric pattern of white, before he slowed his pace even more. His long legs stepped onto the main path that led up to the..front door. The front door. He was moving to the front door.

Staring in bewilderment at the Master she wondered if he was as possessed as that weird deer they had seen moments earlier.

‘Master..’ She squeaked, pulling on his vest as he kept heading straight for the door. ‘Master what are you..’

A lacky appeared, opening the door for them, eyes looking down on their slightly disheveled attire and blushing cheeks. He raised his eyebrows, but the Master was quick to respond, lips curling in an apologetic smile. ‘Apologies for being late.’ The Master slowly settled Belle down, her eyes immediately flitting back to the forest - but no movement was seen. ‘I’m afraid the poor lady sprained her ankle and..’ He babbled on, but Belle didn’t listen, her eyes keeping a razor sharp focus on the treeline.

Why had he taken them here? And why were they .. “late”? What did he know, that she didn’t?

‘But of course.’ The lackey smiled, feet stepping back to make way for them to enter, his arm gesturing into the left direction, where the grand hall was situated. ‘They just got started.’ And with that Belle and the Master let out a soft sigh, the heavy front door being closed behind them with a firm shudder.

“O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven;

It hath the primal eldest curse upon ’t,

A brother’s murder. Pray can I not,

Though inclination be as sharp as will.

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent,

And, like a man to double business bound,

I stand in pause where I shall first begin

And both neglect.

What if this cursèd hand

Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?”

The new king spoke after his counselor wished to discuss the matter of his late brother’s sudden demise.

Belle turned in her seat as the Master let out a small cough, eyes wishing to look away from the mouse trap and broom stick, who played rather convincing roles as King Claudius and Polonius. After years of begging, his staff had finally managed to get the Master to sit down and watch, the Hamlet play now being performed in full for the both of them.

With tender fingers Belle brushed over his hand, but his eyes once again evaded hers, his gaze instead turned to their entwined hands.

‘What is it?’ She asked softly, the scene now changing as more characters entered the stage.

‘A good play’s all.’ He curled his lips, but the smile didn’t shine in his eyes.

‘Can we continue m’lady?’ Hamlet asked.

Belle raised her finger, requesting a moment, eyes searching the Master’s frowning appearance.

‘Tis fine.’ He shook his head, eyes finally looking back at Belle. ‘Truly. Do continue.’

A brother’s blood. Only as they now walked through the hallways of the Le Comte estate, did the similarities click in Belle’s brain. She knew he was a Le Comte. But as they passed by a few stately portraits, the features were uncanningly close to his. It was near frightening.

Their arms entangled as they made way to the grand hall, where loud roars and cheers erupted from what appeared to be a large crowd. It made for a perfect, quiet entrance, as all attention was aimed at a pale skinned lady that stood in the middle of the hall, arms raised high in the air. ‘...His bed is unslept. I fear..he was taken as well.’

The crowd started shouting again, before another woman stepped in, her appearance easily recognised by the Master, whose breath choked. The woman he saved from the fire.

‘NO! SAY NO LIES!’ She spoke, breaking through the loud ruckus. ‘Me and my children were SAVED, not stolen!’ She roared, her eyes shooting bloody murder at the man who had stoked the disquiet with such disdain. He huffed as two more men stepped in to pull him back into the crowd.

‘YOU!!!’ A new voice boomed through the air as people were roughly shoved aside, their loud yips and groans following the path that was cleared through the crowd. An enraged man had worked his way to the centre of the mass of people, dark hair hanging before his face. With a loud groan he straightened his back, broad shoulders squaring as a hand rearranged his hair. It took everyone by surprise to see who this wild man was.

Ismael.

‘Do you not see?!’ Ismael snarled angrily, the whole room gasping as they slowly took note of the terribly disheveled state of their Grandmaster. His eyes were bloodshot and veins were drawn blue on his pale skin. ‘HE’S HERE!’ And with that he pointed at the back of the crowd, straight at Belle and the Master.

Instinctively the Master grasped for Belle’s arm to pull her back, but she was ahead of him, feet stepping forward as she spread her arms wide, shielding him instead.

In seconds the whole room was staring at her..and the unfamiliar man behind her.

‘Leave him be, Ismael.’ She bit, her lower lip trembling as the whispers started again.

‘Is that Belle?’ - ‘Wasn’t she dead?’ - ‘Who’s that?’ - ‘Where’s the monster?’

Belle swallowed harshly as a new, wide path was created by the people, a lane of emptiness stretching out between her and Ismael’s feet.

‘Or what..pretty Belle?’ Ismael tilted his head, hands folding behind his back as he straightened his shoulders, returning to his usual haughty upright. ‘Are you going to run again?’ He taunted.

The Master snapped his eyes at the taunting smile of Ismael, lips wishing to curl up in a snarl, tongue already flaking out to ...to..He licked his lips again, then more specifically his teeth. Tooth after smooth tooth, they were all there. But different. Furrowing his brow he now realised why he had felt so out of breath in the forest. He was..he was..

With slow, measured steps the young Grandmaster started his way to Belle and the Master, chin tilted upwards and red burning eyes telling of the hellfire he had come walking from. He looked like a dead man walking, jaw tight and eyes deep in their sockets. Positively sickly.

As he slowly narrowed the space until there was just a few feet between them, he quirked his head again. The movement felt so unnatural. Almost as if he was possessed. The Master felt a shiver run down his spine, the worst of his nightmares coming true.

History repeats. History repeats. History repeats.

Belle didn’t notice him. Her eyes were instead transfixed on the strange being that Ismael had become. His nose inhaled, as if he had just stepped outside and the flowers were abloom, his lips curling in an empty smile.

Click.

It clicked in her head. This was exactly like the Master had been when she had just met him. Strange. Inhuman. Obsessed with smell. He was one too. Ismael was one too. And from the looks of it he had some trouble hunting, his skin as deadly pale as the Master’s had been after the long week without feeding. She had to run. To get away. To…looking around she saw all the people. Gruff bakers, butchers and clergymen, all staring at her with bafflement. They probably still thought she had something to do with the curse. No. She shouldn’t run. Not this time.

‘Looks like I’m not running.’ Belle finally spoke, the words escaping with a pent up little sigh from her chest. The crowds had gone quiet, whispers finally silenced, as none wanted to miss a single word.

‘We should go.’ The Master’s fingers melted around her waist, begging for her attention. But from the way she swatted away his hand, he knew that she was a lost cause. And he understood. Ismael had taken everything from her. From the night at the feast, where he chased her until bloody and broken. To the condemnation of her father, who now lay cold in the ground. And then there was the here and now. He was chasing her again. Wishing to take away what little she possessed.

Her sweet rose.

There was little the Master could do, his limbs heavy and feet nailed to the ground. The whole world seemed slow. Dull. Strange. He had lost it. He must have lost it. And now all he could do was hope that Ismael would make a mistake. Make the people turn against him. He did look sickly after all.

‘Did you take something that was not yours, milord?’ Belle cocked her eyebrow at Ismael, her pretty face a mask of calmth.

For a moment the Grandmaster didn’t seem to respond, death staring in his empty eyes. Or perhaps it was hunger. The Master knew that sensation all too well. He had been there. He had smelled the rich delight of fresh blood, he had heard the loud beating of a hundred hearts around him. To remain calm and composed in such a moment, was near impossible.

And so it was.

The young Grandmaster awoke from his contemplation, lips pulling back in a slip as long fangs were revealed. In a whirl of seconds the whole atmosphere changed and Ismael had chosen his fate. People gasped in shock and feet started to flee in all directions, wishing to get away, whilst others tried to find weapons.

The Master also chose his fate - hoping this would not be the day he’d regain life, only to lose it again so soon. Again he tried to pull Belle away, but she stood her ground, head shaking one solid “no”.

FUCK. Fucking stupid stubborn..stubborn...ARGH! His mind reeled at the sight of his Belle, her eyes feraly staring back in Ismael’s vampiric gaze. It both alarmed and aroused him.

Oh..Why after a long life of unmeasured strength, did the Gods choose for him to be weak as of right now?!

With widened eyes he sprinted off to a fireplace close-by, hands grabbing for a hot poker that lay abandoned in the roaring fire, feet evading the many people who ran to and fro in a messy hurry.

In the meantime Ismael had lunged forward, closing the distance between him and Belle, evil hands grasping at her face and hair, wishing to pull her jaw aside so he could go in for a taste. But Belle was fierce and headstrong. And definitely not afraid. With stomping feet and gritting teeth she fought back, nails digging into whatever facial feature she could reach - hopefully Ismael’s eyes.

And it wasn’t just the people that had started to become restless. Also the room itself seemed to fill with a certain disquiet. Windows trembled, before finally they swung open, long curtains drifting high in the wind. It was something out of a beautiful horror story, the vampire trying to sink his fangs in buttery skin, as long streams of heavy red velvet danced on the icy winds. Like blood. Flowing. Dancing. Licking.

Too busy with the struggle with Belle - and her smell - Ismael had lost sight of the Master as he hurled himself at his fellow vampire. Near ready to strike his fangs into her porcelain skin, a loud cry erupted from his lips instead.

The Master appeared from behind Ismael, the hot poker shoved mercilessly between cold ribs, aiming true. A vampire may be strong. But not invincible. And so as daylight lay dust to Ismael’s skin and blood bubbled on his screaming lips, Ismael let go off his tasty snack, poor Belle dropping in surprise from the dying vampire’s grasp. Anguish shrilled through the air as the monster yelped in pain, the hot iron firing straight through his icy heart. Ending his reign of terror. Ending his attempts at pouring poison on the lives around him.

For a long moment the world seemed to have gone mute. The people gawked at the heap of limbs and bubbling, foaming blood that dripped onto the stone, their young Grandmaster no more. And the wind continued to blow, though now far less menacingly, the heavy velvets drifting aimlessly through the curious crowd.

