#he demeanour only changes when wails on a shadow and when he says ‘he was supposed to go to prison’ and that makes me insane

[s0fter-sin]

watching the valeria interrogation again and when alejandro says, “you disgrace the army”, rudy steps forward but when alejandro looks over his shoulder at him and says, “and your brothers, no?” he steps back again, almost like he’s trying to pull himself out of the conversation

alejandro leans in close to her and rudy reacts like he wants to pull him away, to protect him from her and from her words, but when he brings up that valeria hurt him too, betrayed him too, rudy retreats like he doesn't want to be reminded of it

it's alejandro who keeps valeria talking about the past, who prompts her to say more when simply saying she's ex-military would've been enough. they bait each other, valeria far more successfully than alejandro; she’s essentially running the interrogation

this speaks volumes of rudy’s interjection of, “he (the son of la areña) was supposed to go to prison”. he’s getting short; cutting off valeria and her excuses, not to redirect them back to the point of the interrogation but bc he’s done with her. rudy’s terser with her, more obviously angry, than he is with an actual terrorist

alejandro can't get past their history; let's himself get pulled off track and compromised but not be he's more upset than rudy. rudy has just repressed the hell out of it; if he doesn't think about it then it didn't happen

but now, he's suddenly being confronted with it head on

"you disgrace the army," is generalised; valeria didn't just hurt rudy, she hurt all of them. it's easier to take

"and your brothers," calls rudy out directly for his pain; pain alejandro wants retribution for and he doesn't want to face it, doesn't want to admit to it bc he doesn’t want to have to feel it

[austerulous]

◈   @destineden

Beautiful and rootless, great sprays of chrysanthemums decorated the shining foyer, their slender stems bending under the weight of their blooms.  Beautiful and rootless, Awa strode through the generic opulence of the hotel.  Duty’s crown did not weigh on them so heavily; they navigated their transient existence with flawless, infuriating poise.  Still every instinct in the mercenary screamed that he must protect them, shield them from the shadows that lurked within the asphalt veins of the city.  His devotion was evident in his healing bullet wound, knitted into its gory roots.

Hanzo was pinned silently to their side as the elevator ferried them skyward, and he fell into step with them when they exited, positioning himself between their sleek form and the seamless floor-to-ceiling windows.  Awash with rivulets of rain, a skyline of monoliths was blurred, faraway holographic advertisements and neon light diluted like lurid watercolours on the glass.  To his mind, it added to the intimacy, the sense of privacy they had once craved.  To his mind, electric tension crackled between them even now.

Awa’s suite was halfway to the heavens.  High enough to escape the wailing sirens of the megalopolis below, evading the pulse of the city that so often registered like a throbbing wound, a dull headache pounding behind the eyes.  There had been a time when they would have retreated together, scraped away their veneer and hung up their guard at the shadowy threshold between their public and private spheres.

Now, Awa bid him a good evening, their tone perfectly polite and devastatingly impersonal.  Speaking, but saying nothing.  They moved to slip inside, an elegant hand extended towards the sensor, triggering the door to close behind them.  They meant to shut him out with the rest of the world, to leave him to his duty of standing vigil.  Their sentinel, their shield. An employee.

Something in Hanzo bared its teeth, his carefully constructed façade of stoicism splintering as he thrust his foot into the narrowing gap, jamming the door open.  Even before he spoke, he had ripped away his mask.  Long suppressed and hidden beneath the armour of professionalism, a swell of unspoken words clawed their way to the still waters of his surface.

“No,” he hissed in a steely whisper.  “Enough of this.” 

With burgeoning resolve and boldness, he surged forward, squeezing inside the hallowed space, walking Awa back until their shoulder blades kissed a marble wall.  They need only raise the alarm and he would be expelled for his transgression, for taking such liberty.  Instead, they remained a picture of filtered, unflappable calm, their luminescence heightened by the equally artificial glow that bathed the interior. 

“I will not be shackled by silence.  I will not play these games.”  Hanzo’s voice was a fusion of frustration and raw vulnerability.  “Is it not clear that I am prepared to die for you?  And not out of duty – not because of something as frivolous as a salary.”

It was an insult to his love, to all they had.  If there had been any silver lining to his bleeding out on the concrete, it had been that Awa had held him, their glossy, plastic demeanour crumbling into something authentic.  That was what he desired, more than anything. Something real.

Slowly, he raised a hand, traced a knuckle along their jaw.  His heart thundered within the bony vault of his chest, its rhythm matching the torrential downpour that drummed against the walls.  A maelstrom of emotion swirled in the accursed no-man’s-land between them.  Hanzo had been the one to set the fire, now he burned in it.

“Awa… my feelings for you never changed.  Tell me, did yours die in Hanamura?”

[salty-fang]

Loving you is hard

So, this idea spawned from a conversation with @iloveitwhen and I've just wanted to write it. So without further ado...

“I- Would you like to me out go? I mean me out you? I mean go out with me? On Sunday?” They’d been best friends for months after he’d saved her from Chloé and her posse, although not before she had been smeared in mud and had her spectacles smashed, lying askew. They had jeered at her, screaming ‘Piggy’, only relenting once Adrien charged out of the mansion, hurling himself in front of her. Chloé had turned and ran leaving Sabrina, Kim and Max in the forefront of his rage.

After he had delivered his lecture spectacularly, he ushered her inside, getting her a towel to dry the mud off. He’d given her a spare pair of clothes that used to belong to his older sister, Claire, before she had been adopted. Of course, his father had been slightly disappointed once he recognised who she was as he frequented the bakery quite a lot. He tried to belittle her calling her a ‘mere baker’s daughter’ which was personally a compliment. And, he chewed her out for interrupting an important meeting with THE Bruce Wayne- whoever that was. Adrien had been a gentleman and sneered in defiance at Gabriel’s discourtesy but she could see how white his fists were and how hard he had been biting his lip. And she could never have him get in trouble for her mistake so... she did what she knew best.

She cried. You see, she had inherited quite the set of pipes and her cries had made the pointless vases tremble as her wails caused the pictures to shake. She placed Adrien’s hand in her own grubby little ones before pulling him away into the first room she saw. Failing to notice Emilie’s small smirk at the chaos she invoked and failing to hear Adrien’s desperate pleas for her to stop. Tentatively, she opened the door, sighing in relief at the sight of the empty room. It was slightly breath taking but intimidating at the sheer size of the room but the presence she felt behind her and Adrien’s wide eyes plagued her.

“When you said you would be getting ready to spar, did you mean that? Or were you out gallivanting with some girl?” Yup, that was it. His voice commanded respect, leaving no room for argument. His face was stoic and he exuded confidence yet his demeanour was cool. He had the ability to blend into the shadows, which admittedly scared the socks off of her. And he was even colder than Chloe. But so was she. She had never been proud of it but it was there. It was just too hard to reign in once she exposed that side of her.

“Some girl, huh? It’s Marinette Dupain-Cheng to you. Talk to me when you’ve had a shower and you don’t look like you haven’t changed clothes in a year. You think just because your friends with Agreste I’ll be polite whilst you insult me? If you do, well congratulations because you’ve invented a new kind of stupid.” She could see Adrien wince out of the corner of her eyes, the look of appraisal in Damian's eye before he turned a frightful glare towards her with the top of his lips curled in a sneer as he scoffed.

“You think you can waltz in here and interrupt my meeting with Agreste because you think you better than me. Because newsflash, and I know all about them, you may be pretty than most child models but you’re still an arrogant deceitful brat, Marionette. So why don’t you go back and roll in the mud, Piggy.”

“Damian that’s enough,” pleaded Adrien, voice strained.

“Is it though? She hardly looks phased.” It wasn’t true, it had hurt more than she had thought it would and she felt each word pierce her heart, breaking her down.

“He’s right though Adrien.” She saw the shock on both faces as she trained her eyes on the ground before locking her eyes on Damian. “But at least I’m honest about it. And I know the reality is going to slap him so hard in the face once he finds out he isn’t as amazing as he thinks.” She gave Adrien a quick hug before turning to leave, grabbing her pink purse from the couch. She could feel her temper flare up as she walked away, knowing that she could have easily won the battle. She- a Dupain-Cheng- had run away from a challenge. The only reason she had lost was because she’d been in unfamiliar territory and she wanted to make a good impression on Adrien.

Adrien! He probably thought she was annoying. Or weird. Maybe both. Definitely both. He’d probably tell his parents how weird she was and get a restraining order placed on her. She’d never defeat Damian and Adrien would hate her. Her parents would probably disown her too. Oh no. She’d be a lonely cat woman living off scraps in some alleyway. Everyone would forget about her and Adrien would marry Chloe. Chloe! She had been in such a state that she hadn’t seen Emilie walking towards her, engrossed in her new script.

“Hngh. Sorry about that. Oh, you’re the girl who told my husband off. Ni-chickpea why are you crying? Aww, come over here princess.”

“I’m sorry for everything. Sorry about crashing into your home, sorry for being the rudest guest ever, sorry for interrupting your meeting, sorry for being ugly.”

“Did Adrien tell you that? No? Well, you’re beautiful inside and out, chick. Don’t cry because of some stupid boy who has no filter. Now, would you like to grab some ice cream with your auntie Em.

“No thanks. My aunt, Delphine, said no one likes girls who don’t have tiny waists. She told me that I’d be more pretty if I lost weight so I really shouldn’t. Or she might tell my father if I gain any.” And with that, she scrambled off her lap with a surprisingly agile leap and ran out of the mansion. Emilie hadn’t decided whether she’d like to launch Delphine into the sun or sock her across the face but she knew that she’d be having a few choice words with her. When she got in contact with her.

It really wasn’t a surprise when months later, Marinette, who had become a regular guest at their home arrived in a flood of tears, explaining how her aunt had booked her for a flight next week to go and live with Tom and Sabine, neither of which knew she’d existed until today. Obviously, Delphine had done it because of her conversation with Emilie and her selfish ideals. Tom and Sabine both had been reluctant, and that was putting it mildly, to take her in reaffirming the fact that they had wanted no children. Although, their empathy ultimately won as her sister told her she would put Marinette up for adoption or even leave her homeless, alone to fend for herself.

It had come as a surprise to both Damian and Marinette who had actually reconciled after getting off on the wrong foot, but it didn’t stop the occasional glares or the brusque and impatient nature of Damian. However, Marinette had been too blinded by her crush on the cinnamon roll for her to realise that his iciness hadn’t completely thawed. Sure, he could tolerate her but he didn’t necessarily like her. He just put up with her because she was acquainted with Agreste, which led to many many third wheeling situations like now.

“I- Would you like to me out go? I mean me out you? I mean go out with me? On Sunday?” He actually had the audacity to snicker at her being tongue tied but a small part of him wanted her to get rejected. He liked their dynamic as it was, there was no need to complicate it with stupid feelings. The atmosphere felt tense and awkward, both things he had no idea how to deal with so he waited on the doorsteps of the rose garden’s entrance, which was a terribly cliché place to confess. If he knew Agreste, Marinette would come running with tears streaming down her face in

5...4...3...2...

There she came, her steps thundering down the narrow pathway as leaves and thorns entangled themselves in her hair. And if he knew Dupain-Cheng, she’d tell him the reason behind her tears in

3...2...1...

“He rejected me. He called me Piggy. It’s alright if you say it but it hurt when he did, it hurt. Do you think he said no because I’m not pretty or skinny enough?” She whined, pounding her puny fists against his chest.

‘Damn it, why couldn’t it be Grayson? He was always more suited to dealing with emotions than I ever was.’ He awkwardly patted her hair, humming a tune his mother would sing to him before she disappeared. It always seemed to soothe him and even when he hated Drake, he’d begrudgingly admit that he calmed him down when he was being bratty but never catty.

‘That word is reserved exclusively for Selina.’ He shuddered at the thought of being so closely linked to Catwoman.

‘Never again. Never. Again.’

“What’s never again?”

“Huh?”

“You were muttering it pretty hard under your breath.”

‘Yeah and you switched from upset to bubbly but ain’t nobody questioning you.’

“Uh yeah. I meant no boy will make you cry ever again except for me. And if they do, I’ll come right over and make you smile.” What was he saying? Why wouldn’t he just shut up? Now she’d think he was serious and she probably wouldn’t stop pestering him about it.

“Promise?” she cooed; her doe-eyes narrowed owlishly at him.

“Promise.” Man, he hated being caught off guard. It made him do some admittedly stupid things. Stupid, illegal things although in his defence, when was he not doing something illegal. It was literally his defining element and didn’t each boy who made Ma-Dupain-Cheng cry know it. Adrien had been lucky to escape with a tiny bruise on his forearm because of Marinette’s pleas, but he’d spare him no mercy next time.

In the span of six months, he had had more social interactions with Dupain-Cheng-the name was becoming such a mouthful that he considered calling her Marinette- than he had had in his entire life span. However, his presence was made redundant in the last 3 years as he hadn’t gotten any indication that she was still alive. No texts, no impromptu 3am calls, no nothing. She’d disappeared without a trace and whilst he felt relieved to be rid of his persistent acquaintance, he missed the fun and chaos they’d create.

With her unbridled creativity and his cunning and quick wit, none of his family were any match for them. They’d hide in vents, find secret passageways, watch security and not once would their whereabouts be detected. But now, he had no partner, no alibi and no one to build a pillow for with him. It seemed so childish but it was comfortable and alleviated the stress and pressure on him, giving him a chance to regress back to a childlike mentality. One he never experienced even after he broke free from the League’s clutches.

Even when Marinette despised him, she’d still soothe him when the memories became too vivid which was her biggest flaw but one of her redeeming qualities. She had no reason to help him, there was nothing to gain from his former arrogant egotistical ten-year-old self but she still voluntarily to calm him down.

When he would have trouble breathing, she’d stay with him, helping him even out his heart rate. When he would tussle with the sheets at sleepovers, she would lie awake with him, huddling herself closer to him before humming a sweet yet sharp harmony, lulling him to sleep. He would occasionally feel the light kiss on his forehead but was completely oblivious to Marinette slipping from his grasp.

She’d be sprawled on the floor near to him, looking tense and completely uncomfortable and yet she’d have a semblance of a smile etched across her face. He always had found it quite foolish but secretly endearing.

He'd been ignorant to think that she’d always be that close to him Always there to give him a much-needed hug even if he wrestled out of embrace. That she’d always be that close to him, running to him at his beck and call. The bleak reality slapped him across the cheek. The dwindling conversation was evidence enough that she’d be glad to finally be rid of him. He heard from Adrien that she had still been in contact with him regularly enough to know the ins and outs of her situation. He genuinely thought she was dead, although it was becoming more increasingly clear that she was wilfully ignoring him. Which stung. A lot.

