#half hidden by low hanging clouds

[antennatoheaven]

planning my route tomorrow somehow turned into looking at houses in germany lord help me

[betweenstorms]

The nights with Simon Riley had a way of unfolding slowly, like the dark sky stretching over the city.

He stood on the balcony of your apartment, his tall figure dark against the dim glow of the city, the cigarette between his fingers casting a faint light over his hardened features. You watched him from the doorway, the way he exhaled smoke like he was letting out something heavier than just nicotine. His broad shoulders were relaxed but there was something in the way he leaned on the railing, something distant and unreachable.

You’d grown used to finding him there, slipping out in the dead of night to be alone with his thoughts.

Your relationship with Simon was still new, still delicate, and you respected the walls he kept between you and the parts of himself he wasn’t ready to share. You were still learning how to be with him, how to exist in his world without pressing for more than he was willing to give. But there was something about the way he stood out there, still and alone, that made you want to join him.

You pulled a thick blanket around your shoulders and stepped outside, the cold air biting at your skin as you moved to stand beside him. He didn’t turn to look at you, but the subtle shift in his posture let you know he was aware of your presence.

The quiet stretched, filled only by the soft crackle of his cigarette and the distant hum of the city below.

For a moment, you worried you might be intruding, that this space of his was one you weren’t meant to enter. But then, without turning his head, he exhaled a cloud of smoke and murmured.

“You’ll catch a cold, love.”

His voice was low, rough from years of shouting orders and biting back pain, yet there was a gentleness in it that made your heart ache. You tugged the blanket tighter around yourself, your breath a soft mist in the chill of the night.

“You’ll catch one too,” you whispered back, eyes flicking to him from beneath your lashes. He hummed in response, the sound deep and thoughtful. The smoke from his cigarette trailed into the air, disappearing into the night like his words, but the weight of whatever he was thinking lingered, hanging between you like a thin thread.

For a second, you were afraid that your company might be unwelcome, that maybe this was one of those nights where the weight of his silence was too much for him to bear. 

He grunted, “Been through worse.”

You hesitated, then softly asked, “Worse?”

He was quiet for a moment, as if weighing whether to let you in or to leave the conversation hanging in the cold night air. But then, almost casually, he answered, “Siberia. Had to lie in the snow for a whole day during an op, waitin’ for the target. It was so fuckin’ cold it felt like my bones were freezin’ from the inside out.”

His words were blunt, delivered in that deadpan tone he used when talking about his past, as if it was nothing more than a simple fact. Simon didn’t elaborate, he never did. He’d always let his sentences drift into the silence, leaving you to piece together the fragments of the life he kept hidden from you. From everyone.

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavier than the smoke that curled between you. You shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. For a second, the city seemed to fade, the world narrowing to the bite of winter and the quiet strength of the man beside you.

Without thinking, you shifted closer to him, the blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, but now you pulled a corner of it over him, too. He glanced down at the blanket with a raised eyebrow, his cigarette paused halfway to his lips.

You thought he might brush it off, that he would retreat back into himself, but his reaction surprised you. He shifted slightly, allowing the blanket to cover more of him. It was subtle, the way he leaned just a little closer, but it was enough for you to feel the solid warmth of his body next to yours.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips as you looked at him, half-shrouded in the blanket.

“Sounds miserable,” you teased, your voice soft but light, trying to coax him out of the darkness of that memory.

He scoffed, taking another deep drag from his cigarette. The sound was somewhere between amusement and disbelief, as if the idea of it being miserable had never even crossed his mind.

Simon turned slightly, the cigarette held loosely between his fingers as he offered it to you, the soft glow of the ash flickering in the dim light. You shook your head. He hummed again, eyes briefly flicking over you before he brought the cigarette back to his lips, inhaling deeply, turning away from you. His gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, his thoughts far from the balcony, but you felt the shift in his mood. The heaviness in the air began to lift, like a cloud of smoke dissipating into the wind.

You both stood there for a while in silence, wrapped in the makeshift cocoon of the blanket, the cold air still nipping at your cheeks but no longer biting through the layers. You could feel his steady presence beside you, grounding you in a way that words couldn’t. It wasn’t just about sharing warmth, it was also about sharing space, about the quiet understanding that you didn’t need to fill the silence with anything more than your nearness.

Eventually, Simon stubbed out his cigarette on the balcony railing, his fingers lingering on the metal for a moment as if grounding himself in the coolness of it. He didn’t pull away from the blanket, though. Instead, he leaned back against the railing, turning slightly so that he could see you fully for the first time since you stepped out.

Then suddenly, out of the blue, Simon reached for you.

His rough, calloused fingers found your chin with a gentleness that surprised you, catching it as if inspecting you closely. His touch was cool, still carrying the remnants of the night air, but you melted into it, pressing your cheek slightly against his hand. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your jaw as you blinked up at him, heart fluttering at the intimacy of the moment.

There was something in the way he held you, something so gentle it almost broke your heart. He tilted his head to the side, his hazel eyes flickering with something unreadable and thoughtful, as though he were studying your reaction in the quiet way only he could.

His steady gaze lingered for a bit, then he dropped his hand, his fingers brushing against your arm as he did so. The warmth of his touch still burned on your skin, even after it was gone, and you found yourself smiling up at him, your heart full of something soft.

“Cold?”

His voice was low, barely above a murmur, but you could hear the faintest hint of amusement in it. You shook your head, pulling the blanket tighter around the both of you, leaning just a little closer to him, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.

“Not anymore.”

Your words barely reached him, but you knew he’d heard you.

Simon didn’t answer, instead, he shifted closer, his arm wrapping around you beneath the blanket, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest. You pressed your face into him, your breath warm against his shirt, and for the first time that night, you felt the quiet truth that had settled between you.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

[moonstruckme]

hi! I loved your fic with reader and sirius in a situationship and he comes over for a hookup and reader is super stressed and he helps. Can you please do another one with that dynamic? Maybe angst where they’re hanging out at a party and Sirius is all over reader but then says they’re just friends? Possibly smut ensues 👀

I love reading you work!!

Thanks for requesting!

cw: smut mdni, p in v, semi-public sex, hurt no comfort

fwb!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

“Shh.” Sirius nips at your earlobe, eliciting another half-suppressed mewl from you as he presses you into the wall next to James’ shower. “You want everyone here to know what’s going on? James’ll have a field day.” 

“He’s already gonna know if I walk out all marked up.” 

“S’not my fault, is it?” he hisses, fingertips digging into your ass as his teeth scrape across your pulse point. “Why’d you have to wear this fucking dress, huh?” 

 “No idea what you’re talking about,” you pant, but you’re laughing, tits bouncing almost completely out of the tight bodice as he thrusts into you, the lace lining barely covering your peaked nipples. Sirius’ eyes had gone nearly all black when he’d seen it in your closet. Dollface, when did you get this pretty little thing? You’ve been waiting for the opportunity to undo him with it ever since. 

Part of you wonders if he’d had a similar plan tonight. Sirius is wearing—or, well, he had been wearing—the black jeans you’d helped him thrift last weekend, slung low over his hips and paired with a tank top that shows ample expanses of his inked-up torso and arms. He’d watched as you drank the outfit in, and the pretense of socializing at James’ party hadn’t lasted long before he’d drug you into the bathroom by your elbow. 

Sirius shifts, pushing you harder against the wall as he takes your weight with one hand, freeing the other to paw at your boob. It plops readily out of its confines and into his palm. You moan as his thumb brushes your nipple, ducking your head to smother the sound against his shoulder. 

You start kissing the tattoo there a second before he finds the spot he’s been searching for inside you and your head lolls back. Your hands spread over his shoulders to ensure you don’t topple over, lightheaded and cock-addled. 

“Easy, pretty girl.” Sirius’ tone is smug, his hands coming back to your ass as he hits that spot over and over again. He presses his lips to yours sweetly, swallowing your sounds. “I know you didn’t have that much to drink, try to stay upright for me.” 

Pathetically, it warms your heart to think that he’d been keeping an eye on you. You use what leverage you have against the wall to grind your hips into him. Sirius groans, pounding into you so hard you think you must ascend, your vision all starry and wild as pleasure shoots out from your core, tingling all the way to your fingertips. 

Distantly, you’re aware of Sirius covering your mouth with his again, thrusting into you a few more times before he comes too and bites down on your bottom lip as his grip tightens on you. Your chest hurts. You feel almost like you could cry, which is new. You both stay there for a minute, him relaxing his hold on your ass until it’s a bit kinder and you idly pulling a strand of his hair through your fingers, until Sirius breaks the kiss. His eyes meet yours, the color of heavy clouds, and you have the sense that he’s peeling you like a tangerine. Seeing down to your hidden, squishy bits. 

“You alright?” he asks you. 

You swallow. “Yeah,” you say, pleased to find that your voice holds no trace of the emotion spreading like a blight behind your sternum. “You?” 

Sirius’ lips tilt. “I’m fantastic, dollface.” 

He adjusts his grip on you, letting you get your legs underneath you before lowering you to the floor. Your panties bunch around one shoe, getting slick on your ankle. 

“Ugh,” you sigh, sitting down on the lip of the tub while Sirius takes his condom off. “Can you pass me some toilet paper? I can’t put these back on like this.” 

“Just throw them out.” 

“I can’t, I really like these.” You start to reach for the toilet paper on your own and Sirius finally obliges, passing you a wad. “Thanks.”

He tugs his jeans back up, buttoning them before leaning on the wall to watch you. You keep your focus on your task and not on ogling how his biceps bulge when he crosses his arms like that. “I can just get you another pair,” he says. 

“You don’t need to do that.” 

“Oh, come on.” His tone takes on a familiar quality. You look up, and sure enough, he’s smirking down at you. The expression does things to your stomach you can never let him find out about. “I’m the one who ruined ‘em in the first place, aren’t I? Let me make it up to you.”

You would say it’s been sufficiently made up, but you only shake your head, folding the toilet paper over to a dry part. “I’m not throwing them out. I just need a minute, then I can put them back on.” 

“Suit yourself, darling.” Something in you flutters at the pet name, but then Sirius pushes off the wall. “I’m gonna head out, get back out there so nobody sees us leave together.” 

You keep your gaze downward. “Good idea.” 

You notice him flash you a smile in your periphery. Even without really seeing it, you can guess what it looks like: flirty, impersonal. “See you out there.” 

He opens the door, and you see only a flash of light brown hair before he’s slipping out and shutting it behind him, shielding you from view. 

“Hello,” Remus’ voice says slowly. He must’ve just been passing by, but if the extended occupation of the bathroom hadn’t caught his attention, Sirius’ hasty exit certainly has. “Don’t suppose I need to ask where you’ve been.” 

“That,” you hear Sirius say in his jovial way, “would be terribly nosy, Moony. Unlike you.” 

You creep closer to the door, pressing your ear to the crack in time to hear Remus’ amused hum. “Don’t suppose I need to ask if you know where y/n is either, do I? Mary’s been looking for her.” 

“I’m sure she’ll turn up shortly,” Sirius replies. 

There’s a short period of silence wherein you wonder if they’ve walked away, but then Remus says quietly, “I hope you’re being careful.” 

Sirius laughs, the sound derisive. “Thank you for your concern, but you’ll find a condom in James’ bathroom trash if you’re worried enough to go looking.” 

“Not what I meant. She’s a sweet girl, Sirius. Don’t fuck her about.” 

You can practically hear the lewd joke forming on Sirius’ tongue, but his voice lowers, unexpectedly sober. “I’m not,” he says. You stop breathing. “She’s under no false impressions, alright? We both talked about what this was before we started, and she doesn’t want a relationship any more than I do.” 

Remus’ sigh is long-suffering. “Sure.” 

“Honest, Moons. We’re just friends.” 

Your heart—your stupid, mutinous heart—shrinks and withers like a balloon without air. You move away from the door as quietly as you can, sitting again on the cold lip of James’ tub. Sirius says something about taking charge of the music selection, and you breathe carefully as he and Remus go off. You’re furious with yourself, humiliated for feeling so dejected. Sirius is right; you had been clear about what you wanted when you first started this thing. Boundaries had been laid down. Just because your feelings have changed, that doesn’t mean his have. It was unfair of you to look for more from him. 

Your underwear are a lost cause. You bury them underneath more toilet paper in James’ bin, hiding the condom while you’re at it. You’ll get yourself new ones without telling Sirius. What you do shouldn’t be his problem anyway.

[kusanagihaku]

i will turn into clouds sanguine 

⭢ lyca and mc, 1.2k

q is for qilin. ˖⁺‧₊⟡ alphabet series | ao3

The front door of Obscuary creaks open under your touch. 

Rui must have left it unlocked for you after you texted him earlier today about leaving paperwork for some new missions – you step inside and let the heavy door groan closed behind you. You make a left turn into where you told Rui you’d leave the files…

…only to come face to face with Lyca and a huge, huge canvas. 

You blink. Woah. 

It lays flat on the Obscuary dining table, long and white and half-covered in fine, black pen strokes. If you had to guess, it’d be Lyca’s height when propped upright, with a width double that. 

“You’re here,” Lyca says. He flicks a glance at your shoes. “Did you get lost?” 

You flush. You did make a wrong turn or two in the forest but… you made it, didn’t you? “Um. No.”  

Lyca sniffs, frowning. “You smell like the soil from Rui’s garden. That’s not on the way in.” 

“…maybe?” You can’t help the sheepish grin that breaks onto your face, and are rewarded with Lyca’s triumphant snort. “Anyway, what’s this?” 

Lyca glances back down at the corner of the canvas he’s bent over. “Rui asked me to draw something we could hang in the bar. He promised he would buy me paints if I did it, so I did.” 

You walk closer to the canvas to get a better look. The fine lines coalesce into four large shapes under the dim dining room light, vaguely reminiscent of mythical creatures you might have read about once upon a time. “What are these?” 

Lyca points to his left. There is a small book propped open beside the pen he has just set down – comparing the yellowed page to his canvas, you realise he must have been using it as a reference for most of the details. “The idiot grandpa gave me this book and told me to do this. It was the only thing he suggested that Rui agreed to.” 

You wince; you don’t want to imagine what else Ed suggested to Rui. You turn your attention back to the tangle of black strokes on the white surface. 

Nearest to you is a completed tortoise, mouth open and claws pointed and sharp. It is seated atop a stone, and is angled to face a phoenix floating down from the top left. The phoenix, despite being only rendered in swift, short lines, is striking – its wings are outstretched and its glare fierce. Hidden under the furrow of its eyes is a desperate sort of determination you had no idea could be captured in pen. 

In the top right corner, snaking down from a hastily sketched set of clouds is a majestic beast, teeth bared and horns like fire. Scales slick off its back in flames, and its claws extend towards the foreground. It is lit in part by the warmth of the overhead light, but in part by the soft moonlight streaming in through a nearby window; the silver of moonlight makes the creature almost glow. 

You let out a low whistle, impressed. “Is that a dragon?” 

Lyca nods. “They’re supposed to be the four is- es- suspicious beasts.” 

You pause for a moment. “…auspicious?” 

Lyca scrunches his nose. “Yeah. Anyway, Ed says Rui is supposed to be the dragon.” 

You wrack your brain for mentions of the Four Auspicious Beasts – you know you studied something similar for a class two or three months back. “Isn’t it supposed to symbolise power or strength, or something like that?” 

“Yeah.” Lyca scratches the back of his neck. “Rui has the most power out of all of us. Given his curse and all.” 

You half-smile. Once upon a time you’d have said Ed was the strongest in Obscuary – knowing him now and thinking about the dynamics of the house, it makes more sense that their harried and lively vice-captain would be their dragon. 

“What about the tortoise?” 

Lyca frowns, as if it is obvious. He picks up his pen. “It’s that moth-eaten Casanova, of course. Slow and can’t do anything but make gross jokes.” 

Well. You can’t refute that.

“Also, he said it was supposed to represent longevity and stability,” Lyca adds, adding a few pen strokes, “and he’s supposed to live forever, so.” 

You look carefully at what Lyca is sketching. It is half-complete, details on its face yet to be finished. “Is that you?” 

He nods. “Rui said this was a…” he squints back at the tiny reference book, “a Qilin.” 

Makes sense. From what you remember, the qilin symbolised righteousness and integrity, both qualities Lyca possesses in bounds. 

You hum, watching his hands work. “Did you know that qilin are said to be so gentle and respectful of life they don’t step on blades of grass?” 

Lyca looks up at you, briefly. “I step on grass.”

It pulls a laugh out of you. “Yeah, well, but you’re still one of the most respectful ghouls I know.” 