In a mere few weeks the people had lost not one, but two Grandmasters. And how! The first one drowned in his own bile. And the other? The other was a monster...a monster! And a dead one at that, his crimson lifeblood now seeping slowly onto the floor as slow whispers started to travel through the crowd.

Things started to click for the people as well. Gaps were being filled and questions answered.

Ismael had been the beast! It made sense! As of late he had been acting strange. In fact..vile! He had spoken in strange tongues, spat his wine at guests, gnarled like a wolf and roared like a storm. And before that he had lead his people in the wrong way on multiple occasions, the most vivid memory being that of the night of the fires.

And as the whispers circulated, the saved woman from the fires stepped forward again, hands pushing aside the crowds to get to Belle and the Master.

‘TIS YOU!’ The woman cried, her arms instinctively wrapping around his shocked frame. ‘Tis you. OH may God be with ye good lord.’ She looked up from her tight embrace, eyes watering. ‘You saved us.’ The Master swallowed awkwardly, not sure how to respond. He hadn’t been hugged by a stranger in..well..literally centuries.

‘Twas you who grabbed us from the fire, no?’ The woman then asked, realising she might be mistaken. Slowly the Master nodded, blue eyes looking down at her blushing face. ‘It was..I. Yes.’

‘OH blessed be!’ She exclaimed, her next attempt at hugging failing as a new person entered the little get together.

The fayen woman with the raven hair.

Her piercing blue eyes studied the Master as she pushed aside the last of the men who were standing in her way, her lips falling apart in a gasp of exaggerated surprise.

‘MY SON!’ She exclaimed, confusing the Master even more as he immediately recognised her as Morgana.

She was no woman! She was a witch!

Searching for Belle, he quickly pulled her into his side, her large brown eyes looking between him and Morgana to realise that he knew this strange vixenous woman. Fighting away from his grip yet again she stepped forward, brows furrowing as her finger pointed out at the Master’s “mother”.

‘You are his mother? You?!’ Her eyes lit with fire, and Morgana looked in amazement at the fierce little thing.

‘And who might you be?’ Morgana asked, her head quirking in bemusement.

Belle lowered her finger and balled both hands into fists, tongue flaking over her bottom lip. She had to try her best not to fly into the woman’s hair at once.

‘The one who didn’t abandon him.’ She growled.

Morgana smiled, then looked back at the Master. ‘Tis true then. You have returned from the dead and I embrace you warmly.’ She swiped past belle and hugged the Master, long neck stretching as she reached her lips out to whisper in the shell of his ear. ‘What sweet rose you bring.’

Belle watched in bafflement as the devious devil woman let out a theatrical shrill of joy, fingers tracing over her “son’s” cheek. ‘I lose one son, but welcome back another. What cruel faith this day brings. But oh, how joyous am I to embrace you again. You see..Such tragedies have befallen us…’ Slowly she disentangled her branchlike fingers from the Master’s mane, her attention now aimed back at the crowd.

‘..but no more!’ Her eyes trailed to the heap of limbs that had been Ismael - his mouth foaming with blood. ‘Today the tragedies end. And I say we celebrate!’

It was like time hadn’t passed. Like Belle was again at that party a few months prior, the whole village cheering and dancing because the beast was gone. And yet, everything was different now. Looking to her left it was not her father she saw. It was the Master, his eyes giving her a sympathetic smile as he listened to an endless stream of words that erupted from the woman he had saved from that fire.

And looking to her right, to the hallway where she had ran off the last time, there was again a light trail of blood - though this time it was Ismael’s blood, not hers.

She hadn’t felt like dancing then. And she most definitely didn’t feel like dancing now.

Even as the villagers deemed her and her handsome saviour as trustworthy, welcoming them with pats on the shoulder and small smiles, the atmosphere felt off. Like..something lingered here still. But maybe that was also just her projection. Her not daring to believe that it was over. Done. The happy end. Book closed.

Finally, the woman from the fires was pulled away for a dance, leaving the Master’s arms open for Belle to slide into, their feet not opting to dance, but to stay, her head leaning into his warm chest.

Warm..chest. Wait…

Settling back a little, Belle looked back up at the Master. In all the fuss and stress, she hadn’t noticed what he had noticed. Hesitantly brushing her finger over his cheek she could feel the gentle warmth that spread there. She could smell him. He had a smell about him. Which was both new, and refreshingly nice. The Master’s lips curled in a careful smile, allowing her to study his changed appearance, fingers touching and eyes studying.

And then, finally, her finger moved to the corner of his lip, her eyes searching his for confirmation before she carefully pulled it up. A gasp escaped her rosy lips.

‘It’s done.’ The Master nodded, his smile growing.

‘But..how?’ Belle frowned, the question remaining unanswered as the raven haired lady returned. Her sly act of motherly warmth not yet dropped as she procured a scarlet rose from her long sleeve, the crowd around them now starting a dance circle. People smiled, feet jumped, patterns whirled and the music whipped. But Belle, the Master and Morgana had little eye for them, as the three of them shared looks.

‘I beg you forgive me for our logy meeting, earlier.’ Morgana curtsied. ‘I do speak in honesty when I say you must be the most beautiful of the land. And, I understand wholeheartedly why my son has taken a liking to you.’ Her lips curled in a smile, but jealousy laced her words. Then, with a controlled force, she offered the rose to Belle, the poor girl yelping in surprise and pain. Its jaggedy thorns ripped through her palm, hot blood oozing from the wound.

‘Ai!’ Morgana expressed, not half as surprised as it was probably foul play from the start. With fascinated blues she watched as the Master grasped for Belle’s hand, soft lips kissing and soothing where it ached, the rose falling discarded on the ground.

So it was true. The curse was lifted.

With a wry smile she looked at the rose as it fell to the ground, blood glistening on its petals.

Too bad that..

‘What is this sorcery?’ The Master whispered through gritted teeth, his dark gaze aimed at her, disturbing her thoughts. Morgana chuckled, then shrugged her shoulders. Sorcery? Did he mean the curse she had lain on him? The deer she had sent his way? Or the ..rose?

Just as the thought whirled through the branches of her wicked brain, she watched as Belle started to wobble, her hands grasping for the Master’s chest as dainty legs gave way. Such a loss. Such a pretty girl.

Too pretty.

With a theatrical gasp Morgana watched as the Master caught Belle in his arms, her body hanging limp like a sleeping corpse.

Much better.

With Belle held in a tight embrace and tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, the Master looked back up at Morgana. The question he posed earlier couldn’t have had a better timing, Morgana mused.

‘Tis love.’ Morgana sighed, making the Master cry out in anguish.

Nothing could ever end well, could it? One moment he regained life. Only to lose it again a moment later. Feeling up Belle’s throat her heartbeat was but a whisper, face calm and restful like she was in a deadly sleep.

‘Hahahahaha.’ A sudden burst of laughter erupted from Morgana’s cherry lips, making the Master’s anguish greater. ‘Oh hush..my son.’ She taunted, then sighed. ‘I just required proof, ‘s all.’

The Master blinked in horror at the wicked witch. The whole world seemed to be unwilling to see what a grievous bitch she was. SHE was the monster. And she made her lair wherever and whenever it suited her. With a snap of her claw-like fingers she could enchant any and every man and woman. She did as she pleased. But he wasn’t sure why. Was she truly vile? Or had she good reason?

‘Proof of what?’ He bit through his tears.

‘Hmm..you know..what.’ Morgana gave him a cold stare, the laughter of seconds earlier melted away, making place for her true nature. With a click of her tongue she eyed Belle. So pale. So frail. So cold. ‘So..very pretty.’ She tutted.

It was then he had enough. With a careful bow he laid Belle to the ground, eyes having a hard time to break away from his dying love. ‘You killed her.’ He whimpered.

‘Well. Then bring her back.’ Morgana also lowered to her knees, head tilting in fascination as the Master’s watery pools of misery looked at her.

And the people? They continued to dance. Like enchanted. No. Possessed.

With a long sniff of the nose, the Master retraced his finger over Belle’s cheek, her heartbeat no longer to be found beneath her marble skin.

‘No..’ He trembled. ‘No please. Please Belle.’ Anguish tore through his breaking heart, his next movement rash and unpredicted. With a deadly force he picked and pushed the rose into Morgana’s chest, its sharp thorns cutting like knives into her pale skin.

‘You keep your vileness...mother!’ He spat.

In the initial wave of shock Morgana couldn’t help but laugh, the irony not lost on her before her laughter too died. With awkward sputters of her luscious lips she reached for slurred words, that were hard to hear even if you leaned in real close. ‘Tcan’t be.’ And with that she sank to the ground too, her face melting into one of eternal sleep.

So lost in his pain and tears, the Master did not notice how the people around him were unleashed from their magical chain, the whole world sighing with relief as the witch had been defeated.

No, all the Master could do was cry. His lips whispering wordlessly, he begged for Belle to come back. With rubbing hands he wished to warm her skin, wake her. But curses were evil. Hard to break.

Was she truly dead?

After centuries of agony he found his love, only to lose it by the prick of a fucking ROSE?! ARGH!! NO! No...no…

‘Belle..’ He begged, his hands lifting up her sleeping form, wishing to keep her as close to his shattered heart as he could.

‘Tis a witch!’ A voice cried behind him, making the angry anguish burn up in his chest. But when he looked up, he noticed what he had not noticed earlier. The body of Morgana was now no longer of lady-like form. Twisted and evil, skin wrinkly and warted, she looked as picture book perfect a description of a witch. Cursed by her own trappings, it had caused her demise.

More voices erupted from the disenchanted crowd, people rushing to come to aid, hands pulling away Morgana’s corpse to get to Belle.