Five years ago, Marinette was a bawling mess in Damian's arm. Three years ago, she had last heard from Damian. He seemed as though he was bored of their conversations yet Adrien had been telling her otherwise.

Adrien, Adrien, Adrien. The boy was oblivious as ever, even going as far to budge her in Damian’s direction.

‘Pfft! Damian, he’s blunt as hell but too nice for his own good. He’s cold yet he shows more empathy than everyone else I know. He’s warm and his hair is to die for. I love how soft it is when it’s not gelled back. But even if he is all that, Adrien’s held my heart for all these years and I’m not going to let some fluttering feelings, that Damian probably doesn’t return, ruin all my progress.’

Her progress consisted on growing out of her shell (and growing out her hair), experimenting new outfits and lip gloss. Plus, she learnt how to cook meals and bake pastries with her parents so that was a great thing that came out from those years of isolation. She’d also lost some weight and had been cutting back on the carbs, so when she had landed back in Gotham, she had been shocked to see a pile of high carb, fatty foods awaiting her. Her arms itched to try one and she was quite tempted to delve right in for old times’ sake but the look her aunt gave her stopped her short. A smug smirk, a haughty scoff and the condescending shake of the head was enough to send Marinette out without lunch. Oh well. She could always pinch some off of someone else.

Behind her, she could hear snippets of two distinctly female voices.

“Ugh... fat ass. Skirts too short.”

“Attention seeker.”

‘No, I’m not.’

“Bitch.”

‘Please, not again.’

“Rip it off. She’s practically parading around in her knickers anyways.”

‘Please just, leave me alone.’

She could hear their footsteps and their heavy breathing before blood-curdling squeals ripped through the air.

“IT’S DAMIAN WAYNE!” They shrieked, making her spin around in a daze. Surely it couldn’t be who they thought it was. They were just mistaken. Because, there was no way that this dude towering over her was the same guy who was incredibly shorter than her years ago. It couldn’t be. The guy with a jawline that was sharper than glass couldn’t be the same baby-faced Damian she knew. But the thing that caught her off guard was the mischievous gleam in his glowing green eyes. She’d recognise his beautiful eyes anywhere.

“What do you have to say for yourselves?” So that was new. His rather high-pitched tone replaced by a soothing baritone bass. It had been enough to send her into a trance but she was shocked out of her stupor when she felt a tug on her arm.

“Careful idiot. You nearly walked straight into traffic and you don’t want to turn into roadkill now.” He hissed. She could feel the pout on her face and the light flush of her cheeks at his proximity but willed herself to march on.

“You’re fine,” said one of the girls, trailing her finger down his chest. Marinette could feel her stomach churn in embarrassment plus jealousy and stopped in her tracks to rescue Damian from an awkward situation.

“That’s not what I asked though. Are you not going to apologise?”

“To who?”

“To her. You just insulted her for no reason and you’re tryna walk away.”

“Sorry.” They huffed before flashing strained smiles at Damian. They would have left if it wasn’t for Marinette’s intervention. And it was a sassy one at that.

“Last time I checked you insulted me. But it sounded like you were apologising to Pretty Boy over there. Aren’t you gonna say sorry to me or were you just being insincere?"

“We’re sorry.” They chorused after a few pointed glares from Damian yet that didn’t stop them from muttering the word ‘bitch' under their breath as they walked away.

“Hey Mary, you short stack how you been doing? Haven’t seen you for 5 years and of course you stopped speaking to me for about 3 but, hey, we move.”

“Actually, I thought you didn’t want to chat with me anymore so I stopped. And did your Dad force you to attend every ‘slang lesson' available because you actually talk like you’re genuinely our age. And Damian, learn my name. It’s been 5 years and you’ve said every variation of names that aren’t mine.”

“But how else are we gonna have our inside jokes.”

“By firstly using something funny. And remove your hand from around my shoulder, people are going to assume we’re dating. Especially with how fickle everyone here is.”

“I mean is there really a problem with us dating?” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Yes, you know I love Adrien. We can’t give him the wrong idea about us.”

“I forgot, I promised that I’d help tutor the exchange student, Lila Rossi, I think. I’ll see you later?” And with that he slunk off, which in all honesty was pretty weird. Damian offering to help a random person? It sounded like more of an excuse. But she had to find Adrien first. To show him how much she’d changed. She’d dyed her hair to an inky black with tints of blue, gotten her ears pierced and actually wore skirts and dresses now. She’d savour his shocked pikachu face for ever with how speechless he’d be.

When she was about to wander the yard when she saw his blonde mop of hair glitter in the sunlight. She moved from an idle stroll to a brisk walk before breaking out into a sprint. But the sight in front of her made her blood boil as she heard Adrien scream...

“Hey, Piggy!” He had pulled a person, who was obviously not her, into a hug before gazing admiringly into their eyes. Eyes which were slightly prettier than hers. Well, it was always better to blend into the background or at least that’s what she told herself.

It didn’t explain the churning in her stomach, the tears pricking the corners of her eyes or the fact she’d choked on her spit.

What the hell was going on?!

Note

Lila Rossi and Marinette don't know each other, but it was convenient to use her in this situation.

This is also separate from Twisted Fate.

[phantomphangphucker]

Ectober Day 28: Fall - Sinners Are We Chap.6: No More Idle Hands

And Dove could stay silent no more.

Neither he nor his brother got their father’s infamous wail. For Russet that made perfect sense, he simply didn’t hold up in the power department for such a powerful ability. And Orrin didn’t find such a brash brazen ability to be suited to him, so he rather didn’t care if he developed it or not. But Dove having it, and so young, was truly a surprise. And he loved those. So he feels he is quite justified in laughing as everyone else grasped their ears and collapsed, even father fell to the ground as everything shook. Everything around bursting, exploding, pluming even more smoke and ash into the sky practically blotting it out.

Who would have thought she’d have such a destructive ability.

He summons enough ectoplasm around his ears to muffle the sound, father wasn’t honestly smart enough to think of this quite yet. Then again, father was never on the receiving end of the Ghostly Wail. Orrin stands up, defying gravity to keep his balance on the shaky ground, sticking his arms out to the side and laughing, “WOW! I MEAN REALLY! WOW!”, grinning wide and a bit wild, if everything’s descending into madness and chaos then might as well behave a little mad to match, “KEEP THIS UP AND YOU MIGHT JUST KILL EVERYONE YOURSELF! HAHAHAHAHA!”. He absolutely knows father looks to him and notes his little trick to get around the wail, and will, of course, utilise it himself in a few seconds. The pressure’s on Dove, what will you do? What will you do.

But again she catches him by surprise, picking an option he never realised was on the board at all. She doesn’t stop, or aim it; no she changes octaves. Which, was father even capable of such a thing? She, she might just be stronger than him. Well fancy that. This octave though, oh it absolutely makes Orrin drop to his knees; the ectoplasm doing nothing to muffle the sounds.

All the mortals groan and roll over, many simply watching or backing away in stunned silence as three of the -apparently- four present Gray-Phantom’s pass out, the little girl- the princess losing the human disguise in the process.

Rio pushes herself up, staggering to run over to the little glowing gray-haired girl with her little head tilted skyward as green/purple sound-waves pulsed out of her mouth, sparkling pale blue tears streaming down her face from amber eyes. Rio collapsing next to her and hugging the little girl she’d grown to know as so gentle it almost hurt, “ROBIN! DOVE! STOP! SWEETHEART IT’S FINE! IT’S FINE! NO ONE’S HURTING ANYMORE! BUT YOU NEED TO STOP!”, and practically smushes the girl into her as the horrific sound peters off and the girl shakes violently.

Rio looks around as everyone starts to stand, some very cautiously looking towards the downed Gray-Phantom’s and chucking things at them from afar. Rio squeezing Dove/Robin closer and snapping her head towards Rex as he walks over, “she’s never hurt anyone”.

“She’s one of them”.

Rio snarls, “do I look like I care?”. Rex just huffs and wanders off, waving over his shoulder, “this is your problem then. Remi’s fine though”. Rio sighs at that. Then looking around as she stands. What the Hell are they going to do?

Spotting one of the hunters moving to put anti-ecto braces on Lark -Orrin, she staggers over, minding her twisted ankle and other injuries, “wait. This- this utterly insane nutter is to thank. He did this. Planned this. He-”, glancing to the girl she’s carrying in her arms who looked to just be staring blankly, “-got her to take them down. At least wake the twit up”.

The hunter huffs and cuffs him anyway but does give the... prince a good zap to wake him up. The guy groans on the ground in a way that makes it sound like he had simply been taking a nice afternoon nap, “well. That was certainly interesting”.

Rio grunts down at him, slightly out of pain, “and that was a stupid choice of first words. I don’t think I need to point out that you’re at gunpoint, cuffed, and surrounded; Orrin”.

He chuckles faintly, sits up, and crosses his legs. Cool, calm, demeanour never faltering, “well I would certainly hope so. These fellows wouldn’t be doing what they’re supposed to otherwise”, he looks around and shrugs a little, her following his gaze towards Russet. Him chuckling faintly, “well damn, that imbecile’s still alive”.

Jester loses it at that, “you wanted us to kill him?”.

“Arguably, why not? He’s a real bastard”.

One of the hunters makes a wheezing sound, “oh gods”, looks to Rio, “how in all the worlds did you turn one of the princes. Seriously”.

Orrin apparently won’t let that statement fly, “oh no. Blame the little missy. Real gentle doll that one”.

Rio looks to the side as Dove/Robin stirs at that, looking down at Orrin. Rio holds on to her, unsure, when the girl moves to reach for him. Orrin just chuckles and stands up while the cuffs just fall off and takes the girl from her in a swift motion. Everyone near -who aren’t helping with clean up or medical care- gape at him and follow him with their guns, Rio turning around gapping herself. Orrin chuckles again, looking at them with a smirk, “what? Did you really think I wouldn’t have altered everything to have little to no effect on me?”, he grins, “I’m the smart one you know. The sneaky shadow. Guess it’s true what people say that no one notices what their shadow does until it does something they don’t expect”. One of the hunters shoots him in the foot as if to check, which he rolls his eyes at. It, of course, does nothing more than leave a bit of ash on his black spandex high-heels.

Everyone looks to the two Gray-Phantom’s that could actually be cuffed. One guy clearing his throat, “so... what are we supposed to with this? Did... did we just win”. It takes only a bit of murmuring for most of the people around to break out into cheering or crying. No one stops pointing weapons at Orrin though, which he obviously ignores as if they don’t even exist.

Rio does smile at Dove when she seems to hum slightly happily over the cheering. Though Dove straightens up and leans away from Orrin a bit, reaching her fingers out towards Russet. Everyone jumping and staring as both Russet and Phantom move across the ground to the other two Gray-Phantom’s inhumanly fast, yet never waking. Orrin putting Dove on the ground who goes over, takes off her teddy bear backpack, and bops Russet on the head with it; pointing at him with puffed out cheeks like she was scolding him. Then moving to do the same to Phantom. Orrin blinks at the scene, “I do not claim to understand that girl”.

Rio is the only one willing to stand anywhere close to him, her crossing her arms, “I think you just don’t understand being nice and innocent”.

“You may be right there. Though I doubt most would be any different in my shoes”. No one really argues him there, because he was probably right. How could anyone be raised by those monsters and not wind up one?

Rio scowls at him, “I almost feel bad for you. But you’re probably as much a murderous monster as the rest of your family”, scowling more when he chuckles and grins meanly. Making it very clear to everyone that he was perfectly fine with that fact, and that he has, in fact, actually killed people. Rio draws her eyebrows together, “then why, why effectively save us”.

Orrin quirks an eyebrow, “didn’t I already tell you? Oh well, mortal minds are hardly of quality”, then steamrolls right over multiple offended objections, “me and brother dearest started out like terrible terrors”, pointing at Dove, “she, did not”, smoothing his jacket, “be a shame to turn gold to brass, don’t you think? Further, this seemed like a far more interesting course of action, I dare say”.

Everyone pauses and looks to Dove and Russet as the latter stirs. Orrin actually smirking when Russet spots Dove glaring down at him with crossed arms and Russet actually flinches. Orrin saunters over with a very wicked-looking grin on his face, “now what was that? Did the big scary bad Rusty flinch at the sight of a little girl?”. Which fine, more than a few people around laugh at slightly. Though many find this to be incredibly surreal and way too mundane after everything; petty sibling bickering between those framed to be the worst of monsters in the middle of what was just a battleground that had promised nothing but death for all the mortals there mere seconds ago.

Russet scowls up at the younger prince, “fuck you you fucking piece of shit demon child bastard. Ancients fuck you are a psychopath-”.

Orrin cuts him off with a shrug while everyone else just watches wide-eyed, “I appreciate the compliment, though really this seems more like a situation where you should be aiming to be insulting”, he shoves Russets head with his boot, making Russet squirm and start spewing profanities at noticing the cuffs and everything. Orrin just talks over him, “be glad I’m not power-hungry like you. Otherwise-”, Orrin grins and everyone tenses as he bends down, “-I’d find it quite tempting to take advantage of this and just do away with the first prince entirely. I find doing so would hardly be difficult, considering your current predicament”. Everyone relaxes when Dove hits Orrin with the plushie backpack, and he just chuckles faintly and gives her a head pat as he straightens up.

After a second though, all the hunters and rebels nod to each other, marching over and move to grab up both the still unconscious Phantom and snarling Russet. But Dove grabs both of them and squeezes them, somehow knocking Russet back out, and puffs out her cheeks defiantly.

Everyone glancing at each other awkwardly. Orrin breaks their awkwardness slightly by sighing, “and she still doesn’t know how to snarl properly”.

Rio shakes her head, personally glad for that, and walks over the kneel in front of her, “sweetheart, we can’t just leave them in the street. And remember what I said about bad people needing to be punished?”, when Dove nods she continues, “well we punish people by locking them up. Besides-”, side-eyeing the hunters, “-I doubt you’d let us seriously hurt them. Right?”. Dove nods immediately and repeatedly, puffing her cheeks more. Rio can tell that the hunters got the damn message that this was a losing battle. No Gray-Phantom was dying/being destroyed here today. This tiny girl just effectively took out all of the ghostly Gray-Phantom’s with one attack and practically instantly, even nearly destroyed the city and everyone in it at the same time. They were very lucky she was a kind gentle soul. Very. It would be better to not tick her off or do something to change that. Not that Rio was entirely sure it was possible to piss that girl off. Annoy? Sure. Piss off? No.

Dove huffs again, turns almost dramatically, and starts marching off in the direction of the -probably wrecked- jailhouse; dragging Phantom and Russet under her arms across the ground.

