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kurama-is-love · 4 years ago

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An unusual proposal (Oneshot)

It's been a while since I wrote in english, so please bear with me if this is not perfect. English is not my first language ;-;

Oh and this time it's a female Half!Demon/Human Reader x Kurama. Just to let you know! Again as warning, much much fluff between you and Kurama.

The Dark Tournament was looking forward to its grand finale.

Team Toguro faced Team Urameshi, consisting of Yusuke, Kuwabara, Hiei and Kurama. Their fifth member, Mask, or rather Genkai, was 'killed' in battle by the younger Toguro brother the night before. Although you and your friends mourned about your deceased comrade, the others were not allowed to give in to their feelings now. One single mistake could result in the next death, everyone knew that.

You hadn't left your friend's side since the beginning of the Tournament and you were even allowed to stay at their side near the battle field. Though now you were concerned about the last battle. You had asked to stand in for Mask as the fifth participant, but before you were able to speak to the competition officials, you were prevented from doing so by your friends, mostly Yusuke and especially Kurama. It was a lengthy and exhausting discussion that followed with the two of them. Yusuke was anything but calm and tried to dissuade you from your idea with irrelevant threats for "beating the shit out of you if you continue to try to participate". Of course he would never lay a finger on a friend, especially not if he were to draw the wrath of a certain fox on him ..

Speaking of the fox. It was Kurama's empathetic and factually convincing words that finally led you to abandon your idea and not take part in the fight. As much as you hated not being able to stand by your friends, it was clear to you aswell that you would not survive 2 minutes in the ring against a member of this diabolical team from Toguro .. It was just maddening ..

Before the fight started, you cleared your throat to attract the attention of your friends.

"Before you fight, I want to get rid of something .." you began and looked at the ground slightly.

"Spit it out, [Y/n]-chan." Kuwabara tried with a calm and understanding tone of voice to reassure you that none of them were mad at you for your earlier discussions. He thought that, because you were trembling all over and he could also tell that you were fighting back tears.

"I want you .. to be extra careful this time .. Your opponents are of a completely different caliber than all your opponents before .. And if ..Uh.. when you notice that you .. can't do it .. that you. . " you stopped, the thought of what should follow your sentence stung your heart. "... you will die if you keep going .. I beg you to give up .. just give up and end the fight .. Fuck this stupid tournament, your lives are way too precious ..!" you spoke a little louder and more determined as you looked at your four friends.

Hiei's expression was disinterested as always. Kuwabara looked away, slightly embarrassed, while Kurama had put on an illegible expression. Yusuke crossed his arms before briefly closing his eyes.

"Sorry, but we can't promise that." he said then.

"W-What ..?"

When you looked up, startled, you felt a hand on your shoulder. It was Yusuke's.

"If we give up, everything was in vain. Our training, the preliminary fights. And ... also the death of that old witch ... The least we owe her is to try to defeat her killer." He continued serious, but his face showed no sign of annoyance or anger towards you. He showed you .. friendliness and a small smile. "Anyway, thank you for taking care of us all. With that knowledge, we can do our best," he added.

"B-But .." your quiet objections were stopped again when Kurama took Yusuke's place and put both hands on your shoulders. A slightly worried smile graced his pale lips.

"Yusuke is right. If we give up here, everything we have been through so far will be wasted. Besides .." he continued and his expression darkened slightly as he looked at his opponents, especially at Karasu. "..we can't allow these .. monsters to continue their mischief to continue their murders in the world of spirits, demons and humans. If we don't stop them, who should do it?" he asked you.

You didn't know the answer and looked to the side. Kurama smiled sadly and put his hand on your cheek to turn your face back to him.

"Just trust us, okay?" He said softly and lovingly before placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

"Kurama .. I trust you. But I'm still scared okay ..?"

"That's perfectly okay." The redhead whispered and you sighed softly.

"I'm serious. I don't want to go through the same fear that I did during your fight against Bakken ..."

"Mhm .."

[Flashback]

The battle against the members of Team Masho had reached worrying proportions after Kurama lost consciousness while standing shortly after he was named as the victor in the battle against the ice demon Touya by Koto. The rules of this match were like an endless battle. As long as a member could fight, he fought against any opponent. This is exactly how he had defeated Gama at first and was able to win against Touya with the last of his strength. But now the luck of the kitsune seemed to have run out when he stood bleeding and unconscious on the battlefield and Koto checked whether he was still alive.

"That's enough now! I'll take over for Kurama!" Yusuke called to the judge when the third opponent, a tall, dark-skinned man with short black hair, stepped out.

"Not so fast. That guy is still there, so I'm his opponent now." The shinobi grinned maliciously and was already flexing his fists.

"You can't be serious! You can see that he is not able to fight!" You said and looked angry at Bakken.

"You stay out of it, you brat. I say: He can fight." With these words he turned to Koto, who looked back and forth between the two parties, perplexed.

"Well .. Well .. I also think that Kurama is incapacitated. We have to wait for the decision of the competition committee before an exchange takes place .." the cat demon spoke uncertainly.

All attention was then turned to the speakers when the committee announced its decision. They disagreed with the exchange and declared Kurama's ability to fight.

Yusuke and you had to watch in shock when Bakken started hit the unconscious Kurama again and again and injured him so badly that it was a miracle if he could survive this ordeal for long. When Bakken pulled Kurama up by his top and beat him again, the fabric on the top tore and Kurama fell to the ground. Blood ran down his forehead.

While you could only watch in shock, the stadium echoed under the calls of the demonic audience, who very unanimously demanded only one thing.

"Kill him!"

"Kill him, Bakken!"

"Yes, kill this traitor !!!"

You clenched your fists in anger before turning to the bleachers.

"SHUT UP YOUR DAMN MOUTHS ALREADY!" you shouted so loudly that the stadium fell silent and Yusuke and the others looked at you too. "I CAN'T STAND YOUR HATE TIRADS ANYMORE! The next one who says anything about 'kill this bastard' will get a free ticket to hell from me. WAS THAT CLEAR?"