Blinking away some of his tears, the Master looked back down at Belle. With a tender brush of love he kissed her cooling lips finally, one last time.

The poisoned rose crumpled and a clock rang.

It was a tale as old as time.

A tune as old as song.

For centuries he had felt the long minutes melt into hours. Into days. Into aggravating months, years, a lifetime. But time reminded him also of how precious it was. Or had been. The lone years had been forgotten so simply when he stood there one day in the forest, only to hear a sweet voice tinkle through the trees. For a moment he did not exist. He was like a bird on the branches. He watched her as she spoke, rosy lips curling in one of those dream-haunting smiles.

That day he finally reinstalled that darn mirror in the hall. Just one mirror. The rest still locked and stocked away. One mirror to remind him that he existed. That he was no ghost. He was real.

That day he looked upon his form for the first time in centuries. Sharp and pale. Fanged and broken.

Bittersweet and strange

Finding you can change

Learning you were wrong

Without fail he would listen to her then everyday. He would re-read her words in his lair. He’d even go out and trade with merchants far and wide to retrieve as many copies of her book as he could get his hands on; he would have them all if he could. At some point they stacked up high in his room, alongside the many other books he had read in hope that he would learn more about the female heart...and soul.

His every waking hour - which were many - was invested in learning. Reading. Reclaiming what little hold he had of life. Belle was his anchor, his lifeline. She brought a fickle sliver of hope back in his lonely days. She brought him a soul.

‘Please.’

Certain as the sun

Rising in the East

‘Please..’ A finger grazed up his cheek.Two large brown eyes looked up into his tear bleeding eyes and he wondered if he was dreaming, his eyes starting to blink furiously, but the eyes before him remained. What..? OH! OH my! She is awake! With a tremble of his lips he felt his dying heart revived, her lips curling a sleepy smile.

‘Anything Belle.’ He smiled in disbelief. She sniffled, still slightly hazed, before pulling his hand to her thigh, making his cheeks flush in mild embarrassment.

‘Belle..we are..’ He wished to alarm her of their audience, to which some people chuckled, whispers erupting in the crowd. It had always been a weird girl, that Belle.

And then the Master realised what she wanted him to find; his fingers felt the outlines of the book beneath her skirts. Of course. The book. He smiled and reached down her pockets - receiving some silent gasps from the crowd - before retrieving it. The people laughed even louder. Oh! And Belle and her books!! Oh, Belle!

Tale as old as time

Song as old as rhyme

‘You want me to read?’ The master chuckled.

‘No.’ She slowly shook her head and smiled. ‘Twas just that I was right.’

Beauty and the Beast

Church bells rang in the morning air, but for once they did not hurt the Master’s ears. In fact, he couldn’t imagine a more welcoming sound at this very moment. With sure strides he walked down the path, the crowding numbers on the square indicating just how packed the chapel had to be. Their faces smiled, and napkins waved in the air, as people wished to bestow gifts and well-wishes. But they would have to save that for later. With a practised, but well-felt smile, their new Grandmaster thanked them, his cheeks glowing with a thrilling buzz.

Before him the large wooden doors to the chapel arose behind side-stepping people, the path to his future cleared as the January sun warmed the back of his tailcoat.

Outside a grumpy old man awaited him, hand folded around his hip as beady eyes peered from beneath thick grey eyebrows. He smelled of wood and grime. ‘Twas about time!’ The man grumbled, tilting his head, gesturing the Master to step inside. ‘Thank you..grandfather time.’ The Master chuckled, offering the man a teasing wink before finally stepping inside.

‘Okay..GO GO GO.’ Lumiere’s wig bounced somewhere at the altar, the small man quick to spur the little orchestra into motion, a soft music warming from their strings and bells.

The Master smiled, halting his steps to allow his ever chaotic staff a moment to get a hold of the situation. They were still not entirely used to their regained human form, but the gladness did beam off their glowing cheeks.

And then, with a grounding breath, the Master prepared himself for the first day of the rest of his life.

It was time, indeed.

‘Are you catching up with that?’ Belle sniffled after their staff left the room. Soft candles casted a soft glow around their shared bedroom, a fire burning in the hearth.

‘What is that..wife?’ His smile grew even wider, making Belle chuckle. Without further ado the Master stripped himself of his shirt, the planes of skin and hair underneath unveiling a new life. Like Adam stood before Eve, he stood before Belle, her appreciative eyes travelling a long way down his muscular physique. A very naked physique. He had changed so little, and yet so dramatically. The shapes were the same. But the touch was different. He was no longer hard and marble, but soft and warm.

Though not soft, mushy soft. He made sure to flex his muscles teasingly as she looked back up his large biceps.

‘Very well..HUSBAND.’ Belle grinned and got up from the bed, her long hair falling in soft brown waves over her night gown. ‘I’m just saying that you haven’t stopped smiling since.-’

‘You.’ The master interjected.

The both of them laughed.

‘Ai.. Henry.’ His name still tasted so new and sweet on her lips as he had only dared to share it so recently. But he could keep no secrets from her. No more. They now shared everything. Heart, mind..soul.

‘Tis so.’ She smiled, breaking through his thoughts with a brush of her gentle fingers, Cupid’s wings fluttering in his heart.

And with that they kissed sweetly, until death did them part.

The End.

Roll-credits reading music: Le Sextet à Claques - Laryngo-rhino-phraryngite

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @magdelen69 @thereisa8ella @mary-ann84 @darkbooksarwin @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly @elinesama

Vampire!Henry Tagsquad: @i-cant-remember-my-old-login @wednesdaybraids @othersideofforty @starstruckkittyangel @strangerliaa @omgkatinka

If you want to be added to or removed from my tag lists, shoot me a message!

Final author’s note: Thanks for reading my loves! Are you feeling the post fic reading buzz/blues? Here’s a few things to keep you entertained:

Listen to The Monster’s Lair Playlist

Check out my vampy mood blurb that inspired this fic

Read the original version of Beauty and the Beast: Apuleius’ Cupid and Psyche

Make Lumière proud and read some Hamlet by ye good ol’ Shakespeare

Read another vampire!Henry long fic: @viking-raider‘s Fangs Deep

#henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fluff #vampire!henry #beauty and the beast au #long fic #angst #adult fairytale #dark fairytale #its finished yo

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katehuntington · 4 years ago

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Title: Black Dog - part four Word count: 4475± words Episode summary: When Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part four summary: Dean closes in on the location that the coordinates lead to, and soon begins to grasp the magnitude of this case. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09 & @deanwanddamons. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

Darrington, Washington December 2nd, 2005 - Present Day

Two days later, Dean and his Impala roll down a two-lane highway through Stillaguamish Valley. Mountains rise from the earth as if they are still growing, overshadowing the villages beneath. Rays of sun pierce through the clouds, spotlights of the sky shining down on the land below.

It’s not nearly as warm as it was in Texas. In fact, Dean has the heaters on to cast out the cold. The radio started jamming some time ago, not because of the presence of a ghost or some other supernatural force, but simply because the high mountains are interfering with the radio signal. To break the silence, Dean threw in an old Metallica mixtape, one he used to listen to whenever he was on the road alone. Enter Sandman rages through the speakers as Dean taps his thumb on the steering wheel in the rhythm of the drums.

He needs his music right now. It’s the only thing that can keep him sane. The evident empty space next to him and the silence that filled the car before the screaming guitars did, had him almost turn around at least half a dozen times. The knot in his stomach hasn’t exactly loosened ever since he left Sam on the side of the road, but with his father’s orders in mind, he kept pushing north. You’re here now, Dean. Might as well solve this case.

When he crossed the Texas - Oklahoma state border, he stopped at an internet cafe and traced the location of the coordinates. It turns out that 48°13’11.00”N 121°41’4045”W isn’t an abandoned factory building in the American wastelands or a graveyard which happens to be the final resting place of a not so peaceful spirit. These coordinates are those of a pass on the south side of a mountain range, west of a small town called Darrington, located in Washington State.

When he searched for articles on anything out of the ordinary in that area, he stumbled on a bunch of missing person reports and killings in the local newspapers. The growing population of grey wolves and bears, plus the city closing in on nature, are the causes of this unusual animal behavior, according to the wildlife services. Apparently Dean’s father doubts that the animals have anything to do with it. The missing people and casualties are random. Dean couldn’t find a link between any of them, so he went on and eventually got himself on Arlington-Darrington Road, heading for the small village.

As far as Dean knows, the last attack took place nine days ago. It happened at the exact location of the coordinates, where a family was hiking. The teenage daughter and the father were killed by God knows what, only the nineteen-year-old son survived. He expects the local police will know more about his state and current whereabouts. Having a word with the poor kid is on the hunter’s to-do list, once he finds him.

Dean looks over to the right, where a high peak stands out from the other mountains surrounding him. It seems ominous and beautiful at the same time, intimidating anyone who enters the valley as it reaches for the sky. That’s the place where it went down; Whitehorse Mountain.

The hunter carries on and passes a church and a short airstrip, then he enters the town of Darrington. Not quite sure where he’s supposed to go, he follows the main road, and soon spots the police department on his right. The Impala turns to the curb and through his windshield, the driver takes a look around. The benefits of a small town; everything is close by. Across from the police department he finds a diner and a small hotel, no need to drive around to find a place to stay and to eat. First things first, though, he has to figure out what he’s up against.

Somewhat carelessly, the hunter rummages through the several false ID’s and badges in the glove compartment, choosing one that his father printed a couple of months back. As he gets out of the car and walks around it, he checks out the ID as he mouths the false name. “Glenn Frey. Brilliant, Dad,” he chuckles, instantly recognizing the name of one of the founders of the Eagles.