One of the hunters pointing out, “she does realise we can’t put them in regular cells, right? Like, those things need special ecto-containment cells. Especially Phantom”, grumbling, “with that bloody crown of his”.

Orrin grins and turns to him, sticking his hands in his pockets and giving a smile that’s close to charming, “actually, no”, tilting his head, “well, yes, but no”. Rio glares at him so he explains himself without any further prompting, “I think it is fair to say that father was quite efficiently and effectively bested, yes?”.

One of the hunters scowls, “your point, monster”, scowling a little more, “and know that regardless of this, you still belong in a cell or obliterated out of existence”.

Orrin only chuckles instead of seeming even slightly threatened, “oh I’m well aware how others feel of me, no need wasting your breath. After all, you need it and you have so very little of it”, grinning meanly, “why it could be snuffed out just like that”.

Rio pinches the bridge of her nose, “for the love of- stop being threatening just because you can be now that it won’t make you suspicious”.

Orrin rolls his eyes, “you have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to tear off your pretty little head”.

“Uncalled for”.

“And yet you still seem to put up with me. Strange”. Rio absolutely scowls deeper at the Gray-Phantom for that. “Anyway, my point is, when you best a royal, what is it that happens?”, he taps his chin in obviously fake contemplation before sounding rather condescending, “why you usurp them of course. You take their throne. Their crown. I do believe you get the message this time”.

Rio blinks at him, bullshit, “there is no way your... mother will go for that”.

He wags a clawed finger at her, “ah but her role as Mortal Queen is entirely made up and her claim as High Ghost Sovereign is that of a Consort”, shrugging, “normally in chess, you kill the queen, you win the game. But in this case, it’s the king”, smirking, “or was”. Needless to say, everyone starts freaking out.

Rio watches him smirk as people panic, it was mostly a good or confused panic though. “You just like chaos, don’t you”.

He doesn’t even look to her as he speaks, “I find it enjoyable yes. It’s more that I like to be entertained. I’m a creature of novelty and I had been rather bored as of late”.

Rio squints at him, “I can’t figure out if you’re genuinely on our side or are just dicking around”. Scowling when he winks before sauntering off in the direction of the jailhouse. More than a few hunters and rebels following largely to ‘keep an eye on’ the Gray-Phantom they could do nothing about; though some were conflicted on their feelings over the halfa that they had become familiar and even friendly with over the past while.

They walk in to Dove sitting on the floor attempting and succeeding at braiding Phantom’s flaming hair. Orrin furrowing his eyebrows at her, “why? What purpose does this serve”. She predictably just hums at him, rocking a little. Many of the hunters and rebels mutter, “you've got to be kidding me”. Rio and a few others barely hold back cooing ‘awww’s at the girl; the fact that it was Phantom getting his hair braided rather killed the cute effect of the scene.

Everyone but Orrin and Dove jumping at a portal swirling open on the wall and the FrightKnight waltzing through. All of the fully living aiming their weapons but doing nothing when the ghost bows to Dove, who pats his helmet with a small smile.

The FrightKnight looks to Orrin, “I must say, you frighten me. It will never cease to amaze me how so many call the first prince the demon rather than you”. Orrin bows very exaggeratedly with a coy grin, “you flatter me so”. The ghost shakes his head before turning and kneeling before Dove, “shall I take these two to the dungeon for you, my queen”, she just hums but the ghost seems to understand and before anyone can do anything the two captured Gray-Phantom’s are whisked away by the ghost.

All the fully living around are stunned stupid, Rio looking to Orrin, “you were serious”, then screwing up her face, “wait”, throwing her hands out to the side and scowling at Orrin, “Dove obviously doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. Isn’t she just going to let them loose?!?!”. The group giving the halfas panicked looks as they come upon the same worry. The princess -Queen?- was practically a newborn and those two monsters were her family.

Orrin waves everyone off, “oh it’s no matter. Crown’s hers all the same. Dear brother isn’t strong enough to beat her and father wouldn’t bother to even try. He never genuinely harms family in any long-lasting or permanent ways”, Orrin looks around and gives another mean smirk, “though you should thank little Dove for stopping you from killing Russet. I sure wouldn’t have”.

One of the guys squints at him, “why? Also, them being free is the problem, not them trying to challenge her. Though fine, that would be an issue too”. Everyone had officially decided without question that they’d take the sweet little Dove as a ruler over her monster parents or siblings.

“Why that’s so very simple. You may think father is bad already, but that is nothing compared to what he’s really capable of. I wouldn’t put it past him to annihilate everything he could get his claws on if one of us were destroyed”.

Rio almost can’t believe that she’s hearing the Phantom, the mass-murdering monster of monsters, had a ridiculous soft spot for his family. A genuine one. Turning to look at Dove and going wide-eyed at her floating/walking over while tugging at a flaming glowing green crown. Which pulls down over her face before springing back over her head every time she lets go of it. The girl humming and purring in clear joy and amusement. Then kneeling down to poke Rio’s ankle which suddenly doesn’t hurt. Rio blinking, “sweetheart... did you just... heal me?”. Dove hums and nods before running off poking people.

Orrin sighs and shakes his head a little, guess she thought the hiding game was over; he does follow her with his eyes though. Which doesn’t go unnoticed.

One of the hunters kneeling down to let the little glowing girl poke his head, then staring off after her as she moves on, “this is going to take some getting used to”, then noticing Orrin’s staring that’s boarding on a glare, “chill out ah... for the love of everything take your human form again, this is too weird”. Some others nod, some laugh though it’s weak.

Orrin rolls his eyes but promptly shoots the guy lazily with an ecto-beam; the guy hissing from the impact and being caught off-guard, “that’s for proposing the idea of kidnapping Dove”. Unsurprisingly everyone points their guns at him again before lowering them and glaring at the halfa after he spoke. He just grins, “just keeping things interesting”, the grin turning rather mean as the guy brushes himself off, “besides I think you’d prefer a weak little ecto-beam over my original idea. Which involved cups, mice, and your eyes. Make of that what you will”.

Rio scowls, “I think I preferred when you didn’t randomly threaten people, let’s go back to that”, sighing and glancing to Dove, “at least you’re protective I guess”.

Everyone goes silent, which becomes slightly awkward till Remi comes running in looking for her ma only to get practically tackled by Dove. Gently tackled, but still tackled. Remi just looks confused and kinda scared, “w-who”. Resulting in Dove looking almost heartbroken and making gestures at Orrin, who rolls his eyes but twirls his fingers dramatically; both of them suddenly looking as everyone was rather more familiar with. Remi gets over her shock instantly and starts worry babbling at Dove.

-

Orrin grins faint and amused as he leans his arms on the windowsill, watching as Dove finishes poking people outside, everyone exchanging glances before basically shouting, “LONG LIVE THE QUEEN”. Oh there were so many possibilities to be had. Especially when father wakes and mother hears of this. Would she be proud ‘her little girl’ bested the ghost she never could? Would Dove ‘talk’ them into being peaceful ‘or else’? Would the dead accept her as a High Sovereign or would she need to prove her worth?

Looking down, she obviously had little idea what was going on. Possibly none at all. She was simply smiling and moving her hands around because she was enjoying their happiness and cheer. Such a strange thing. Her enjoying... joy. He truly has little clue how their parents made her. And he rather doubts they understand it either. Even when those two were ‘good guys’ they certainly weren’t able to be called ‘innocent’ or ‘gentle’. While those were the first words that came to mind with Dove.

Turning his head slightly as Rio comes in, her closing the door and leaning against it with crossed arms, “so... are you guys going to be staying or...”, and quirking an eyebrow.

“Is this your mortal way of asking me to”.

She huffs, “Remi would be sad, that is all”. Which Orrin isn’t even close enough to a fool to believe for even a second, “yeah. Sure it is”.

“...”.

Orrin shakes his head a little and turns to look back out the window. The mortals were giving her sweets. How quaint. “I doubt I could keep Dove away. As I find I doubt she would really let me try to in genuine”. She had clearly grown fond of this place and it’s creatures; and clearly not as simply pets, servants, or loyal manipulatable underlings.

He can hear the raised eyebrow in Rio’s voice, “wouldn’t ‘let you’? You don’t seem like someone who’s controllable”.

He elects for vague, not as if he needs to explain in the first place, “there are ways”. Far be it for him to mention that the Crown makes the wearer able to control the dead, or part dead for that matter. He doubts Dove would make much use of that, which is quite fine by him. Not that that wouldn’t make things interesting regarding father.

“Riiiight”.

He outright ignores that. Him speaking again as she joins him by the window, “regardless, no we will not be staying. Dove has her castle and throne to attend to”, grinning both mean and mischievous, “and I have a brother to torture”.

“... I can’t tell if you mean that literally”, she sighs, “so she’ll come back then”.

“Indeed”.

“And you?”.

That does catch him just slightly off-guard. Apparently he wasn’t completely deplorable to these people. Fancy that. Though he had a level of feeling that this particular member of the living was more than just tolerant of him. “Oh I doubt Remi would care if I did or not”, him smirking a bit, “unless of course, that particular question has nothing to do with her happiness at all”.

He glances at her as she audibly scowls at him, “you’re an emotionless asshole without a caring bone in your body”.

Which only makes him chuckle, “then clearly you’re rather nuts for getting feelings involved”. This entire escapade was bringing plenty of interesting surprises and twists that he hadn’t yet experienced it would seem. “Particularly when you know said asshole has wanted to at the very least mildly murder you on multiple occasions”. Why that of all things gets her to promptly give him a chastised kiss he isn’t going to claim to understand in the slightest. Instead he furrows his brows at her, “I find I don’t understand you much either at times”. Did Phantom’s just have a habit of attracting living women? That could be an idea to look into at a later date.

She rolls her eyes and looks back out the window, where Dove is now chuckling flowers at people. “Good. I’d probably bore you otherwise”.

He dips his head slightly to acknowledge that is rather true, “accurate”.

“... so, will you come back?”.

“Well I dare say my curiosity is rather peaked now, so I hardly can find a reason to not”.

She scowls at him, but even his moron of a brother could tell she wasn’t actually upset with him. “Yup. You’re still a jerk”.

He snorts, “don’t go expecting change. Dove’s the ‘sweetheart’, not me”, running a hand through his hair and smirking, “I’m definitely more charming though”.

“Annnd there’s the ego”.

“It’s far too late for you to make denials-”, pausing and tilting his head at sniffing mothers scent. Looking up to spot the red suit and hoverboard far up in the sky, clearly she was watching, was seeing this. Dove frolicking with a bunch of mortals, a green crown flaming over her head all the while. “Mother’s here”.

Rio immediately jerks to attention and puts her hand to her blaster in preparation for assault. Orrin tilts his head though, watching as mother seems to shake her head and laugh before shooting off into the distance. “She... left”, he’s never felt genuinely shocked by something before. Why?

Rio blinks at him, obviously in shock herself, “what?! Why?!”.

“I... don’t believe I know”.

Rio blinks at him before shaking her head and stiffly leaning on the windowsill again, “well I'm not about to look that particular gift horse in the mouth”.

He squints before smirking after a bit, “she may very well be going to mock father and berate brother for being a moron again”.

“Still not even glancing at the gift horse”. He chuckles at that.

Suddenly Dove’s floating in front of them, tugging gently on Orrin’s sleeve. ‘Come’. He feels the unspoken command deep into the core of him, and he can’t very well deny it. Now can he? So he floats off the ground and moves to head out the window, though smirking meanly and grabbing Rio at the last second to yank her out too.

“You bastard!”. That only makes him chuckle more.

Him speaking quiet enough that the living won’t hear, “you truly ought learn to be more sparing with the KingSpeak, being forced to do things is hardly enjoyable. Particularly for a Gray-Phantom”. Dove just hums pleasantly at him as he’s effectively dragged into the silly dancing thing. And while the mortals keep their distance mostly, they don’t outright flee from him. How quaint and a rather peculiar turn of events.

End.

[aj-ortega]

Blizzard-Born

Much to the surprise of no one, I drew the shortest stick. Ill luck has been my steadfast companion since the night my mother gave birth to me during a blizzard. She wrapped me in her cloak and shielded me with her body. When the sun rose, only one of us still drew breath. I was found by the wandering wizard, Tafari Phoenix-Talon, who brought me up as his son. We both share dark brown skin, so people tend to assume that I am his grandson.

Tafari has always admonished me to ignore my ill fortunes, but it is difficult to ignore that which clings to you like a shadow. Even now, as I ride off to be fitted for my molten armour by the mermen of the Boiled Sea, I cannot help dreading what fate has in store for me in the Wildlands. 

All legends, no matter how fantastic, contain grains of truth. And although no one has seen the Dragon of the Wildlands in over five centuries, I have an inkling that he is still there.

I simply wish I hadn't been chosen for this task.

***

I take the road through the Desert of Parehn to test the warmth of my armour. A smile graces my face as the biting, frigid wind makes the runes on my breastplate glow gold. In an instant, all the metal on my body warms me like a piping cup of ginger root tea. Rayo's armour also appears to be keeping out the cold—if the toasty saddle warming my buns is any indication.

At least we won't be completely frozen when we die.

The snow-dusted sand mounds give way to the vast forests of the Wildlands. The evergreen trees are weighed down by thick layers of fluffy snow. Rayo's gallop would have slowed to a crawl if he hadn't those runic horseshoes which melt the snow with steaming hisses. 

I pull on the reigns, and the black stallion halts his advance. My eyes scan our surroundings. There is no sign that any deer, fox or rabbit inhabit this place. The snow-covered terrain is devoid of any tracks save for Rayo's. I hold my breath to listen. An eerie silence hangs in the air—not even the song of the frost-billed nightingale can be heard.

Fear of the creature likely hiding under this wintry cloak has driven them from this land. But we must press on.

The further we go, the more the wind howls. I narrow my eyes, straining through the slit in my helmet under the snowy deluge. The weather breaks suddenly; all becomes clear. A frozen lake appears on my left. On its far shore looms the cave that duty and honour compel me to check; the sinking pit in my bowels says otherwise.

Rayo chops along the lake's edge; his enchanted horseshoes make crossing the icy surface a deadly risk that could also betray our approach. Eventually, we arrive at the mouth of the cave. A deep growl emanates from within, prickling my flesh. I leap off Rayo's back; my feet hit the snow with a crunch. I pull the shield off my back and yank my sword from its sheath.

"I tasted your entrance to my realm on the air," rumbles the dragon. "Your weapons might as well be twigs and thistles for the good they'll do."

"Show yourself and let my heated blade decide," I say.

He chuckles. "Smells like wizardry: equally useless."