You feel Lyca straighten a little at that, almost like he’s holding back a beam. He lets out a small huff. “Well. That’s what Suba told me to do.” 

If his tail was out it’d be wagging. You bite back a smile. “That’s good!” 

A silence lapses over the both of you for a few minutes as you watch his pen glide across the canvas. Your eyes wander back, again, to the eyes of the phoenix. 

Come to think of it, aren’t there only three occupants in Obscuary? You know that the set needs all four to be complete, but if Rui was the dragon, Ed the tortoise and Lyca the qilin, who was the phoenix? 

“Lyca, who’s that supposed to be then? Since there are only three of you.” 

Lyca slides a glance at you, brows furrowed as if he cannot fathom why you would be asking. “Isn’t it obvious? That’s you.” 

You blink. 

He taps the back of his pen on the reference book. The little taps are heavy on the lump growing in your throat. “The old man said phoenixes mean rebirth. After you’re cured, you’re gonna have your second life, right?”

His tone is so matter-of-fact, as if he has never had a doubt that you’d be cured, that whatever response you might have had swells in your lungs and stays there. 

The weight of his conviction sinks into the surface of your mind. You know the Mortkranken ghouls have been working overtime for you, you know the Hotarubi ghouls have been poring over dusty old tomes for more information, you know the rest of the ghouls have been working on your curse in their own ways and yet… 

And yet some part of you has never dared to hope for the success of a cure. 

You swallow. 

But here they are, holding a torch you have never dared to light – you will break your curse before the year is up. You will be cured. You will get to return to normal, life irrevocably changed by your time at Darkwick and bound to the ghouls that you’ve helped and been helped by, for better or for worse. You will get to live. 

Your nose burns. 

Lyca looks at you curiously. 

“Nothing,” you say, quickly. You cough to cover up the thick in your voice. “The fact that you’d accept me into Obscuary… that’s really nice to hear.” 

Lyca snorts. “Of course you’ll be with us. Where else would you be?” 

You grin. It comes out watery, probably, but you don’t care. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

[bun-lapin]

Confessions

Summary: Silver confesses his love to you.

A/N: Sixth one shot complete, featuring Silver! I had trouble getting started on this one because Diasomnia as a whole is very mysterious to me (which is very on brand). But I really enjoyed thinking about some of the knightly aspects of Silver's character.

Confessions series: Rook, Kalim, Idia, Floyd, Vil, Silver, Leona, Trey / AO3

In the last few hours before sunset, the sun hangs heavy and golden in the sky. You methodically step your way through an overgrown field of grass and watch soft shadows trail behind some of the taller vegetation. Off in the distance you watch the horizon rise up into a low hill, crested by a large and ancient tree. The forest’s edge behind the giant tree is like a dark smudge against a sky painted with the pink and lavender hues of descending daylight.

A soft breeze passes through the field and sets the tall grass around you into a whispering, swaying motion. Their movement reveals a figure clothed in black, previously hidden, laying stretched out and still in the middle of a grassy ocean. You smile with quiet understanding and your feet lead you directly to the sleeping figure’s side. After carefully kneeling down, you reach out towards a black gloved hand laying on a broad chest, gently rising and falling with deep, drowsing breaths. Gently shaking his hand, you call out softly, “Wake up, Silver.”

You watch his eyes slowly open as Silver peacefully awakens and then turns his head to look at you. The slight movement causes his fair hair to sweep across his brow like a veil, obscuring and then revealing in one motion the mysterious aurora color of his gaze. He gently smiles up at you and whispers around a small, happy sigh, “I was just dreaming of you.”

You return the warmth in Silver’s smile with your own and ask with mild amusement, “Why were you sleeping in the middle of a field? It took me quite a while to find you today.”

Silver closes his eyes with a slightly dejected expression and drowsily explains, "I was thinking about something important and I looked up into the sky to better concentrate on my thoughts. I suppose I must have nodded off after that."

You tilt your head questioningly and ask, “What were you thinking about? Is it something you can share with me?”

Silver opens his eyes and briefly looks skyward with a serious and slightly conflicted expression. You watch a series of emotions rise and then fall across Silver’s face as he seems to carefully consider your question. After a few more moments of thoughtful silence, he apparently comes to a conclusion and turns his head to look up at you once more. He smiles with a gentle light in his face, eyes half open yet full of wonder as if still looking at a dream. He pats the ground next to him and softly asks, "Here. Lay down a moment and look at the sky with me?"

You give Silver a curious smile and a raised eyebrow in answer but regardless, you lay down in the grass next to him without any objections. You set your head down softly next to his and you look up at the sky as instructed. Laying comfortably on your back with your hands relaxed at your sides, you feel a reassuring warmth against the side of your body closest to Silver.

Once you’re settled into position, you hear a soft rustling as Silver shifts his body, closing the minimal space between the two of you and gently placing his shoulder against yours. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his arm raise to point at the sky and he asks quietly, “"Look up there. What do you see?"

You take in the sight of the sky, filled with the shifting colors of sunset and golden white, billowing clouds. “It’s very beautiful,” you say softly. Glancing at the general area of the sky that Silver is pointing too, you playfully remark, “That cloud over there looks like a teapot.”

Silver laughs lightly and drops his arm to his side. “You have quite the artistic eye to see a shape like that in the sky.” He turns his head to look at you and his voice drops to a whisper. “Now, shall I tell you what I see?”

You turn to look at Silver and see that his half open eyes, still heavy with lingering dreams, are sparkling with anticipation. You smile gently, settling into the peaceful stillness that surrounds the two of you, and silently nod to him. A small, quiet smile flutters across Silver’s lips and his clear voice rings out softly, resolute.

"When I look at the great expanse of the sky, from one edge to the other, all that comes to my mind is kindness. Although it may not seem like it at times, there is always good to be found in this world. It shows itself in secret, hidden ways to those who look closely. From the way the sun rises every morning, to the rain that falls over the living land, lately I have always been able to find kindness and warmth in a world that is often called cruel and cold.”

Silver pauses for a moment and studies your face with an expression of quiet joy and appreciation. He then closes his eyes and drops his head carefully against your shoulder. His voice, directed downwards into your shoulder now, sounds far away, as if heard in a distant dream of longing.

“I’ve spent quite some time puzzling over why I’ve been able to think like this. And looking up into the sky today, I finally realized the reason. If there is an inherent kindness in this world, it's because of love. It's because of you. It's the simple fact that you are here in this world, and that I love you."

Silver lifts his head and your gaze is immediately drawn to the fierce adoration in his eyes and the determined strength of his brows. You feel a pleasant, electric sensation of surprise jolt through your body at the intensity of the emotions on his face. Acting instinctively, you swiftly sit up and turn to face him. Silver mirrors your movements with smooth grace and the two of you sit silently facing each other, surrounded by the sighing sound of grass swaying in the wind and the fading radiance of sunset.

After a moment, Silver extends his open hand towards you and, in turn, your hand rises up to softly meet his waiting palm. Closing his eyes with a small smile, he lifts your hand to his lips and brushes a light kiss against the back of it. Silver then slowly lowers your hand but continues to hold it tenderly in his. He opens his eyes, revealing their aurora color suffused with gentle desire, and speaks softly, like he is addressing an ethereal vision.

"My love and my dream, you are everything. In the mornings when I wake, you're the first light of dawn. In the golden afternoons, you're the echoing laughter of good company. In the evenings after training, you're the tranquil silence and peace I breathe in. You’re everywhere, your existence is everywhere and everything to me."

Silver slightly shifts his weight as he leans himself closer towards you. Reacting on impulse, you lean towards him in response and his smile blooms wide and bright. While softly stroking the back your hand with his thumb, he whispers, "You have become, or maybe you always have been, the most precious part of my world. For one so irreplaceable, so dear, I don't have much to offer. I have only my life to give you and this vow." He raises your hand and gently presses it to his eyes, shut tight with solemn determination.

"I swear to you, for the rest of my mortal life and every life after, I will protect you and cherish you. I pledge to you my ever enduring loyalty and devotion. My love, for all eternity, I offer you my heart."

You silently trace your gaze down the length of your outstretched arm, a thin bridge connecting you to Silver’s form. You focus on the strength of his broad shoulders, lightly rising and falling with his steady breathing. A soft breeze rushes through the field around you and, for a briefly shining moment, you feel as if the land and sky have encircled the two of you in a deeply comforting embrace. You sigh softly with serenity and Silver lifts his brow from your hand. Seeing the expression on your face, he silently smiles with mirrored peace and wonder in his eyes.

[shiorihyugawrites]

The Devil's Bride

Aurora Jaeger, Eren's long-lost childhood friend, was taken from him when they were children. After years of suffering under Marleyan control, Aurora is reunited with Eren while he’s undercover in Marley, igniting a bond neither of them expected. Despite her gentle nature, Aurora breaks her vow of pacifism to save Eren’s life, solidifying their deep connection. Secretly married before the Raid on Liberio, Aurora is swept into Eren's world of chaos and destruction. As the Scouts learn of her existence, tensions rise on the airship home. Mikasa’s heart shatters, and Levi demands answers. And Eren will stop at nothing to protect the only light left in his dark world—his bride, Aurora.

In this journey of love, loyalty, and war, Aurora must reconcile her innocent heart with the brutal reality of the man she loves, while Eren faces the truth of what he’s become. (Eren x OC)

Chapter Twenty Nine

Porco ran as fast as he could, his Jaw Titan racing through the dense foliage of the forest, clutching a nearly dead Reiner and a grievously injured Pieck in his powerful jaws. The trees blurred by as he bounded over roots and boulders, pushing himself harder than ever before. He had to reach the shoreline, where their discreetly hidden ship still waited. If they could just get there, they might escape with their lives.

His mission had been a complete disaster. Not only had they failed to capture Aurora Jaeger, but both Reiner and Pieck had been on the brink of death. And then there was the matter of Historia Reiss, the woman he was supposed to kill. Instead of completing his objective, Porco had found himself drawn to her in a way that made no sense. He had fallen in love with the enemy in less than twelve hours. It was madness.

He remembered the moment he dropped Historia off. Every instinct screamed at him to finish the job, to end her life and secure Marley’s advantage. But he couldn’t do it. He had felt Ymir’s love surging through him, clouding his judgment. It took everything he had to leave her behind and focus on rescuing Reiner and Pieck. Now, carrying his injured comrades, he cursed himself for his weakness and confusion.

At last, he reached the quiet, deserted shoreline where their small ship lay hidden among the rocks and low-hanging branches. Carefully, Porco lowered Reiner and Pieck onto the sand. Their wounds were already beginning to heal, Titan shifter regeneration kicking in, though they were still weak and battered. Pieck’s breathing came in strained gasps, and Reiner was barely conscious.

With a burst of steam, Porco emerged from the nape of his Titan, half out, still tethered to the flesh by those sinewy tendrils. He breathed hard, trying to gather his thoughts. He thought about what Historia had said to him—her words ringing in his head, her plea for unity, her insistence that they were all Eldians divided by Marley’s propaganda. He knew he was being influenced by Ymir’s memories, but he couldn’t help it. The feelings he had for Historia were too strong, too real, and it terrified him.

Pieck, still lying prone and healing, turned her head slightly toward Porco. Her voice was weak but laced with concern and confusion. “Porco,” she managed, her tone gentle yet probing, “why didn’t you kill the Queen when you had the chance? We saw you… You had her in your jaws and you spit her out unharmed. Why?”

Porco’s eyes darted away, his expression contorting in shame and uncertainty. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. How could he explain that the love he felt wasn’t even entirely his own? That Ymir’s soul, living inside him through her memories, had stayed his hand? He just shook his head, clenching his teeth, refusing to meet Pieck’s gaze.

Reiner observed Porco closely. He noticed the flush creeping up Porco’s cheeks, the subtle tremble in his frame. Reiner had lived undercover on Paradis for years, witnessing firsthand the bonds formed between those once called "island devils.” He had seen Ymir and Historia together, had sensed how much Ymir cared for that golden-haired girl who had once gone by Christa. Now, it was as if Ymir’s love had been passed on to Porco through the power of the Jaw Titan.

Reiner’s eyes widened slightly as he pieced it together. Pieck turned her gaze between them, realization dawning as she understood why Porco hesitated, why he couldn’t strike the final blow. They exchanged a look—this was something they’d never predicted. Porco Galliard, a warrior of Marley, falling under the influence of Ymir’s feelings and falling for Historia Reiss. It was almost laughable, if it weren’t so tragic.

Seeing their understanding, Porco stiffened. He didn’t want their pity, their questions. He felt cornered, exposed. “Don’t look at me like that!” he snapped, his voice raw with emotion. “I—I just… Shut up!”

Pieck and Reiner tried again, Pieck attempting a gentle, “Porco, we can work this out, just tell us—”

But he cut her off with a snarl, refusing to explain himself further. He couldn’t handle their probing right now. He needed space, needed to think, needed to escape these eyes that saw too much.

Without another word, Porco went back into the nape of his titan. Steam erupted as he fully assimilated back into the Jaw Titan. Pieck called after him, but he ignored her, launching himself back into the forest’s depths.

He ran, the wind whipping past him, as he followed that pull in his chest—the one leading him back towards Historia. He didn’t know what he would do if he found her again. He didn’t know if he would run away or beg her forgiveness, or try to understand what was happening to him. He only knew that Ymir’s memories and his own heart were calling out for her, urging him forward into the unknown.

…

Meanwhile, Aurora kept a protective arm around Historia as they headed back toward the Jaegerist compound. The group moved slowly, exhausted by the chaos of the battle. Floch rode at the front, his face twisted with frustration. He couldn’t shake the image of the Jaw Titan disappearing into the forest, taking the Cart and Armoured Titans with him. After all this effort, not only had they failed to apprehend the Marleyan warriors, but the damned Titan had managed to infiltrate them, kidnap Queen Historia, and then just… let her go?

“Damn it,” Floch muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with irritation. He was still fuming that Eren had chastised him in front of the others, and now this. He couldn’t help but feel as though everything were slipping out of his control. The Ackermans he’d spent a month hunting were alive, their queen had been kidnapped and returned without explanation, and now their enemies had vanished into the woods.

Eren walked at a brisk pace, his shoulders tense. He glanced occasionally at Aurora and Historia. Historia was practically clinging to Aurora, sobbing into her shoulder. The sight made Eren’s heart clench—whatever had happened with Porco’s Titan had clearly left her shaken to the core. Everyone was puzzled by what had transpired. The Jaw Titan had literally dropped off their queen, alive and physically unharmed, then fled. It didn’t add up.

Mikasa hovered protectively near Levi, who was being half-carried, half-supported by a pair of Jaegerists. The captain was in rough shape, still suffering from his injuries and the lingering effects of Aurora’s poison. His body had taken even more abuse when Aurora accidentally dropped him earlier. He was alive, but miserable, and it showed in his scowling face.

Finally, they reached the compound. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the training grounds. The atmosphere was thick with confusion, relief, and tension all at once. They needed to debrief, to understand what had happened, but one look at Historia’s tear-streaked face told them she needed rest more than anything else.

Eren nodded to a small group of Jaegerists. “Take the queen to her quarters. Make sure she’s comfortable,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Aurora gently eased Historia away from her shoulder. “I’ll come check on you soon,” Aurora promised softly. Historia nodded numbly, allowing the Jaegerists to guide her inside. Aurora watched them go, her own heart heavy. She couldn’t ignore the worry gnawing at her gut—about Porco, about what this all meant. But for now, Historia’s wellbeing came first.

Meanwhile, Levi was taken to the infirmary. Mikasa stood guard, her blades still sheathed at her hips, but her posture alert and ready for trouble. Aurora followed them inside, rolling up her sleeves and joining the medics treating Levi’s injuries. The medics exchanged uncertain looks, still astonished to see Aurora so focused on helping the man she’d once nearly killed. Yet, no one dared comment. The tension of the recent battles had shown everyone that alliances could shift and priorities could change in a heartbeat.

Levi lay back on the cot, his face contorted in pain. His muscles twitched as Aurora applied a salve to his wounds, and he let out a low hiss. “Easy,” Aurora murmured, careful and methodical in her movements. “You’ll feel better soon.”

Levi glared past Aurora, his eyes finding Eren. Eren had just entered, hovering near the doorframe as if unsure whether he was welcome. Aurora could sense Eren’s unease. He expected Levi’s fury over the imprisonment of Hange, Armin, Jean, Connie, and Sasha underground in hardened crystal. He braced himself for the inevitable tirade, the accusations that he’d turned against his comrades.