Your friends had seldom seen you so loud and serious. The girls, Botan, Shizuru, Keiko and Yukino were very shocked by your exclamation.

Suddenly one of the demons jumped down from the stands and stood next to you.

"Pretty loose mouth for such a shitty, weak half-breed, darling."the green-colored beast grinned and licked its lips with its iguana-like tongue. "You are nothing but a shabby one demon, who has human blood in them. It doesn't surprise me that you are on the traitors side. But don't open your mouth like that if you know what's good for you. " He threatened you.

Your eyebrow twitched menacingly as the demon extended its claws and tried to slit your stomach. You reached for your weapons, chakrams, and a reddish-orange aura flooded the metal, your Reiki, mixed with Yoki. The audience held their breath when they could only hear lightning-fast cuts and white clouds of energy sliced the demon that was attacking you until the attacker fell dead to the ground.

"Anyone else has something to say to a " failed half-breed "? you asked the ranks, but the audience fell silent before you could finally devote yourself to the fighting again.

"T-That's enough! Kurama is on the ground and can no longer fight! I think a countdown is also unnecessary .." Koto interrupted the scene now when she saw the battered Kurama.

Bakken seemed to disagree and lifted Kurama up in the air again by his top.

"Now he's standing again. That means the fight goes on."the black-haired man smirked and wanted to make the final punch that should blow out Kurama's life light forever.

"Stop. That's enough, Bakken." a masked figure behind Bakken, another member of Team Mascho, spoke up.

"Why are you stopping me, Risho? I was just about to finish it." Bakken grumbled while Risho pointed to the opposite side of the arena.

"If you had landed this punch, that would have been your death." Risho spoke only dryly, while Bakken blinked and looked in the direction in which Risho was pointing.

Yusuke and you stood there, both of you in your strongest attacking postures. Yusuke was ready to use his "Rei-Gun" while your chakrams had turned into icy-tessen (Metal fans), the tips of their spikes were reinforced with your Reiki and turned into razor-sharp blades that could be shot individually. You were both ready to kill Bakken if he made any move.

"Tch. Fine. Well, you can have him back." Bakken sighed and threw Kurama carelessly out of the ring. Yusuke and you immediately rushed to the passed out Kitsune and Yusuke carried him to the edge of the ring. You were right behind him. After Yusuke dropped him off, you kneeled down at Kurama's side and looked up your human best friend.

"Yusuke." You spoke in a serious tone. Yusuke turned to you. questioningly. "... Beat the shit out of him. Hit that asshole really hard with a greeting from me." You muttered with bared teeth. Yusuke grinned and gave you a thumbs-up.

"Rely on me, [Y/n]. I will make sure that he gets a proper rubdown. And greetings from you. Just take care of our Kurama." Yusuke answered with a wink.

You nodded gently and put your hands on Kurama's damaged chest to let your Reiki flow into his body. That should give him enough energy to activate his own self-healing powers. At least that was how it prevented him from having too little energy.

He almost died ..

When Kurama woke up a little later, he promised you to never again risk his life so lightly.

[End of flashback]

"Remember your promise." you said softly and took Kurama's hand in yours to give it an affectionate squeeze. The fox just looked at you apologetically, but he was weighing whether he could really tell you that he couldn't keep this promise.

"I'm sorry. This may be my first promise, which I can't keep, as much as I would like to. But ..." he began before you could sigh in frustration. Kurama smiled and put a strand of hair behind your ear. "I'll give you a new promise for that." He said and made you blink in curiousity.

"One that you will keep?" you asked.

Kurama smiled and pulled you close for a moment.

"Yes. I promise you, if I survive my fight against Karasu .." he almost sounded as if he didn't believe in it himself, which only unsettled you even more. "... I will take you as my wife as soon as my human body is 18 years old."

Your eyes widened, speechless, at these words. Kurama, who had sworn off love and certainly did not want to settle down in the human world, had just given you the promise of marriage if he should emerge victorious from the battle ..

"K-Kurama .." you started, touched, when the Kitsune put his index and middle fingers on your lips and gently shook his head.

"I have to go into the ring now." He said, because the referee Juri had to call his name again.

Kurama broke away from you and went to the battlefield, where Karasu was already waiting for him. You held your breath as the fight began. It was going to be the hardest fight of all time for him, you were sure of it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The fight was clearly dominated by Karasu for a long time, who seemed to foresee every one of Kurama's steps. His rosewhip basically crumbled to dust before it could hit Karasu due to a miniature bomb that the black-haired man had already placed. Knowing that Kurama would resort to his signature attack.

Even the transformation into his Youko form only briefly gave Kurama the upper hand in this fight.

Karasu was strong, incredibly strong. Kurama was already bleeding profusely on his legs and arms from the bombs that hit his flesh. The transformation into his demon form had already reached its limits. Now everything seemed to be over for the redhead when he went down and his robe was already completely bathed in red blood.

It was a horrible sight, almost worse than Bakken's back then. Kurama stopped moving when Karasu tried to put an end to it.

With the very last of his strength, Kurama was able to mobilize his last reserves and thus also make his Reiki to zero when he conjured up a large, gray plant. Shortly afterwards he sagged dead and his friends, as well as you, cried out in agony.

"KURAMA!"

Karasu stopped. Not because he thought his opponent was dead, but because something had pierced his chest. Everyone stared in disbelief at the three vines of the plant that Kurama had conjured up with his last strength. They seemed to suck out Karasus blood.

"What is happening?" Kuwabara asked in disbelief.

"The plant sucks out its blood. Like a vampire." You explained and looked a little more composed again. Apparently you knew this technique. Since dated Kurama, the others weren't surprised.

Before the crowd could properly process what had happened, Karasu fell to the ground. His skin was pale from massive blood loss and his eyes were blank and torn. He was dead.

But what about Kurama?