Confident, Dean steps inside the governmental building. The deputy, who’s reading a file by a large desk in the corner of the room, looks up from his work. “Can I help you?” “Yeah, I’m Glenn Frey from Wildlife Services,” Dean flashes his identification as he walks up to the counter. “Ah, you’re here for the attacks.” The officer stands up and walks over, after which he shakes Dean’s hand. “Deputy Steven Morson.” “Is the sheriff in?” Dean wonders, getting straight to the point. “Not at this moment, but he will be later on,” the young deputy replies.

The hunter purses his lips, letting a sound of discontent slip past his teeth. “I was hoping to gather some more information about the Cleveland family.” “Your colleague missed something?” deputy Morson assumes. Oh oh, the real rangers got here first? Quickly, Dean improvises, the slight hesitation barely noticeable. “We just don’t want to miss any details, make sure we know what we’re up against.” The deputy nods at that. “No problem. I’ll get the documents for you.”

He moves over to the file cases against the back wall, opens one of the doors with a key, and leafs through the files. As he’s working, Dean takes his time to have a look around the small police station. Pictures of officers decorate the bleak walls, together with a collection of medals and declarations. The sheriff’s office is separated from the main desk. A bit further in the back, Dean sees the door that leads to the holding cells. It looks pretty much like every small town’s department he’s been in; way too familiar. There have been several occasions that he saw places like this from behind bars.

“Here you go.” The deputy interrupts his thoughts as he hands the file to Dean. With a grateful nod, so-called Glenn Frey from Wildlife Services lays out the documents on the desk. Attentive, he scans the pages as he flips through them, but there isn’t much there. Puzzled, Dean faces the policeman. “This is it? No imaging, death reports?” “The remains haven’t been brought down the mountain yet. Three hunters went up to track them down, bring the bodies back and shoot the animals if they get the chance, but it snowed for quite a while a few days back, so I think they got delayed,” the deputy explains. Dean hums at that, but doesn’t say anything. And I think they got killed, he ponders quietly. “So all you have is an eyewitness report of ...?” Dean concludes, leaving the line open for the deputy to fill in. “David, the oldest son. Poor guy,” he sighs. “Got hurt bad?” Dean presumes. “No, not at all. He didn’t have a scratch on him. But what he saw… Well, read for yourself,” The policeman nods at the page on the counter, and gives the ranger some space.

Dean scans the eyewitness report intently, taking out the details that matter to him most. Tear wounds, bite marks, limbs shredded off, major blood loss. By the looks of it, the two victims were torn in pieces. The description of the suspected killer is rather poor, though. Apparently Deputy Morson notices the change in Dean’s facial expression, because he comments on it right away.

“The kid lost his entire family, so I can imagine it was all a blur, but he said the animal was ‘invisible’. He also claimed he heard a wolf-like howl right before the incidents happened, but nothing like any grey he has ever heard, apparently. It seems unlikely, doesn’t it? One lone wolf attacking people? I think he kind of lost it, if I may speak honestly,” he says with a little chuckle.

Dean, however, doesn’t find it funny at all and keeps a straight face. “Why don’t we both stick to our fields of expertise, shall we? Is he still in town?” The deputy clears his throat awkwardly. “He is, Sir. He refuses to go back home until his family is recovered from the mountain.”

The hunter nods, able to get behind that reasoning. Foolish, but understandable. Either way, for his investigation on this case it’s quite convenient that David is still here. The report doesn’t give him a lot to go on, and he really needs to know more before he sets foot onto the creature’s hunting grounds. He straightens his back and looks the deputy in the eye before he exits the police department. “Tell me, where can I find David?” “He has a room at the Inn, but I’ve seen him in church a lot,” the young officer says. “Thank you, I’ll see if I can find him.” Dean knocks on the wooden counter before he turns away.

When he exits the building, he halts on the doorstep, narrowing his eyes to shield them from the bright surroundings outside. Snowy mountain tops reflect the sun, a chilly wind rolling through the valley. The hunter adjusts the collar of his leather coat to protect himself from the cool breeze.

“You’re a ranger, aren’t you?” He glances aside, finding an older man on a bench by the grass. The grey-haired local glances at the badge in Dean’s hand, before he makes eye-contact. “I am,” Dean confirms, despite it being a lie. The elder nods at that, averting his gaze to the peak on their west. The deep wrinkles become more evident while he folds his boney hands around the handle of his cane. “That missing family? You won’t find them.” Frowning at that, Dean watches him, curious if he knows more. “What makes you say that?”

“Three of this town’s best hunters have gone up there, they should’ve been back by now,” the senior says with a voice raw from age. “If you’d ask me, I’d say they befell the same fate.” Dean tilts his head slightly in agreement, beholding the menacing scenery as well. The wise man seems to know that there is more going on than meets the eye at the treacherous slopes. “Have you seen anything up there?” he wonders. The old local shakes his head, his stare turning to the icy pavement. “No one has seen anything. It moves too fast. I’ve heard it, though.”

Intrigued, Dean turns his head to face the man on the bench again. There is a fear in his eyes that seems out of character for the old soul who has without a doubt seen so much in his long life. “I’ve lived here for seventy years. Have protected my cattle from quite a few predators during that time. Grizzlies, mountain lions, coyotes, wolves. But what I’ve been hearing lately is unlike any animal I’ve ever heard,” he tells.

Plenty might think the local has gone mad, but Dean has a growing respect for the senior. If he ever had any doubt that this was his kind of deal, it is taken away now. “Well, whatever is up there, I’ll take care of it,” he claims, sure to succeed. “You’re not the first one to say that, and yet no one has returned, but that boy,” The old farmer nods in the direction of the church. “If I were you, I would leave the mountain be.” “Can’t do that,” Dean shakes his head. “More people will disappear.” “So will you if you go to find that beast.”

The elder’s blue eyes surprise Dean when they meet his green ones. They are so piercing and weary, that it startles him, but he manages not to flinch. Instead, he tries to read the man of age, who has one last message for him. “There is something evil in those woods.”

The much younger hunter can’t stop himself from swallowing thickly at the intense stare that comes his way. The local is desperate to change the ranger’s opinion, pleading with him to reconsider. Dean won’t, however, although he takes the warning seriously. The hunter might not know what he will be up against once he heads up, but it’s beginning to dawn on him it’s something unlike he has ever faced before.

On the corner of Commercial Avenue and Riddle Street, Dean halts in front of a small church. The sign in front of the house of God, which is called St. John Mary Vianney Catholic, has his stomach reacting in a way he didn’t expect it to. The fact that both his parents’ names stare back at him, gives this place a whole other meaning. A strange feeling comes to him as a chill runs down his spine. It bothers him, because he’s not one of those new-agey kids who believes in destiny. Of course, this is just an odd coincidence, but somehow it feels like he was meant to be here.

Cautiously, he steps up the porch and enters the building. The church seems deserted, even the priest is nowhere to be seen. Light from outside falls through the stained glass and brings color to the house of the Holy. Candles are lit by the altar and have been burning for a while, given the way the wax has dripped down the silver candleholders. Several smaller flames flicker at the sidewall, worshipping the statue of the Virgin Mary.

As Dean enters the small church and walks through the central aisle between the rows of wooden benches, he spots a figure on the front row. Although the hunter’s footsteps echo through the old building, the guy apparently doesn’t hear him coming in. He absently stares at the statue of Jesus, nailed to a cross. And so Dean halts at the end of the aisle, trying to judge the situation and how to approach. Either the young man on the bench is ignoring him, or he’s so trapped in his thoughts that he has shut himself out from the world around him. Dean decides to say something to break through to him. “Are you David?”

Slowly, the young man glances aside, but doesn’t look Dean in the eye. His gaze is empty and beholds immense devastation. As if he has cried so much over the last couple of days, that he’s unable to express himself any longer. “Who are you?” he asks with a raspy voice. For a moment there, the hunter considers taking out his ID, but then he changes his mind. Sam is always far better in these situations, so he tries to imagine how his little brother would approach David. He decides to be upfront. “I’m Dean,” he answers.

The introduction doesn’t trigger a response, though; the only living member of the Clevelands continues to stare into the nothingness absently. Dean exhales, pondering. How the fuck is he going to get through to this kid? It’s clear as day David doesn’t want company, and right about now, he could use Sam’s people’s skills. His little brother can work miracles with a few kind words and a pleading gaze. A bit ill-at-ease, Dean looks down at his feet. “I heard about your family. I’m sorry.” The silence that follows is even more evident under these high ceilings. The acoustics should allow every sound to be amplified, yet it remains eerily quiet. “I know how you feel,” he continues carefully. David scoffs. “No, you don’t.”

His firm answer catches the hunter off guard. The young man is right, he doesn’t know how he feels, not entirely. Dean didn’t see his entire family die, but the sound of his mother’s horrifying scream still rips through his mind every now and then.

For a moment he goes back in time. He doesn’t remember much of his early childhood, just bits and pieces, stills taken from a movie. But what went down on November 2nd 1983, the one day he wishes he could erase from his memory, he can recall in detail.

He remembers how he was comfortably sitting in his mother's arms. She held him close, she always did. She carried him into Sam’s room and they wished his little brother goodnight. Dad was there too, it was the last time he remembers him truly smiling. He remembers being tucked in by both of them. ‘Angels are watching over you,’ Mom said, right before he drifted off. Then he was awoken by the chilling cry that would continue to haunt him until this day. He remembers rushing out of bed and into the hallway, where he froze to the ground. From Sam’s nursery, a rage of flames heated up the entire house. Then his father appeared from the fire, holding little Sam in his arms, handing him over.

Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don’t look back! Now, Dean! Go!

Even though the heat was unbearable, as was the toxic smoke that filled every room of the house, he ran downstairs as his father told him to and eventually found himself in the front yard, looking up at his burning home. Then Dad came out, snatched both his sons from the grass, and carried them away from the house, after which moments later the second floor exploded. As he looked over his Dad’s shoulder at the burning remains of their house, he knew: he would never see his mother again.