But Levi’s harsh whisper cut through the silence, and it wasn’t about the imprisoned scouts at all.

“You let your pregnant wife onto a battlefield,” Levi growled, his voice low and rough. “What the hell were you thinking, Jaeger?”

Eren blinked, momentarily speechless. Aurora’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise. She had expected Levi’s anger to be directed toward their political schemes or the way Eren had seized control of the military. Instead, he was admonishing Eren for risking her life—her life and the baby’s.

“You knew she was pregnant?” Eren asked, stunned.

“She told me herself,” Levi’s sneered. “You let a pregnant woman face me—if her little paralytic plan hadn’t worked, I could’ve killed her. And then what?”

Eren’s mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out at first. Eventually, he managed, “I… I never wanted that to happen, but we were out of options and running out of time. Aurora’s plan was solid.”

At that, Levi shot Aurora a knowing glance. “Her plan may have worked, but you’re still in charge. This whole mess falls back on you, Eren.”

Aurora stood very still, her hands stilling over the bandages she was wrapping around Levi’s arm. She recalled Eren once telling her that Levi wouldn’t care about her pregnancy if it meant removing a threat. Yet here Levi was, admonishing Eren for risking her life. It was a strange, unexpected turn that made her chest tighten with a sudden surge of respect for the captain. He wasn’t the cold machine she’d imagined. He was pragmatic, yes, but not soulless.

Levi let out a small, pained sigh. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, his voice still rough, “I’m not saying I approve of everything you and Aurora have done. But now I see she’s no different than any of us—willing to do whatever it takes to protect the ones she cares about. She’s a horrible shot and still physically weak, but she’s got guts. Stupid, reckless guts, but guts all the same.”

Aurora’s cheeks warmed at what almost sounded like a backhanded compliment. She managed a quiet, “Thank you, Captain.”

Levi scoffed. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t put me in that position again. I have enough regrets already.”

Mikasa, silent and watchful, relaxed slightly, her shoulders easing down as the tension in the room lessened. Eren took a step forward, his voice calmer. “You’re right, Captain. I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted things to go. But we’re fighting a war against the entire world. We need every advantage we can get.”

Levi rolled his eyes but said nothing. Aurora resumed tending to his wounds, more gently now, as if her newfound respect for him made her more careful. The medics hovered nearby, assisting where needed, and the entire infirmary felt charged with the weight of unspoken truths.

Outside, the evening air grew cooler as the Jaegerists regrouped, sharing stories of what had happened in the forest. Floch paced, still furious about the Jaw Titan’s escape, but also shaken by the fact that everyone—Eren, Mikasa, Aurora, even Levi—seemed to be aligning in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Aurora finished tying off the bandage and gently patted Levi’s shoulder, her eyes meeting his. They shared a brief, understanding look. None of them knew what tomorrow would bring, but for now, they would nurse their wounds, regroup, and prepare for whatever new horrors awaited them in this endless war.

Mikasa lingered near Levi’s bedside, silent and unmoving, as Eren continued stnading nearby. Their eyes met, and Eren could see the hurt etched so deeply in Mikasa’s gaze that it stole his breath. Aurora, carefully tending to Levi, looked up. She caught the intensity between them and understood immediately. Eren and Mikasa needed to talk. She glanced down at Levi, who snorted under his breath, already guessing what was coming.

“This should be good,” Levi muttered, voice heavy with sarcasm, wincing slightly as Aurora adjusted the bandages on his arm. Aurora offered him a soothing look, pressing gently on his shoulder to keep him still, and then nodded at Eren. Her message was clear: take Mikasa somewhere private, let this play out.

Eren cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Mikasa,” he said quietly, keeping his tone as soft as possible in the tense atmosphere. “Can we talk? Alone?”

Mikasa’s grip on the hilt of her blade tightened reflexively, but after a moment’s hesitation, she gave a small, reluctant nod. Aurora and Levi watched silently as Mikasa followed Eren out of the infirmary, into the adjoining hallway. They walked side by side through the corridors of the old farm compound until they found an empty room next to where Historia was supposed to rest. The sound of distant commotion—the Jaegerists clearing the area, Aurora’s quiet instructions to the medics—faded behind them.

Inside the small room, Eren closed the door gently. They stood facing each other, neither speaking. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Mikasa’s shoulders began to shake. Tears welled in her eyes before she could form a single word. The sight of her crying cut Eren deeply. He took a step forward, arms slightly outstretched, but paused to gauge her reaction.

Mikasa tried to speak, her voice emerging in a choked whisper. “I... I really thought—” Her words failed as a sob escaped her throat, tears now slipping freely down her cheeks. “I thought you’d ordered Floch to hunt us down like animals. I thought you wanted me dead, Eren.” The betrayal in her voice hit him like a knife.

Eren’s heart twisted painfully. In two long strides, he reached her and gently pulled her into a hug. He felt her resist for a split second before her body collapsed against his chest, her sobs muffled in his shirt. “Mikasa,” he murmured, his own voice trembling, “I never wanted that. Floch acted on his own. I didn’t know.”

Mikasa wept harder at his words, relief and doubt mingling in her tears. She’d feared the worst, imagined Eren’s heart turned completely cold. But here he was, holding her, sounding desperate to make her understand.

“I hoped you’d come around,” Eren continued softly, stroking her hair as if trying to soothe away the months of confusion and hurt. “I never wanted to hurt you or our friends. But Mikasa... we have no choice now. The Rumbling—” He pulled back slightly to meet her eyes, his voice raw with emotion. “This is the only way to protect Paradis. The entire world wants us dead. I have to save everyone. I have to save Aurora.” His voice caught as he uttered her name. “And... and our child.”

At the mention of the baby, Mikasa stiffened. She remembered Aurora telling her and Levi about the pregnancy earlier, when they were hiding in the trees. “You knew she was pregnant,” she said, her voice trembling. “You... you didn’t even tell me. Why?”

Eren’s eyes filled with regret. “I was afraid,” he admitted. “If people knew Aurora was pregnant, they could use her against me—against all of us. I couldn’t let that happen. I’ve been trying to keep her safe, Mikasa. Everything I’ve done is to keep all of you safe, even if it doesn’t look that way.”

Mikasa stepped back, brushing tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She still felt hurt, knowing Eren kept such a secret from her, but she also understood his reasoning in this twisted world they inhabited. And she couldn’t deny what she had seen of Aurora: the woman who risked her own life to save Levi, even after poisoning him in the first place. That complexity was something Mikasa couldn’t ignore.

“Aurora risked her life to save Captain Levi,” Mikasa said quietly, thinking back to that tense moment in the forest. “She’s done terrible things, but so have we all. She’s fighting for what she believes in, for the ones she loves. I can’t hate her for that.” Her gaze locked with Eren’s, the weight of the past months pressing down on them.

Eren’s shoulders sagged with relief, but he remained silent, letting Mikasa finish her thoughts.

“And you,” Mikasa continued, voice still thick with unshed tears. “I don’t agree with the Rumbling. I hate it. I hate what we’re being forced to do. But... I can’t bring myself to hate you or Aurora. Not when I know this world leaves us with so few choices. The attack we just faced proves how ruthless and calculating they are, how badly they want us gone. If we don’t stand together, we’ll all die.”

Eren closed his eyes, absorbing her words. He reached out and took her hand gently. “Thank you, Mikasa,” he said softly. “I know how hard this is for you. For everyone. I just... I can’t lose any more of you. Not you, not Armin, not Levi, not Historia, not Aurora, and not... not our child.”

Mikasa squeezed his hand lightly, acknowledging the fragility of the moment. She didn’t fully understand how they would survive the coming storm, but she knew they needed to trust each other again. The world was cruel and there were no easy answers, but if they gave in to hatred and division, Marley and the rest of the world would have already won.

Her tears began to slow as she took a shaky breath. “We’ll stand together,” she said softly. “I won’t promise to agree with everything, but I won’t abandon you or Aurora. We’ll find a way through this... somehow.”

Eren nodded, his eyes shimmering with gratitude and determination. They stood in silence for a moment, leaning on the fragile understanding they’d managed to rebuild. 

Mikasa took a shaky breath, wiping the last of her tears away. She stood a step back from Eren, her voice steadier now but still laced with lingering hurt and confusion. “Eren,” she began, struggling to keep her voice from breaking again, “what about Armin, Jean, Connie, Sasha, and Hange? You trapped them in that crystal in the basement.”

Eren’s posture stiffened at the mention of his imprisoned comrades. He’d been expecting this question, knowing he couldn’t dodge it any longer. “I’m going to release them,” he said, meeting her eyes earnestly. “I never intended to keep them there forever. I just needed them not to interfere until after the Rumbling was carried out. Once that’s done, once we’ve secured Paradis, I’ll set them free.”

Mikasa’s shoulders tensed, but she nodded slowly. It was some measure of relief, though the weight of what Eren had done still pressed heavily on her heart. “You really think they could understand your reasoning after all this?” she asked, voice subdued.

Eren inhaled deeply. “I hope so. You and Levi—well, at least you—have come around enough to talk to me. Maybe if we explain ourselves to them, they’ll realize why this had to happen.” He lowered his head for a moment. “I know it’s a lot to ask, Mikasa, but after seeing how you and Levi are at least willing to listen, I believe Armin and the others might too.”

Mikasa bit her lip, remembering Armin’s kind eyes, Jean’s steady presence, Connie’s jokes, Sasha’s bright smile, and Hange’s determined spirit. She nodded again, more firmly this time. “We’ll see. At least now I know you plan to free them.”

With that tenuous understanding reached, the two of them stepped out of the quiet room. The muffled sounds of the compound drifted back into their awareness: the distant voices of Jaegerists regrouping, the faint ring of metal from distant gears, the rustle of leaves still clinging to thoughts of that fierce battle.

They headed back to the infirmary where Levi and Aurora waited. The hallway was dimly lit by lantern light, their footsteps muted against worn floorboards. As they entered the infirmary, Aurora looked up from where she was adjusting the bandages on Levi’s arm. Levi lay back, annoyed but resigned, and Aurora’s worried gaze flicked between Eren and Mikasa, gauging their expressions.

Eren paused at the threshold, his arms folded. Mikasa stepped in behind him, positioning herself beside Levi’s bed, her stance guarded but calmer. Levi eyed them both, his face a grim mask. Aurora’s hand stilled on Levi’s bandage as she noticed the tension.

Eren cleared his throat. “I’m going to release them,” he announced, voice steady, yet not too loud. “Armin, Hange, and the others.”

Levi snorted softly. He already knew about Eren imprisoning the scouts—Mikasa had told Levi while they were on the run—but hearing Eren say he’d release them gave a small measure of hope.

“Good,” Levi muttered, wincing slightly as he tried to shift on the cot. “About damn time. They’re our comrades, and we need everyone at their best once all this is over.”

Mikasa’s eyes softened at Levi’s words, relieved that at least he saw some sense in Eren’s decision. Aurora placed a comforting hand on Levi’s shoulder, acknowledging the complexity of the situation with a silent understanding. The entire group bore emotional scars from the battles they’d fought—both against enemies and each other.

Eren relaxed at their reactions. “Before I do that,” he continued, “we need a plan. We can’t just release them without explaining everything first. We need to ensure they understand why I did what I did—and that we all stand together against the world.” His gaze swept over Mikasa, Levi, and Aurora. “We need to be united if we’re going to survive.”

Aurora nodded slowly. “Agreed. We still need to debrief with Historia. She... she’s been through a lot. We need her input, her support. She’s our queen, and we must all be on the same page.” Her voice was quiet but firm, the calm center in this storm.

Eren’s jaw tightened at the mention of Historia, recalling what he’d heard about her encounter with the Jaw Titan. He didn’t fully understand what had happened, only that it left her shaken and in tears. “Yes,” he said softly. “We’ll talk to her as soon as she’s rested. Then we’ll figure out how to approach Armin and the rest.”

Mikasa looked between them, her face still shadowed by uncertainty but buoyed by the tentative solidarity taking shape. Aurora adjusted Levi’s bandage, and he hissed at the pain but didn’t pull away. This strange alliance—Eren’s fervent determination, Aurora’s careful pragmatism, Levi’s begrudging acceptance, and Mikasa’s conflicted loyalty—formed a fragile foundation on which they would attempt to build a future.

The soft glow of lanterns flickered over their faces, painting them in warm light. Outside, distant footsteps hinted at Jaegerists securing the perimeter. Inside, the four of them stood on the brink of a new chapter. Eren and Mikasa had begun to mend the trust between them. Aurora and Levi had settled into a mutual, if uneasy, respect. And now, they would prepare to face their queen, their friends, and the world beyond these walls.

…

A few hours later, Historia sat at the center of the table in one of the larger rooms inside the Jaegerist compound, a space usually reserved for briefings and strategy sessions. The lamplight cast warm shadows on the walls, illuminating the weary faces of those gathered: Eren, Aurora, Floch, Mikasa, Levi, and the two Jaegerist recruits who had accompanied Historia earlier. The tension in the air was palpable, as if everyone still stood on a battlefield rather than safely inside wooden walls.

Levi sat in a wheelchair by Aurora’s insistence, his face set in a scowl. He’d argued for several minutes that he didn’t need such treatment, but Aurora had put her foot down. “You’re not tearing your stitches or aggravating your wounds further,” she had said softly, yet firmly, forcing him to comply. Now, he gripped the armrests in frustration, his eyes occasionally darting to Aurora. He said nothing, but his annoyance was clear. Yet, he remained silent because they had bigger matters to address.

Mikasa stood near Levi’s chair, arms folded and jaw tight. She had taken a seat at first, but Eren’s presence and the situation at hand kept her on her feet, as if ready to leap into action at the slightest provocation. Eren hovered nearby, hands clasped behind his back, doing his best to project calm authority while knowing full well the room was filled with wounded pride, unanswered questions, and lingering resentment.

The two Jaegerist recruits—both young, their eyes still wide with the shock of recent events—shifted nervously. They had been the ones present when their queen was taken by the Jaw Titan. They, like everyone else, wanted answers from her.

Floch stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest. His posture brimmed with frustration and impatience. He couldn’t keep the scowl off his face; he was furious that the Jaw Titan had gotten away. His pride had been wounded too—first Eren’s public reprimand, then the failure to recapture or kill the enemy, and now an even deeper confusion about what had transpired between their queen and that Titan.

Eventually, Floch cleared his throat and directed his gaze at Historia. “Your Majesty,” he said, trying to keep his voice level and respectful, “the recruits told us what happened in the forest. They said you were… embracing the Jaw Titan’s shifter, calling him ‘Ymir’? They said he acted protective of you, then he transformed again and took you away. Can you explain what exactly happened?”

At Floch’s prompting, everyone turned their attention to Historia. She was slumped slightly in her chair, her posture not that of a proud queen but of someone carrying a heavy emotional burden. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had been crying quietly before they arrived. The silence stretched, and for a moment, it seemed she wouldn’t speak at all.

Aurora caught Historia’s gaze and offered a small, encouraging smile. Eren and Mikasa stiffened slightly, as if bracing themselves for what might come out of Historia’s mouth. Levi watched carefully from his wheelchair, one eyebrow raised, prepared for whatever revelations or confusion might follow.

The two Jaegerist recruits stood at attention, their nervous energy filling the air. They clearly wanted to hear the story firsthand, to make sense of the bizarre interaction they had witnessed.

“I know you’re all confused,” Historia began quietly, her voice steadying more with each word. “When the Jaw Titan took me, it was Porco Galliard. Some of you know that he inherited the Jaw Titan after Ymir… and Ymir,” she paused, her throat constricting, “Ymir was someone I loved very deeply.”

At the mention of Ymir’s name, Eren and Mikasa exchanged a glance, recalling old memories of the cadet days and the complicated bonds formed then. Levi’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Aurora tilted her head slightly, absorbing the information, while Floch’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Historia pressed on, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t know how to describe it exactly, but when I saw Porco, when I looked into his eyes, I felt Ymir’s presence. It was as if a part of her lived on in him—through her memories, through the Titan power. He looked at me with such… recognition. I know it sounds impossible, but Ymir’s love, her feelings, they were there in him.”

The recruits gasped softly, one whispering to the other, “Memories… can they influence the shifter’s emotions?” Aurora shot them a quick glance, nodding slightly to acknowledge their confusion was justified.

Mikasa’s grip on her arm tightened. She remembered Ymir and Historia from their cadet days—Ymir’s protective streak, the way she always watched over Historia, who was then known as Christa. Mikasa also remembered Eren describing how Titan memories could blur identities, how pieces of one person lingered in the next. It wasn’t just legend; it was how they inherited knowledge and traits from past shifters.