The ground quakes as booming footsteps grow louder and louder. A mountain-size head protrudes from the shadowy cave, attached to a neck that dwarfs the Bison River. Snow falls off the silvery, white scales of the dragon while his sapphire-blue underbelly shimmers like diamonds in the sun. Every bone within me is rattling.

Well, as I suspected, the dragon's still here. God, I detest being right sometimes.

The beast looks down at me with a wide grin that shows jagged teeth. "A knight from Solenmere; how quaint. After I'm done devouring you and your horse, I think I'll go pay your king a visit; his ancestors and I go a long ways back," the dragon laughs with frosted air spilling out of his nostrils.

"Rayo!" I yell. "Run!"

But my steed simply neighs and shakes its head.

"Stubborn fool—now's not the time to show that you're part ass," I huff. "Leave!"

"Don't bother," growls the dragon, outstretching his wings that all but block out the sun. "He won't get far."

A battle cry erupts from my chest as I charge the overgrown snake with my sword and shield at the ready. The dragon inhales, and a roar of frigid air strikes me with the force of a hurricane. My arms and feet are numb and stiff. Piercing shards of ice approach my heart. Day melts into night.

Snowy winds whip and wail as a woman's tender voice sings to me. The language is foreign, but somehow...I grasp its meaning:

Beloved child of blizzard's birth You are my heart, my hope, my joy. Hear now this mystic song of mirth; Become one with winter, blest boy. Turn bone to ice, change skin to snow. Let bleak blood flow to chill you thrice.

The cold within me recedes. But, still, the dragon's booming breath fills my ears. My heart drums in my chest as fluidity returns to my limps. The freezing air washes over my body like crisp waters from a roaring waterfall. I stand firm as he who has become one with ice and snow. My true name has dawned: Malik Blizzard-Born.

The dragon's icy breath halts its gusting like the calm following a storm. Frosted mists swirl around me. As they clear, the ground is shown to be solid ice. 

"Impossible," the dragon's arrogant demeanour drains from his face. "Unless...no—Ancient Magic is gone from the world."

"Evidently not," I smirk, resuming my stance. "And this sword is more than capable of piercing your hide now that you can't keep me at a distance with that chilly breath of yours." I aim my blade at the beast. "I have no trouble lopping off your head to have Rayo drag it back to Solenmere to be hung from the castle tower. But, I can be persuaded to show mercy."

"Is that so," says the dragon with an air of sarcasm. "And what does this mercy entail?"

With the tip of my sword, I draw a circle with four triangles, signifying the cardinal points in the ice. Vapours rise as my sketch widens and grows into a massive, silver collar.

The dragon snorts. "A taming band."

"Discerning," I nod. "Now, what say you?"

The beast stares at me as if trying to learn my character. "I will accept on one condition," he finally says.

I tilt my head. "Which is?"

"You must agree to live here, in the Wildlands; I prefer the cold to the perpetual heat of the south."

A smile crosses my face. "I've always preferred the north winds myself. And I'm sure your wings will make all journeys more expedient."

"Then it is done," the beast says, breathing out a frosted breath.

I sheath my sword, return the shield on my back and slide off my helmet as the dragon lowers its head to the ground. Bending down, I retrieve the collar and place it around the beast's neck. The taming band snaps shut and fades out of sight. The ring on my left thumb tightens, confirming our bond.

"What will you name me?" asks the dragon.

I rub my chin, pondering something fitting. "How does Frolohn sound?"

"Fierce," he flashes a wide smile.

"Wonderful," I grin. "Now, Frolohn."

"Yes, master—"

"No," I wave my hand. "You may call me Malik."

"Malik," Frolohn raises his head.

"My friend," I begin. "Would you be up for a flight to the city?"

He flaps his wings with a thunderous clap. " Yes, but will that not frighten the inhabitants?"

"Perhaps. But it will also make for a riotous laugh," I smirk.

He chuckles. "Very well. Climb aboard," Frolohn swings his head towards his back. "And what of the horse?"

"Rayo can decide if he'd like to follow us or wait for our return," I say, mounting Frolohn's back. For now, let us go to the south."

And with one swift snap of his wings, Frolohn blows the snow off dozens of trees and takes us to the sky. I grip the spikes on his back for dear life, cheering and savouring the sight of the world from a dragon's point of view.  ***** I wrote this story based on a Wattpad Aim to Engage 2020 prompt: Everyone wants to hunt a dragon, but what happens when you’re tasked to find a one of a kind beast that only exists in legend?

[iwillmakemyownfate]

Are you Satisfied?

Read on AO3

Words: 4017

Summary: Loss comes easily to someone like Camilla. War certainly helps with that. However, very few people knew about her most devastating loss. One that shook Camilla to her core. One that changed the way she saw the world. One that she is finally ready to tell.

Warning: Minor character death 

This isn’t a happy story. I need to warn you about that. But you expected that, right? You crave knowledge. I know that. But that knowledge isn’t always what you want to hear.  Do you still want to know?

…

Alright. Take a seat, my dear. Let me tell you a story of love and loss. A story of new hope. A story about me.

***

“Cami, look!”

I turned at the sound of my name. Suddenly, a colourful circle filled my vision. Behind it, a smiling face framed by purple hair peeked through.

“It’s beautiful, Claire.” Delicate pink and yellow flowers interlocked together into a ring. I couldn’t help but smile at the intricacy of it. How had she become so skilled at that? It seemed like just yesterday she was struggling to simply pick the perfect flowers.

Claire excitedly motioned for me to bend down, and I complied, kneeling down in the field of flowers. A light weight placed itself upon my head. When I straightened up, Claire’s happy face once again filled my view.

“Now you’re a pretty princess!” she exclaimed while flinging her hands into the air.

“I thought you were the pretty princess,” I countered, and laughed when Claire’s nose wrinkled up.

“Nope! I’m the queen!” She straightened her back, flung her nose into the air, and placed her hands on her hips.

I had to hold back a chuckle. “Of course. How could I forget?”

I watched as Claire continued to pick more flowers. She kept picking until she had a handful of flowers; each one was a different colour.

“When’s mommy coming back?” Claire said as she weaved the flowers together.

The words, “I hope she never does,” almost left my mouth, but I held them back. Claire didn’t know what our mother had done. How she had used us for her own personal gain. How she had abandoned us the moment we no longer benefitted her.

Instead of speaking those thoughts, I absently said, “Maybe someday.”

I was so focused on my thoughts that I almost jumped when I heard a cough from behind me. When I turned, I found an imposing woman clad in steel armor.

“It’s time for your lesson, m’lady,” she said with a curt bow.

I sighed. “Of course, Lynette.” I turned back to Claire. An adorable pout rested on her face. “Don’t worry, Claire. We can play again later.” The pout remained.

All of a sudden, Lynette bent down to Claire’s level. “Would you like to join us?”

Wide violet eyes stared at Lynette. “Can I?”

Lynette smiled at Claire, “Of course you can.” She stood up and reached a hand down to Claire, who happily took it. Once everyone was on their feet we headed through the forest and back into the city.

“Of course you two would find the only flower field in Nohr.” Lynette absently commented as we walked through the crowds.

I shrugged, “Maybe everyone else wasn’t looking hard enough.”

Lynette shook her head and chuckled, “Maybe so.”

Finally, we made it to the castle. Once we were past the gate and in the courtyard, Lynette halted. In one swift motion, she removed the axes from her back and held them handle-first towards Claire and me. I took mine with ease; however, as soon as Lynette let go of Claire’s, Claire fell forward with a squeak.

Both Lynette and I let out laughs. “Need a little help?” Lynette smiled at Claire.

“I can do it!” Claire huffed and puffed as she attempted to lift the axe in vain. It barely budged. Claire desperately looked to me. “Can you help me, please?”

“How about we get you a different one?” I turned to Lynette, who unstrapped a ornate hatchet from her belt. This time when Claire took it, she didn’t fall over.

“Try swinging it,” Lynette backed up at the statement, and I followed suit.

I’m glad I did since Claire immediately started swinging wildly. “This is fun!” She laughed giddily.

“Do you want me to teach you some techniques?” Lynette asked.

Claire instantly stopped swinging. “Yes!” She shouted excitedly.

As Lynette taught Claire some simple techniques, I practiced my own moves on a nearby training dummy. I knew Lynette would take care of Claire. She’s the only other one I trusted with such a task, besides Xander.

After a while, I glanced back over to the duo. At that moment, Claire swung with all her might and buried the hatchet into the torso of a training dummy. Lynette and I both let out cheers.

Someone clapped from behind me. When I turned, all my cheer died.

Garon.

He smiled, but it was almost sinister. “Well done, Claire.” He congratulated my sister.

Said girl bounced up and down. The biggest smile was spread across her face.

Beside her, Lynette had returned to her usual stoic demeanour. We exchanged looks.

“Father, what are you doing here?”

Garon turned his piercing eyes on me. I wished I hadn’t said anything. “Can’t I watch my favourite child take her first steps to becoming a warrior?”

There was a challenge there. I refused to take the bait.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Lynette took the hatchet back from Claire despite her protests. I didn’t hesitate to give mine back.

“That’s too bad,” Garon pretended to be disappointed for a moment, but it was short lived. “Lynette, I’d like to speak with you.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

And then, Claire and I were left alone.

---

“Cami?”

I blearily blinked; the last wisps of sleep drifted away. I turned over onto my side and spotted wide violet eyes staring back at me. Claire hovered beside my bed; her hands fiddled with the small blanket she held.

“What is it, Claire?” I asked around a yawn.

“I’m scared.” She squeaked out.

“Now why would a brave girl like you be scared?”

“Monsters.”

“Monsters? Are they under your bed?” Claire nodded, and I had to hold back a chuckle. What an overactive imagination she had. Even still… “I’m sure there’s nothing there, but do you want me to check?” No harm in doing that.

Once in Claire’s room, I tucked her back into bed, and then bent down beside the bed. I flipped up the bed skirt and did a quick scan. Only a couple toys were spotlighted, everything else was shrouded in darkness.

“See? Nothing there.” I pushed myself up using the bed. I gave my sister a smile. “Don’t worry, Claire. Your big sister will always protect you.”

Back in my room, I practically collapsed into bed. Although my body ached from today’s training session, my mind refused to drift off to sleep. There was something about the shadows under Claire’s bed. Was it the fact that the shadows formed a shape? Or was it that something in them reflected the light?

All of a sudden, my blood ran cold.

No, it couldn’t be.

Suddenly, a scream shattered the silence.

In an instant, I was out of bed, and running down the hall.

Outside of her bedroom stood a cloaked figure. In its arms was Claire.

Sudden rage filled me. “Let her go!” I yelled.

The figure shook its head as it backed up.

“Cami!” Claire shouted fearfully. Her violet eyes were the size of dinner plates.

I lunged.

But it too late.

A flash of light blinded me. When it faded, I was alone. Only a note remained where they had stood.

I quickly picked it up; my eyes scanned the words:

Garon

We have your precious daughter.

If you want her back, come to Demon’s Falls

by sundown tomorrow.

Come alone.

If you do not, we kill the girl.

---

“I’m coming with you.”

There was no chance that I was being left behind. Not when Claire was in danger.

“No,” Xander didn’t even pause as he sharpened his blade.

Although it was meant to halt the ensuing argument, I persisted. “She’s my sister!” My vision blurred ever so slightly but I blinked it away. There was no time for that.

Xander finally stopped what he was doing. His brow furrowed as he stared at me. “That’s why you can’t come,” he spoke softly, “You read the note. This isn’t just any rebel group.”

“I can handle them!”

“You can’t,” Xander said firmly as he gaze coolly at me, “You’re not ready.” Something in his eyes softened. “These people are dangerous, Camilla. Possibly the most dangerous rebel group in Nohr. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“But…”

“Camilla,” Xander put down his blade, “we’re going to get her back. I’ll make sure of it.”

Tears rose to my eyes once again. “Promise me you will,” my voice trembled as I spoke.

“I promise.”

---

As the sun rose and set, I paced the courtyard. Nothing outside of my thoughts held my attention for long. Everything led back to thoughts of her after all. Thoughts of what I should have done. Thoughts of how terrified she must be. Thoughts of how powerless I am to help her.

A frustrated sigh escaped my lips. If only, Xander had let me go along. I could have helped. I’ve been training my entire life. Even still, it wasn’t enough.

All the training in the world couldn’t help me now.

“There they are!”

The sudden shout derailed my thoughts. In a flash, I was standing by the gate. I shifted from foot to foot as one of the many people huddled around the gate raised it.

The first soldier to come through the opening was the guard captain. Her head hung low as she marched.

“Lynette!” I shouted as I pushed through the crowd towards her.

Lynette gave me a pained look. “I’m so sorry, Camilla,” was all she said.

I tilted my head as the rest of the soldiers streamed by us. “What do you mean?”

Before she could say anything more, I spotted him.

Finally, Xander had appeared amongst the soldiers.

Something was cradled in his arms.

“No…”

Everyone bowed their heads as he rode by.

“Gods, no.”

Red streaked purple hair peeked through.

“No!”

I fell to my knees as my wails filled the courtyard. Xander knelt before me, and gently placed Claire on the ground. In an instant, I scooped her up in my arms.

“Claire?” I gently brushed the tangled hair away from her face. “Claire, please wake up,” My voice cracked at the end. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

A hand placed itself on my shoulder, “I’m so sorry, Camilla,” Xander spoke so softly I barely heard him.

With those simple words, I remembered who had caused this. Sudden rage seeped into every part of me. How dare they? How dare they take such an innocent and pure life from this world. What gave them the right?

I looked up at my brother. “Tell me you killed them,” cold anger filled my trembling voice, “the ones who did this.”

“We did.”

“Good,” my gaze fell back down to violet eyes that would never open again. Countless emotions whirled through my mind. Anger. Sadness. Guilt.

“This is my fault,” I whispered, “If I hadn’t left her alone…”

“You couldn’t have known,” Xander said, but I couldn’t hear him.

“It’s my fault,” I continued to whisper over and over again.

I didn’t protect her.

I couldn’t do anything when she needed me most.

I’m so sorry, Claire.

I’m so sorry.

---

For days I just sat in her room. In my hands, I gripped her favourite blanket. Tears stained its fabric. Every time I tried to wipe them away, more kept coming.

A knock at the door startled me from my thoughts.

Lynette stood in the doorway. For once, she wore a tunic and plain pants. There was no weapon in sight.

“I just came to say goodbye,” Lynette spoke in an unusually quiet voice.

Those words immediately snapped me out of my sorrow. “What? Why?”

“I am no longer welcome here after my failure.”

I knew instantly who was responsible. “He can’t do that! You’re the best guard we have!”

Lynette gave me a pained look. “I wasn’t good enough.”