Dean swallows with difficulty, coming back to the present. “Believe me. I know.” A bit surprised by that statement, David looks up into Dean’s eyes, holding his gaze for a few long seconds. “You’ve lost your family too?” “My mother,” he replies. “She was murdered.”

Dean looks away for a brief moment. His Mom’s death was hard on him then, it still is now. It might have happened twenty-two years ago, yet avenging her is what motivates him to keep going. She is the reason his father is willing to go to the edge of the earth and beyond to catch the son of a bitch that killed her. That defining moment kickstarted the hunt that would turn out to be his life’s work. That night, he lost so much more than just his mom.

Dad never recovered from her death, condemning his boys to a career of hunting. They are soldiers now, fighting a war of which they can’t grasp the magnitude. A crusade against the monster that tore the family apart. Ironically and sadly, that same crusade seems to have driven the Winchesters apart even further than Mary’s killer ever did.

Look at him; he has no idea where his father is and he got into a huge fight with Sam. He is truly on his own right now, unsure if his remaining family will return. What if right now, Sam walks into a trap? What if Dad gets killed by the same thing that killed Mom?

Suddenly it strikes him. David is what Dean is afraid to become; he’s alone.

“What happened on that mountain?” Dean asks, trying to focus on the case again before his mind spirals out of control, but the only survivor cuts him off immediately. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” “I think you do, but you’ve given it up because no one believes what you are saying,” Dean replies, seeing right through it.

Perplexed, David looks aside, eying the stranger who is still standing in the aisle, in the middle of the church. “Like I said, I know how you feel,” Dean repeats, reading the question from his face. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” The young guy shakes his head, defeated. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.” “Try me,” Dean encourages.

With a sigh, David looks down at his feet while the hunter observes him. His dark hair is a mess and he has a stubble growing. Blood and dirt has embedded in the prints of his fingers and around his nails, the blood of his family that seems impossible to wash off.

“Dad, Ruth and I were hiking on the north side of Whitehorse Mountain. We started out early in the morning and everything went smoothly. We had about an hour of light left, when me and my sister reached the location where we planned to set up camp first. Then it started…” he tells as he folds his shaking hands together. “Ruth and I heard a cry of some sort of animal. For a moment we thought it was a grey wolf, but I’ve heard them before, this… this was different. It took Dad ages to get over the Lone Tree Pass, I thought he might have some equipment trouble or something, so I went back.”

His jaw clenches and he takes a breath, now he has come to the hard part. Tears fill his eyes, but he is able to hold them back. “I found him, against a tree. There was blood everywhere, his chest was… he was torn into pieces. He - he had bite wounds and nail scratches all over him, so deep that I - I could see the bone, his - his intestines. His arm was s - severed,” David stammers. “And your sister?” Dean asks sympathetically.

A short pause and he can see in David’s eyes that he relives the haunting memory every time he talks about it. “Same thing... I heard her scream, but by the time I got there, it - it was too late. There was barely anything left. She was only sixteen,” he reveals with a trembling voice. David rubs his face and wipes away the tears, but he stays strong. “Then I heard it, this deep growl. It felt like it was right behind me. When I turned around I didn’t see it, but I heard the call again. Then everything returned to normal,” he remembers. “What do you mean, back to normal?” Dean questions, curious about his choice of words.

The young guy looks up at him again from the bench. He hesitates, as if what he’s about to say will just confirm that he’s completely losing his mind. “The mountain came back to life. Birds started singing again, the wind blew through the trees. Right after the first cry, everything went dead. You could hear a penny drop in that forest,” David tells him. “I don’t know how to describe it. It… It was surreal.” Intently, Dean listens to him and doesn’t give any sign of disbelief what so ever. “Then what happened?” he asks, intrigued.

“I ran. I knew I needed help and the only place where I could find it was down in the valley. So I ran.” David drops his gaze again, ashamed. “I’m such a coward. I should’ve called it in with the satellite phone. I should’ve stayed by their side.” “There’s nothing you could have done for your family. You would’ve ended up dead if you had stayed,” Dean says, trying to relieve him from his guilt. Carelessly, the lone survivor shrugs. “Maybe that would have been better.”

Dean keeps quiet, because he understands where he’s coming from. If your entire family ends up dead, what is there to live for? He wouldn’t want to stay behind either.

“You - you know what the worst part is?” David stammers. “I have absolutely no idea how to explain what happened. It wasn’t an animal, I know that much. But if it wasn’t, what the hell was it? There’s just no explanation.” “There is,” the hunter states. “What? That it was bigfoot?” David scoffs sarcastically. “There’s no such thing as bigfoot… I think,” Dean answers, doubting his own words the moment he says them. “Then what killed my family?” the young Cleveland wants to know. “I’m not sure yet, but I can tell you, it ain’t no wolf. It’s not from our world,” Dean states. “I don’t care from what world it is. I want it dead,” David makes clear.

“I’ll track it and get rid of it,” the man next to him promises. Determined, the mourning teenager gets up from the bench. “Good. When are we heading out?” But Dean holds out his hand in front of him, stopping him. “Whoa, dude. I don’t think it’s wise for you to come along.” “Do you know anything about that mountain? Do you know anything about the trails? About hiking?” David questions. “I’ll manage, that’s beside the point. This is gonna get ugly, David. You don’t want to be a part of this,” Dean makes clear, trying to discourage him.

“Trust me, that mountain is one big monster by itself. If you don’t know her paths, you’ll get lost and die. I know these woods like the back of my hand. Together we’ll have a chance. I’m not gonna sit here while you go up there and get killed just like those three hunters,” he argues, his voice gaining strength. Dean huffs. Smart kid. He’s got spunk, alright. “Whatever it is, it killed my family. So don’t tell me I can’t be part of this,” the young guy insists firmly. “If you had the chance to face who killed your mother, wouldn’t you take it?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer ready for that one, he wasn’t expecting a curveball. David is right. If he had even the smallest opportunity to have a share in the fight against the monster that killed Mom, he wouldn’t even have to think about it. “Alright,” the hunter sighs. “But if anything happens to you--” David doesn’t even let him finish and walks past him towards the exit. As he does, he looks over his shoulder. “What? Like I have anything to lose?”

Dean watches him leave, the corner of his mouth pulling into a small smile. He recognizes himself in the kid; hands on, not cowering in the face of danger, willing to do everything for his family. He won’t be able to stop the only remaining Cleveland, and so he follows.

As he descends down the steps of the church, he finds David standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the sky. Before them, Whitehorse Mountain stands tall, looking down on them like a dark, looming thunderstorm. That’s what they need to overcome, that’s their challenger.

It is going to be a difficult climb, but fighting a vicious creature along the way makes things a little more complicated. Dean wishes he had Sam to back him up on this one, because he’s sure his smart brother would have an idea what they are up against. Even though he’s not fond of having a civilian to worry about on a hunt, David does know this terrain. Dean has to face reality here; he’s going to need a guide. He only hopes that he can bring the kid back down, safe and sound. Enough people have died on that mountain already.

Story fact: the church mentioned in this chapter was the actual name of a church in Darrington in 2005. Came across in during research, and just had to use it!

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part 5 here

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libraryofvenus · 4 years ago

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The Waste Land - T.S. Eliot

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “They called me the hyacinth girl.” —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson! “You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, “Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? “Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? “Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, “Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! “You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, “Jug Jug” to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. “Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? “I never know what you are thinking. Think.”

I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.

“What is that noise?” The wind under the door. “What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?” Nothing again nothing. “Do “You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember “Nothing?”

I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”

But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent “What shall I do now? What shall I do?” “I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street “With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? “What shall we ever do?” The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

III. The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu

Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

“This music crept by me upon the waters” And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala

Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia Wallala leialala

“Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”

“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?”

“On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.” la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih

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thumbgarden · 3 years ago

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How to whitewash for trees in autumn

Cold weather is coming and there may be a light frost at night, but the sun is not only shining during the day, it is scorching hot, peeking out from behind the clouds. It is as if these are remnants of summer, fragments of summer's warmth as if nature has given us a debt. It seems that nature is paying our debt, but it is all deceptive: snowflakes will begin to fall, frost will cover the rowan fruit, puddles will begin to freeze, and the ground will begin to freeze little by little. In this period it is not worth waiting for rain. From time to time, the first snowflakes break through the veil of silence and gray. Late autumn is a harbinger of winter, and this article describes how and why to whitewash for trees.

What is a gardener to do during this difficult transition period for trees when warm days are followed by frosty nights? There are many ways to prevent frost - this includes winter shade, soaking, and hiding branches and trunks in the ground. But this is better suited to malleable, bushy crops. Today we will talk about trees, their protection in the form of Whitewash for tree trunks until the first branches, about the need for such protection, terminology, the best components of Whitewash for trees, and the correct preparation, and of course the techniques of Whitewash for trees.

WHY DO WE NEED WHITEWASH FOR TREES? In fact, not everyone understands the meaning of Whitewash for tree activity, more than half of the people think that Whitewash for trees tree base is just for aesthetic purposes. For example, in early May, when the alley looks really festive and beautiful. But beauty is actually only good for many things: yes, it's nice to look at a whitened, clean garden, but on the other hand, Whitewash for trees also protects the garden from many harmful effects.

1. Prevents sunburn Sunlight is necessary and useful, but sometimes it can also be harmful, for example in the garden, during thawing, the sun's rays can cause severe burns on the bark, which further turns into delamination of the bark, its decay, and deep wounds. The latter can even lead to the death of the tree if a serious infection gets inside. Particularly severe burns occur when the snow becomes melted and turns into a mirror, and then the beam of light focused on the tree can even burn a small hole in the bark (but this is not common). If the trunk up to the first branch is covered with a white component in time for the sunlight to reflect off the trunk like a mirror, then it can be said with confidence that your garden will avoid intense overheating during the provocative thaw of winter and early spring, and of course, intense burns that cause the bark to crack.