Eren, jaw clenched, spoke softly, “So you called him Ymir. And he responded… by protecting you?” He tried to keep his voice neutral, but the disbelief lingered at its edges.

Historia nodded, her eyes shining with unspoken emotion. “When I saw him, I wasn’t thinking rationally. All I knew was that I felt Ymir’s spirit burning behind his eyes. I ran to him. I… I embraced him, called him Ymir. He didn’t reject me. He looked startled, conflicted, and yet he shielded me. At that moment, I swear he wanted to keep me safe.”

Levi grunted, shifting uncomfortably. “So let me get this straight,” he said, his voice low and skeptical. “The man who was supposed to kill you ended up protecting you because of leftover feelings from Ymir’s memories?”

“Yes,” Historia answered simply. “And then he transformed again, took me in his Titan’s mouth, and ran. He could have crushed me at any second. But he didn’t. He… handled me gently and eventually set me down unharmed.”

Aurora’s brow furrowed, and she leaned forward. “He set you down unharmed?” she repeated. “But then he left, correct?”

Historia nodded. “He took his comrades and fled into the forest. He was torn, I think. Torn between his mission and whatever he felt—the remnants of Ymir’s love or his own confusion about what that meant.”

Floch let out a frustrated sigh. “So the Queen of the Walls,” he began, struggling to keep the accusation out of his tone, “had… some kind of moment with the Jaw Titan shifter, and now he’s gone. Are we to understand our queen—” he hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t sound too disrespectful, “—is in love with the enemy?”

The room fell silent. Eren stiffened, Mikasa narrowed her eyes at Floch, and Levi scoffed. Aurora frowned, glancing at Historia to gauge her reaction.

Historia’s cheeks flushed, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “I never said I was in love with him,” she said firmly, though her voice quivered slightly. “I loved Ymir. Ymir, who was once my ally, my friend, my… my beloved. Ymir saved my life more times than I can count. She meant the world to me. Now, I see shades of her in Porco—not because he is her, but because he carries her memories.”

Mikasa exhaled slowly. “So you… felt her love through him,” she said quietly, trying to understand the impossible tangle of emotions.

“Exactly,” Historia said softly. She tried to steady her breathing, forced herself to look each person in the eye. “This isn’t about being in love with an enemy soldier. It’s about recognizing that these Titan powers carry hearts and souls forward in ways we don’t fully comprehend. Porco is not Ymir, but for a brief moment, the memory of her love reached me through him.”

Levi folded his arms, wincing at the movement, and looked away. “This is all too complicated,” he muttered. “We have bigger problems than sorting out whose love is whose.”

Eren’s jaw tightened, but his eyes were full of empathy. He remembered Ymir’s choice to return to Marley’s side, knowing what it meant. He remembered the sorrow that followed. “Historia,” he said gently, “we don’t judge you for feeling what you feel. But we need to know how this affects our plans. Porco might be conflicted, but he’s still Marley’s warrior. Will this change anything?”

Historia closed her eyes for a second, gathering herself. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “What I do know is that Marley will stop at nothing to kill us. Regardless of Porco’s moment of compassion, they’ll continue their efforts. We can’t rely on him to betray Marley on a whim. But maybe—just maybe—this means not all of them are lost to blind hatred. Maybe we can reach someone out there, like Ymir reached me through him.”

The two Jaegerist recruits shifted uncomfortably. One cleared his throat, voice hesitant: “Your Majesty… does this mean we’re going to spare him if we see him again?”

Aurora exchanged a worried glance with Levi and Mikasa. “We can’t let our guard down,” Aurora said softly. “Even if Porco hesitated once, that doesn’t guarantee he’ll do so again. Marley wants us dead. They’re not going to stop because of a memory.”

Mikasa nodded, her gaze steeling. “We have to keep fighting. But maybe,” she paused, remembering Aurora’s words about kill or be killed, “maybe we can find another way eventually. Not now, not with so much at stake, but someday.”

Floch clicked his tongue, impatience sparking in his eyes. “We can’t afford weakness,” he muttered. “We nearly lost Historia today. We have to remain vigilant.”

Historia raised her head, meeting Floch’s stare with calm resolve. “You call it weakness. I call it understanding,” she said quietly. “But don’t mistake my empathy for surrender. I know we must fight to survive. I’m under no illusion that Porco’s actions change the bigger picture. Marley is still our enemy. I’m just saying that today, I saw something unexpected—and it means we shouldn’t paint the world in absolutes if we can help it.”

Levi exhaled, adjusting his bandaged arm. “Wonderful,” he said dryly. “So we have a queen who made contact with the enemy under complicated circumstances, a pregnant poison expert who nearly killed me and is now patching me up, Eren planning the Rumbling, and us on the brink of war. Could this get any more twisted?”

Aurora squeezed Levi’s shoulder gently in response, offering him a half-smile. “At least we’re talking,” she said quietly. “That’s better than tearing each other apart.”

Eren nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders not entirely eased but less oppressive. “We need to focus now,” he said. “I’m going to free Armin, Jean, Connie, Sasha, and Hange once the Rumbling is done. But before that, we have to ensure everything is in place. We need everyone’s head in this fight.”

Mikasa took a breath, her eyes on Historia. “I understand. Let’s do what we must.” Her voice was steady, resigned but strong.

Historia glanced at each face in turn—Eren, Mikasa, Levi, Aurora, Floch, the recruits. She saw exhaustion, fear, determination, and a spark of hope. Her own heart was still tangled in sorrow and confusion, but at least she knew they stood together.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “For listening, for understanding. I know this changes nothing about our situation, but it needed to be said.”

In that dimly lit room, they all absorbed her words, struggling to process what it meant that their queen had touched hearts with an enemy titan shifter. Life in this cruel world was complicated enough. Yet they had no choice but to push forward, united in the desperate fight for survival.

…

Late that night, the door to their bedroom clicked softly shut behind them as Eren and Aurora finally found themselves alone after the day’s relentless chaos. The air in the room was warm, carrying a faint scent of lavender from the sachets Aurora had tucked under their pillows. The flickering glow of a single lantern bathed the space in soft amber hues, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. It felt like stepping into a sanctuary—a rare, quiet moment stolen from the unending storm of their lives.

Eren wasted no time. The second the door was shut, he turned to Aurora and cupped her face in his hands, his calloused fingers brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. His green eyes locked onto hers, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths—fear, relief, and an overwhelming love he could never fully put into words. Before Aurora could even speak, his lips descended onto hers in a deep, fervent kiss.

The intensity of it stole Aurora’s breath, and she let out a soft sound of surprise before melting into him. Her arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer as she pressed her body against his. Eren’s hands moved to her waist, gripping her gently but firmly, as though he needed to feel her solid presence to convince himself she was really here, alive and safe.

Without breaking the kiss, Eren lifted Aurora effortlessly, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. She giggled softly against his lips, the sound a light, airy contrast to the heavy emotions that weighed on them both. Eren carried her to the bed, his movements steady but hurried, as though he couldn’t bear to let her go even for a second. He laid her down gently, leaning over her as they continued to kiss with a passion that made the world outside their door fade away.

Their lips moved together in perfect synchrony, a desperate yet loving exchange that spoke of relief and longing. The kisses grew heavier, more intense, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. Aurora’s hands tangled in Eren’s hair, her fingers threading through the soft strands, while his hands roamed her sides, memorizing every curve.

Eventually, their fervor slowed, and they pulled away, panting lightly. Their lips were swollen and pink, their foreheads pressed together as they tried to catch their breath. Eren looked down at Aurora, his gaze softening as he took in her flushed cheeks and slightly tousled hair. She was beautiful, even more so now, bathed in the golden light of the lantern. She looked up at him with equal adoration, her hands still resting on his shoulders.

Eren shifted, laying his head on Aurora’s chest. The sound of her steady heartbeat was a balm to his own restless one, grounding him in a way nothing else could. Aurora smiled softly and began running her fingers through his hair, her nails lightly scratching his scalp in soothing motions. Eren closed his eyes, a low sigh escaping him as he allowed himself to relax for the first time all day.

“I was so scared,” he admitted after a long silence, his voice low and rough. “When I saw Reiner holding you… I was terrified. I didn’t know if I’d get there in time.” His arms tightened around her waist as though he still needed to hold her close to reassure himself. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had died, Aurora.”

Aurora’s fingers stilled for a moment before resuming their gentle motions. She tilted her head slightly to look down at him, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. She could see the weight he carried—the guilt, the fear, the relentless drive to protect her and the life they were building together. “Eren,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady, “I’m here. You saved me. You always do.”

Eren didn’t respond immediately. He just buried his face further into her chest, letting her warmth and scent wrap around him like a protective shield. His thoughts swirled chaotically, a mix of relief and dread. Aurora was his heart, his tether to humanity. Without her, he knew he would lose himself entirely. He would become the monster the world already believed him to be. She was the only thing keeping him grounded, the one light in the darkness of his world.

Aurora seemed to sense his turmoil. She continued stroking his hair, her touch tender and reassuring. “We’ll get through this,” she murmured, her words meant for both of them. 

Eren finally lifted his head, his green eyes meeting hers. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, a promise that needed no words. He leaned up to kiss her forehead, the gesture soft and full of reverence. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Aurora smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You’re everything to me, Eren. You, me, and our baby—we’re going to be okay.”

Eren let out a shaky breath and laid his head back down, letting her words soothe him. They stayed like that for a long while, wrapped in each other’s arms, cherishing the rare moment of peace. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faint sounds of the compound settling down for the night. For now, at least, they had each other. And that was enough.

This day had been long and exhausting, but in this quiet room, in this shared warmth, Eren and Aurora found the strength to keep moving forward. 

~

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[chaotic-goodsir]

Prequel to this because I can't stop thinking about the Kal-Always-Had-The-Fog-Verse. Thank you so much to everyone who liked/reblogged/said nice things in the tags for the previous part!

(CWs for language, violence and injury.)

_

A fist collides with Kal’s jaw, and then he’s on the ground, ears ringing.

‘That’s what you get, witch! Your kind have no place in the Blazing World, let alone in the palace.’

‘Fuck you,’ Kal answers, spitting blood onto the grass. The world spins. Miral leers down at him, triumphant, as though it was Miral himself who dealt the blow and not one of the sullen-faced bodyguards standing just behind him. As if the son of some low-ranking palace minister is important enough to deserve an honour guard. Kal would love to punch the smirk off the smug bastard’s face, if only he could get to his feet without feeling sick.

‘Don’t think we don’t know why you’ve been hanging around the Prince, witch.’ Miral seems to like that word. If he thinks he can hurt Kal with it, he’s wrong. It’s embarrassingly uncreative.

‘What does-‘ Kal coughs. More blood hits the grass, staining it silver. It glitters in the sunlight. ‘-what does Dak have to do with this?’

‘How dare you!’ Miral aims a kick at Kal’s side. Kal just about manages to roll away, and the miss only winds Miral up even more. ‘You don’t deserve to address his highness by name. You don’t deserve to be anywhere near him.’

‘Oh, and you do? Is that what you think?’ Rage burns through Kal, despite the pain in his jaw and the nausea brought on by moving.  ‘Got a little crush on his highness, have you? I guess it must really hurt that he’d rather spend time with someone like me.’

Miral glares. He lifts a hand to usher one of his lackeys forward.

‘Tiir, show this freak of nature exactly what we think of witches.’

The one called Tiir seems to grow even taller as he steps towards Kal, looming over him like 6ft 2 of solid marble in his white college uniform. There’s something of an apology in his eyes, too quickly hidden for Miral to notice. Kal wonders how much Miral’s parents pay the guy to pretend to be their son’s friend.

He could try to back away, could cower and beg like the weakling Miral thinks he is, but he’d rather die than give this asshole the satisfaction of an easy win. Fog is already curling around his wrists – it takes focus to hide it, and he’s not exactly in any state to concentrate right now. Self-defence is as natural as breathing.

Tiir grabs the neck of his shirt with one bulky fist and hauls him to his feet. Kal spares a second to spit blood into Tiir’s face before he lets anger and pain overwhelm him, and the world becomes a grey-tinged blur.

Fog catches Tiir by the ankles. He falls with a yelp and a satisfying thud. Another limb of it sends the second lackey flying. A dark spiral of shadow advances on Miral like a serpent, and Kal is vaguely aware of someone laughing, high and manic and vengeful, as it coils around the minister’s son and lifts him into the air.

Miral howls insults as he struggles against the fog, eyes burning white with Radiance. A wall of light hits Kal in the chest, throwing him backwards. There’s a distant, sickening crack as his left side collides with the ground. The damaged arm disintegrates into fog, and he staggers to his feet again, lashing out towards where Miral is now kneeling in the grass, eyes still blazing.

A second pulse of Radiance crashes into the fog before it can hit its target. A wall erupts between them, a miniature thunderstorm of thick cloud and crackling light.

‘Fucking witch!’ Miral screams over the roar of magic. ‘I’ll kill you!’

Kal tries to scream something back, but half of his face and most of his arm and shoulder are gone now, along with the pain that he is not looking forward to dealing with later. He concentrates on pushing back the Radiance instead, watches the fog that used to be – that is – a part of him twist and roil with fury. It closes in around Miral, steady any unstoppable, and then the crackling Radiance dies all at once, cut off at the source. Miral turns on his heel to run. His bodyguards scramble to their feet and follow, like the obedient little dogs they are.

Only when the three of them are white specks in the distance does Kal let himself stagger back, drawing in the fog again. It hurts, but ways, it was worth it. Behind him, someone is running across the grass, yelling his name in that all-too familiar anxious tone. He just about stays standing long enough for Dakkar to catch him when his legs finally give way.

‘What took you so long, Dak?’ Kal says, grinning. His own voice sounds a million miles away. ‘You missed all the fun.’

[theogonies]

petrichor

a whole world lies beyond the borders of snezhnaya--and childe is determined to share it all with you.

characters: childe x gn!reader

word count: 600

content warnings: just (mildly suggestive) fluff <3

"Mmm," Ajax hums, a low sound in the back of his throat. "Don't get up just yet."

"We'll be at port soon," you murmur, still only half-awake. "There's work to do. And somebody needs his breakfast."

He responds by wrapping his arms more tightly around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Too bad. You're my captive now."

But you got used to Ajax's tricks a long time ago. Taking advantage of his sleep-addled state, you pry his hands from your waist and wriggle away to sit at the edge of the bed, sticking your tongue out at him for good measure.

"You're forgetting, I've got my own..."

Your voice trails off when one sea-blue eye winks open to look at you. Its corners crinkle in amusement when he sees how still you've gone, mouth still hanging half-open, as if you've already forgotten the words you were about to say.

He reaches out to brush his calloused fingertips across the back of your hand. Like everything Ajax does, there's no hidden intent to his touch; just a simple, impulsive desire to feel you close.

"It's been so long since I got to see you like this."

His voice is still hoarse with sleep, but it's softer now than before, muffled by the pillow.

It takes you a moment to process what he means. You've been sailing together for weeks now, and even before he finally relented to your pleas and allowed you to join him in his travels, you spent nearly every waking and sleeping moment at his side during his visits home.

But he's right. There is something different about today.

"This is your first time outside of Snezhnaya, isn't it?" He smiles at you, one cheek still mushed against the pillow. "We're set to reach Fontaine later today. Probably left the storm clouds behind while we were sleeping. Pretty, huh?"

And it really is a sight to behold, now that you're awake enough to pay attention. Rich, creamy sunlight spills through the porthole window, pouring across your bed to illuminate everything in a pale, pink-gold. Ajax's matted hair, the contours of his body, freckled and webbed with scars.

Even his eyes seem brighter in this light.

"Yeah," you whisper, feeling a sudden shame at interrupting something so precious. "Yeah. It is."

He wraps his hand around your wrist, and this time, you don't resist as he pulls you closer until you're nestled against his chest.

"Just like you," he murmurs, planting a kiss on your forehead. "You're going to love Fontaine, you know. I'll show you all the sights. Marketplaces with the most beautiful fabrics and jewels you can imagine, paintings that move as if they're alive, operas that'll make you laugh and cry more than you ever have in your life. My favorite is the water. Running rivers that are warm enough to swim in, and the waterfalls of Petrichor."

You close your eyes, returning to those old, familiar daydreams of a world that isn't blanketed in ice--and this time, it's almost close enough to touch.