Kurama opened his eyes. The bleeding wounds had closed again as if by a miracle and he straightened up slightly wobbly. Did the vampire plant fed him with the blood of his victim to save his life? It was the only logical explanation.

Tears now ran down your cheeks. No tears of sadness, tears of infinite joy. He was alive. Kurama had kept his promise and survived this fight.

Without hesitation for a second, after Juri made him the winner, you ran onto the battlefield and threw Kurama to the ground in a stormy embrace. The Redhead was unprepared for the impact and lost balance when you buried your face in the crook of his neck.

"Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot." You repeated several times, still sobbing slightly. This kitsune almost seemed to enjoy causing you so much grief by letting himself be beaten up in every fight.

Kurama smiled gently and caressed your back soothingly.

"Ssh. Everything is fine.", He whispered and heard only briefly loud sobs before you pulled away from him and stared at him.

"DO. THAT. NEVER. AGAIN." You warned and if Kurama wasn't grinning at you so sweetly, your anger would also come across convincingly. Instead, you just sighed softly and patted him gently on the shoulder. "But you also have to keep your promise," you added.

"Don't worry, I will." Kurama chuckled and turned to Yusuke with a hand sign. You blinked perplexed when Yusuke grinned and threw a small velvet box to him. Out of the corner of your eye you could see that it was a box with a beautifully decorated rose on the lid.

"Kurama .."

Kurama got on one knee and took your hand in his.

"I should do this formally and properly, don't you think?" He laughed and you suddenly realized something.

"... You already planned everything in advance, right ...?" You wanted to know.

Kurama gave a small laugh and kissed your palm lovingly before looking intensely into your eyes.

"Quite possible. No, but .. I've never met a woman like you in my life - and that applies to my human and demonic life - and I never expected to lose my heart to someone who makes me as happy as you. "

"Kurama .."

Kurama smirked when you didn't let him finish and cleared his throat to continue.

"Originally I wanted to stay in the human world because my mother and my friends were so close to my heart. But now there is another reason why I don't want to leave this world anymore. I want you by my side until the end of my days and ... start a family with you. In the human world. That is why I ask you, here and now, [First Name] [Last Name], do you want to be my wife and eternal mate? ", He asked and opened the box. Inside it was the most beautiful diamond ring you ever saw. Its sides were adorned with two beautiful jewels, a shiny [gem with your eye color] and a shimmering emerald. It was more than obvious that these jewels symbolized the eye colors of the both of you.

"Yes .. Yes, I want Kurama. Of course I want that!" You said overjoyed and let a smiling Kurama put the ring on your finger before he pulled you to him and kissed you passionately.

"U-Unbelievable! A marriage proposal during the final of the Dark Tournament! I've never seen anything like it!"Koto announced, she sat in the crowd as the second announcer and looked dreamily at the engaged couple.

You smiled and looked at the ring.

"So beautiful. But something's missing," you mumbled.

"Huh?", Kurama asked and you turned to him and grinned slightly.

"A topaz." You answered with a smile.

Now Kurama was the one whose eyes widened and he even blushed a little.

A topaz as golden as Youko Kurama's eyes. His demon form.

Now he was more certain than ever. He would never let you go again. He swore to himself.

#kurama x reader #kurama #youko kurama #youko kurama x reader #shuichi minamino #shuichi minamino x reader #yyh #Yu Yu Hakusho

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alpineglowx · 3 years ago

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I'll Do The Same {Din Djarin x OC} Chapter Two: Names

pairing: din djarin x female oc

warnings: none

* * * *

Thell paused, weighing her options, before simply turning around to face the man. Air caught in her throat when he finally came within sight of her, stepping close enough between the couch separating them so she could see the moonlight glow silver off his armor.

She knew of Mandalorians through childhood stories, through holos, but she had never seen one in person. He was almost beautiful, would have been stunning in that suit of Beskar steel had he not been pointing his blaster pistol straight at her. He was a large man, a good foot taller than her, but his face was concealed by a mask, and she could only stare back at the V slit where he was glaring at her from.

“I said,” the Mandalorian growled. “Put him down.”

The child muttered against her cloak and Thell glanced at him hesitantly. Was the child his? Was he stealing it from wherever it had come from on Bespin?

“Is he yours?” Thell asked.

“He is. Now give him to me, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Panic shot up her veins, and before she could really think anymore, she slowly lowered the child to the ground. It looked back at her with wide, endearing eyes before waddling back over to the Mandalorian, who gently scooped him into his arms. Thell knew then that he was his, from the cautious way he held him to the way his shoulders relaxed once he held him again.

Thell blinked, feeling a bit more at ease once the man lowered his weapon.

“Did you kill him? Darand?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Thell murmured. “You’re not killing him?”

“It won't be me that does it. I'm just here for the bounty.”

Her blood ran cold. “You’re a bounty hunter... You’re taking him.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s just a businessman... He... Why are you taking him?”

The man stepped one foot closer, hand on his holster. “His head is worth more credits than you’ve ever seen. Now, do yourself a favor and get out of this place. It’ll be looted by the end of the night.”

He turned to go, and something deep within Thell, that dream to be free, rooted itself in her heart.

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

The man stopped mid walk, and the small child peeked at Thell from over his shoulder.

“What are you, a servant?”

Thell fought the urge to roll her eyes. “More or less.”

“Not my problem.”

“You don’t understand,” Thell pressed, taking another brave step forward. “I’m alone here.”

“What do you want?” The Mandalorian grumbled, throwing her a sideways glance. His tone felt more threatening than she had expected, and suddenly she wished she hadn’t spoken so freely.

But maybe, somehow, in these crazy circumstances, he was her way off this planet, her way to freedom. He was traveling with a baby after all, one that it seemed he cared for very dearly.

Suddenly embarrassed, Thell shrunk back, flickering her glance to the wide window in the room.

“I want to come with you. I want to get off this planet,” she said, with as much courage as she could muster.