2. Balancing temperature fluctuations Their hazards in everyday life are well known, probably starting from the schoolroom. Fruit trees are no exception. Under the cover of the white Whitewash for tree stuff, the bark sometimes heats up quite severely during the day and cools down vigorously at night. If you touch the bark at noon and midnight on the same day, you can see a big difference in its temperature (if we are talking about late fall, of course). The whitewash acts as a kind of coat, literally protecting the white trunk from being heated, and at night there is nothing at all to cool it down, and the temperature difference will be minimal. What is the resulting benefit - of course, no frosty tree holes - actually opens the door to all sorts of infections, including pathogenic spores, and the pathogens of hundreds of other diseases.

3. Fighting disease With a simple Whitewash for trees, which usually takes only a shortfall, you can protect your plants from pathogens and spores that lurk in the corners of the bark and become warm winter dwellings. Usually among the ingredients of whitewash, in addition to all the very familiar lime, are elements such as fungicides, i.e. drugs designed precisely to eliminate undesirable fungal infections that survive and make their home in hibernation. Fungicides show activity not only on the surface of the bark but also penetrate deep into the bark and even show their activity there.

SELECTING INGREDIENTS FOR WHITEWASH FOR TREES LACQUERS FOR FRUIT TREES Preparation at home. Let's start with the composition, which is prepared with our own hands, wearing, of course, protective rubber gloves beforehand, and if it's a girl, then a short bunch of hair tied and a respirator. The first thing to consider is just one basic ingredient, namely quicklime, or more precisely, its solution in the basic stucco.

1. Slaked lime In order to make the solution we have just made perfect, it is necessary to strictly observe the proportions of all its components, i.e. take 2.5 kg of fresh slaked lime, 300 g of copper alum, or 500 g of iron alum, all this in a standard bucket of 10 liters of water, add 100 g of white wine.

The secret from the master! If you add only one tablespoon of carbolic acid to this solution, you will otherwise protect your favorite trees from mice. I can't say that this method is 100% reliable, but at one of the sites of our Institute, it worked perfectly.

About the solution: This is not a novelty, but a classic, a solution used by gardeners, probably since the first complete garden was planted. I can not say that the level of protection of trees is high, and there are drawbacks, but the most important trump card is the insignificant price and the primary, so to speak, production of this ingredient (and of course the popularity). When whitewashing young trees, it is necessary to halve the concentration of lime in the solution in order not to harm them.

1a. How to prepare slaked lime? As a rule, the gardener has large pieces of limestone at his disposal. Such lime is considered burnt lime and should be quenched. For this reason, water should be added to the lime very carefully; this reaction causes the water to boil. On one part of the lime, there should be about one and a half parts of water. Further, dilute 2.5 kg of already extinguished lime with water and add 500 grams of copper sulfate, by this composition the trees can be treated accurately, from below to above, protecting the eyes, of course.

2. Option 2: Grandfather's recipe If you can not make a stucco composition, you can use a mixture of clay and cowpeas to coat the trunk of the tree. To prepare such an interesting mixture, you should take 2 kg of quicklime (we already know how to quench), 1 kg of clay, 1 kg of cowpeas, and 300 grams of copper alum. This composition and the need to cover the trees, but usually they are used when there are few plants on the site, simply 2-

3. Option 3: pre-made mixes On the counter, you can see and ready-made mixture, they are also made on the basis of lime and clay, which is written on the package - "breathable". Everything will be fine, but this composition will remain on the tree for several months, and if it suddenly rains, it will wash away at once. In view of this, if you want to use such a mixture, then be prepared to double-wash at least your favorites. Usually, on the shelves, we see special garden water emulsions or acrylic paints that say "garden" on them. How are they different from the usual? The fact that they contain ingredients that protect trees, for example, acrylic coatings contain antifungal and fungicidal ingredients and they quite reliably keep tree trunks safe from 90% of pathogens. However, I'll give you a hint right away: acrylic paint is not breathable at all, so it is not advisable to use it at least on young plants. It is proudly written on the cans of garden water emulsion paint that it protects against any winter frosts. However, while it may have a warming effect on the wood, it definitely does not provide protection against insect pests. Therefore, do not forget to add any copper-containing preparations (250-300 g) per liter and mix everything thoroughly before use.

RULES FOR WHITEWASH FOR TREES Well, I think that so much has been said about composing, it's time to start Whitewash for trees rules. It is usually done at the junction of autumn and winter when the rain is removed to the maximum, otherwise, you will have to do everything earlier or eliminate the consequences of rain. Usually, during this period, the temperature is set at the mark of 23 °F (-5 ° C), the trend is exactly lower. Of course, it is important to choose a dry day for whitewashing, preferably with a dry trunk and a weather forecast of at least a few days without rain.

1. Preparing the trees for Whitewash for trees The time has been chosen and now it is time to prepare the trees. Before using any of the above combinations, you need to carefully inspect the trunk from the bottom to the very first crease, which will also have to be Whitewash for trees. Take a very thin metal scraper, preferably with a sturdy plastic handle, and clean the trunks and lower bases of the skeletal branches of all the trees in your garden as thoroughly as possible, but be careful to clean diseased and already dry bark, as well as all old trees and, of course, moss. Lichen is your choice, they seem harmless, but for me the general appearance of the tree is spoiled and the composition of the trunk treated in the presence of Lichen is unknowingly not very pleasant.

2. Tips for getting rid of Lichen By the way, it is not easy to get rid of Lichen. There should be something like cleaning the trunk with a solution that should consist of a kilogram of common salt, a few kilograms of wood ash, and a few bars of soap. All this should be diluted in a bucket of water heated to room temperature. By the way, before carrying out this treatment, in order not to salinize the soil, the bottom of the trunk should be lined with polyethylene film and its edges bent so that the solution can be collected and subsequently removed from the site. It can be washed off with a metal brush, wetting it more in this solution. When treating the trunk, the main thing is not to damage the bark of the plant itself. Immediately after cleaning the entire trunk and wounds, it should be treated with garden varnish, applied well in the cracks. If you don't have a brew, you can make your own caulk: mix two parts clay and one part manure, add one gram of copper sulfate and a pinch of straw powder. Then mix everything thoroughly to make something like a windowpane, which is best for trees.

3. Finally, take a brush So, everything is ready, the compound is ready, the stems are waiting to be protected and renewed, and it's time to take a brush. It is possible not to choose wisely about the brush, you can take any brush, from the cheapest to the most expensive, and you are not likely to use it next season anyway. The only thing I can suggest is to take a brush according to the size of the trunk. As for the Whitewash for trees tip, never be in a hurry, try to brush every area of the surface, starting with the lower part of the trunk. If you start at the top, the whitewash or other components will run down the trunk and you'll end up with what seems like you've painted it completely, but in reality, there are still thick patches that will simply come off over time. Usually, get up and do the chalking with the skeleton branch at 12inch (30cm) height (that is, with a stool to help you).

In conclusion about rainfall, as soon as the rainfall passes, run to the garden and check everything. If you care about your garden, you may have to redo some or all of it. About the film: I met an interesting friend who wrapped his trunk in food film - it was cheap, fast, and saturated The film retained moisture perfectly and actually promoted the development of various molds and fungi that live and multiply there, just like in a greenhouse. So, don't do this stupid thing. Good luck, as always I am ready and will try to answer your questions in the comments.

#ThumbGarden #Gardening Tips #How to grow #Whitewash #Tips #Trees #Plant care #Care #How to #Why #What #idea #Terminology #Glossary #Shrubs #Orchard #Large garden #Medium garden #Small garden #Outdoor garden #Techniques #Inspired #Autumn #Fall

Author: Ms.Geneva Link: https://www.thumbgarden.com/whitewash-for-trees/ Source: ThumbGarden The copyright belongs to the author. For commercial reprints, please contact the author for authorization, and for non-commercial reprints, please indicate the source.

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tinypnut · 5 years ago

Text

Sunsets

Crosshair x reader

~Prompt~

Watching the sunset with Crosshair and talking about life.

Words: 1,120

TW: mention of family death

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The sky was painted with pinks, oranges, yellows, and purples. Stars began peeking through the sky and the sky itself became a painting. The battle was won and you sat at the edge of a cliff watching the sunset. A soft sigh escaped your lips as you closed your eyes enjoying the fading warmth that the sun gave. It warmed your face and for the first time in what seemed like forever you felt at peace. No fighting, no blaster shots, no cries of pain, just silence. It wasn’t long however when footsteps approached.

“What are you doing” Crosshair questioned and you hummed softly.

“Enjoying the sunset” You turned your head and looked up at him. He shifted the toothpick in his mouth before looking away from you and gazed out at the sunset. You did the same. He placed his rifle down and sat down beside you.

“And you’re enjoying this?” he questioned again as he arched a brow.

“Absolutely” You smiled even more and sighed “It reminds me of home to be honest. We had the most spectacular sunsets. My brother and I would spend every night watching them, then we’d find our way onto the rooftop of our house and stargaze, picking out every constellation we could. It was nice.” your smile faltered for a moment and you looked down slightly. Crosshair looked over to you once again.