So lost in your imagination, you hardly notice when Ajax flips you over so that you're pinned underneath him; better leverage to trail teasing kisses down the curve of your neck, across your collarbones, whispering to you all the while.

"I can't wait to share it with you, ptichka. But first, I'm going to make us breakfast, and you're going to stay here and enjoy the sun a little longer."

[idreamofdango]

It’s late, the village nestled under a heavy blanket of fog that clings to the rooftops like an uneasy ghost. A spectral chill hangs in the air, curling around every silent corner of Konoha. The streets are almost empty, save for you, on patrol, your footsteps muffled by the dense mist that swallows each sound.

As you round a bend near the old Uchiha district, a figure catches your eye—a flickering shadow at the end of a long, narrow alley. The air shifts, carrying a faint, metallic smell—rusted iron, maybe blood. The flickering shadow seems to stand in the same spot, as though waiting, yet each time you blink, it appears to have moved closer, impossibly fast.

The surrounding houses feel alive, their broken windows and charred beams warped into twisted, leering faces. One shudders as you pass, and a low creak breaks the silence, sounding eerily like a groan. Your pulse quickens. You ready a kunai, its tip glinting under the ghostly light of a slivered moon half-hidden by clouds.

Then, you hear it—a soft, whispery chuckle that echoes down the alley, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. You scan for the source, but there’s no one there—only your shadow cast against the wall, except…it doesn’t quite look like your shadow.

Instead, it’s taller, with hollowed eyes and elongated fingers stretched out toward you, as if ready to pull you down into the darkness beneath the village.

*makes hand sign* RELEASE

... good one Kurenai, you almost had me there (๑¯ω¯๑)

[scapegrace74-blog]

The Man from Black Water, Chapter 17

A/N  Here’s a chapter I’ve been looking forward to writing for a long time - the hunt for Beauchamp’s colt.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

There’s one Gaelic phrase, which I’ve used Google Translator to translate in the endnotes.

Previous chapters can be found on my AO3 page.

Not long after Jamie and the rest of the search party had left Netherton, Murtagh rolled into the yard, a pleased grin on his recently exposed mouth.

“All the men ha’ just left,” Mrs. Crook advised when she saw him climb down from his cart.

“And that is why I’m here, my dear Mrs. Crook,” Murtagh explained with great solemnity.  “Tae look after the womenfolk.”

Rosemary was in the kitchen, kneading dough, when the cook entered with a strange man on her heels.  She startled when she realized who it was.

“Murtagh Fitzgibbons, I hardly recognized you,” she exclaimed with a faint blush.

“Oh, aye.  I’ve become a respectable businessman, Rosemary.  I’ve brought you a sample o’ my product.  Quite hard tae come by.  In fact, tis the last bottle o’ its vintage.”

***

It took Jamie and Donas no time to catch up with the riders near the old bridge at Lair.  He was greeted with half-hidden sneers and more than a few menacing looks, but he kept his head held high and ignored them.  Hugh went out of his way to speak to him, inquiring about Donas’ soundness.

“He’s raring tae go,” Jamie confirmed after he checked the horse’s strong legs for any sign of inflammation.

Before they could exchange any further information, a signal flare shot into the clouds from further up the glen.  With a shout of boyish glee, the men gathered their reins and took off again at a gallop.  Thousands of pounds of horseflesh shook the earth.  Clods of mud were thrown into the air by the passage of iron-shod hooves.  The hair on Jamie’s arms raised, prickling with the electric intensity of an imminent thunderstorm.  He bent low over Donas’ back, distributing his substantial weight to ease the burden on the willing gelding’s legs.

Unbeknownst to Jamie, his progress was being carefully followed by Angus, who was still smarting from the beating the younger man had administered. The stockhand with the weaselly eyes stayed close to the Highlander’s flank, on the lookout for an opportunity to mete out his revenge.

It came when Jamie broke away from the main group to take a shortcut across a burn in spate.  Angus spurred his mount to follow until the two men were close enough to touch, horses matched stride for stride.  With an evil smile, he reached forward and pulled the bridle over Donas’ ears, leaving Jamie with no choice but to rein his horse in and dismount to avoid losing control altogether.  Angus turned back to shout obscenities at the Highlander, but as he did he was hit square across the chest by a low-hanging tree branch, unseating him and knocking him unconscious.

Jamie spared two seconds to ensure his nemesis was still breathing, righted Donas’ bridle and leapt back into the saddle with a hiss of encouragement.  The gelding took off like a shot.

On and on they rode, gradually gaining elevation until the valley floor lay far below.  Horses unfamiliar with Highland terrain stumbled and fell, many of them pulling up lame. Soon the group had dwindled to about a dozen men, their mounts’ sides white and foamy with sweat.  The black colt could be made out galloping across a nearby plateau, his silken mane and tail waving like a black flag as he fled his pursuers.  He came to a sudden halt, nimble legs dancing in place as intelligent eyes surveyed the landscape for an escape route.

“Munro,” Henry Beauchamp advised the veteran horseman, “drive him up onto the ridge.  We’ll corner him at the corrie.”

Giddy with delight, Hugh Munro positioned himself between Hamlet and the valley floor.  Cracking his stock whip, he drove the young colt uphill, dodging and weaving between boulders and unmelted snow.  Jamie looked on in admiration and envy as his mentor single-handedly pivoted the colt onto a high ridgeline that ended in an abrupt drop.  Whistling and jeering, the rest of the men followed.

What happened next made Henry Beauchamp’s blood run cold. Without a second’s hesitation, his colt worth a thousand pounds launched himself over the precipice.  With a flick of his back fetlocks, he was gone from sight. Hugh Munro reined his mount in sharply, a shower of pebbles tumbling down the cliff.  He peered over, watching the agile colt effortlessly maneuver the nearly vertical drop, muscles bunching and extending in a perfect display of horsepower in motion.

The rest of the riders joined Munro at the top of the crag, watching in silent admiration as their quarry made his death-defying escape.

“You can bid the colt good day,” Henry Beauchamp lamented with a curse.

Without warning, a speeding brown blur rode through the middle of the group, his rider’s distinctive red curls bent so far forward they were almost between the horse’s ears.  With a single crack of his stock whip, Jamie Fraser and Donas launched themselves airborne over the edge.  It was several endless seconds before four hooves once again made contact with a solid surface, and then the pair were rushing headlong down the mountain, bodies moving like a single organism.

Jamie loosened the reins entirely, trusting Donas to take the least perilous path down the rocky slope.  He leaned as far backwards as gravity permitted, his back coming into contact with the gelding’s heaving hindquarters.  His heartbeat slowed and he was beset with a blanketing sense of calm, like hearing his mother’s voice as a bairn, or waking in the grey dawn at Lallybroch and listening to Claire’s even breathing.  There were moments that he was shaped for, destined to live, and this was one of them.

Almost too soon, the ground leveled out beneath them.  Jamie gathered the reins and looked around for Hamlet.  The colt had slowed and was trotting down the narrow valley, less agitated now that he wasn’t being chased by a gang of rowdy men on horseback.

Jamie patted Donas on his soaking wet neck, sending up a prayer of thanks that they both got to the bottom alive.

“Jes a wee bit farther, man,” he urged his exhausted mount.

Taking care to approach the colt from upwind, Jamie began to speak aloud, hoping the recognizable rhythm of his voice would further calm him. Hamlet slowed to a jog, then to a walk, his expressive ears pivoting towards the familiar sound of his caregiver’s voice. At last he came to a halt, only twenty feet and a rushing burn separating him from the man and his mount.

“Halo, Prince o’ Denmark,” Jamie greeted softly.  Hamlet snorted in reply.

Wishing to appear less intimidating and to spare poor Donas, who was still huffing like a bellows, Jamie dismounted.

“Ye’ve lived up tae yer pedigree, son.  Twas a merry chase ye’ve led us on.”

Hamlet lowered his head and began to graze, all while keeping one eye on the tall Scot.

“I reckon ye find this place a good sight better than yer usual hame, and it is, but tis no’ place tae be alone come wintertime.  Ye’ll be far better off in yer nice warm stall wi’ all the hay an’ oats ye can eat.”

Inspired by his words, Jamie dug into his pocket.  Making certain he had the colt’s attention, he placed one sugar cube on his palm and extended it to Donas, who happily crunched down on the delicacy.  Hamlet’s head came up immediately, his furled nostrils quivering in their quest for the well-loved scent.

Moving with slow, deliberate movements, Jamie extracted a lead rope from his saddle bag.  Leaving Donas with his reins looped under a rock, he quietly approached the burn.  Two sugar cubes balanced on his extended palm, he waited patiently on the far bank.  Hamlet looked down towards the glen, as though deliberating between freedom and the familiar.  Finally, with a shake of his mane the colt forded the narrow stream and lowered his muzzle to gobble down the beloved treat.  He rubbed his sweaty head against the Scot’s shoulder, letting out a tired whicker of complaint.

“Aye, I ken, man.  I’m scunnered too.  Let’s get ye back where ye belong.”

***

It was not yet teatime, but the timid Scottish sun was already beginning to set.  Murtagh fussed with his wagon in the yard, not wanting to antagonize Henry Beauchamp unnecessarily, but concerned for his godson’s safety.

One by one, the riders from the search party began to straggle back to Netherton.  A few led their horses, while Angus rode behind Rupert, an ugly red lump decorating his ruddy forehead.  Henry halted his horse in front of the manor house, his morose features a clear indication of the day’s lack of success.  He was so disheartened, he didn’t even bother to yell at Murtagh, who watched on with a worried expression.

“Where’s Jamie?” Claire asked from the front steps, where she and her aunt had come to hear news of the search.  Her father shook his head mutely, and an icy belt of dread took hold of her lungs.

Before she could inquire further, a murmur rippled through the bedraggled assembly.

“God almighty, would ye look at that!” Dougal blasphemed from his vantage point on top of his mount.

The source of his astonishment was Jamie Fraser, riding Hamlet and leading an exhausted Donas down the lane at a stately trot.  Noble bearing and bright blue eyes flashing with the pride of redemption, he first fastened his gelding to the back of Murtagh’s cart.  He then trotted the colt right up to Henry Beauchamp, dismounted, and handed him the reins.  

“Yer horse, sir,” he bit out with forced civility.  With a brief nod towards Hugh Munro, whose smile stretched from ear to ear, Jamie dragged his weary body up to sit next to Murtagh. He barely had the energy to acknowledge Claire, who watched him with clear delight.

“Fraser,” Henry Beauchamp approached the cart, a wad of ten-pound notes clenched in his hand.  “I promised a hundred pounds to whoever recovered the colt.  It’s yours.”

Jamie stared at the money, overwhelmed by all that it represented. He glanced over at Claire, who nodded in encouragement.  Still, he didn’t reach for the reward.  To do so felt like it would somewhat diminish the clearing of his name and place him irrevocably in Henry Beauchamp’s debt, a long shadow from which it would be impossible to escape.

“Tis not why I rode,” he finally said.

“Seumas,” Murtagh whispered urgently, “smaoinich air na tha thu a’ dèanamh.” (*)

Even Claire looked momentarily doubtful.

“Ye’ve a fine herd of young heifers,” Jamie bargained, thinking quickly despite his exhaustion.  “I’ll be back in the spring tae collect a half-dozen o’ them.  And whatever else is mine,” he added, tipping his head in Claire’s direction.

“I don’t like to repeat myself,” Henry warned.  “She’s not for you.”

“Claire can decide her future fer herself.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, lad.”

“He’s no’ a lad, Henry,” Murtagh interjected.  “He’s a man.  A man!”

Slapping the reins against his horse’s back, Murtagh steered the old cart through the crowd of onlookers who parted like the Red Sea.

“Murtagh!”  Rosemary Morriston’s voice cut through the air.  

Murtagh reined in his nag and watched with bemusement as the elegant woman descended the manor house steps and made her way regally across the dusty yard.  Reaching the cart, Rosemary opened her arms as though inviting an embrace, and the old man’s cheeks reddened with pleasure.

“Remember what we spoke about,” Rosemary whispered past his whiskers before letting him go.

“I havena had sae much feminine attention in years,” Murtagh spoke loud enough for all to hear.  “Mayhap I’ll make my way tae church, in case God had a chance o’ heart as well.”

(*)  James.  Think about what you’re doing.

[phantasmaw]

♢*   — @melodicbreeze  ​/  𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫

  〈 ஐ* 〉┊  Vexing. That is the only word Sovann can think of to describe this particular bard's melodies. Each performance always has a way of slipping under their skin and captivating them. Like waves lapping against a rocky shore, each pluck of the lyre erodes the sharp bitterness bubbling in their veins until it's all washed away. In the absence of bitterness, yearning lingers, soft and pliable and frightening. How a simple melody strummed by a simple bard could lower their guard so effectively is entirely beyond them. That is what makes both instrument and player so vexing. And yet every night the bard has wandered out into the wilderness to play, Sovann has answered the music's beckoning call, even if only on the peripheral.

     Tonight is no different. The lyre's crystalline notes have long since coaxed them out of hiding. They lounge on their stomach atop one of the gargantuan branches reaching out from the archaic tree of Windrise. Hidden by both the dark of night and generous foliage, the displaced nightguard watches through half-lidded eyes as a cluster of fireflies waltzes to the bard's strumming. Their silvery tail twitches. The desire to hum tickles at the back of their throat, but they swallow it down. As the bard's playing slows, their eyes fall shut. Visions of glittering halls adorned with sunlit clouds float behind closed eyelids. When the breeze caresses their bare shoulder, it feels like a pair of familiar warm hands tucking them in to sleep. If they can stay like this a few moments more, then...

     The music stops. Sovann's eyes snap open. They push themself upright in time to see the bard standing. They blink in disbelief. That's it? Usually he plays at least five songs (they think; they're uncertain of when, exactly, a song begins or ends). At least long enough for the moon to rise much higher into the sky than it is now. An inexplicable burst of anger crackles down from the back of their skull and into their ribcage. It explodes against the pumping of their heart and falls into the pit of their gut, where it becomes a writhing, oily thing that steals their breath and makes a hot rash of panic sweep across their skin. Their lips curl back into a silent snarl.

      In a slash of liquid moonlight, Sovann suddenly stands in the way of the Mondstadt local. They glare down at him, eyes twin stars of molten gold that glower with discontent. One of their clawed hand brandishes their polearm. Hydro swirls in razor-sharp whirlpools at the tip of their weapon, pointed down towards the ground, but an unspoken threat nonetheless.

      "You didn't finish," they growl, low voice scratchy from disuse and roughly shaping each word in a more dated iteration of Teyvat's common language. Their gaze flashes from the lyre, to the bard's face, to the Anemo vision hanging at his hip, and then back to his lyre. The aura of the Statue of the Seven undulates in their ear. The oily feeling slithers tight around their gut. The gesture crassly with their polearm. "Every other night you play for longer. Much longer. Why didn't you finish?"

[dawngen]

DAWNCLAN: KEY DETAILS.

this post is a bulleted breakdown of key details pertaining to dawnclan, such as how they function, neighboring clans, what their territory is like, etc. this is specifically a bulleted list to make it easier to parse and to get right to the nitty-gritty of it!

DawnClan is situated in Mist-Bound Mountain. Towering over a vast valley, this mountain is named due to the frequency of fog and low-hanging clouds that cover it. The DawnClan cats stay to the mountain and its forests, for the valley below, Whistling Valley, has begun to see increasing Twoleg activity. From a young age, kits are taught to never leave the mountain.

While these cats came from the Highlands under the banner of the former HillClan, they were not used to a mountainous area like Mist-Bound Mountain upon first arrival. After each generation of DawnClan, however, their warriors become expert tree-climbers and adept in scaling rocky mountain faces. It is not uncommon for warriors on guard duty to do so from a high branch that allows them an ideal vantage point of the surrounding area, and apprentices are taught how to climb and descend from trees as some of their earliest lessons. Many cats even prefer to hunt squirrels and birds from the trees than the ground!

There are other groups of wild cats in the area, but none have adopted the clan way. GrassClan and CopseClan are the two most notable 'clans', and are named with the -clan suffix by DawnClan, not by the groups themselves. This is simply easier for DawnClan to separate the two as they are both, in fact, nameless. GrassClan claims the area close to Mist-Bound Mountain's base, hunting in the long grass of the valley, whereas CopseClan occupies the opposite side of the mountain, hidden away in a cavern never seen by DawnClan.

DawnClan makes a point of maintaining peaceful relations with these other 'clans', even if they have a hard time understanding their manner of function. They remember well how HillClan fell apart due to fierce wars over limited resources, and while the mountain's bounty is plentiful, it is better to maintain a positive relationship than a negative one.