His tone was almost gentler. Almost.

“Not going to happen. Nice try, kid.”

Thell blinked, and watched them disappear back down the hallway the Mandalorian had appeared from, with one last long look at the child he held over his shoulder.

Dread filled her until it was nearly overwhelming. Her master, the man that had practically raised her after her mother’s death, was gone, and with it, his entire fortune and reputation. The house would be left to crumble and be ransacked by desperate looters. Others would come, looking for the servants, and sell them off to other masters, or worse. And she didn’t want to be here to witness it.

As she stood in the silence and wreckage of her once home, the words of Thell’s mother came back to her.

You stand for your own. You make your own path.

So with a quivering breath, she took the blaster in one hand and raced down the hallway towards her own chambers. Her belongings were small, even with her large pack, so by the time she had tracked down the Mandalorian at the landing pad, he was only just releasing the drop ramp of his ship. It wasn’t large by any means, but looked comfortable enough for someone like him.

Sweat was beaded on her forehead from her rush to get things together and run after the Mandalorian, so she stopped several yards from him, allowing ample distance for the two of them to remain comfortable. The stars were bright overhead from the lack of lighting outside, but the wind was nipping against the bare skin around her neck. She pulled her cloak tighter, containing her warmth as the Mandalorian stopped in his tracks. Even from here, Thell could hear the sweet burbling sounds of the child, and even see him and his large ears poking around the Mandalorian’s arm.

She swallowed before she spoke, and hoped that her words would allow her wishes to be fulfilled.

“My feet have never touched grass.”

The Mandalorian turned, slowly, one hand resting on his holster and the other wrapped around the green alien.

“What?”

Thell sighed, and threw her hands down beside her. “I’ve never touched grass. Or dirt. Or, or a natural stream of water, or leaves on a tree. I’ve never touched any of it; I’ve rarely seen pictures. And you walk around with all your credits and your fancy ship like you don’t have a care in the world, because I’m sure you don’t. You get to walk on the earth everyday but I’m sure you’ve never thought twice about those in the galaxy that don’t.”

Thell let out a deep breath, one that simmered away any remaining anger or frustration she had. Now she was just embarrassed, digging the toe of her shoe into the platform while the Mandalorian remained completely silent just a few feet from her.

“I’m sorry,” Thell said quickly. “I didn’t mean for it to come across like that.”

“What do you want?” The Mandalorian asked.

Thell’s head shot up, and she could only stare back quizzically at the masked man. His question had no remorse, no bouts of anger threatening to rise up. He had asked her the same question before, but in a completely different manner.

Clearing her throat, she readjusted the bag at her side and kept a tight grip on the strap.

“I would like to come with you.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“Hm,” was the Mandalorian’s simple response. “And what should I expect in return?”

Thell raised a brow. “Sorry?”

“Do you have payment?”

Thell gulped. She had feared that the question was coming, and suddenly felt lighter with the lack of credits in her pockets and satchel.

“I’ll work for you, do whatever you need me to. Fixing up your ship, cleaning the carburetors, rinsing blood off your weapons, whatever. Watch after the ship while you're away. I’ll do the dirty work, whatever work you don’t want to do. I’ll get a job somewhere and pay you back... double! I’ll even help with the kid, if you want.”

“Doesn’t sound like much.”

Thell breathed in deep, took one step forward, letting her arms fall to her side. “I know it doesn’t. It’s... nothing, really. But it’s all I have. I can’t stay here.”

The Mandalorian stilled, keeping one hand on his holster, but he was silent, and Thell’s desperation grew. She took another step.

“I don’t have anyone left... please.”

Nothing.

Thell closed her eyes momentarily, trying to relax her tense joints.

“Please.”

It felt like a hundred lifetimes had passed before he had granted her that single word:

“Fine.”

Relief flooded through Thell’s system, and she sagged against the weight of her bag.

“But we have to leave now. I’m not waiting around.”

Thell wiped the sweat from her brow before nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”

And she followed after him, cautiously studying the jetpack strapped to his back, the array of small weapons attached to his Beskar vambraces, and the blaster pistol hanging from its holster in his belt. Even from what she could see, and the vast size of him, a whole foot taller than her, she knew he could take her down easily. She had watched him do it to the one guard, so that didn’t mean she was safe from him either. He was a bounty hunter, after all.

She had heard stories of Mandalore and the attacks on its city and culture that it had endured. Surely he wasn’t from there; the signet he wore on his right pauldron did not bear any resemblance to a Mandalorian clan that she knew. He was also larger, stockier, than any natives of Mandalore she had witnessed on holos inside Darand’s mansion. Her old master had been obsessed with Mandalorian culture, so in turn, Thell believed she had some knowledge of at least their history.

But she followed him into the ship anyway, but was stopped momentarily from entering when the Mandalorian spun to face her, and she nearly smacked her face into the chest plates of Beskar steel.

“Give me your blaster.”

He was much more threatening up close, all cold, rough edges and a gruff personality to match. Thell wondered if she would even survive the takeoff from the planet with a man like him. It was better than being sold off, anyway, or killed by looters. If she was going to die, it was going to be through her own decision.

So she passed him the blaster anyway, and her sack when he indicated he wanted to inspect it. She wasn’t allowed on until he had rifled precariously through her pack and stuffed her weapon into his own locked compartment. Thell slowly walked inside the cargo hold, glancing at the crates, the carbonite freezing system, the netting that held equipment to the sides of the docking station. The telescopic gate lifted up behind her, causing her to move forward and bump right into the Mandalorian.

“Sorry,” she muttered, tucking hair behind her ear and scooting past him. He made something like a sighing noise and walked to an upright ladder.

“Come on. We have to go.”