We fell silent. My thoughts swirled around my head. Lynette couldn’t leave. She was one of the few people I had left. One of the few people who knew Claire as well as I did. One of the few people I called family.

“Please,” I whispered, “Don’t leave me.” Tears clouded my vision once again.

In an instant, Lynette was across the room and kneeling in front of me. Her hand cupped my cheek, and her thumb gently wiped the tears away.

“I will always be with you, my dear,” she murmured.

For the first time ever, I thought I saw tears rise to Lynette’s eyes, but she turned away before I could be sure.

“You two were like the children I never had,” she whispered so quietly I barely caught the words.

Lynette rose back to her feet. Before she could go, I quickly got up and wrapped her in a hug.

“Thank you, Lynette. For everything.”

And then she was gone.

And I was alone once again.

---

“This is your new little sister.”

I stared blankly at the child before me. Familiar purple hair framed her face, but it wasn’t quite the right shade. To add to that, crimson eyes stared back at me instead of violet ones.

My gaze found my father’s. Did he really think this little girl could replace my sister?

A proud grin graced his features.

He did.

A pit formed in my stomach at that, so I decided to refocus my gaze on the girl. Where did he even get this child? I had never seen her around the castle before, and Garon hadn’t had a new concubine for a while.

I must have been making faces as I thought because the little girl cowered further behind Garon.

Without thinking, I bent down to her level. “It’s okay, dear.” I put on the friendliest face I could muster. “I’m Camilla. What’s your name?”

The little girl peeked around Garon’s leg. She peered at me with terrified yet curious eyes. “Corrin,” she finally said in a small voice.

“It’s nice to meet you, Corrin.” I spoke the next part without a second thought, “If you ever need anything, you can come to me.”

My mind halted. What was I saying? I had just met the girl for gods’ sake.

She just reminded me so much of her.

My vision began to blur. Before either Garon or Corrin could see my tears, I got up abruptly and turned away.

“I need to go,” was all I said before running away.

I didn’t stop until I was out of the castle and into the surrounding city. Even then, I still quickly weaved through the crowd until I reached an area surrounded by a wrought iron fence.

A guard stood at the gate, and at the sight of me, he swiftly opened the gate. I walked by without a word, and continued on until I reached a simple headstone. A name was etched into the stone in cursive writing:

Claire Nohr

I practically collapsed in front of it. My finger gently traced a path along her name as I finally let the tears fall.

I don’t know how long I sat there. All I know is that the tears never stopped. The sadness never stopped. The guilt never stopped.

“Camilla?”

I turned at the sound of my name to find a little girl with hair the colour of the ocean. Concerned amber eyes gazed at me. I looked away in a vain attempt to hide my tears.

“Hello, Azura,” my voice trembled as I spoke, “What are you doing here?”

Azura pointed to grave off to the side. “Visiting mommy.”

That’s right. Arete had passed away a couple moons before Claire was killed. However, no matter how much Camilla tried, she couldn’t remember what had caused Arete’s death.

“She’s your sister, right?” Azura pointed her finger at Claire’s grave.

I nodded as I returned my gaze to the headstone.

“She was a good person.”

I almost wondered how Azura knew that until I remembered that Claire and Azura used to play together when Azura first arrived. That was before my siblings and I were told not to talk to Azura. I always wondered why, but I never spoke those thoughts out loud.

Maybe I should have. For Claire’s sake. Whenever I saw them playing together, she always had the biggest smile on her face. I should have done something. I should have…

Fresh tears sprung to my eyes as I buried my face in my knees. A stray sob escaped me.

How could I let this happen to her? I failed her.

A hand delicately placed itself upon my shoulder. “It’s alright,” Azura said gently, “I told mommy to look after her.”

At that, my gaze snapped to Azura. “You did?” I asked incredulously.

Azura nodded with a small smile.

I couldn’t believe it. Why would someone who barely knew Claire care so much for her and why was she being so kind to me of all people? What did I do to deserve that?

Instead of voicing my thoughts, however, all I said was, “Thank you, Azura.” And for the first time in a while I smiled.

---

I practically skipped down the dimly lit hall of the castle. A smile graced my features as I stopped at a certain door. In my hand I held a leather bound book. I had found it in the library, and I just couldn’t wait until morning to show Azura.

I quietly opened the door and slipped into her room. “Azura,” I whispered as I closed the door behind me and turned towards her bed, “you’re never going to believe what I fou-“

A scream caught in my throat as I looked at the scene before me.

Blankets were torn from the bed as if someone had grabbed them in a desperate attempt to stay put. As I approached the scene, I found small flecks of red covering said sheets.

“No!” This time I did wail, “This can’t be happening again!” I fell to my knees as my vision blurred.

“Camilla!” I heard Xander yell as he barrelled into the room. “What’s wr-“ He came to an abrupt halt. “Gods…Guards!

“Find her.”

“What?” Xander placed his hand on my trembling shoulder.

“Find her!” My voice cracked as I screamed the words. Tears streamed freely down my cheeks. “Please,” The last part was barely a whisper.

I remained where I was as Xander quickly left the room. My thoughts swirled around my mind.

A smiling face. An unmoving body. A kind word. An empty bed.

I couldn’t protect them. What a useless person I was. I didn’t deserve to be here. I should have been the one they took. Not her.

My hands gripped the blankets tighter. What was the point in going on if everything I loved kept getting ripped away from me?

What was the point?

I didn’t know.

“Camilla?”

I jolted at the sudden sound. When I turned I found a little girl standing in the doorway. Terrified crimson eyes met mine.

“Corrin?” The words, “Go back to bed,” were immediately on the tip of my tongue, but they refused to be spoken. Instead I said, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m scared,” she whispered the words so quietly I barely caught them.

Pain shot through my heart. A memory I had replayed over and over suddenly flashed through my mind once again. Those words were so familiar. I had hoped for moons that I would hear them again. Hoped that I would be able to correct that mistake.

But I couldn’t. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t go back and change what happened. I had to live with the mistake I made.

I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to forgive myself for what happened; however, that didn’t mean I had to make the same mistake again.

In an instant, I was on my feet and by Corrin’s side. I knelt in front of her and gently took her hands in mine. Finally, I spoke the words I wished I had said all those moons ago.

“Would you like to stay with me tonight?”

Maybe this was a second chance for me.

Maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe helping this girl would make me feel better.

Maybe it wouldn’t.

Maybe the same thing would happen again.

Maybe it won’t.

All I knew is that I wanted to give this girl the life I wanted Claire to have.

The one I never had.

And maybe, that’s all that mattered.

***

And there you have it. The story you wanted to hear. The only tale I have never told you. Don’t cry, my dear. She wouldn’t have wanted that.

You really helped me. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t believe I would’ve been here today.

Let me ask you now though.

Are you satisfied?

…

You want to see her? I supposed I could take you there. It was about time I visited her again. Come along, let’s go before it gets too dark.

---

Epilogue

---

Moonlight shone down from above and illuminated a woman with hair the colour of lavender. In her hands she held a bouquets of multicoloured flowers. Beside her walked a younger woman with violet hair. The older woman paid no mind to the ornate headstones they passed along the way for they were not why they were here.

Finally, she halted at a more simple headstone. The woman rested one hand on the cold stone, and smiled as she gazed at it.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The woman’s voice filled the night air. “Fighting a war does take up a lot of time,” she chuckled to herself. “We did it though. We’re at peace now.” Her smile wavered slightly, “I wish you could be here to see it.”

The woman fell silent for a moment as she stared at the now decorated grave.

“This is Corrin,” the older woman motioned to her companion, who waved at the headstone.

“I brought you these,” she held up the bouquet. One by one she placed the flowers on the grave.

There was a red one. “This one is from the Hoshido family. They’re a really kind family. I’m sure you would have liked them.”

A purple one. “Xander, Leo, and Elise picked out this one. It reminded them of you.”

An orange one. “This one is from Lynette. She wanted to give you one that was as bright as you were.”

A blue one. “Azura said this was the type of flower you used to make flower crowns for her with.”

As she placed the last one, the woman once again motioned to her companion. Said girl walked forward and placed a pure white flower among the rest of the flowers.

“You won’t be forgotten,” was all she said.

“All that was left in the other woman’s hands was what was holding the bouquet together: a simple pink and yellow flower crown.

“Can you give me a moment, please?”

As the younger woman walked away, the other one placed the flower crown on top of the headstone.

“There,” she smiled at the grave, “Now you’re a pretty princess, I mean, queen.”

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, but she brushed them away.

“You’ll always be my little queen,” her whisper was nearly lost to the breeze. “I wish things had turned out differently, but I’m glad I was at least able to call you my little sister.”

The woman stayed for a few moments longer before turning and, with one last smile, she walked away.

To the side of the headstone, the air shimmered ever so slightly, and revealed the faint form of a little girl with hair the colour of lavender. A small pink and yellow flower crown rested atop her head. She smiled at the retreating woman.

“Goodbye, Cami,” she called out as she, at last, faded away.

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Shadows on the Wall

Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (1903)

"Henry had words with Edward in the study the night before Edward died," said Caroline Glynn.

She was elderly, tall, and harshly thin, with a hard colourlessness of face. She spoke not with acrimony, but with grave severity. Rebecca Ann Glynn, younger, stouter and rosy of face between her crinkling puffs of gray hair, gasped, by way of assent. She sat in a wide flounce of black silk in the corner of the sofa, and rolled terrified eyes from her sister Caroline to her sister Mrs. Stephen Brigham, who had been Emma Glynn, the one beauty of the family. She was beautiful still, with a large, splendid, full-blown beauty; she filled a great rocking-chair with her superb bulk of femininity, and swayed gently back and forth, her black silks whispering and her black frills fluttering. Even the shock of death (for her brother Edward lay dead in the house,) could not disturb her outward serenity of demeanour. She was grieved over the loss of her brother: he had been the youngest, and she had been fond of him, but never had Emma Brigham lost sight of her own importance amidst the waters of tribulation. She was always awake to the consciousness of her own stability in the midst of vicissitudes and the splendour of her permanent bearing.

But even her expression of masterly placidity changed before her sister Caroline's announcement and her sister Rebecca Ann's gasp of terror and distress in response.

"I think Henry might have controlled his temper, when poor Edward was so near his end," said she with an asperity which disturbed slightly the roseate curves of her beautiful mouth.

"Of course he did not KNOW," murmured Rebecca Ann in a faint tone strangely out of keeping with her appearance.

One involuntarily looked again to be sure that such a feeble pipe came from that full-swelling chest.

"Of course he did not know it," said Caroline quickly. She turned on her sister with a strange sharp look of suspicion. "How could he have known it?" said she. Then she shrank as if from the other's possible answer. "Of course you and I both know he could not," said she conclusively, but her pale face was paler than it had been before.

Rebecca gasped again. The married sister, Mrs. Emma Brigham, was now sitting up straight in her chair; she had ceased rocking, and was eyeing them both intently with a sudden accentuation of family likeness in her face. Given one common intensity of emotion and similar lines showed forth, and the three sisters of one race were evident.

"What do you mean?" said she impartially to them both. Then she, too, seemed to shrink before a possible answer. She even laughed an evasive sort of laugh. "I guess you don't mean anything," said she, but her face wore still the expression of shrinking horror.

"Nobody means anything," said Caroline firmly. She rose and crossed the room toward the door with grim decisiveness.

"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Brigham.

"I have something to see to," replied Caroline, and the others at once knew by her tone that she had some solemn and sad duty to perform in the chamber of death.

"Oh," said Mrs. Brigham.

After the door had closed behind Caroline, she turned to Rebecca.

"Did Henry have many words with him?" she asked.

"They were talking very loud," replied Rebecca evasively, yet with an answering gleam of ready response to the other's curiosity in the quick lift of her soft blue eyes.

Mrs. Brigham looked at her. She had not resumed rocking. She still sat up straight with a slight knitting of intensity on her fair forehead, between the pretty rippling curves of her auburn hair.

"Did you—hear anything?" she asked in a low voice with a glance toward the door.

"I was just across the hall in the south parlour, and that door was open and this door ajar," replied Rebecca with a slight flush.

"Then you must have—"

"I couldn't help it."

"Everything?"

"Most of it."

"What was it?"

"The old story."

"I suppose Henry was mad, as he always was, because Edward was living on here for nothing, when he had wasted all the money father left him."

Rebecca nodded with a fearful glance at the door.

When Emma spoke again her voice was still more hushed. "I know how he felt," said she. "He had always been so prudent himself, and worked hard at his profession, and there Edward had never done anything but spend, and it must have looked to him as if Edward was living at his expense, but he wasn't."

"No, he wasn't."

"It was the way father left the property—that all the children should have a home here—and he left money enough to buy the food and all if we had all come home."

"Yes."

"And Edward had a right here according to the terms of father's will, and Henry ought to have remembered it."

"Yes, he ought."

"Did he say hard things?"

"Pretty hard from what I heard."

"What?"

"I heard him tell Edward that he had no business here at all, and he thought he had better go away."

"What did Edward say?"

"That he would stay here as long as he lived and afterward, too, if he was a mind to, and he would like to see Henry get him out; and then—"

"What?"

"Then he laughed."

"What did Henry say."

"I didn't hear him say anything, but—"

"But what?"

"I saw him when he came out of this room."

"He looked mad?"

"You've seen him when he looked so."

Emma nodded; the expression of horror on her face had deepened.

"Do you remember that time he killed the cat because she had scratched him?"

"Yes. Don't!"

Then Caroline reentered the room. She went up to the stove in which a wood fire was burning—it was a cold, gloomy day of fall—and she warmed her hands, which were reddened from recent washing in cold water.

Mrs. Brigham looked at her and hesitated. She glanced at the door, which was still ajar, as it did not easily shut, being still swollen with the damp weather of the summer. She rose and pushed it together with a sharp thud which jarred the house. Rebecca started painfully with a half exclamation. Caroline looked at her disapprovingly.

"It is time you controlled your nerves, Rebecca," said she.

"I can't help it," replied Rebecca with almost a wail. "I am nervous. There's enough to make me so, the Lord knows."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Caroline with her old air of sharp suspicion, and something between challenge and dread of its being met.

Rebecca shrank.

"Nothing," said she.

"Then I wouldn't keep speaking in such a fashion."

Emma, returning from the closed door, said imperiously that it ought to be fixed, it shut so hard.

"It will shrink enough after we have had the fire a few days," replied Caroline. "If anything is done to it it will be too small; there will be a crack at the sill."

"I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself for talking as he did to Edward," said Mrs. Brigham abruptly, but in an almost inaudible voice.

"Hush!" said Caroline, with a glance of actual fear at the closed door.