There are no full moon clan gatherings. As the other cats in the area are not clan-cats, it was decided early on to not force any clan traditions upon them. Instead, full moons are used for DawnClan's medicine cats, leader, and deputy to convene. The health and welfare of the clan is discussed, along with ongoings that need to have a close eye--such as newly settled badgers, increased Twoleg movement into the mountains, an outbreak of greencough, etc. Every half moon, medicine cats will go and share tongues with StarClan at the mountain's peak. At the Sky Splinter, a sharp, out-jutting of rock that looks ready to pierce the sky, they settle at its base, and when shutting their eyes, the cats enter the shared dream of their ancestors. This is also where DawnClan leaders go to get their nine lives.

[squadron-goals]

Single seater fighter unit Vaux and first victories

On 11 January 1916, the Eindecker-Kommando Vaux was formed, to which the Feldfliegerabteilung 23 assigned Oberleutnant Berthold.

21 January 1916

About half an hour from the site of our field aviation unit, in a large old park, far from the main traffic, lies the little castle of Vaux, picturesquely hidden among old poplars and oaks. When I received my G-airplane last August and needed a hangar for accommodation, I decided to use the terrain near the chateau as an airfield and to use the chateau itself as quarters. After a few fights with higher-ups, I pushed it through. A large barn was converted in no time to house my bird, and the fields in front of the barn were makeshiftly turned into an airfield. The whole thing was the ideal of an airport, only 30 steps away from the chateau. When Buddecke and Althaus moved in with the Fokkers, we formed a small command for ourselves: 6 officers and 30 men. We were alone and yet always together with the unit. Gradually, the large combat aircraft disappeared from the fighter divisions and the observers were also replaced. It got lonely around us, but I held out. When a few more single-seaters joined the army in January, I put together my Fokker command again. Since we have a single-seater at the front all the time, even in only reasonably good weather, the French are now holding back quite a bit in January ... January is hard, it almost wears me down. I fly and fly, but don't get a shot in.

2 February 1916

The weather was bad today: low hanging clouds, rain. At 3 o'clock suddenly a telephone alarm: a large French aircraft is reported over Péronne. Althaus and I were just having coffee, the others had gone out. The two of us out onto the square and into the birds! Already it's raining again. "Nonsense really!" says Althaus, but jumps into his plane as soon as he sees me get in. Althaus keeps to my right. We couldn't see much. But finally, towards the west, above the line, a big hole in the clouds! We fly 2000 m high in a north-westerly direction. Suddenly I see two small black dots that quickly grow larger: two Frenchmen, but lower than us! I pull my bird around and take them on. Now Althaus sees them too and, since he flies lower than I do, he immediately flips over to the one closer to him, which now also immediately comes after him. I am not seen because I have kept myself in the sun. What comes now is the work of minutes! I let myself fall vertically behind the Frenchman and am already breathing down his neck as he comes up close behind Althaus. My machine gun begins its monotonous tack-tack. It's not long before he's lying on the left wing, smoking and crashing down. I dash after him. A glance at Althaus teaches me that the other opponent is also going down. So we have finished them both off. Still, you have to be careful, you never know ... In fact, my Frenchman straightens up again. Another MG round, then he really goes down. I see him disappear behind a copse ... I realise that I am flying too much to the west. My engine stops from time to time, either a valve or a spark plug is oily. What a mess! Land over there? Not at any price, so turn back! I land happily, Althaus is already anxiously waiting for me on our field. A congratulation, a storytelling that soon had no end! My mechanics are beside themselves with joy, the good guys! We belong together in joy and sorrow: pilot, mechanics and birds, a little family! While we were still talking, the scribe came and reported that the front troops had already confirmed by telephone that both Frenchmen had been shot down, the planes were behind our front line. Half an hour later we drive forward in cars. I don't come along any more, the impression the half-burnt, wrecked planes make is too bad. I leave quietly, but inside I am now free! My dear friend, my Grüner, now you are avenged!

5 February 1916

Today I brought down my second opponent, this time an Englishman. Over Bapaume I picked him out of a squadron of 5 aircraft. It didn't take long: after the first shot he was already finished.

[shiroi---kumo]

( @justaradioguy ) ->

Kumo has been gone for a bit. According to Cid, he went to go sit on the roof.

A prime opportunity, in Kain's mind. He's heard plenty of how the Comodeen is home for the Misterican, so he asks Cid to borrow a few things and heads off into the room allotted for Kumo to store all his things.

Chicken follows, because of course he does.

A couple of hours and a small shock later, the room's lighting has been redone with clouds like a thunderstorm - it's possibly the most beautiful electrical work that he has ever done.

He just hopes Kumo won't be angry.

"Alright Chicken, go get him for me."

The chocobo is off like a bullet from a gun, running down the halls and out past the guards screaming at the top of his little lungs. "Kweh!!! Kweh kweh kweh! Kweh!"

(Big brother! Come quick! We need you!)

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ He's been laying on the Comodeen's roof for some time now, after Cid caught him in the halls and asked him the one question that no one else ever did.

"When was the last time those lungs were empty?" He'd said to which the engineer found the Misterican soon avoiding eye contact and shoving his face nose deep back into the book he was reading.

"Kumo."

It was a hard scold but full of worry as jade eyes only shyly looked up from the book in his hands. The same book that was plucked from his hands as the engineer turned doctor simply pointed to the door.

"Are you kicking me out?" The prince had sounded in offense but the hand pointing at the door never fell.

"I am taking care of you. You said if you don't let that out it starts to hurt, didn't you?"

"Well.... yes."

"So go. If you have time to read a book, go do it on the roof. You can sleep up there for all I care. Just clear out those lungs. I thought you had to let it cycle."

"I do."

"Then go do it."

That was how he got stuck on the roof. That was how the entire Comodeen got told they had to stay indoors. The building might have been a massive complex but it was long since hidden in a cloud of white. Several clouds actually, as the Misterican had taken it upon himself to release his lungs several times over after not doing so at all for several months. He had not released his lungs in full since he was ... since well.. since Anarchy and that was more than a minute ago.

He tried reading his book after it had been returned to him and he got pushed out the door, but he ended up spending more time just blowing clouds into the air and enjoying the feeling of his chest feeling light for once. The mist spread out around them for miles and he found himself sighing that perhaps he should try to keep better track of this. That aching sensation at the center of his chest was finally gone after all.

The sound of loud and frantic Kwehing fills his ears, the shouts that he needs to come quick because he's needed, so the Misterican is rushing down as quickly as he's able to the ground again only for the bird to kweh loudly at him again and turn tail and run away from him back into the building in question. No guards at the gate but he personally made it so no one will be finding their location for sometime.

He's in a low level near flying float to keep up with the ball of feathers that is twisting and turning through the corridors of the Comodeen until they stop and arrive at... his own room? Is it Kain then? Did he crawl off to his room to take a nap then and perhaps something happened so the bird ran for help?

His lips are flattening out into a confused half frown as he leans down to lift the chocobo from the ground and into his arms as the door slides open and his eyes are filled with clouds. The light is dimmer but a spectacular display of colors just like the Sateenkaari. This is what the clouds look like when they over take the skies and rumble. The clouds he's never truly been able to look up before due to the danger the thunder presented to him.

Pale lips are hanging slightly agape as he stares and he feels the sensation of a wet warmth working it's way into his eyes. Snow colored brows already raised knit upward as he stares.

"It's ... beautiful."

A small puff of misty awe leaves him as he allows the bird to wiggle free and land upon his bed but the Misterican has yet to stop looking up. It takes several moments before the royal can finally bring his gaze down to rest on that of his friend. One Kain Fuery and it seems he is the one responsible for this.

"Kain - Kain did you do this? It's - It's amazing."

The awe in his voice never leaves even as the silent tears start to roll over porcelain cheeks.

"It's just like home."

[draklorn]

The harsh winds threatened to rip the Frostguard from their saddle, billowing off the sheer drop to a ground covered by clouds from their narrow path against the mountainside more ice than stone, now. Summer's Bane's walk had slowed as it pushed itself against the invisible barrier, sharp hooves stomping into the snow path in an attempt to get some footing. Both steed and rider kept their heads low to not challenge the wind's strength, Gauntleted hands gripping the horns sprouting from the creature's mane more intensely than leather reins. This path had been taken for its isolation, so that they did not come across heretics who bounded across the white meadows of the Freljord, confident in winning their petty squabbles. Who, in their blinding arrogance, forgot the power of those who protected them from themselves. Devan had not expected the blizzard to strike, its dense clouds rolling over from behind the mountain range they could not yet see beyond. There would be no caverns or outcroppings to seek shelter in along this pathway barely wider than their steed's burly width. They only prayed its full strength is what pelted the duo now, and that once they were no longer shielded from its side and found themselves in the open, they were not sent barreling off into that hidden landscape below the cloud they were in.

As the sheer mountainside rounded itself into a wider field, it revealed a river of snow softly flowing down a basin's smoother decline, before cascading down the drop far below in a makeshift, frozen waterfall, only to most likely join the blizzard on the lower fields below. Devan had carefully dismounted before testing the power of the wind here, taking the lead with reigns in both hands, and their split cape quickly tied around armoured arms to stay out of the way. A quiet sigh joins the endless howling around them when the only buffet they faced out here was the constant moving snow slowing their pace, and the Draklorn takes no time in moving away from the hazardous ledge.

Until something struck them, quick and hard on the helm.

There is a moment that is lost to Devan, before they come back to, with half of their body hanging off of the side of the cliff, one hand tangled in the reigns as Summer's panicked eyes look down at them from a strained neck. Battling against the daze of their mind and the torrential waves of snow, the Frostguard scrambles to solid ground. There was a sharp dent in their helmet where the arrow - they suspected - had hit its mark, and blinking away the snowflakes on their lashes, Devan frantically searches the white landscape for their supposed attacker. It was too dangerous to seek shelter along the narrow ledge in their stupor now, and so they march into the basin, drawing their sword and pulling their obedient steed behind them. Another arrow is loosed, finding a direct hit on their wrist. Shielded by their metal bracer, Devan still feels the shock rush through their entire arm and flexes their hand open on reflex, letting their sword fall aimlessly into the snow. It is pushed away and covered up to the blade almost immediately, and although they swipe at it, Devan knows it is a fruitless endeavour as its handle quickly disappears. Their shouted swear joins the howling choir, and they swing their attention to the rocky mountain side above them. Their attacker had to be nearby to aim so true. Gritting at the pain in their wrist and throbbing headache, they clamber over to the saddlebags, quickly reaching for their prepared long bow and a handful of bolts, before hitting Summer's back leg to signal it to flee the area. While its stampeding hooves made a break in the rolling snow, a black bolt was nocked and pulled taught. Devan's vision was uneven with their splitting headache, and frantically searching the spotted landscape for their foe was a near-impossible feat. It is at least a miracle they noticed the simultaneous figures arising.

The ambush charged with three brutes hurdling toward them, but their bow snapped and fired at one of the two other archers who appeared from the rocky cliffside. The whistle of their arrow was quickly lost to the wind, and their attention moved to the first heretic fast approaching. Her mace of antler was ready to swing up toward the Frostguard's helm. The gauntlet holding their bow meets her face first, carrying the weight of the weapon with it and making the warrior stumble. The next is close behind, dragging a warhammer behind him, unsteady as he underestimated the snow current quickening his footsteps forward. Devan rushes to meet him too, but kneels into the surging current, bow sweeping his legs as the momentum of the hammer swung carries him over. His landing is only temporary, and his yells are quick to evolve into distant screams as his grasping hands find nothing to hold his weight as he falls over the cliff face. Another arrow flies over Devan's head. "Svaag Black Clad!" The first raider had finally shaken off their strike, spitting blood and taking another run at them. Devan exhales a growl in return as they stand and face her. The third of the attackers was taking their arrogant time approaching. The Draklorn's opponent had her back to the void of grey now, but if following her companion into that perilous chasm worried her, it didn't show on her blood-smeared snarl. Devan's grip on their bow adjusts, and the other holding the arrows grows tighter. If they used the bow to fight, it might snap if drawn again. If they didn't, they were going to die in this valley.

Her attack is announced by her warcry, the axe swinging violently as it searches for a weakness in the Frostguard's armoured shell. Devan is a flurry of dark fabrics as they move with the attempted strikes, armour taking the brunt with inflicted scratches, and any swipes that get too close to joints are deflected with a bow limb. The raider gives an outburst of energy into one that aims to nestle between shoulder and neck. Devan jumps back into the rushing snow current, only to work with the momentum to rush back at her while the axe was finishing its arc. The bow is brought around her head until her neck caught between the string and lower limb, and Devan hauls the weapon to the ground hard. Cough stifled by the snow quickly falling over her face, a heavy, sharp outsole of an armour boot is raised as they aim for her neck. Until their helmet is yanked backwards by a powerful force. Tumbling to their feet, several arrows are lost to the snow drift. But Devan is far more focused on the third raider who had finally reached the action. They were not a short Iceborn by any means, but she stood more than a head higher even while hunched over, shouldering the pelt of a fully grown wildclaw. The fierce halberd in her grip looked too small in comparison. "Where's your pack, little priest?" The words rumble from her, footsteps heavy as the snow gave way to her wake. Devan's boots begin to skirt back in an attempt to keep some form of distance, but a bolt landing just behind them clearly sends the message they would not get very far. There wouldn't be much time to decide their next move anyway, the polearm is swung with one arm toward them. The force behind it is more than winding. Even when they had brought arms out to brace, the impact throws the Draklorn aside, helm flying as it was struck.

"No fun with only one mutt to kick around." The larger raider jeers over her shoulder to her battlesister, swinging the halberd in her grip like nothing more than a toy. The other was more solemn, chancing a look over the cliffside once she had found her footing again. A mess of decorative bone and hair covers Devan's features while they struggle to shake the daze, but they barely get the chance. The boot that kicks their torso meant harm with the dent that it left, but the grunt of pain and the little distance moved revealed the disappointment. "Oh just kill 'em, Kyrja!" The smaller one exclaims as she paces, out of frustration rather than cold. Perhaps she held hope for her other companion, even after that fall. Devan's thoughts lay elsewhere as they prayed for the will to stand and fight again, feeling something warm and wet quickly turn cold against their skull. A rough hand grabs at their neck, settling around their jawline as they were pulled up to and beyond their footing. Their bow tangled in their hair around their elbow, and one arrow stayed in their weak grip. Energy drained, Devan can barely call upon the strength to look their enemy in her eyes. Their own rolled into the corners, they watch her grip on the long weapon rises to their exposed, soft skin. In a burst of energy, Devan's teeth are brandished and close down on a course finger holding their chin.

Only having to bite down one more time before the index bones give out, their final arrow is sent directly down into the forearm holding the weapon at the same moment. The large raider, Kyrja, lets out a confused cry, not even giving the dropped weapon much notice as she looks at her hand in perplexity. Bloody-mouthed and reinvigorated with new life, Devan lands with the halberd quickly spun into their grip as they weasel their way about her legs, and swing at one of the fur-sewn boots. The other raider looks up at the sight with an angry and surprised cry, looking toward the archer as she lunged forward at the Forstguard. Devan snarls with bloody teeth in return. The halberd's beak catches her side before she even has the chance to swing her axe. Finally recovering from losing her digit, Kyrja returns to the present with a furious bellow, swiping furiously at the weapon to grab it back. Reinvigorated and heart pounding in their dented armour, the Frostguard bats the attempts away with the weapon's blade as they neared the rocky edge, until one over-reach allows them to maneuver around her. Point stuck in the ground, Devan heaves their weight into the air with the polearm's help, sending their boots into the raider's back with enough force to make her stumble over the edge. The grounded weapon keeps them barely on the side to scramble back up, leaving the pelt and its wearer to fall into the clouds.

Dark eyes spend little time observing the sight, locking on to the axe-wielder, who was seeing the bloody-mouthed, ragged Frostguard in a new, disturbing light. Instead of rushing her, Devan leans back as another arrow barely misses its mark. A smile creeps up their pale features, never breaking eye contact as the halberd is picked up, and a string around their neck is fished out from beneath worn layers. A makeshift, little horn appears in their adrenaline-shaking hand before it is brought up to cracked lips in a silent call. Unceremoniously dropped to clatter against deformed metal, Devan begins to march slowly forward. A drum of hoofbeats in the distance.