Thell watched him climb up first, and securing her pack behind netting in the cargo hold, climbed up the ladder next. She came to double doors that slid open in front of her and showed her into the cockpit, a modest space with two seats behind the one the Mandalorian sat, piloting the ship. She approached slowly, watching with great curiosity while his hand flicked over the control panel and seating herself in an adjacent seat. She heard a familiar noise and cocked her head to see the green child sitting in the seat opposite from her, holding a small metal orb in his small hands. He made a purring sound and cocked his head at her, to which she waved at shyly.

“You ever been through hyperspace?” She heard the Mandalorian ask without turning around to look at her.

“I’ve never left the planet.”

It must have shocked him, because the Mandalorian grew quiet, before he suddenly punched a few more buttons, and spoke over his shoulder,

“Strap yourself in. It could be rough for a second.”

As quick as she could, Thell found the straps and buckled herself in, holding tight to the worn material. The ship buckled momentarily, causing Thell’s feet to skid against the floor before the ship actually started lifting off from the ground, until she could see the whole city from the cockpit’s window, every light that glowed from the houses and mansions on Bespin, the city where she had lived her whole life.

But the initial sadness she felt of leaving the only place that had been home was suddenly replaced with joy, and thankfulness, because she was leaving Barand behind, and everything that she had once been. She could start over, start fresh. With what, she had no idea. But for once she was thankful for this large, gruff man and his strange green companion that had allowed her passage. Even if it wasn’t under the best circumstances, and she didn’t trust him fully yet, it was the best outcome she could think of.

The ship lifted until the Mandalorian fired the thrusters, and they sped upwards into space, until all that surrounded them was the blackness of the void of space, and the countless stars that twinkled past her vision. Thell could only admire them for a moment before the Mandalorian tugged a large control switch down, and she was thrown back in her seat. It only lasted for a moment, and then they were in hyperspace, flying through bands of blue and white, and the ship lulled peacefully like it was not even moving.

The Mandalorian suddenly moved, unstrapping himself, and turning halfway in the seat to look at the kid. He babbled happily, too caught up playing with the orb to notice the man watching him. But then his attention turned to Thell, and she felt the air catch in her lungs.

“You got a name?”

She blinked. “Thell Sei’Lya.”

“How long did you serve Darand?”

Thell shrugged. “All my life. I was born there.”

“Hm,” the Mandalorian grumbled, and turned back in his seat.

Thell bit her lip. “Um... Do you have a name?”

“People call me Mando.”

“... Do you, have a real name?”

Thell regretted asking it, because he went silent and even the child looked up at him precariously. She could only lean back in her seat and wonder if she would ever find out anything about this man, and why he was traveling with this strange green alien.

#din djarin #star wars #din djarin fanfiction #thell sai'lya #grogu #baby yoda #angst #fluff #friends to lovers #the mandalorian #din djarin x oc #original character

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conaionaru · 4 years ago

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Honor and Blood (Ivar the Boneless)

Beginnings and endings

Synopsis: The naming ceremony and Silas’s punishment

Warnings: Murder, angst, fluff, gore

Tags:

@youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @didiintheblog @lol-haha-joke @shannygoatgruff @heavenly1927 @chynagirl13 @queenbeeta @thereareendlessopportunities @astridbaby

I don’t own the gifs. Also, thank you for your support. I really appreciate it. If you want to be tagged please write me<3

Vanya sat in the Great Hall next to Ivar in a new white dress, her hair loose around her shoulders. She observed the marks on the table, trailing her fingers over them. Everyone around her talked, too, focused on their plans of Silas's punishment to even notice her despair.

The man from her dreams, Hoenir, sat on her right, while Ivar sat on her left. Brynja and Margrethe run around their table, serving their meal. It has been two days since Vanya returned home. She got some deserved rest, but her mind was plagued with her worries.

They wouldn't let her see her son; sometimes, when everything grew quiet, she could hear him cry. It tore at her heart, but according to the healers, she was in no state to be near a newborn. During her time on the run, she caught a cold, her fever was high, and she felt like throwing up after every meal.

Listening to the Ragnarsson, Aslaug, Floki, and Helga argue about what to do with Silas wasn't what she yearned to do. "Are you alright, Vanya?" Brynja questioned her a soft hand on her shoulder, steadying the swaying princess. Vanya nodded tiredly and leaned against Ivar's shoulder.

The Viking entwined their hands together and kissed her damp temple.

He asked her to stay in bed, but Vanya knew she had to be there, no matter how much she hated it. She sentenced Silas to death; it's her duty to help choose the way he will die. "Let's burn him alive," Hvitserk suggested once again, causing his brothers to roll their eyes.

"Slit his throat, that's what he wanted to happen to Vanya." Sigurd countered, but the others disagreed again.

"Too kind, it must be more painful and drawn out." Ivar reminded them, his left hand in a tight fist while his right one squeezed Vanya's hand tighter, to remember that she is here.

Floki raised his cup and giggled in the mad way he always does. "Skin him alive." He offered but was shot down as well. Everyone kept suggesting different methods of execution, all rejected one by one. It was getting tiring for Vanya, draining her of the last bits of strength she regained.

"Maybe you should lay down, Vanya. You don't look so good." Ubbe softly told her, looking at her with tender eyes. She looked broken, her left hand wrapped in bandages to cover her cut. There was also a bandage on the cauterized wound on her shoulder. It would scar, which she didn't care about. Ivar was right; it was a sign of survival, a proof of her strength.

She shook her head and straightened in her seat to look healthier than she felt. "I can't sleep or rest anymore. I need to be here so Silas can be dealt with. He needs to die a painful death, I promised him that, and that's what will happen. No arrows or drowning or hanging. My brother needs to suffer as I suffered; at least I am sparing him the pain of not knowing if you will survive." She spat angrily, slumping back in her chair, exhausted. How pathetic was she? She couldn't even talk without getting tired.

She sighed and moved to stand up, Hoenir rising as well. The silent stranger followed her around like a shadow. He sat in front of her hut with his sword drawn, only letting family and Brynja in. The servant found his mysteriousness and silence charming, Vanya found it eerie. She yearned for human contact, not a silent wall lurking around. Ivar spent every waking moment by her side as well, always checking on her and touching her in some way. More for his sanity than her's.