"Nobody can hear with the door shut."

"He must have heard it shut, and—"

"Well, I can say what I want to before he comes down, and I am not afraid of him."

"I don't know who is afraid of him! What reason is there for anybody to be afraid of Henry?" demanded Caroline.

Mrs. Brigham trembled before her sister's look. Rebecca gasped again. "There isn't any reason, of course. Why should there be?"

"I wouldn't speak so, then. Somebody might overhear you and think it was queer. Miranda Joy is in the south parlour sewing, you know."

"I thought she went upstairs to stitch on the machine."

"She did, but she has come down again."

"Well, she can't hear."

"I say again I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself. I shouldn't think he'd ever get over it, having words with poor Edward the very night before he died. Edward was enough sight better disposition than Henry, with all his faults. I always thought a great deal of poor Edward, myself."

Mrs. Brigham passed a large fluff of handkerchief across her eyes; Rebecca sobbed outright.

"Rebecca," said Caroline admonishingly, keeping her mouth stiff and swallowing determinately.

"I never heard him speak a cross word, unless he spoke cross to Henry that last night. I don't know, but he did from what Rebecca overheard," said Emma.

"Not so much cross as sort of soft, and sweet, and aggravating," sniffled Rebecca.

"He never raised his voice," said Caroline; "but he had his way."

"He had a right to in this case."

"Yes, he did."

"He had as much of a right here as Henry," sobbed Rebecca, "and now he's gone, and he will never be in this home that poor father left him and the rest of us again."

"What do you really think ailed Edward?" asked Emma in hardly more than a whisper. She did not look at her sister.

Caroline sat down in a nearby armchair, and clutched the arms convulsively until her thin knuckles whitened.

"I told you," said she.

Rebecca held her handkerchief over her mouth, and looked at them above it with terrified, streaming eyes.

"I know you said that he had terrible pains in his stomach, and had spasms, but what do you think made him have them?"

"Henry called it gastric trouble. You know Edward has always had dyspepsia."

Mrs. Brigham hesitated a moment. "Was there any talk of an—examination?" said she.

Then Caroline turned on her fiercely.

"No," said she in a terrible voice. "No."

The three sisters' souls seemed to meet on one common ground of terrified understanding through their eyes. The old-fashioned latch of the door was heard to rattle, and a push from without made the door shake ineffectually. "It's Henry," Rebecca sighed rather than whispered. Mrs. Brigham settled herself after a noiseless rush across the floor into her rocking-chair again, and was swaying back and forth with her head comfortably leaning back, when the door at last yielded and Henry Glynn entered. He cast a covertly sharp, comprehensive glance at Mrs. Brigham with her elaborate calm; at Rebecca quietly huddled in the corner of the sofa with her handkerchief to her face and only one small reddened ear as attentive as a dog's uncovered and revealing her alertness for his presence; at Caroline sitting with a strained composure in her armchair by the stove. She met his eyes quite firmly with a look of inscrutable fear, and defiance of the fear and of him.

Henry Glynn looked more like this sister than the others. Both had the same hard delicacy of form and feature, both were tall and almost emaciated, both had a sparse growth of gray blond hair far back from high intellectual foreheads, both had an almost noble aquilinity of feature. They confronted each other with the pitiless immovability of two statues in whose marble lineaments emotions were fixed for all eternity.

Then Henry Glynn smiled and the smile transformed his face. He looked suddenly years younger, and an almost boyish recklessness and irresolution appeared in his face. He flung himself into a chair with a gesture which was bewildering from its incongruity with his general appearance. He leaned his head back, flung one leg over the other, and looked laughingly at Mrs. Brigham.

"I declare, Emma, you grow younger every year," he said.

She flushed a little, and her placid mouth widened at the corners. She was susceptible to praise.

"Our thoughts to-day ought to belong to the one of us who will NEVER grow older," said Caroline in a hard voice.

Henry looked at her, still smiling. "Of course, we none of us forget that," said he, in a deep, gentle voice, "but we have to speak to the living, Caroline, and I have not seen Emma for a long time, and the living are as dear as the dead."

"Not to me," said Caroline.

She rose, and went abruptly out of the room again. Rebecca also rose and hurried after her, sobbing loudly.

Henry looked slowly after them.

"Caroline is completely unstrung," said he. Mrs. Brigham rocked. A confidence in him inspired by his manner was stealing over her. Out of that confidence she spoke quite easily and naturally.

"His death was very sudden," said she.

Henry's eyelids quivered slightly but his gaze was unswerving.

"Yes," said he; "it was very sudden. He was sick only a few hours."

"What did you call it?"

"Gastric."

"You did not think of an examination?"

"There was no need. I am perfectly certain as to the cause of his death."

Suddenly Mrs. Brigham felt a creep as of some live horror over her very soul. Her flesh prickled with cold, before an inflection of his voice. She rose, tottering on weak knees.

"Where are you going?" asked Henry in a strange, breathless voice.

Mrs. Brigham said something incoherent about some sewing which she had to do, some black for the funeral, and was out of the room. She went up to the front chamber which she occupied. Caroline was there. She went close to her and took her hands, and the two sisters looked at each other.

"Don't speak, don't, I won't have it!" said Caroline finally in an awful whisper.

"I won't," replied Emma.

That afternoon the three sisters were in the study, the large front room on the ground floor across the hall from the south parlour, when the dusk deepened.

Mrs. Brigham was hemming some black material. She sat close to the west window for the waning light. At last she laid her work on her lap.

"It's no use, I cannot see to sew another stitch until we have a light," said she.

Caroline, who was writing some letters at the table, turned to Rebecca, in her usual place on the sofa.

"Rebecca, you had better get a lamp," she said.

Rebecca started up; even in the dusk her face showed her agitation.

"It doesn't seem to me that we need a lamp quite yet," she said in a piteous, pleading voice like a child's.

"Yes, we do," returned Mrs. Brigham peremptorily. "We must have a light. I must finish this to-night or I can't go to the funeral, and I can't see to sew another stitch."

"Caroline can see to write letters, and she is farther from the window than you are," said Rebecca.

"Are you trying to save kerosene or are you lazy, Rebecca Glynn?" cried Mrs. Brigham. "I can go and get the light myself, but I have this work all in my lap."

Caroline's pen stopped scratching.

"Rebecca, we must have the light," said she.

"Had we better have it in here?" asked Rebecca weakly.

"Of course! Why not?" cried Caroline sternly.

"I am sure I don't want to take my sewing into the other room, when it is all cleaned up for to-morrow," said Mrs. Brigham.

"Why, I never heard such a to-do about lighting a lamp."

Rebecca rose and left the room. Presently she entered with a lamp—a large one with a white porcelain shade. She set it on a table, an old-fashioned card-table which was placed against the opposite wall from the window. That wall was clear of bookcases and books, which were only on three sides of the room. That opposite wall was taken up with three doors, the one small space being occupied by the table. Above the table on the old-fashioned paper, of a white satin gloss, traversed by an indeterminate green scroll, hung quite high a small gilt and black-framed ivory miniature taken in her girlhood of the mother of the family. When the lamp was set on the table beneath it, the tiny pretty face painted on the ivory seemed to gleam out with a look of intelligence.

"What have you put that lamp over there for?" asked Mrs. Brigham, with more of impatience than her voice usually revealed. "Why didn't you set it in the hall and have done with it. Neither Caroline nor I can see if it is on that table."

"I thought perhaps you would move," replied Rebecca hoarsely.

"If I do move, we can't both sit at that table. Caroline has her paper all spread around. Why don't you set the lamp on the study table in the middle of the room, then we can both see?"

Rebecca hesitated. Her face was very pale. She looked with an appeal that was fairly agonizing at her sister Caroline.

"Why don't you put the lamp on this table, as she says?" asked Caroline, almost fiercely. "Why do you act so, Rebecca?"

"I should think you WOULD ask her that," said Mrs. Brigham. "She doesn't act like herself at all."

Rebecca took the lamp and set it on the table in the middle of the room without another word. Then she turned her back upon it quickly and seated herself on the sofa, and placed a hand over her eyes as if to shade them, and remained so.

"Does the light hurt your eyes, and is that the reason why you didn't want the lamp?" asked Mrs. Brigham kindly.

"I always like to sit in the dark," replied Rebecca chokingly. Then she snatched her handkerchief hastily from her pocket and began to weep. Caroline continued to write, Mrs. Brigham to sew.

Suddenly Mrs. Brigham as she sewed glanced at the opposite wall. The glance became a steady stare. She looked intently, her work suspended in her hands. Then she looked away again and took a few more stitches, then she looked again, and again turned to her task. At last she laid her work in her lap and stared concentratedly. She looked from the wall around the room, taking note of the various objects; she looked at the wall long and intently. Then she turned to her sisters.

"What IS that?" said she.

"What?" asked Caroline harshly; her pen scratched loudly across the paper.

Rebecca gave one of her convulsive gasps.

"That strange shadow on the wall," replied Mrs. Brigham.

Rebecca sat with her face hidden: Caroline dipped her pen in the inkstand.

"Why don't you turn around and look?" asked Mrs. Brigham in a wondering and somewhat aggrieved way.

"I am in a hurry to finish this letter, if Mrs. Wilson Ebbit is going to get word in time to come to the funeral," replied Caroline shortly.

Mrs. Brigham rose, her work slipping to the floor, and she began walking around the room, moving various articles of furniture, with her eyes on the shadow.

Then suddenly she shrieked out:

"Look at this awful shadow! What is it? Caroline, look, look! Rebecca, look! WHAT IS IT?"

All Mrs. Brigham's triumphant placidity was gone. Her handsome face was livid with horror. She stood stiffly pointing at the shadow.

"Look!" said she, pointing her finger at it. "Look! What is it?"

Then Rebecca burst out in a wild wail after a shuddering glance at the wall:

"Oh, Caroline, there it is again! There it is again!"

"Caroline Glynn, you look!" said Mrs. Brigham. "Look! What is that dreadful shadow?"

Caroline rose, turned, and stood confronting the wall.

"How should I know?" she said.

"It has been there every night since he died," cried Rebecca.

"Every night?"

"Yes. He died Thursday and this is Saturday; that makes three nights," said Caroline rigidly. She stood as if holding herself calm with a vise of concentrated will.

"It—it looks like—like—" stammered Mrs. Brigham in a tone of intense horror.

"I know what it looks like well enough," said Caroline. "I've got eyes in my head."

"It looks like Edward," burst out Rebecca in a sort of frenzy of fear. "Only—"

"Yes, it does," assented Mrs. Brigham, whose horror-stricken tone matched her sister's, "only— Oh, it is awful! What is it, Caroline?"

"I ask you again, how should I know?" replied Caroline. "I see it there like you. How should I know any more than you?"

"It MUST be something in the room," said Mrs. Brigham, staring wildly around.

"We moved everything in the room the first night it came," said Rebecca; "it is not anything in the room."

Caroline turned upon her with a sort of fury. "Of course it is something in the room," said she. "How you act! What do you mean by talking so? Of course it is something in the room."

"Of course, it is," agreed Mrs. Brigham, looking at Caroline suspiciously. "Of course it must be. It is only a coincidence. It just happens so. Perhaps it is that fold of the window curtain that makes it. It must be something in the room."

"It is not anything in the room," repeated Rebecca with obstinate horror.

The door opened suddenly and Henry Glynn entered. He began to speak, then his eyes followed the direction of the others'. He stood stock still staring at the shadow on the wall. It was life size and stretched across the white parallelogram of a door, half across the wall space on which the picture hung.

"What is that?" he demanded in a strange voice.

"It must be due to something in the room," Mrs. Brigham said faintly.

"It is not due to anything in the room," said Rebecca again with the shrill insistency of terror.

"How you act, Rebecca Glynn," said Caroline.

Henry Glynn stood and stared a moment longer. His face showed a gamut of emotions—horror, conviction, then furious incredulity. Suddenly he began hastening hither and thither about the room. He moved the furniture with fierce jerks, turning ever to see the effect upon the shadow on the wall. Not a line of its terrible outlines wavered.

"It must be something in the room!" he declared in a voice which seemed to snap like a lash.

His face changed. The inmost secrecy of his nature seemed evident until one almost lost sight of his lineaments. Rebecca stood close to her sofa, regarding him with woeful, fascinated eyes. Mrs. Brigham clutched Caroline's hand. They both stood in a corner out of his way. For a few moments he raged about the room like a caged wild animal. He moved every piece of furniture; when the moving of a piece did not affect the shadow, he flung it to the floor, the sisters watching.

Then suddenly he desisted. He laughed and began straightening the furniture which he had flung down.

"What an absurdity," he said easily. "Such a to-do about a shadow."

"That's so," assented Mrs. Brigham, in a scared voice which she tried to make natural. As she spoke she lifted a chair near her.

"I think you have broken the chair that Edward was so fond of," said Caroline.

Terror and wrath were struggling for expression on her face. Her mouth was set, her eyes shrinking. Henry lifted the chair with a show of anxiety.

"Just as good as ever," he said pleasantly. He laughed again, looking at his sisters. "Did I scare you?" he said. "I should think you might be used to me by this time. You know my way of wanting to leap to the bottom of a mystery, and that shadow does look—queer, like—and I thought if there was any way of accounting for it I would like to without any delay."

"You don't seem to have succeeded," remarked Caroline dryly, with a slight glance at the wall.

Henry's eyes followed hers and he quivered perceptibly.

"Oh, there is no accounting for shadows," he said, and he laughed again. "A man is a fool to try to account for shadows."

Then the supper bell rang, and they all left the room, but Henry kept his back to the wall, as did, indeed, the others.

Mrs. Brigham pressed close to Caroline as she crossed the hall. "He looked like a demon!" she breathed in her ear.

Henry led the way with an alert motion like a boy; Rebecca brought up the rear; she could scarcely walk, her knees trembled so.

"I can't sit in that room again this evening," she whispered to Caroline after supper.

"Very well, we will sit in the south room," replied Caroline. "I think we will sit in the south parlour," she said aloud; "it isn't as damp as the study, and I have a cold."

So they all sat in the south room with their sewing. Henry read the newspaper, his chair drawn close to the lamp on the table. About nine o'clock he rose abruptly and crossed the hall to the study. The three sisters looked at one another. Mrs. Brigham rose, folded her rustling skirts compactly around her, and began tiptoeing toward the door.

"What are you going to do?" inquired Rebecca agitatedly.

"I am going to see what he is about," replied Mrs. Brigham cautiously.

She pointed as she spoke to the study door across the hall; it was ajar. Henry had striven to pull it together behind him, but it had somehow swollen beyond the limit with curious speed. It was still ajar and a streak of light showed from top to bottom. The hall lamp was not lit.