"O revered mistress, bless me with vision to perceive the dangers in the blizzard. Grant me the sense to feel the avalanche before I hear its growl. Gift me a tongue strong enough to call for aid as it bleeds. And with all I ask, be it enough to survive this darkest of times."

[oliviaspeicher]

Fate Wait

Content Warning: Violence, Injury, Discussions of Death

by Olivia Speicher

Part One: Amber Showers

The birds chirped with menace. They wanted to warn Mercy away from their precious nests — have her turn and flee in terror before she reached her lythe hands upwards and robbed them of their eggs. It wasn’t something she had any intention of doing, and yet they squawked like cornered prey, indignant, sharp. 

Mercy had not yet grown so misanthropic as to kill baby birds. 

Rays of wilted sunlight pushed like desperate children through the canopy overhead. A few groups of leaves on the ground glowed under the pathetic spotlight, too little too late for them —who had already fallen from grace, browned, crunchy, and dead on the forest floor. 

The weatherman had informed the county that morning: rain would not come. Although the clouds might hang low, as if on the precipice of weeping, not an inch would pour. The news had brought Mercy some joy. Rain fell often in Bristol, or perhaps it just rained often on the East Coast. Her father had always said that days of sunlight were days God was smiling, because humanity had not yet done anything to warrant his sadness. Mercy did not particularly believe in such ready answers. 

She had gone along with it, the church, the summer camps, the Wednesday night hymnals, but when Amber started to dodge out of it after reaching high school —Mercy followed suit. Amber always seemed to know the right thing to do. Of course Mercy had also developed doubts of her own. Their parents seemed displeased but unsurprised. Mercy’s mom had told her in secret that she had also lost her faith for some years in her twenties. 

A bird swooped down overhead, close enough to make Mercy flinch back. She attempted to track it with her eyes as it returned towards its nest, frantic with maternal urgency,  but she lost it in the trees. As she moved forward through the brush, Mercy realized she had walked this path before. There was a steep drop-off on the right side of the path, where the water from a stream had eroded the Earth down into a miniature valley. The undertow quietly tumbled the rapids over smooth rocks. The simple, serene act of nature, reminded Mercy of Amber: who had always loved the water.

Amber was her half-sister. Related only by their father — a man named Leonard Shaw. Amber’s mother was dead. She had died, writhing in pain, during the summer of 1986, her body fleshy and weak on a sterile hospice bed. Amber was being looked after by Leonard’s mother at the time, he was away on business in Philadelphia, so she passed away alone and ashamed in the cheapest room they could afford.

All of this Mercy’s mother, Jordan, had whispered to her in the dark solitude of the master bedroom, when Leonard was still watching the television late at night. After Mercy turned eighteen, her mother seemed to realize she was no longer a child, but perhaps a friend. A close confidant. She would push Mercy’s soft hair out of her face as they laid against each other — talking until the sun had hidden itself deep below the horizon. Everytime they did this, an unending thought would scamper through Mercy’s mind: Amber would never know this kind of comfort. She had rejected Jordan early on, like she was still haunted by the ghost of a mother she never really knew. 

Though the circumstances may seem grim, Mercy really did have a perfectly normal childhood. She lived in a two-story house, three bedrooms, two bathrooms. Amber had been her friend, growing up — though they had spats as any pair of sisters would. When Mercy hit high school, Amber had moved out, off to college in another state. She went to North Carolina, where the cold waves of the ocean would crest the beach in silent contentment — far away from the rain and woods. 

By the time Mercy had graduated, though, the money had run a bit dry. Paying for Amber’s tuition and housing so far away had been more than a few buckets in the well. So Mercy stayed close by. She lived at home, and commuted to the University of Connecticut. Perhaps the situation may seem unfair, but Mercy sort of felt it was a retribution; an even exchange for the pleasure of a living mother. 

On Wednesdays her classes would end at one forty-five pm, and she would drive home in her beat up car while mindless pop buzzed out of the blown-out radio. She would whizz down Ambler Road —a name that had such a comedic similarity to Amber that they used the two interchangeably— until she hit a trail head, then she parked her car, and started walking. It was nice. There was never anyone in those parts of the woods. No vast lakes appeared through a curtain of lovely green brush. No fickle deer peering at passerby with wide, innocent eyes — just ferocious, territorial birds.

Mercy was about to reach the halfway point of the trail, where it began to wrap back around itself in order to deposit hikers near the location they had started, when she caught a glimpse of a structure peeking through a thicket of trees some two-hundred feet away. Looming over the tips of tall shrubs, it looked to be made out of steel, or perhaps a cheaper alloy. The round walls were crested by vibrant graffiti art. 

Some wretched feeling of trepidation tore through Mercy’s stomach like a squirming bug. There was something that felt so perverse about seeing a man-made thing impose on its surroundings; an incurable sensation of wrongness that made Mercy see it as more akin to a dead animal than a sign of life. If she could identify one reason as to why she approached it: a morbid fascination. The same way a child might poke a decomposing squirrel in the park, its bloated body, which could no longer play dead even if it wanted to, limp under the puppeteering of mere circumstantial curiosity. 

She pushed the young Spring brush out of her way as she strayed from the foot-worn path. Aviators above screeched like innocent prisoners; the beating hearts in their flimsy feather frames bursting with venom as Mercy moved through the vegetation. Her eyes were set on the object before her. 

Upon closer inspection — there were three large metal cylindrical structures. They looked like giant oil drums, the ones people would get full of petroleum. Their engines and grills would guzzle it like an addict getting their fix, expel the waste like a bad memory. If the rain was God’s tears, then perhaps, Mercy thought, the oil was his shit. Maybe he tried to hide his shame deep in the crust of the Earth, hoping humanity would never shatter his creation badly enough to find it. 

Rust caked the drums, bits of crusty chemical reaction peeling away from the iron alloy as if they had somewhere to go. Most of the corrosion was covered by swaths of wild spray paint. There was a purple fairy, artist tags with big ballooned letters, and a small speech bubble which read ‘buff me’. 

Whatever kind of facility it had been, the place was  abandoned. Rowdy vines twisted with vengeance around stray pipes. Autumn brush which had long ago fallen collected along the seam where the metal met the ground. Mercy had wandered around the area countless times, and yet this place had eluded her. Some thirty feet away she saw another graffiti ridden structure — this one a concrete box. The building was stout, lacking any fancy accoutrement: an eyesore of American practicalism. There were several more buildings scattered throughout the terrain, along with  some sloping staircases that led down to tunnels. Mercy couldn’t have been sure when the place was last in use, perhaps some time in the late seventies. 

Amber would have loved it. If she had been with Mercy in that moment — she would have begun explaining in detail the scale and velocity of the party she would be throwing the next night inside the crumbling buildings. Thursday had always been the night Amber hung out with her friends, not Fridays as her hangover would interfere with Saturday softball games. When Amber played, she would get a real serious look on her face; like her life depended on winning. In a lot of ways it did. Mercy could still recall the screams of rage, the broken bats, the loud chatting of a dozen angry girls in their basement. When Amber left, the house got far quieter. Only three mute mice were left to scurry around in there. 

A small drop of rain splashed atop Mercy’s hair. April showers bring May flowers. Or May flowers, Mercy’s mind wandered, mimicking her feet — Amber showers and then brings Mercy flowers. Mercy thought of the poor suckers named after months of the year, how confusing is that? She knew a girl named June once, who would touch her shoulders and back without asking. Finally, in seventh grade, she moved to Kansas City. ‘Good riddance’ was all Mercy could think, as she departed, weeping, from the school. Mercy gazed into the gray expanse above her; the news always seemed to lie, and God weeped too that day.

Part Two: Four  Letters

On Sunday evening Mercy discovered a letter in the mailbox addressed to her. Her name was in careful handwriting that sloped thoughtfully over the tall hills in the big letter ‘M’. The ballpoint had curved around the ‘c’ — venturing up and down again for a round ‘y’ which swung around the bottom, underlining the whole name. The return address was: 

Amber Shaw

1105 Highway 54 Bypass, Apt 314

Chapel Hill, NC 27516

It had been a very long time since Amber contacted her. Mercy wondered why she  had chosen to send a formal written letter, rather than a quick email. 

04/02/2007

Dear Mercy,

I realize by now you’ve been in college a while. Sorry I am late. I wanted to tell you this when you graduated high school, but then I thought it would be too much for you to handle at a time like that. I love you, and you have always been my sweet little sister. I am sorry if I didn’t show you enough. I know how our Dad is. He isn’t very good at those kinds of things either. I haven’t told either of them, and please don’t tell them this. So, around a year and a half ago, I got pregnant. The father was this guy named Aaron, anyway he’s a good person. I think maybe it seemed like I was having a really good time on Facebook and stuff (thanks for the pokes) but my life has been really fucked up. I got pregnant and then I thought I would keep the baby even though I didn’t want it. Aaron didn’t want it either so he kept asking me why and why and why I wouldn’t just get rid of it. But it’s so fucked up, and I couldn’t explain this to anybody else but you. I wished I could talk to you then. My mom just left me here and I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that I had a deadbeat ghost craning over my fucking shoulder. I guess I even really blamed her for getting sick because it was her fault for being with so many random guys. She knew what was going around. But then I went to college, and I guess I just did the same exact thing, didn’t I? 

You don’t really need to know about any of this, but I wanted to tell you. It was weird, I guess it just felt like the right thing to do for a long time, but I didn’t want to bother you. Anyway the point is that I’m telling you everything. Get ready for the mope-fest: the baby died. It’s honestly funny. It was just all bloody and wrong, so I went to the doctor again and they told me it was dead and that it would just fall out eventually. So all of it was for nothing in the end, really. Then, for a long time, I was really glad I didn’t tell you or Dad or Jordan because it didn’t end up being anything at all. I could tell Aaron was so relieved and honestly I was too. I thought things would just go on, but I was wrong, and I just can’t stop thinking about that stupid fucking baby. I think I’ll only be with girls from now on (don’t tell your parents that either). I buried the weird little thing some ways into a tree line by the highway. I haven’t been home in a while. I thought maybe, if you send me a letter back, I would come. I wasn’t sure if you wanted me there. But I really can’t stand being in this city anymore.

ps. You should post more. You’re beautiful, Mercy.

Love you so much,

Amber

Mercy folded the letter back up, slipped it into the thick parchment envelope — a duck stamp emblazoned with pride in the top right corner, and laid it into the top drawer of her desk, taking care to place it flat. She ran her hand over the bumpy white paper once more, before squirreling it away.

What a strange letter, Mercy thought. Amber had never been so warm with her. Her ‘I love yous’ had been tight lipped things that came out like bile at the prompting of their family members. So much awkwardness in words that are meant to be inspired by truth. Hard to say, in Mercy’s eyes, if affection could become real — transcend the barriers of performance. The only certainty of love Mercy had ever experienced had come from her mother. She would tell Mercy that a mother’s love is greater than any obstacle on this Earth, and when a child leaves their mother’s body — this creature she’s been keeping inside of her own physical flesh, as soon as they are born they’re vulnerable. The link between mother and baby is severed, but that thing that was part of her body is out in the world and must be protected. She said she was overwhelmed by her infatuation with Mercy. 

Is that what Amber felt, when she buried the child in the shallow ground past whizzing cars? The distant sister suddenly appeared to Mercy as a far more complicated person than she had ever realized. Why had it taken her this long? She imagined Amber’s calloused hands, rough from the hewn wooden bat she had swung, shaking in the cold, as they parted wet soil which crawled up under her tiny fingernails. And she dug a hole big enough for her poor, dead, baby. Amber had never been so warm with her, as she was in that letter. Their family must have done so wrong by her, if she sat in that place alone — grieving a child who was never given the opportunity to exist. 

A memory rose to the front of Mercy’s spinning thoughts, whirling like a little metal top. One night, back when Mercy was still in middle school, she had gone downstairs into their kitchen with orange oak cabinets, and a round table with four seats that were never occupied at the same time. She had wanted to sneak another slice of Amber’s birthday cake: selfish brat. Chocolate icing smeared along the length of her tongue, she didn’t turn the light on for fear of being caught — so she sat in darkness at a table for four: for one. A commotion emerged from the corner which separated the staircase from the drywalled edge of the kitchen. Amber stomped onto the tiled floor, unconcerned with the amount of noise she was making. Her dark hair was tangled into ropes —  her young face tear soaked and puffy from distress. She sniffed, more vulnerable and small sounding than Mercy had ever heard her, and opened the fridge. Yellow light poured out of the white doors which were plastered with papers and pictures, illuminating Amber’s solemn face. Mercy thought of a repentant angel. 

Against her better judgment: Mercy opened her mouth to ask, in her tiny voice, “Are you okay?” 

Amber’s body jolted with shock as she flung her head around to seek Mercy, shrouded by darkness. 

Amber sighed, coming down off the adrenaline,“What the fuck are you doing down here?” 

“Nothing,” Mercy replied —far too quick.

“Nothing?” Amber attempted to clarify, doubt evident in her crackling tone.

“Were you crying?” Mercy probed. Amber never cried, not since they were very little.

Amber narrowed her teary eyes. Her gaze flicked down to the plate in front of Mercy — a slice of rich chocolate cake sat atop, leaning over like a half-played game of Jenga. Fear began to rise like bile in Mercy’s stomach, the aftertaste of icing turned bitter in her zipped mouth. 

Amber must have seen something on Mercy’s face because her suspicion faded. Amber’s lips morphed into a pout, like another sob was just rearing up to sputter out of her tight chest. She took a few careful steps closer, coming to stand next to Mercy at the table. 

“I’m sorry,” She whispered, sounding more like a child than a high schooler.  She reached a tentative hand forward, her fingers slipping through the strands of Mercy’s freshly brushed hair. After a few moments, her hand stopped moving, and she placed it atop Mercy’s head — the touch was gentle, full of a maternal love that reminded Mercy for a moment of her own mom. “You can have the rest of it,” Amber surrendered, the shadow of a smile on her mouth.

“Really?” Mercy couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice.

Amber moved away from the table, turning her back on her sister, walking towards the stairs, “Yeah, really. Good night, Mercy.”  

Mercy was roused from her thoughts by the sound of the garage door opening:  her father was home. She wanted to tell her mother about the letter, but Amber had given her such a warning against it. Even then, Jordan had never lost a child. She always said Mercy was her one and done. She had dreamed of a daughter her entire life, and God granted her one on the very first go around because she had prayed so hard for it. Mercy tried to picture her own mom pushing Amber’s wet hair out of her face as she sobbed with muddy hands. 

Would a spirit be lifted from the ground, in one way or another?

That night, Mercy’s father sat frustrated in the living room, trying to complete a paperbound book of three hundred crosswords. 

“What’s another word for caution?” He asked, finally yielding to the desire for help. All evening he had been letting out exasperated sighs — as if it was the fault of his wife and daughter that he didn’t know the answer to seven across. 

“Warning?” Mercy’s mother replied, absentminded, from her place on the couch.

“No, four letters.” 

Mercy pondered the riddle for a moment, “Heed?” 

Her father twisted the princess themed mechanical pencil he was using between his fingers. The eraser had long been chewed off by Mercy’s gnashing and juvenile teeth.

“No, that doesn’t work with nocturnal,”  He ground his jaw together in annoyance.

“Who knows these kinds of things?” Mercy’s mother questioned, huffing like a dog, and laying her romance book down onto the flat part of her chest. 

“People who are worth their salt,” He mumbled, adjusting his reading glasses against the bridge of his thin nose.

Jordan shared a knowing look with Mercy, “So what are we worth, then?” 

A weak grin pulled up around Mercy’s lips, “I guess we’re just worth our dirt.” 

“I’ve done just around two hundred of these — I’d say that’s worth a bit more than dirt,” Her father protested.

Mercy scoffed, “They make those for kids.”

“God, Mercy, no they do not. Do you always have to do this?” She could almost hear the sound of her father’s molars being eroded down to nubs as he clenched the muscles in his face.

In all her eighteen years Mercy was never able to resist poking the bear, “Do what?” 

“You just have to piss me off.”

“I don’t do it on purpose.” 

He was silent for a moment, “I’m sure.”

Part Three: Death Walk

Leaves crunched on the underside of Mercy’s boot:  it sounded like tiny screams. The wind whipped with vehemence around her face — like an ice cold knife that serrated her softened cheek. The birds were silent. 

It was Wednesday. During her class, Mercy hadn’t quite been able to still the restless twitch in her leg. The limb moved on its own, anticipatory; she had counted down the minutes until her week awaited jaunt back to the old oil terminal. There was a creature which had curled in her gut all week, whispering to her that she had left something there unfinished. The rain had drowned out her exploration and with it washed away any sense of conquest for the rusty wreck.