He didn't check on their son either, too afraid to leave her alone. Vanya was thankful for his protectiveness; she missed it. But she yearned for her son as well, what if he was sick as well?

Vanya made her way towards their chambers and laid down to sleep with Ivar by her side, wrapped around her like a vice, but still somehow comforting. She could feel his chest fall and rise against her back, but sleep wouldn't take her. Her eyes were wide open, and her heartbeat frantically, on guard despite being safe. Nightmares plagued her rest nearly every night, dreams of drowning, freezing, or waking up to her son's corpse in her arms.

Everyone treated her like a broken toy, too scarred by what happened to her to be whole again. In the end, Silas had won. Nine months ago, he sent her here to wither and die. And now she looks half dead and feels hollow. With a shuttering breath, Vanya slowly crawled out of Ivar's arms and into the street, walking past Hoenir, who slept by the door. She shook him awake and made him follow her to the hut where Silas is held.

"Are you sure you want to see him?" The Silent wandered questioned her, but the ginger only nodded and ordered the guards to let her in.

The hut was lit with candles and smelled of wine and piss. Two aromas that Silas always despised, how fitting that it would be the last things he would know. "She lives." A voice rasped from a corner startling her.

With some difficulty and grunts, Silas rose from his hiding place behind the bed. He looked just as bad as her. Two days in a cell, and he was filthy, drunk, and pathetic. It suited him, pain, and despair. "You look terrible."

He chuckled and collapsed back into a chair, the furniture nearly topping over from the force. "I always imagined myself immortal. Forever alive and in people's minds. And here I am. Covered in piss, looking like some kitchen rat." He spat on the ground glaring at everything around him.

Vanya took his sorry state in, tucking it into the back of her mind to remember him by. Not the cruel King with a crown on his head, but as nothing better than a beggar with one foot in the grave. "You are human, just like everyone else. Everyone dies, Silas. Even Kings."

Silas scoffs and hurls his cup towards her, the guards and Hoenir barge in but stand back when Vanya raises a hand, palm facing Silas. "It's alright. Please leave." The three men leave brother and sister alone to talk. One last conversation before Silas pays for his crimes.

Her brother watches the display of power that Vanya possesses and reached towards the last piece of bread he had left. He tore at it like a savage, disgusting even himself. All his grace and power stripped away by his sister, how the tables have turned. "You mean Father, don't you?"

Vanya looked at him, puzzled, unaware of what he meant by the comment. But Silas didn't wait for her to question him, he pointed the finger at her and chuckled. "You always talked of that bastard. Alive or dead, you worshipped him, even though there was nothing special about him. You have no idea what kind of inconsiderate prick he was."

"Father was a good person, far better than you or me." Vanya insisted, not letting him insult their late father.

Silas sneered and threw a piece of bread at her, that she batted away before it hit her face. She frowned at his ridiculous behavior, fed up with his dramatics. "Of course, you would think that you were his favorite. You were the obedient child with big sad doe eyes. Do you know what I was? I was the embarrassment, the reject. I was three, and he called me a monster. All because I didn't follow his rules."

The ginger shook her head and walked closer to Silas. "Father loved you, but you were always so quick to start a fight. He tried to make you a good king, but you rejected him, and now here we are."

"Ah, yes, here we are. The Monster and the Gifted one." Silas swallowed the last piece of bread and spread his arms wide in a mocking gesture. He didn't love me, or you or anyone else. Osmond used people, you stupid wench! He married a girl half his age, filled her with seed, and when the child didn't meet his expectations, he threw them both away and fucked everything pretty. And then you were born, perfect little Vanya - the Gracious gift of God. You nodded along to everything and did as he said. Other than me, who had his own opinions."

Vanya scoffed and licked her dry lips to hold back the foul words on the tip of her tongue. "Father was a good King and a better parent than Mother. You spat, beat, and laughed at other children. You were always rotten, Silas. And Father knew it, so did Mother."

"I did it to get attention; no one would pay attention to the reject! Before you were born, I was the perfect firstborn. But not to him! To Father, I was the little monstrosity that refused to keep quiet about his affair. I was three and saw him fucking another woman. I told Mother, and he grew angry with me, by the time you were born, I was a bastard in their eyes. The one that destroyed their marriage, as if I was the one getting his dick wet behind my wife's back."

The princess stared at Silas in shock, Osmond always said that his son was born cruel. To think all of the cruelty, hate, and violence came from their parent's treatment. Siflaed was a neglectful mother, and it turns out Osmond was no better. Vanya always saw him as a smart man with good intentions, when in truth, he was nothing like that.

"He was a good King, true. But a terrible Father, husband, and person. Just like me." Silas smirked at his small victory, while Vanya frowned at him. "He treated you better because you were naive and gullible. All the talk of duty, putting the kingdom first and God. You were born to be a bargaining chip, just like Mother, married off to the highest bidder. Face it; there is no kindness in our blood."

"I am not you or them!" Vanya insisted, causing Silas to laugh.

"If that's what you like to believe."

Vanya slammed her hands against the table, startling Silas. She huffed and got in his face, her eyes as cold as ice. "You did horrible things to me and everyone around you. I am nothing like you."

"If you want to blame anyone, then blame Stithulf."

"Stithulf didn't order men to murder three people!" Vanya spat at him, remembering the blonde man who talked to her about Silas as a King. How charming he seemed, the two-faced bastard.

"He reminded me what a threat you and your child pose to my reign. He told me the only way to ensure my glory and throne was to kill anyone who wants to take it away. First you and your child, then Mother's brother Æthelric. He said I was meant to rule, that the world would remember me. And they will. These heathens of yours will kill me, probably torture as well. And the church will name me a martyr for my faith, and history will remember me as Silas the Great." Silas boasted, throwing his arms around and nearly falling out of his chair in the process.