“You never mentioned a brother before” He replied and you hummed

“Well, there isn’t much to tell to be honest. He’s been dead for a while now.” your gaze and smile were now filled with nostalgia as you remembered your childhood. Crosshair opened his mouth to apologize, something he didn’t do often, but you cut him off. “It’s fine Cross, yes his passing is sad but it’s times like this, enjoying the sunsets, feeling the warmth of the setting sun, watching the stars, and” you pause and look to him “being close to someone I care about means the most to me. Yes it reminds me of my brother but many things are good, I enjoy remembering him because when I do it makes his life have more meaning.” You gave Crosshair a warm and bright smile. Crosshair was honestly at a loss for words. He wasn’t expecting this from you, many he’d come in contact with that had lost someone close to them usually ended up in tears but not you. You accepted his death and enjoyed what you have, you lived in the present. He would be lying if he said he didn’t have feelings for you and just hearing how you said you cared for him, it struck something in him. He wasn’t sure what and he was almost scared to accept it, to let you in. In a galaxy governed by war, ruin, and death there was never a promise of living through it. Crosshair remained quiet as he turned back to face the sunset, more stars peeking through the sky. You moved your hand and gently placed it on top his, you laced your fingers together with his and gave his hand a squeeze, to your surprise he squeezed back. You rubbed the back of his gloved hand with your thumb and looked at him. He turned and looked at you as well.

“This galaxy isn’t the safest…” He said softly and you shrugged

“But it’s safer when I’m with you” Your smile was gentle and held love. Crosshair smirked slightly and shook his head at your response.

“You’re such a piece of work”

“Oh I know Cross” you giggled. His smirk turned into a rare smile and before you could register what he was doing he kissed you. It was sweet and short and oh so gentle as if you were a delicate flower or a piece of glass. Crosshair moved in closer to tangle his other hand in your hair before pulling away. You sat there somewhat dazed, Crosshair was never one to express much emotion unless it was some sarcastic remark or poking fun at the regs. This action almost made your heart burst with happiness.

“You, you mean so much to me…” His voice was soft, scared almost. He did just throw all his feelings out onto the table after all. He shifted his gaze off you and down at the ground. You chuckled and threw your arms around him hugging him tightly.

“You mean so much to me too.” To Crosshair your voice was heavenly and for the first time that he could recall he felt at peace. He relaxed in your arms gently nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and he let out a content sigh. Cross wrapped his arms around you pulling you closer until you ended up in his lap. You let out a squeak from the action but remained content. You rested your head on his shoulder your eyes half-lidded as the final rays of sunlight began to disappear.

“Hey, look up,” Crosshair said pulling away slightly and you loosened your grip to look at the sky. A small gasp escaped you as you watched the sky light up with a meteor shower. You let go of Crosshair though your hands lingered on his forearms as you watched the sky with delight. Crosshair on the other hand wasn’t watching the sky but you. A small smile found it’s way onto his face as he studied you. The way the meteor shower lit up your face as well as reflected in your eyes. The gentleness of your face, the way your hair fell, the dimples that appeared when you smiled. Just about every aspect of you he admired. He leaned in and placed a kiss upon your neck as you looked up at the sky. Your breath hitched and your grip on his forearms tightened for a moment but loosened shortly after. You peeled your eyes from the sky and looked down at him. Now it was your turn to admire him, his slender features, the literal crosshair tattooed onto his face, his grey, almost snow or sliver hair, his sharp eyes, and his oh so sexy smirk. You lifted a hand and gently traced the crosshair on his face and he closed his eyes. His hands rested on your hips and when you finished you placed a gentle kiss onto his forehead.

“We should probably head back before the others come looking for us,” You said softly and he hummed.

“Or we could just stay here for a bit longer….maybe look for constellations?” He smirked and you smiled.

“Sounds like a plan” You agreed.

The two shifted and laid back onto the cool ground looking up at the stars, hands laced together.

#clone troopers #clones #star wars #star wars the clone wars #bad batch #crosshair x reader #x reader #fanfic #oneshot #clone force 99 #reader insert #crosshair #fluff

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i-wish-we-were-jedi · 5 years ago

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Obi-Wan sits by the window of his home...

His eyes want to close, to rest, to sleep. And yet he didn’t shut them for fear of the images his mind would begin to paint in the darkness.

Below the sheer cliffs of the Mesa, the sands of Tatooine drift in the wind beneath the overcast night sky. Through a handful of gaps in the cloudcover, he could still catch glimpses of the three moons. One of the shopkeepers in town had told him their names once. He had thought them beautiful at the time, but now they all run together in his mind.

He stares at one of the moons visible through the clouds, trying to remember. It’s not the highest in the sky, but it had been the first to rise, appearing over the horizon as a brilliant, fiery red streak, almost as bright as a sun. Even now, it was tinted yellow against the darkened sky. Yellow, like Anakin’s eyes, glowing against his blackened skin as he lay burning beside the lava on Mustafar.

Next to it, in fact partly behind it, was a smaller moon. With the two of them side by side, Obi-Wan can’t decide which one was brighter, but unlike the blank yellow surface of the first moon, he can see lush green continents and blue seas, even from this distance. It looks just like a billion other planets scattered across the stars, and yet Obi-Wan cannot help but think of Naboo. The planet where, in some ways, this whole mess had started. The place where Qui-Gon had died. The place where Padmé, the mother of Anakin’s children, lay buried.

He had failed them. All of them. Anakin. Padmé. Qui-Gon. Everything he’d done, all his good intentions... they’d led to this. Everything that they’d stood for -- the Republic, the Jedi -- all of it was gone. And now the rumors...

The clouds obscured the two small moons, throwing the sand beneath him into darkness.

The spaceport had begun to whisper only a few days ago. Stories of a figure wrapped in shadow, a dark titan wielding a crimson light-saber. Those who told the stories did so with fascination, and occasionally an air of mild unease. None of them gave the figure a name, but Obi-Wan always shuddered at the sudden chill that crept through him when the shadow was mentioned in the market. He had no way of knowing who or what this thing was, but he felt somewhere deep in his gut -- or maybe it was a whisper of warning from the Force -- that the rumors were only beginning, and this shadow was far more dangerous than the galaxy yet knew.

A bright beam of moonlight falls across his face from behind a cloud, snapping him away from his train of thought. He looks up at the third moon. The biggest and brightest of the three. The light it reflected back to the planet wasn’t yellow or blue. Instead, the surface shone white like snow or, he thought in some moments, like silver.

The clouds began to thin and drift away, and the endless sand beneath the mesa suddenly shine silver-golden in the moonlight.

Obi-Wan’s mind begins to drift back to a time when his world was not constantly shifting like the desert sands. To the girl who, in another life he may have chosen to leave the Jedi order and spend his life with. The girl with silver-golden hair.

He lets his mind wander, back to the moments all those years ago, when that choice was before him. What would his life have been like if he had spoken his mind in the last few seconds before they parted? What if he had left the Jedi order and stayed with her on Mandalore?

Qui-Gon would have gone to negotiate with the Trade Federation alone, and would have returned alone to help the Queen retake the capitol. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon together had been barely enough to combat Maul at the time. Qui-Gon alone would have recognized that he was outmatched and he was not too proud to look for alternative ways to fight. An explosion...a creative use of a ray-shield. It had been Obi-Wan’s presence that had kept such things from being necessary. Without Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon would have lived, he feels sure of it.

He would have found Anakin on his own, and -- stubborn as he was -- he would have found a way to train him, with or without the Jedi council’s approval. And Obi-Wan would not have been in the way.

Obi-Wan had been too young to train Anakin. He knows that now. But Qui-Gon was different. He would have been able to give Anakin what Obi-Wan could not. Anakin would have grown up level-headed and not as rash as he had been under Obi-Wan. And Obi-Wan would be the fallen Padawan. Anakin would flourish. He feels sure of it.

If Obi-Wan had stayed on Mandalore, Maul would not have risen. Maybe he would have lived, escaped the battle of Naboo somehow and fled back to his master, or maybe he would have died in the battle. But either way, if Obi-Wan had not been there to defeat Maul on Naboo, Maul would not have taken his anger out on Satine during the clone wars. Obi-Wan feels sure of that.

The Clone War would come, and with it would come Padme Amidala. Would Anakin be able to resist his feelings for her and stay true to the teachings of the Jedi under Qui-Gon? Obi-Wan doesn’t know. But under Qui-Gon, Anakin would not fall to the Dark Side. Obi-Wan feels sure of that.

And without Anakin’s fall to the dark, the Republic may have lasted for centuries more. The Jedi leading the clones would likely still fall, but the Temple wouldn’t have been caught off-guard by a Jedi leading the clones inside. Or would the clones, who the Jedi had fought and lived and died beside, as friends, as brothers-in-arms, have been enough... Obi-Wan doesn’t know.

If he had stayed with Satine, he would not be here.

Instead, he would likely still be on Mandalore. As what he didn’t know. Consort to the Duchess, maybe. Or maybe she would have quietly stepped away from public life as the years went on, and the two of them would be able to live alone, in some quiet place away from the city.

Obi-Wan thinks of the child he might have had the chance to raise.

Satine’s straight nose and prim mouth, his blue eyes and reddish-blond hair. Of course he would get his stubbornness from both of them...and after a son, maybe a daughter, and another son. The Kenobi family...or maybe the Kryze family, he thinks wryly. He doesn’t care. He would be with her. And they would be happy. He is sure of that.

The clouds come again, and the sand is once again a sea of beige stretching to the horizon. The silver moonlight vanishes, and with it, the images of the life un-lived.

Satine was dead. Maul had held the light-saber, but it had been his fault. Even in those final moments, when the tragedy of his good intentions had been laid bare, she had not blamed him. She had loved him. In those moments, he knew that she meant it, that she did not want him to grieve as she knew he would, as he was. But Satine wishing it did not dull the ache in his chest that never went away, that only got worse as time went on and more lives were added to the piles of collateral damage accumulating around him.

There is no emotion, there is peace.