Mercy’s hair flew, whipping and wild, around her as her body pushed against the fearsome gusts, towards her destination. The leaves and twigs of the trees sang sharp melodies as wind propelled through their gaps — secrets like hidden things felt comforted by their concert. 

When Mercy had responded to Amber’s letter, the words had spread forth from the far edge of her pen like buried soldiers on a vast hill which had once held a great battle. Like secrets underneath the surface. 

04/11/2007

Dear Amber,

I am glad that you told me, and my heart breaks to think of you so cold and alone. I think of the time we shared together under the same roof and mourn each moment I let you slip between my fingers. I love you dearly. Nothing you can do will make me push you away. My mother loves you, too. I know you may not want to hear it — but I could see in her face so many times she had wished to wrap you in her embrace, and calm the crazy storm that always seemed to be raging in your mind. I search for her in my moments of loss, and I can’t stand the idea of you feeling like you have nowhere to return to. 

That being said, I swear I will not tell another soul.  Our father likes to stir the pot. Mother would perhaps not understand you as deeply as you need. Please, Amber, don’t be scared — I know your baby rests. I know how deep the water can run, but it’s never dirty. And hidden things are never gone. You did nothing wrong, nothing. 

Please come home Ambler

Love,

Mercy 

Through a thicket of branches, Mercy was able to see the rusted drums peaking through like a curious stranger. A stray breeze caused a razor-like twig to thrash, scratching Mercy’s arm as she pushed the brush aside. A sound like a drum pumped a monotonous beat against her inner ear — her heart squeezing blood out to the rhythm of a death walk. Suddenly, Mercy felt a sense of duty. Almost as though she was guiding a spirit. 

The terminal folded into shape around her, like orange crusted ladders unfurling themselves upwards into an endless sky. Concrete buildings rose from the Earth and shook themselves free of dirt. A sound like a big drill began to hum, causing the entire area to quake with uncertainty. Mercy followed the noise as it grew louder, and louder. For a choice without action is simply a thought. And Mercy had made a choice when she parked her beaten car on the edge of Ambler road; when she had closed the driver's door and stepped unceremoniously into the unexplored known. 

She weaved through the crumbling structures, every few steps her boots got caught in a thick patch of thorny ground cover. The soil and rocks appeared to groan with ill ease as the mechanical buzz continued to permeate the air. 

The spirit on her shoulder wished for her departure — it called to her to turn around, but the thrum lured her further. Some kind of witchcraft, as wind seemed to almost speak in her red-rimmed ears. Two forces pulled upon her frigid skin, attempting to tear her apart. 

Suddenly, the drilling stopped. Mercy looked up to the sky for explanation — to a God that had promised to hold her heart, or so she’d been told. 

 The sky was empty, and as she took her next step, so was the ground below her. The Earth bellowed a wail, as Mercy fell into a concrete lined hole. Her hair flew upwards, like it was trying to grab the lip of a stray rock — but all that surrounded her as she plummeted down was smooth pavement. She reached her hands outwards, scrambling for purchase, but the skin of her palms tore itself to shreds against the friction from the cement. The universe had decided at its conception that Mercy should fall. That in the very center of the planet lives a force so powerful, so tempting, that no piece of matter should be capable of resisting it. Eventually, the concrete was no more, and the walls surrounding Mercy were just black damp mud — the pungent smell of unrefined oil filled her senses and pushed itself into her fibers. Her bloody fingers scratched the sludge around her, it forced itself under her nails and covered her once lythe hands. A stray metal bar stuck itself outwards, proud to emerge though the oil drenched Earth, and Mercy struck her arm against it as she slipped even further — she heard a sickening sound as the limb cracked in half.  She cried out in agony and heard herself echoed a thousand times. She pleaded for her life, and felt the emptiness like a slap in the face. 

When she hit the ground, it was nothing but another blow against a beaten Earth. 

Gray waves crested a rocky shore. In the distance: a lighthouse blinked once, twice, three times. Mercy stood barefoot — her soft feet being poked and prodded by the stone filled sand. The water wind blew in, certain and frosty, atop the roaring ocean. Seawater smelled like salt crystals and raw shrimp. 

The beach was empty. There were no people, no anxious crabs hiding under the dunes, no seabirds taking flight crying across the horizon. Mercy took a hesitant step forward, and her legs brought her where she wished to go. As she grew closer to the edge of the water, a soft feminine voice began to whisper in her ear. She said no words, at least not any that Mercy could make out, but simply made her presence known. When Mercy placed her barren foot into the end of the sand, where the blue toned foam could wash over it, the water felt unbearable: far too cold. In such a way that the chill of it almost burned — as though the salt and ice were corroding away at her thin skin. She took a small step back, feeling very scared.

“Mom?” She called out, trepidation dripping from her tinny voice. 

Mercy recognized where she was. A beach, in North Carolina — when they went to visit the campus with Amber her senior year, they made a detour to the Eastern coast of the state. Their father had not come. He said he had work, but he probably just wanted to complete his crosswords in peace. A girl’s trip: Mercy’s mother had talked about the trip for weeks. Her heart was always bared clear as day to her family — excitement rang like a bell in her voice as she showed them both articles titled 10 Fun Things to do in Charlotte, NC. Amber had asked if they could visit the ocean. 

“Of course, sweetheart. This is your trip!” Jordan had replied with a warm smile. They left a day earlier from Charlotte than planned, and drove the nearly six hours it took to get out of the landlocked central city to the largest lagoon along the North American East Coast: Pamlico Sound. They had gone during Winter Break, so the water was frigid — unswimmable unless you wished for your lungs to constrict and the weight of your body to pull  you down into a cold death. When they arrived, the beach was empty. The flagpole which was meant to show how safe the waves were for the day was instead barren. Two lifeguard towers stood a few feet in the air: unmanned. 

Amber walked to the shore right away, leaving Jordan and Mercy behind in her wake. Her dark silhouette stood out against the low, white, sun which threatened to dip below the horizon. Long hair spilled over her slumped shoulders as the sea spirits carried the breeze to land. She went no further, she did not touch the water, she did not take a picture, or play in the sand. She had just stood there, observing the lapping waves.  

“Amber?” Mercy whispered, hesitant to utter the name. She wasn’t sure if she did it in the memory, or in real life,  “Mommy?” She tried again. 

The sun was growing brighter, rapid like a beating heart— making Mercy’s surroundings glow brilliantly, so much so that she was forced to close her eyes. But she could still hear the sound of the restless waves as they collided with the pointy rocks which lined the coast. 

Mercy knew, logically, that she had fallen down very far. She recalled that something had happened in the forest when she found the oil rig again. Voices she didn’t recognize had spoken to her — and they continued to even on the beach. She allowed herself to wonder, for a moment, if she was perhaps in heaven. That maybe in the fleeting second she had looked above to God before she fell, she had earned back her salvation — ripped it from the clutches of apathy and doubt. Was this world her perfect eternity? The moment she shared with her sister and mother five years ago? But how frightening it had become, without them there: a nest with no birds. 

Somehow, it felt wrong. Mercy did not feel as though she were dead. There was that doubt again, which whistled in joyous communion as it writhed within her mind. If there was a God, did he not welcome his subjects with an embrace? Did the Devil not begin to sing of a sinner’s crimes?

Dread began to hang itself, polite as a mouse, over Mercy’s shoulders. The place she was in seemed perverse — a fabrication in lieu of a more final destination. She was supposed to be home soon. Her mother should have greeted her near the door with the self-same unwavering excitement and adoration she had held for Mercy since her conception.

Is this how she repays such a debt? With her child’s body in the ground. She was on a beach, and she felt the salty wind twisting her hair, she saw her memories before her — but all the same Mercy knew she was gone. The idea of her mother’s grief was far too heavy a burden to bear. They would perhaps never even find her, not her poor mangled body which had fallen so deep into the surface. 

It had all been for nothing. The sacrifices — letting Amber go to the better school, pushing through her unrelenting distance, Mercy waited and bid her time to be there for Amber  at the right moment. Perhaps Mercy was destined to fall away from her. There was nowhere for Amber to hang her coat, when she returned home.

Part Four: Orpheus Maker

04/20/2007

Dear Mercy,

I miss you so much. Your mom is not doing well. I know you probably don’t want to hear that, but it’s the truth. I wish I could just see you one more time. They say you could have run away, but they found your car parked on Ambler. When they called me and told me you didn’t come home, I got the first flight here. 

It’s ironic, isn’t it? That I spent our entire lives pushing you to the edge of myself, pretending like you and your mother didn’t exist because it made me feel like a good daughter to a dead woman, and then the moment I realize how stupid I’ve been and how cold it is to hug a corpse you get killed too. Or maybe you’re alive. God I hope you are — but at the same time I can feel it. I think I know that you’re gone. Your mom knows it too. Her sobbing is unbearable, she goes out in that stupid fucking forest everyday looking for you, and I do, too. She can hardly see past the tears and she just cries your name over, and over, and over again and it drives me fucking crazy. 

And our dad is as useless as ever. What does Jordan see in him? He managed to get two incredible wives and daughters who wanted to love him so bad and he still fucked it up. But anyway that’s not important, really. 

If you were here, you would tell me I’m crazy, but I just have this feeling — this gnawing gross and just weird sick knowledge that this is my fault. The world is punishing me for what I did. It’s punishing me for the shallow grave. But what was I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do now? If we never find you, then our parents will never see me again. I can tell you that right now. You were my baby sister, and you were always so much calmer and more mature than I was and I never saw it. I am so sorry Mercy — I should have been here with you. I should have stayed in Connecticut because running away to the ocean got me nothing but fucking dirt. 

Mercy, please be resting, please. Please be somewhere where you’re happy and smiling that sweet way you do. You were so beautiful. 

Love you,

Amber

When Mercy opened her eyes again, she was in her house. Before her was the orange oak staircase which led upstairs to her and Amber’s rooms. Silence crested around each curve of the home — she could tell the house was empty like it was breathing, she could feel her mother wasn’t there. The house was silent, save for the humming of the dishwasher, and the sound of clean air leaking through the vents.

“Hello?” Mercy asked the empty structure — call and response. 

Something like a whisper replied, far too quiet to understand. 

“Hello,” She tried once more.

“Orpheus?” A soft feminine voice spoke into the stillborn space. 

“My name is Mercy,” She corrected her. The voice took a moment before speaking again.

“No, your fate was Mercy,” She explained —her voice reminded Mercy of a lullaby.

Mercy looked around at the eerie home, she recalled the cold beach and the too bright sun, “I’m scared. I fell down.” 

The woman made an earnest noise of pain, “I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I could not save you in the way you probably wished.” 

“This is my home,” Mercy stated.

“This place is not the home you know,” The woman whispered, almost reluctant.

A truth that Mercy had already begun to feel, like a thundering pulse in the bottom of her stomach, rose up, “I am dead?” 

“No, you have fallen into my embrace.” She soothed.

“I cannot go back home?” Mercy asked — she wanted to see her mother, to talk to Amber and comfort her and make sure all of it wasn’t for nothing.

“I’m sorry. No, you cannot. You were born to die at that moment,” The woman’s voice broke as she spoke the words, as though she were on the verge of tears. 

“Do I know you?” Mercy questioned, for what reason did this woman cry for her?

“I am sorry. I am being selfish for wanting to keep you, my Orpheus.” The woman confessed, 

“Let me explain further,” She continued.

“There is nothing after death, when you die: that is the end of your consciousness. There is no living anymore. But you, Orpheus …. I just thought, something deep and powerful within my heart, that you did not deserve it. I wanted you to know more — I thought you were so nearly perfect: so kind, patient. You were funny, so sweet, such a sweet daughter. How cruel it was that the ground swallowed you in that moment,” She became silent, perhaps choosing her next words very carefully.

“It is so lonely, you must understand. You must believe me. If I could have spared you from that fate, I would have in a heartbeat. I know how your mother mourns, I can see your beauty. How easy you are to love, Orpheus. But, there is a place for you here — with me.”

“Why did I see the beach?” Orpheus murmured.

“I wanted to, I tried to, show you happiness. Such a pitiful attempt, I know, empty, and cold, as things tend to be here — I understand  you are accustomed to warmth,” The woman cooed, and Orpheus felt a caress upon her cheek.

Somewhere in the distance the gutter rattled against the side of the house. Such a disturbance happened often, as they discovered a bird had recently made its nest in the metal tubing. During the early spring, Jordan decided to clean the outside of the house; rake the old, dead, leaves from the ground — trim the hedges, clear the gutter. When she saw the baby birds, she had called out for Mercy. She yelled at the top of her lungs with a juvenile enthusiasm.

“Come see! Come see!” She banged against the windows heartily, attempting to get Mercy’s attention.

She descended from the ladder, letting Mercy tread up — caution lacing each step, all the way to the second story. The mother bird wasn’t in the nest at the time, it was just the strange little featherless babies, which opened their maws: expectant. Is that why the mother bird existed? Did she live to feed empty mouths? Whenever Mercy had said she was hungry, her mom would descend upon her offering food. She would push Mercy’s  hair back from her face and provide her labor like it was nothing. If Mercy was cold, she would have taken off her own clothes to warm her, placed her own shoes upon Mercy’s lythe feet. Was being a mother a service, more than anything? Jordan would have sacrificed anything to aid Mercy’s comfort. When she felt joy, looking at the small naked birds in a big stick nest, her only thought was to give it away. She wanted to gift the experience to Mercy because that was the desire that laid most ardent in her heart. 

Tears began to collect like rainwater in Mercy’s eyes,“My mommy,” She choked out.

“You love her very much,” The woman stated.

“Yes, she holds my hand,” Mercy responded through her buckling sobs. 

“You do not wish for me to hold you?”

“I cannot. How could I let her go?” 

“I understand. In death you will hold onto her still?” 

“Yes, I must.” 

“Then I will let you rest.” 

Mercy walked away from the orange oak stairs, into the hallway off of the living room. Her body was silhouetted strangely against the off-white walls, the light in the home was not quite right. The oblong form shone in the shadows like an unwanted guest. She pushed the crooked door to her mother’s room open —it had been thrown off its hinges slightly when a young Amber and Mercy had played a too rough game of catch, and Mercy had stumbled backwards into it. She hit her head, and began to wail like an alarm. Jordan had appeared in an instant, crouching to her knees to pick up Mercy’s prone form. She enveloped her daughter in a benevolent hug, stroking her fine hair with gentle fingers as she whispered condolences. Amber had watched the scene unfold from the other end of the hall, gazing upon the two as though they were ghosts. 

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Jordan turned her head to ask Amber, as Mercy continued to bawl into the crook of her neck. She extended her arm outwards, inviting Amber into her embrace. 

“I’m fine,” Amber answered, her eyes flicking down to the floor with embarrassment as she fled into the living room. 

Her mother’s king bed appeared behind the squeaking door, it was made up in the same age-worn quilt it always was. Some of Jordan’s books were stacked in a haphazard tower on her nightstand, along with reading glasses and a near empty cup of water. 

Mercy laid her quiet head down on the feather filled pillows, her body limp on the cold bed which had never known use in such a place, and went to sleep. 

Part Five: Love Mercy

Dear Amber,

When you find me dead, please don’t depart, Amber. If I could wish for anything only once, it would be that my mother embraces you in her arms. Please return her solemn grasp with your own. Please let her comfort you with her strength, and please don’t leave her alone in that house. 

I know I may ask too much. I am sorry but I can’t ask for anything less. I love you, Amber. I still hold my mother’s hand, but will you hold her too? 

What happened to me is not your fault, and tell my mother the same. I spoke to the Earth and she told me my fate. I felt the drums of caution and walked along with death. Your destiny sings like a siren when it asks for you to fulfill. There is no avoidance, no second chances, and no life beyond the end. God will not extend his arms. God will not invite you in. God will not speak to your virtues. Death is cold, and though the center of the Earth burns bright she cannot comfort you in it. A shallow grave is no less comfortable than a deep one, I promise you. 

A spirit will be lifted from the ground. My body is just a cold corpse, so please don’t cling onto it. I will go into blissful sleep with a grin on my face. 

To my mother, even when I had nearly forgotten all the things I lived for, your presence never left my mind. I swear I will never let go of you. Never forget how I cling to you, how I need your comfort, please continue to embrace me, mommy. Mommy I am scared still, so please don’t let me go. I sleep in your bed with you.  I want to lay forever beside you. 

In my death, extend your arms to Amber once more — for me. 

Love, 

Mercy