Vanya shook her head and looked at the cross on his desk, the one he gifted her, their father's cross. "Only those who lived a righteous life can be names martyrs. You executed, hurt, and humiliated people. You are no saint, Silas, and the church won't care for your death. Terrible people don't go to heaven."

The older Saxon rose from the chair and leaned against the table, looking into his wine cup. "Then, I shall see you in Hell. That's where you heathen scum will all go. And we can burn side by side as we did in our cribs." He raised his cup and downed it in one go before letting it slip through his fingers and hit the ground. "Farewell, Sister."

He stumbled towards his bed and collapsed on it face first, his white shirt falling lower, exposing his shoulder blades. Vanya watched his naked back, she then turned on her heel and left the hut to return to her own. She made a decision. Yesterday Ivar explained to her all the ways Vikings executed people, and one seemed perfect to Vanya now.

Her husband sat up in their bed, looking at Vanya with tired eyes. "Where did you go? Are you hurt?"

"Blood eagle," Vanya answered, confusing Ivar further.

"What?"

She sighed and sat down next to him, looking into his eyes. "The way we should kill Silas. You should Blood Eagle him after the naming ceremony." She explained as Ivar nodded, still confused about the sudden decision.

Vanya closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling her shoulders get lighter. As if the weight on them dropped, making breathing easier than before. She opened her icy eyes again and stared into her husband's stormy hues. "What is it, Min elskede (My beloved)?"

She chuckled at the tender tone, having missed the endearment more than she thought was possible. "I was terrified out there, Ivar. I thought I would never see you or Kattegat ever again." Tears gathered in her eyes, her lips shaking from the oncoming sobs.

Ivar cupped her cheek and wiped her tear away with his thumb. "You are here now. And nobody will ever take you away from me. I will never let anyone harm you or our son again."

Vanya sobbed and flung herself into his arms, breathing in his scent and hugging him tightly, as if it was all a dream that would disappear if she let go. "From now on, you never have to be afraid, Vanya. I will protect you both. No one, not even death, will ever lay a hand on you again!"

Ivar kissed her temple before she pulled back and stared into his eyes, looking for any sign of lies or uncertainty. But she found none, all she saw was honesty and rage. Anger that he let anyone harm them. "You have to swear it, Ivar! Promise me." She begged desperately, afraid to ever have to fight for her life again.

"I promise and swear on my life and the Gods. I will never, ever let anyone harm you or our son. No matter what it might take to keep you both safe, I will do everything and more to protect you. From now on, you'll both be safe and sound. I oath not to enter Vallhalla if I brake this promise. I swear on my arm ring."

Vanya leaned against his chest and sighed in satisfaction, with one less problem on her mind, she slept easier. Her son's absence still plagued her mind, but the sooner everything was done, the sooner she could have him in her arms again.

The next morning, five days since their son's birth, they all stood gathered in the Great Hall once again, revealing the plan to Blood Eagle Silas. "And who will do it? Ivar can't stand." Sigurd pointed out, making his brother snarl at him.

"It doesn't matter. We can give him a chair, or let someone else do it." Vanya jumped in before a fight broke out. She was in no mood to watch them argue; the most important thing right now is that Silas dies; it doesn't matter by whose hand.

Everyone nodded, looking at the wedded couple glued to each other's hip. Vanya still looked sick and weak, but the more she clung to Ivar, the straighter her back got, and the higher she held her head. She was gaining back the confidence she gathered during her nine months of marriage to their brother. There were still bits of fear and edginess visible, but with Ivar and Hoenir shadowing her, she breathed easier.

"You are on edge." Sigurd pointed out, voicing what everyone was thinking. Vanya locked gaze with him and smiled to reassure them.

"I..." A cry interrupted her sentence; a child was crying somewhere. "I miss my son, that's all. They still won't let me see him."

Aslaug frowned at the information and looked at her youngest son for confirmation. Ivar nodded and took Vanya's hand in his, trying to comfort his sad wife. The Queen rose from her seat and left the Ragnarssons, Vanya, Torvi, and Hoenir.

When she returned, it was with the sound of a crying infant. She opened the door with a babe in her arms, cradling it softly, trying to calm it down. "Mother?" Questioned Ubbe, confused, carrying his nephew towards Vanya.

The ginger looked at Aslaug bewildered, as the older woman laid the child into her arms. "You went through hours of horrendous labor and near death for this child. If anyone deserves to hold him, it is you." Aslaug smiled at Vanya, who hugged her son closer to her, the boy calming down the moment he smelled her scent.

The child reached out with his little hand and grasped a fiery lock, playing with it while staring up at her, sniffling slightly. Vanya smiled at his teary gaze and wiped his tears, stroking his smooth chubby cheek. "Looks like he just missed his mother. What a surprise from Ivar's child."

Aslaug and Vanya frowned at Sigurd's comment but ignored it as Ivar was too engrossed at looking at the little version of himself in his wife's arms. "That is the safest child in Kattegat." Hvitserk pointed out, looking at the calm baby slobbering over Vanya's hair.

Bjorn snorted and patted Vanya and Ivar on the shoulder. "With a mother ready to burn kingdoms down and a father into ritual sacrifice? It only fits with a grandson of Ragnar Lothbrok."

The others nodded along while Vanya looked at Ivar with a raised eyebrow. At Ivar's confused stare, she smiled down at the babe. "Hold your hands out, Ivar. You should hold him too."

Ivar looked at the frail newborn and shook his head. "I will drop him, Vanya."

The redhead rolled her eyes and passed the child towards him despite his protests. "You are holding him with your arms, not your legs. Bond with him, he didn't see that much of you." She spoke softly, not meaning it in a mean way.

With tender eyes, Ivar looked at his son, noting the wiggling legs under the fur. He would walk one day, run around just like Ivar's brothers could. At least in something, the gods were merciful; they listened to his prayers and made his son strong and healthy. Just like his mother prophesied, and his son would be like his grandmother. He would have visions, Hoenir, and Aslaug were sure of it.