"You had better stay where you are," said Caroline with guarded sharpness.

"I am going to see," repeated Mrs. Brigham firmly.

Then she folded her skirts so tightly that her bulk with its swelling curves was revealed in a black silk sheath, and she went with a slow toddle across the hall to the study door. She stood there, her eye at the crack.

In the south room Rebecca stopped sewing and sat watching with dilated eyes. Caroline sewed steadily. What Mrs. Brigham, standing at the crack in the study door, saw was this:

Henry Glynn, evidently reasoning that the source of the strange shadow must be between the table on which the lamp stood and the wall, was making systematic passes and thrusts all over and through the intervening space with an old sword which had belonged to his father. Not an inch was left unpierced. He seemed to have divided the space into mathematical sections. He brandished the sword with a sort of cold fury and calculation; the blade gave out flashes of light, the shadow remained unmoved. Mrs. Brigham, watching, felt herself cold with horror.

Finally Henry ceased and stood with the sword in hand and raised as if to strike, surveying the shadow on the wall threateningly. Mrs. Brigham toddled back across the hall and shut the south room door behind her before she related what she had seen.

"He looked like a demon!" she said again. "Have you got any of that old wine in the house, Caroline? I don't feel as if I could stand much more."

Indeed, she looked overcome. Her handsome placid face was worn and strained and pale.

"Yes, there's plenty," said Caroline; "you can have some when you go to bed."

"I think we had all better take some," said Mrs. Brigham. "Oh, my God, Caroline, what—"

"Don't ask and don't speak," said Caroline.

"No, I am not going to," replied Mrs. Brigham; "but—"

Rebecca moaned aloud.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Caroline harshly.

"Poor Edward," returned Rebecca.

"That is all you have to groan for," said Caroline. "There is nothing else."

"I am going to bed," said Mrs. Brigham. "I sha'n't be able to be at the funeral if I don't."

Soon the three sisters went to their chambers and the south parlour was deserted. Caroline called to Henry in the study to put out the light before he came upstairs. They had been gone about an hour when he came into the room bringing the lamp which had stood in the study. He set it on the table and waited a few minutes, pacing up and down. His face was terrible, his fair complexion showed livid; his blue eyes seemed dark blanks of awful reflections.

Then he took the lamp up and returned to the library. He set the lamp on the centre table, and the shadow sprang out on the wall. Again he studied the furniture and moved it about, but deliberately, with none of his former frenzy. Nothing affected the shadow. Then he returned to the south room with the lamp and again waited. Again he returned to the study and placed the lamp on the table, and the shadow sprang out upon the wall. It was midnight before he went upstairs. Mrs. Brigham and the other sisters, who could not sleep, heard him.

The next day was the funeral. That evening the family sat in the south room. Some relatives were with them. Nobody entered the study until Henry carried a lamp in there after the others had retired for the night. He saw again the shadow on the wall leap to an awful life before the light.

The next morning at breakfast Henry Glynn announced that he had to go to the city for three days. The sisters looked at him with surprise. He very seldom left home, and just now his practice had been neglected on account of Edward's death. He was a physician.

"How can you leave your patients now?" asked Mrs. Brigham wonderingly.

"I don't know how to, but there is no other way," replied Henry easily. "I have had a telegram from Doctor Mitford."

"Consultation?" inquired Mrs. Brigham.

"I have business," replied Henry.

Doctor Mitford was an old classmate of his who lived in a neighbouring city and who occasionally called upon him in the case of a consultation.

After he had gone Mrs. Brigham said to Caroline that after all Henry had not said that he was going to consult with Doctor Mitford, and she thought it very strange.

"Everything is very strange," said Rebecca with a shudder.

"What do you mean?" inquired Caroline sharply.

"Nothing," replied Rebecca.

Nobody entered the library that day, nor the next, nor the next. The third day Henry was expected home, but he did not arrive and the last train from the city had come.

"I call it pretty queer work," said Mrs. Brigham. "The idea of a doctor leaving his patients for three days anyhow, at such a time as this, and I know he has some very sick ones; he said so. And the idea of a consultation lasting three days! There is no sense in it, and NOW he has not come. I don't understand it, for my part."

"I don't either," said Rebecca.

They were all in the south parlour. There was no light in the study opposite, and the door was ajar.

Presently Mrs. Brigham rose—she could not have told why; something seemed to impel her, some will outside her own. She went out of the room, again wrapping her rustling skirts around that she might pass noiselessly, and began pushing at the swollen door of the study.

"She has not got any lamp," said Rebecca in a shaking voice.

Caroline, who was writing letters, rose again, took a lamp (there were two in the room) and followed her sister. Rebecca had risen, but she stood trembling, not venturing to follow.

The doorbell rang, but the others did not hear it; it was on the south door on the other side of the house from the study. Rebecca, after hesitating until the bell rang the second time, went to the door; she remembered that the servant was out.

Caroline and her sister Emma entered the study. Caroline set the lamp on the table. They looked at the wall. "Oh, my God," gasped Mrs. Brigham, "there are—there are TWO—shadows." The sisters stood clutching each other, staring at the awful things on the wall. Then Rebecca came in, staggering, with a telegram in her hand. "Here is—a telegram," she gasped. "Henry is—dead."

[harrisonkitteridge-blog]

Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the shadows. He was also the bearer of the light that drove out the darkness.

Before Holmes Met Watson by Harrison Kitteridge

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes was a thing of the shadows. He was also the bearer of the light that drove out the darkness. Living out this paradox could be quite stressful. Obfuscation. Lies. Deceit. He had always been fascinated by people’s attempts to subvert the truth while living in a world in which there were cameras everywhere, constantly recording, sending everything back to The Archive, where anything governments or other powerful entities hadn’t obscured was searchable. Everyone could see everything, know everything about everyone else. “The Age of Transparency” was how the headlines had heralded The Archive coming online. Mendacity now took careful planning. Saying you were working late when you were really at a seedy motel rolling around on the bed with a colleague was a nearly impossible sell now. As were most forms of impersonation. The ubiquity of biometric readers employed to do everything from unlock doors to sign for packages meant most impostors quickly set off alarms when The Archive recognised someone was in two places at once. It had become so difficult to hide, and detective work was about uncovering concealment. The spotlights The Archive shone into people’s lives made Sherlock’s illuminating insights seem like a flickering candle, and he feared he was obsolete.

As a boy, Sherlock would spend hours upon hours neglecting his school assignments to browse the Personal Archive Files of strangers. He watched in fascination as the chain reactions of their ill deeds accelerated towards their explosive finales. All the evidence was there. The outcomes were predictable, yet the affairs, the embezzling, the betrayals always seemed to blindside the victims. They see, but they do not observe, Sherlock often thought. More damningly, they thought The Archive could do the observing for them. Everyone was watching everyone else all the time, so the misapprehension wasn’t wholly unreasonable. Nevertheless, it didn’t erase the simple consequence: Sherlock Holmes was a detective who almost never had any cases to solve. If you are what you do, what did it mean that he was constantly doing nothing?

#

John Watson was a doctor and a soldier. He lived and worked in a war zone. He saved the dying and on rare occasions had to pick up a gun and kill the living. He’d been trained well to do both. He preferred the former. There were moments when John was alone that it seemed to him his life was some sort of dream or even a simulation. War was terrible and chaotic and hellish. It was also thoroughly ludicrous. There was always something to do, though, and that left you with little time to realise that nothing made sense. The why of the fight was impossible to appreciate when you were in the valley of death. And when you stepped away far enough to look in at the mass slaughter, you realised the why was never good enough, and the true insanity was anyone thinking the depth of the suffering was justified. John struggled with the contradiction in himself: he was a healer and a killer. There was something he enjoyed about the risk of standing next to that yawning, dark abyss. He tried to ignore that part of himself and focus on the bit that spent exhausting hours in the operating theatre patching up the wounded. He thought of himself as a surgeon first, but his title belied that. Everyone called him Captain Watson.

Day One: Shopping

Adaptation. It is the driving force behind evolution. The species that is better adapted to its environment is more likely to survive. Humans are incredibly adaptable. We can adjust to almost any circumstance, survive nearly anything. John Watson pondered these things as he broke into a clammy sweat and hid behind one of the large potted plants lining the gleaming hallways of the mall. He’d adjusted to life in Afghanistan, to the gunfire, the bombs, the blood, the death. Calm in the face of chaos had become his default setting, and all this… peacefulness had his nerves singing and his pulse racing. He wished he’d thought to spend his leave in his hotel room and just have everything he needed delivered: food, spirits, companionship, but especially the items he’d promised to pick up for his mates stuck back in Kabul. He’d thought the novelty of going to one of the few remaining shopping centres would be a bit of a lark, but he hadn’t realised just how much he had changed. He’d always managed to take leave with friends he’d been deployed with, and without that familiar buffer he was flailing wildly and on the brink of a panic attack all because he was in a shopping mall that was too brightly lit and filled with civilians whose situational awareness rivalled that of a thick plank. He was beginning to get strange looks.

In another part of London, Sherlock Holmes was doing shopping of his own.

They claimed the stigma had been removed, but it hadn’t. He could see it in the eyes of the pedestrians who saw him make the left turn into the building; he could see it in the eyes of the staff. There was always a measure of contempt chased with a sharp spike of moral superiority. It was the pity that rankled him the most, though. But he kept coming to the Controlled Substances Dispensary because he knew the molar concentration of what he was getting down to four decimal places. The precision of it all provided a sort of comfort, although he found the blankness of the stark, unadorned white walls sinister – their cool inhospitality was quite deliberate.  He provided a retinal scan and was assigned a number. He’d long realised that no one liked to sit by the vents on the north side of the room, which blew arctic blasts in the summer and seemed to ooze positively equatorial humidity in the winter. It was early spring, so predicting the temperature was a bit chancier, but he took his usual seat directly under the openings and was shocked to find the problem seemed to have been repaired. A pleasant, gentle breeze wafted over him, and, as he watched a young man (early twenties, art student, hooked on some variant of methamphetamines) shamble towards him, he knew his day would go poorly.

“Nice day for it,” the art student said, smiling as he took the seat right next to Sherlock.

“Is it?” Sherlock replied, giving him a scathing look.

“I suppose not,” the young man said, recoiling slightly. At least he had the decency to take the hint and move a few seats away. Sherlock sighed in relief. He abhorred familiarity.

Back in the shopping centre, John had abandoned his cover and made his way into a supermarket. He’d picked up some chocolates and biscuits for his colleagues at the hospital and was consulting his list for what to buy next when he came to the fresh fruit section. He paused in front of what seemed like acres of bananas and stared. The sheer abundance of it all seemed preposterous to him. It’s all that unblemished yellow, he thought. He picked up a hand of seven and added it to his basket. He consulted his list again and headed off to find some authentic hot pepper sauce for his Jamaican anaesthetist.

Sherlock’s number was called, and he was ushered into the back room to receive his standing order. He’d never seen the woman manning the inventory before. She had brassy red hair and a nosy demeanour. He braced himself.

“Mr Holmes?” she asked, and her nasal inquiry made him want to throw things. Of course he was Mr Holmes. Hadn’t his number just been called? Hadn’t he just been escorted in?

“Yes,” he replied. He could hear the faint whir of the machinery retrieving his medicine and felt the blood in his veins pulse a bit faster. The vials popped up from beneath the counter.

“A bit strong, isn’t it?” the clerk said, examining one of the labels.

“I prepare the final solution myself,” he replied, reaching for the vials. She withheld them.

“And you’re allowed?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, clenching his fist. “I’m allowed.” He stared at her without blinking, and after several moments she handed him the vials.

“Would you like some syringes?” she asked.

“I have my own, and I don’t share,” he replied, tucking the vials into his coat pocket. Part of him didn’t like the profound sense of relief he received from feeling their slight weight set him ever so marginally off balance. But hearing them clink together, knowing he had them if he needed them set his mind at ease in a way nothing else could.

As Sherlock left the dispensary, he witnessed a strange phenomenon. In the distance, dark objects were falling from the sky. At first, he thought they might be delivery drones that had been clumsily hacked and were part of an inept terrorist attack, but they were the wrong size and shape. In addition, there were no wailing warning sirens, no people running, no screams. There was only an ominous silence that seemed to have swallowed the noise of the city.

John heard them smack into the pavement wetly before he saw them out of the corner of his eye. It took every ounce of his self-control not to yell “Incoming!” and dive into an improvised foxhole. But they weren’t bombs; they were birds, plummeting from the sky like giant black hailstones, already dead before they hit the ground.

“It’s raining crows,” a woman wearing a mauve dress stated as their small crowd stood and watched disbelievingly as the avian projectiles exploded as they hit the pavement, splattering blood and entrails astonishing distances. “It’s raining a flock of crows.”

“A murder,” John said mostly to himself. “That’s what you call a flock of crows.”

“I think they’re ravens,” a man said, grimacing at the carnage and flinching at each thudding splat. “They roost in the bell towers of some of the cathedrals and in the Tower of London.”

“What are they called?” a boy asked, pulling at John’s sleeve. “If crows are a murder, what are ravens?”

John looked down at the boy. He was slender to the point of breaking, white as milk, and something about the seriousness in his pale eyes and the wildness of his dark curls set John on edge. He reminded John of the stories of the Daoine Sith his grandmother had told him. The strange boy standing there looking like one of the faie, the dead birds, the constant prickle down his spine – it all seemed to augur ill, and suddenly he wished to be back in Edinburgh starting his medical studies. That’s when he’d been happiest. Hadn’t he? “An unkindness,” John finally answered, feeling compelled by the child’s unwavering stare. “They’re called an unkindness.”

Day Two: Gardening

It was dark, dank, and everything smelled of shit. But that was how you grew magic mushrooms, Sherlock mused to himself. Psilocybe Stantonia to be precise – powerfully hallucinogenic and highly in demand. They were the fungal equivalent of precious gems – more valuable than truffles even – and, while not strictly illegal, trading in them was a dodgy business. But dodgy businesses were Shinwell’s speciality, weren’t they? That and bare-knuckle boxing.

Sherlock Holmes had met Shinwell Johnson at The Ludus, an underground club dedicated to the pugilistic arts. It was a dark, cave-like, medieval sort of place with sawdust on the floor to soak up the blood and sweat. In the pits of The Ludus there were only two rules: no weapons, and you couldn’t kill anyone – it was too much bother to clear up the bodies. Oh, and there were no rounds; the bout ended only after one of the fighters couldn’t get up any more. Shinwell had grown up there, taking on his first fight at the age of sixteen. Twenty-five years later, he had seen every combination, every dirty trick, and the vastness of his experience more than made up for the slight slowing of his reflexes. He also still had a right hook that could drop a mule.