Obi-Wan repeats the phrase to himself. As much as he has struggled to hold on to his belief in the code in the time since the fall of the order, the syllables are still soothing in his mouth, in his mind. They call back memories of quiet, dim rooms with walls of alabaster, the tall shelves that smell of knowledge. The gentle echoes of footsteps weaving between the pillars of the temple.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

There was no way for him to truly know what would have happened, how his story would have ended, if he had stayed with Satine on Mandalore. There is no guarantee that their lives would have turned out any differently than they had -- with her dead and him lost and alone on a far-flung planet in the outer rim. In the moments that he made these important choices, he had been sure they were the right ones, and even if some small part of his mind had harbored some hidden doubt, the choices had been made regardless, and they had led him here. There was no way around this.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

He had made each of these choices with a level head, sometimes dragging his heart along the path with him, more often than not leaving pieces of it behind. Wasn’t that the Jedi way? To do what needed to be done for the greater good, and to deny one’s own desires at times. He had done this, he had followed the ways of the Force, and where had it gotten him?

There is no chaos, there is harmony.

It had brought him where he needed to be. He had to believe that. Standing guard over Anakin’s son. After almost every friend he had ever had was gone, he had to believe that the Force was moving -- in its mysterious way -- towards something good. Towards something bigger that he couldn’t yet see. And that he was a part of it.

There is no death, there is the Force.

Obi-Wan looked out over the vast field of sand again, and breathed in the dusty aroma of sand and stone, of heat still radiating from the ground, the pungent tang of something burning far off. As far as he could see, there was no living thing in sight. But he could sense them. Small animals that burrowed in the sand. Banthas sheltering beneath a cliff not far off, and deep within the caves of the mesa, some much larger animal curled up in sleep.

The Force is all around him. Holding it all together. And somewhere within it, tiny drops so swallowed with this vast ocean of energy that they became the ocean, was every person he had lost. Qui-Gon. Satine. Padme. Anakin. All the fallen Jedi. They were not gone. Not completely. As long as he had the Force, they were with him. Someday he would join them.

There is no death. There is the Force.

But for now, he would sleep. He closes his eyes, searching in his mind for the far off farm where a little boy lays asleep in the arms of his aunt. And he smiles, whispering... I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me, until he drops into dreamless sleep.

#obi-wan kenobi #tatooine #satine kryze #mandalore #anakin skywalker #padme amidala #qui-gon jinn #luke skywalker #jedi code #jedi #jedi order #yoda

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maladaptive-ninja-returns · 5 years ago

Text

Devil’s No 1(11)

Chapter 11: Lights

Loki x fem!Reader, Bucky x fem!Reader

Theme: The definitions of devils, angels, demons etc. are twisted here in this world. But some things remain the same.

Series: Will contain violence, death, destruction, softness, fluff, smut, everything that my mind can conjure, really.

Chapter warnings: nothing much

A/N: This was written two years ago (I think) on @phantomrose96 ‘s prompt/situation of a shy girl summoning the devil to be friends with him (and something else that he does but I’ll leave that part out for you guys to have fun with). But I- being thirsty for tragedies- twisted things a little.

Word Count: sometimes I wonder if my dreams are just dreams or if they are telling me something. But telling a friend will be ill is still logical than showing me some ancient machine that controls the mechanisms of multiverse and leaving me there stranded with Captain America and what exactly?! What am I supposed to do there? Gaurd the multiverse? Keep a watch over them? Tell cap whenever I spot his husband and wife? What?!

It was the first time.

A first for him. First for you as well.

Comparisons were made of this very first with nearly everything first of nature.

The first bud blooming through a snow blanket. The first ember lighting up in the smoky twigs. The first ray of the warm spring sun. The first drop of dew falling from the trees on the cheeks. That's how your smile seemed.

Loki could have sworn you had never smiled in your life. That was until now when he stood beside you while you sat on the boulder, with- the usual- tears gathering up. Though this time, they did not reflect the colours like before. They reflected little twinkling lights trying to shine inside you.

Didn't seem like this devil knew how to smile. Loki's dimensions wanted to pull him away from your face but his eyes seem to be stuck on you, not coming off even if he wanted them to.

And you? You were stretching your lips even when it hurt because it felt good. So good.

Your inner voice, for the first time, was quiet for the moment, enjoying the picturesque Northern lights glowing in their green, pink and sometimes blue glory in front of you.

...but are we sure it's the northern lights that are making us feel so good right now.

There she goes.

It's the Northern Lights.

...so we're not going to talk about the-

"It's beautiful," you sputtered, trying to wrap your arms around your folded legs, adjusting yourself in the leftover snow crunching underneath your butt before catching a look at Loki and quickly steering your eyes back to the luminous dance.

"Hmm," Loki commented. You could still feel his gaze piercing through you. What was he doing?

"I've never seen one before," you continued, moving your one ring around your finger, twisting it as you floated through the thoughts running inside your head.

"Any special reason you wanted to see them?"

You closed your eyes and reran those words exactly as they were spoken, but in slow motion, tasting every click of the tongue, every twist of the lip inside your head; all of this swirling in an ocean of green.

"I always wanted to see them. Call it a child's curiosity-" you shrugged, opening your eyes to look back at the magic of nature- "even though science explained it all."

The icy wind wanted to play with your skin, coming within the intention of caressing it but running its nails right through your skin in the name of affection.

"I was supposed to see them last year," you muttered, more for yourself than for him, but it did not escape those ears that could hear the little flutter in your heartbeat and the shift in your body as you tried to bring your legs closer to you, your eyes now looking at some distant void that was nowhere near nature's light show.

"What happened? Curled into a corner at the last moment?" Loki scoffed, but his eyes were still frozen, emotionless, looking for a stir that his words would cause, as the crisp memories of your lips on his were doing to him.

There was a moment when you wanted to wallow in the memories of all that was gone. Just one tiny portion of time when you felt yourself looking down into the well of the past, waiting to take the plunge when a wave of chilly air stopped you and made you look at yourself.

"Do you want to do this?" It asked. And in the next gush of the moment, you were back on the boulder with snow all around you.

"My boyfriend left me," you announced.

You do not realise the surprise that jolted through Loki's vessel to hear those words thrown into the air without an ounce of remorse.

"Why?" The words were out of him before he could make sense of what was going on. His own being cursed him for suddenly feeling the need to unravel you instead of play when you were no longer his amusement but a mere soul wrapped in the alluring blaze of mystery.

"I don't know," you shrugged, scratching an itch on your cheek, "one day we were planning on visiting this place and the next day my life fell apart."

Loki remained silent.

"It seems funny now, though. I had planned for the whole day. Made an elaborate itinerary. And in the middle of the night, I get a call that my father was in a serious accident. Next thing I know I'm standing in the hospital as the doctors tell me the body is ready to be taken for cremation.”

A chill ran down the vessel whilst witnessing a void in those eyes that usually were a pool of emotions. Are humans not supposed to mourn their parents? But you continued like it was a story told by the campfire in the cold night to friends and strangers alike. Fiction. Made up.

“Now, that’s not the end of it. My workplace calls me to tell me I'll be fired if I don't come in that very day. And I do that. All because the boss spilt coffee on the project I made and wanted a month’s work to be done in one night. I actually go back to work to be blackmailed by my boss to let him fuck me if I wanted to keep the job."

You paused, pulling out a rolled-up joint from your pocket. It amused a very engrossed Loki to think that you took the time to gather these and take them with you. And the lighter too.

A cough or two- thanks to the amateur that you were- later, you came back to where you left off.

"You know," you continued, "I didn't realise the meaning of the phrase 'bursting of veins' till that day. How do veins burst? Do they make a pop sound? Do they go woosh and spray all over? Or do they just run like a tap? I didn't know that a glass trophy could make you bleed like that, you know. That it could cause so much damage. I honestly didn’t know that. Anyway, Gary got what he deserved and I filed my resignation, a complaint to HR and a lawsuit against the company. And just when I thought my day could not get any worse, I found Bucky gone. No sign of him at my apartment. Like he was never there. Vanished into the wind...just like he came."

Your face reflected the dislike you were feeling for the taste this joint left in your mouth, already throwing the barely burned part into the snow. The Devil saw thousands of souls moan all around you who would give themselves to the devil for that one good drag. But they weren’t what he got cemented on.

"The fact that he left doesn't hurt as much as the timing, you see. And those stupid blue eyes that looked like they could show you the most beautiful oceans even if you did not know how to swim. Like they could paint this world in beauty just for you. He made you feel that way. Like he would do anything for you. From making you a grilled cheese sandwich for breakfast while you’re still asleep to finding Atlantis just because you were curious.”

The winds slowed down. The lights swung in an aphasic glow. You breathed in the cold air to let your lungs cool down a bit from all the reminiscence. Loki was sure he heard you mutter ‘idiot’ under your breath, something that broke him into a muted chuckle. He took a step towards you, his hands moving with a flow of their own, conjuring up a flowing overcoat before those fingers even touched your shoulders. The warmth of that fur instant made you cosy up inside it. Adjusting it all around you, you settled down in the ground with the boulder now as your support to lean on. The heat was slowly doing what it did best. So did the talking. The fact that eyes felt droopy made you content on the inside. It also made you turn towards Loki and smile.

“I know Gary wants me dead. I just don’t know if you have been in on it.”

With that, you turned back to the Northern lights and dozed off into the furry luxury within seconds, meeting your old partner slumber after ages of heartbreak and pain, breaking into its arms to let it take care of you.

Loki watched you for a while. He watched you, to see whether those colours changing around you could answer riddles that brewed in this sombre atmosphere of his existence when no one looked. He studied every eyelash to ask what he had done this time to make him stand face to face with fate this night. He witnessed every strand of hair dancing with the wind to suppress the need to scream at the sky.

Ultimately, he sat down next to your sleeping form, summoning the bottle of Jager from your place to finish in one go. Ignoring the shrieks of all other dimensions, he pressed his jaw hard, placed his hand on your head and inhaled as much as he could.

“So, Bucky,” he felt his jaw tick, feeling the memories resurge under his touch, “boyfriend my hellfire-”

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