Sherlock’s first night at The Ludus had become the stuff of legend. According to Shinwell, he had “fooking swanned in like His Majesty, the King” and stunned the onlookers by requesting to fight in the open category. To keep the fights fair and the bets coming in, there were rough weight classes, and the organisers tried to match fighters by skill. In keeping with the spirit of the founding of the club, however, there remained the open category where you could fight any and all comers. Over time, it had supplanted the heavyweight class, but every now and then some arrogant sod swaggered in and received a spectacular thrashing. There were a flurry of bets on Sherlock’s fight, and when he stripped to the waist and revealed the track marks on his left arm, the odds against him surviving more than three minutes soared to 50-to-1.

Shinwell had objected on principle – an addict wasn’t in the proper state of mind to appreciate the consequences of the suicidal decision he was making. That, and he was obviously a toff. If he died, it would bring the filth. Shinwell had nearly come to blows with the bookmakers, and only his long history prevented him from being thrown out and barred. He looks made of marble, Shinwell thought as he observed the swathe of pale skin stretched over Sherlock’s thin frame. He’ll shatter at the first blow. Shinwell had watched in concern as Sherlock meticulously wrapped and taped his hands. At least he knows to do that much, Shinwell thought, some of his worry easing. As he watched Sherlock warm up and stretch, he began to wonder if he’d jumped to a parlously mistaken conclusion. Yes, the man needed feeding up, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and Shinwell recognised the camouflaged strength in his muscles and tendons that practitioners of kung fu called “iron wires”. But more than that, it was his economy of movement; there was a precision there that could only be the product of a disciplined mind. He began to shadow box, beginning with some simple combinations, and Shinwell choked on his chips. God, but his hands were fast. His strange, almost translucent eyes were clear and focussed, and there was something distinctly lethal lurking behind them. Shinwell had seen enough of them in his time to know: The man was a killer. Shinwell downed his pint, headed back over to the bookies and placed all of his night’s winnings on Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock’s opponent went by the moniker The Butcher, and he was a literal giant – enormous, thick-necked and notoriously able to absorb punishing blows. But he had grossly underestimated Sherlock’s speed, skill and strength. The quick combination that had The Butcher stunned then out cold before he hit the ground came after only thirty-five seconds. Shinwell had never heard The Ludus so quiet. Sherlock asked to fight again, and Shinwell let his substantial winnings ride.

The next bout remained one of the most beautiful fights Shinwell had ever witnessed. Sherlock’s adversary, a skilled mixed martial artist who called himself The Sword, was much more careful than The Butcher had been, circling Sherlock warily, trying to get the measure of the new phenomenon. Sherlock waited patiently until he had no choice but to attack, and Sherlock seemed to melt away only to surge back towards him, raining exquisitely placed blows to his vital organs. Shinwell almost wept at the elegance of the execution. Wherever The Sword went, Sherlock was there first. Can he read minds? Shinwell thought as he watched Sherlock sidestep a blow that would have at least glanced anyone else and viciously box his opponent’s ears. Shinwell knew how disorienting that ringing inside your head could be and was unsurprised when The Sword met his end.

Sherlock retreated to his corner seeming deaf to the cheers at his triumph. He was glistening with sweat and flushed, his dark curls nearly sopping wet. Shinwell was straight enough to calibrate a level, but he realised the enigmatic stranger could have nearly anyone in the room if he thought to ask, but he seemed uninterested in making any acquaintances. He had come alone and wasn’t celebrating what were thrilling victories that would be talked about for ages. He quickly cut the tape from his hands, towelled off and dressed. When he left, ignoring the many offers to buy him a pint, Shinwell followed.

Too many egos had been bruised and too much money lost for there not to be an attempt at retaliation. Sure enough, a group of The Butcher’s mates already had Sherlock cornered when Shinwell exited the building.

“Now, now, lads,” Shinwell warned. “No one likes poor losers.” There were enough of them to subdue someone of even Sherlock’s prodigious skill, but with Shinwell added to the mix, the odds had shifted out of their favour, and they wandered off muttering threats.

“I could have managed,” Sherlock said.

“Of course you could,” Shinwell replied. “There’s nothing like a good street brawl, though, is there?”

“I suppose not,” Sherlock said, something approaching humour entering his expression. At that moment, Shinwell Johnson decided to adopt Sherlock Holmes. He was an absentee parent, but Sherlock found he could count on him whenever another pair of fists were needed, and Shinwell actually had someone clever to consult about his schemes. That’s how they’d ended up covered in shit, harvesting mushrooms in a derelict greenhouse.

“How long will it take you to test them, then?” Shinwell asked.

“Most of the night,” Sherlock replied, looking at Shinwell’s thrice broken nose and scarred knuckles. All the abuse he had taken would soon tilt him towards a dilapidation that matched the disrepair of the greenhouse they had just been picking through. Sherlock turned away, wondering if he had caught a glimpse of his future.

#

Approximately 40,000 feet above, a military transport plane had just reached cruising altitude. One of its passengers was John Watson. He hated flying. He wasn’t frightened of it or anything; he just found it depressing. Shouldn’t there be some sort of teleporter that beamed you thousands of miles away in seconds? Or at the very least a hyperdrive that could complete the journey from London to Kabul in minutes not hours. What on earth were they doing on an aeroplane in this day and age? He sometimes wondered if they were part of the problem – he and his colleagues. Ready bodies to throw in front of the canons and pull the triggers made the decision to fight more palatable than it should have been, and violence and war thrived on fear. Fear is a powerful motivator, but it is also the destroyer of dreams. They’d stopped dreaming, hadn’t they? They lived perpetually crouched in a defensive position, their minds crippled by the uncertainty wrought by decades of instability.

Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking, John rifled through his bag in search of something to eat. He was slightly overwhelmed by the variety of snacks he’d crammed into his baggage, but he managed to decide on some savoury crackers and a paradoxically firm but creamy new variant of White Stilton. He offered some of his meal to his neighbours, who gladly accepted in lieu of army rations. The crackers were crisp but not hard and flaked pleasantly on the tongue. The seasoning was well balanced if just the tiniest bit over-salted, and the cheese complemented it well. Some wine was in order, John thought in disappointment. Curious about the ingredients, he read the label as he bit into another cracker. Rosemary, thyme, and (yes!) that was a bit of dill. He didn’t have a sophisticated palate, but he grew up with a father who was an excellent cook, and his mother had kept a small herb garden in the back yard. John was often called to help with the weeding and harvesting. As light as the work had been, he had always complained.

“Johnny,” his mother would say. “I want you to always remember that we are connected to the soil. We have to respect it.” And she would plunge his hands into the wet earth and laugh as he grimaced.

He’d made her stop calling him Johnny when he was a teenager. It had seemed so important then. When his parents had left him at his dormitory that first day at medical college, their eyes had been shimmering, and his mother had embraced him. “I’m so proud of you, Johnny,” she’d said, ruffling his hair. He’d blushed and smoothed his hair down, embarrassed for his roommate to see him being coddled. The insane idiocy of youth: making people ashamed of being loved.

“I told you to stop calling me Johnny,” he’d said, not wanting her to leave but desperately needing to be out on his own.

“She’ll call you whatever she likes,” his father had said gruffly, pulling him into a tight hug. “Work hard,” he’d admonished.

“I will,” John had promised.

That was the last time he’d seen them. The accident had been so bad they’d had to close the caskets. Everyone told him he should have sued the automobile manufacturer and the company that had made the self-piloting software, but that would have meant reliving it all, thinking about them like that. He couldn’t have borne it. Someone else had brought the court case, and he’d eventually received part of the settlement. He gambled the money away over the course of a single weekend.

John had started an herb garden many times over the years, and each time neglect had caused the plants to wither and die. He lived a soldier’s life, and it censured the delicacy required to make things grow.

Day Three: Gifts

Besides the quaintness of the mode of transport, the thing John hated the most about flying was how shattered he always felt after a long trip. It didn’t matter if he’d had a good kip and drank his weight in fluids; he always got off the plane feeling disorientated, dehydrated and in the mood to punch things. It’s all that recycled air, John thought, blinking to try and moisten his arid corneas. Kabul was parched, and so was he.

John was taken aback by the immense relief he felt when he entered his stark quarters. The tightness in his chest had eased with each second he got closer to the base, and the sight of his cot, camp stove and canteen almost brought him to his knees. This temporary structure in the middle of a war zone, these humble necessities created more of a feeling of home than the country of his birth. Part of it was his comrades-in-arms. The smiles and warm greetings of “Captain Watson” provided succour he hadn’t quite realised he’d needed. There were people here who knew him, who valued him. There was also a bracing sort of comfort in how unequivocal the mortal threats that surrounded them were. Death comes to us all, but for most it was an abstraction. Its proximity removed some of the fear. John found there was a certain purity in living in purgatory. Afghanistan was filled with friends and foes bent on destruction; England was filled with strangers. John strongly preferred the former.

As news of his return filtered through the base, his surgical team, poker and rugby mates all dropped by to welcome him home with warm hugs and claps to his back. And this was his home. He could see that now. He swallowed over something tight in his throat and emptied his luggage onto his cot. He sorted through the gifts he’d brought back, feeling a bit like Father Christmas. Nearly all of them had asked him to see if he could find the sweets and biscuits that had been their favourites when they were children. John supposed it lessened the sense of insecurity somehow, brought them back to a simpler time, made massive problems seem solvable. A few bottles of spirits also made the rounds. Those were for a bit of fun over a game of cards or to obliterate even temporarily the memories of the particularly bad days when it seemed they���d wandered into hell itself and the Devil had everything turned up to eleven.

John could spin a good yarn when he was in the mood, and his recounting of his sojourn to the mall had his visitors in stitches. He left out the bit about the ravens, because it seemed like too ill an omen. None of the gathered were religious or superstitious, but imagery had the power to lower morale, and, as an officer, it was his duty to keep their spirits up, even if he had to sacrifice a bit of his pride and admit he’d been overwhelmed enough by his shopping expedition to take cover behind indoor shrubbery.

They all shared a bit of scotch, and John listened as they recounted what he’d missed. Thankfully, there’d been only a few minor skirmishes, and, while any single death was keenly felt, the days when the bodies (or what was left of them) had to be stacked like cords of wood were nearly impossible to manage.

A few hours later, John was on his own again. There was one gift left in his bag. Once he’d stumbled across the snow globe with the single, blazing red poppy inside it, he couldn’t leave it behind. He’d even taken the time to have it wrapped at the store. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the gift’s intended beneficiary to come and welcome him home.

#

Back in London, Sherlock had managed to wash most of the stink of excrement from him and was in one of the laboratories at St Bartholomew’s Hospital testing the potency of the mushrooms he and Shinwell had collected. Shinwell had a mate of a mate of a bloke who was flatmates with a mycologist. It was a convoluted history to which Sherlock had paid scant attention then routed away from his long-term memory. At the centre of the labyrinth was the claim that this particular variant of Psilocybe had been bred to produce enhanced psychedelic effects. Sherlock’s preliminary tests confirmed that the mushrooms consistently contained much higher levels of the psychoactive compounds than would be expected – enough to defeat the purpose of their creation. The dosage of psilocybin was well above what was ordinarily consumed and would almost certainly poison anyone who consumed them.

Sherlock thought of the greenhouse Shinwell had shovelled full of shit and where he had devoted hours to meticulously minding the spores he’d spent nearly his entire savings on to ensure they sprouted. He called the fruit his “gold nuggets” – they were meant to fund his retirement. There had to be hundreds of pounds of the things.

Shinwell was a good sort for a degenerate, Sherlock thought. They weren’t exactly friends, but there was a measure of trust and loyalty in their relationship that Sherlock felt bound to respect. If the mushrooms had to be scrapped, Shinwell would get spectacularly drunk and instigate a pub brawl, but the next day he would bounce back and find some other get-rich-quick scheme. He always did. But the mushrooms could be salvaged, Sherlock pondered, if instead of drying them and selling them as edibles, the psilocybin were extracted into some sort of tincture that would administer the correct dosage. A new delivery method would set Shinwell apart from his competitors and perhaps even allow him to charge a premium.

Sherlock sketched out some ideas for the extraction and began a rough first attempt at the procedure. In the lab next door, an exhausted graduate student had fallen asleep standing up and missed a crucial step in her experiment, which exploded. It was nothing catastrophic, but it was enough to startle Sherlock into knocking over his equipment and breaking some of his glassware. He cut his hand rather badly and sucked at the gash while he reached for paper towels to staunch the bleeding. He tamped down on the wound and looked for the first aid kit. He spent longer than he’d care to admit awkwardly using tweezers he’d hastily sterilised to remove the splinters himself. He was minutes away from the casualty ward of a major hospital, but he didn’t want to wait for hours to be seen for a laceration, which, while nasty, didn’t appear to need stitches.

After he cleared all the debris from the wound, he cleaned it thoroughly and bandaged his hand. As he replaced the first aid kit, he heard the sound of bees buzzing. How on earth had they found a way in? He turned around and saw an enormous swarm across the room, and his usual fondness for the creatures was supplanted by a deep fear. They were too large, he realised. They were the size of sparrows. They weren’t real.

“I’m hallucinating,” he said.

He was suddenly and violently ill, turning himself inside out vomiting. The extraction. When he’d cut his hand, some of the concentrated extract must have got into the wound. It was being delivered through his blood, and he’d ingested some of it when he’d sucked the injury.

The bees were coming.

There was someone laughing maniacally.

Was it him?

His heart.

He could feel it slowing down.

It would stop.

He would die.

He needed to speed it up.

The cocaine. It was still in his coat pocket. He needed a syringe. He managed to pry the first aid kit back open, sending its contents flying.

Everything was tinted hot pink, and the sound of the bees tasted like burnt roast.

What was he looking for?

He picked up some ointment and some tablets. No, that wasn’t right.

His heart. It was dying. That’s it: a syringe for the cocaine. He rifled through the mess on the floor until he found one. He crawled back over to his work station and pulled his coat down from the stool where he’d laid it. His hands were too big to fit in the pockets, which were filled with tiny crabs. He shook the coat upside down, emptying everything in his pockets onto the floor. The crabs scurried away, and he slithered on his belly on the floor, following the rolling vials across the room.

He ripped the syringe from its packaging with his teeth. His hands were too small to hold it properly. It told him to go away, that men with small hands weren’t to be trusted. He roared at it to be quiet and shoved its pointy mouth into the vial of cocaine, pulling up the plunger to fill its throat and choke it with the solution.

A vein. He had to find a vein.

He injected himself, felt his heart begin to race, stumbled out of the lab into the hallway and collapsed.

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