"Did you think of a name?" Ubbe asked, watching his serene nephew.

"Yes. But it's a surprise." Vanya revealed giggling at Torvi and Hvitserk, cooing at the babe who frowned at them in return.

In the heathen culture, nine days after a babe is born, the naming ceremony is held. Vatni ausinn is a ritual where the father acknowledges the child and names it. Ivar sat in a chair with their son on his knee, sprinkling the babe with water.

"My son, Aros!" He announced to the room while his babe everyone cheered in delight. Ubbe nudged Vanya, who stood next to him, clapping. The redhead looked up at him with a questioning look at the older males smug look.

"From the river's mouth? Really?" He asked about the name meaning while Vanya shrugged.

"It fits, does it not?"

"I guess it does." He looked back towards his little brother, cradling his firstborn lovingly. "Aros Ivarsson."

After the ceremony, Ivar and Vanya returned to their hut, with Hoenir following behind them. Her husband was about to order some thralls to fill their tub with water when Brynja ran towards them. "Wait, My Prince. Let me do it. I would like to spend some time with Vanya anyway. If you were to permit it."

Ivar looked at Vanya in question, but the ginger smiled at him reassuringly. "Go. I could use a distraction before tomorrow. And Hoenir will be outside; we will be fine. Have fun with your brothers." She reassured him, kissing his forehead and sending him off.

The Prince and wanderer left the hut, the girls cold Hoenir sitting outside on the bench, but ignored his presence. Vanya turned on her heel to look at Brynja, who smiled at her softly, her eyes glassy.

"What's wrong? Are you unwell?" Vanya frantically ran to the other redhead's side, pulling her towards the bed to sit down. Brynja laughed at the worried mother and shook her head, her curls bouncing around her.

"I am just happy to see you again. My life would be very boring without you, My Princess." She confessed, hugging Vanya, careful of the sleepy babe in her arms. Vanya embraced the older ginger with her left arm, enjoying the affection Brynja gave her.

Truth is Brynja is her only true friend here, that she befriended outside of marriage. Of course, Ubbe, Torvi, Hvitserk, and Bjorn are her friends as well. But if it weren't for her marriage to Ivar, she would have never talked to them. Vanya liked to believe her, and Brynja would be friends even if it weren't for Ivar. If she ever were to get divorced, Brynja would still be her friend.

The curly-haired ginger had a pure heart, contagious smile, and shared Vanya's love for children. She gave the best advice and listened to her complaining without any remarks. For every complaint Vanya told her, Brynja gave two. Servant or not, she was a good girl and an even better friend.

"I bought you a gift!" Brynja cheered, letting Vanya put Aros into his crib. Floki made it for the babe from the boat meant to serve as their coffin if they were found dead. It was quite morbid, but Vanya didn't mind it that much, and Aros seemed comfortable.

The Viking girl showed her a present wrapped in a cloth. She laid it on Vanya's lap and mentioned for her to open it. Brynja was giddy, and in turn, Vanya became giddy as well, she unwrapped the gift and looked inside to see the neckline of a dress. The fabric was blue with white lacings.

"You bought me a dress?" Vanya asked, confused, looking up at the sheepish ginger.

"Made actually. It's not as pretty as the ones you make or the ones you buy. I don't know how to make dresses like that, so it's plainer." Brynja apologized, frowning down at the dress, no longer as excited as before.

Vanya shook her head and walked towards the mirror with the gift in hand. Watching herself in the mirror, Vanya marveled at the simple dress. It wasn't as lavish as the dresses Vanya was used to having, but she liked its look. "It's beautiful. I bet it's comfortable as well." She reassured the other female twirling around with the dress to see it flow in the air.

"I made it for your name day, but I didn't get to give it to you." With a bashful smile, Brynja watched the Princess gush over the dress. It took her a long time to make the dress, but the smile was worth all her frustration with the fabric. And all the times her father laughed at her pricking her finger.

Vanya turned on her heel and looked at Brynja, shocked. "You wasted money on me!" She cried out mortified, the fact that the poor girl bought fabric to create the dress. But Brynja shook her head and shrugged the issue off.

The young mother carefully set the dress down on the bed and skipped to her wardrobe to look inside. "You must choose one of mine, even if you sell it. I can't just accept a gift like that and give you nothing in return!"

Brynja shook her head at the frantic Princess and observed her rummaging through all the dresses she owned. "That's what gifts are for, Vanya. You give them out of love, not expecting anything back."

"Nonsense!" Vanya fussed and turned towards the other ginger. Brynja's smile was tired, and her eyes pleading. She didn't want anything in return, but that didn't sit with Vanya. "Choose whatever dress you want. If not for yourself, then for me. You gave me a gift out of love. So chose yours."

Brynja smiled at that and walked to the closet to find a dress for herself. In the end, she chose a purple one with long dark sleeves. "Purple. Like your favorite flowers."

"You remember?" Brynja blinked at Vanya in astonishment while Vanya mockingly rolled her eyes, smirking.

She circled the older female in front of the mirror and stopped behind her, propping her chin on her shoulder. "Of course, I remember. I always remember small things like that. But don't ask me anything important. I do forget these things very easily." Brynja chuckled and felt the soft fabric with her fingers, liking the feel of it. It was obviously expensive, but the servant wouldn't complain to Vanya. "How is your father, anyway? Is he better?"

Brynja hummed and laid the dress on the bed, neatly folding it and wrapping it in the cloth from Vanya's gift. "Stronger every day, which he keeps showing off. I think he fell in love with the neighbor's widow. He keeps running around shirtless and lifting heavy things."

Vanya laughed at the image of Brynja's father only in his breeches, smiling every time he sees the widow. "Maybe he is taking the lack of children in his own hands. Trying to create some little ones on his own."

"Oh, gods! I hope not; he is too old." Brynja gagged and smirked at Vanya, crowding closer and whispering into her ear. "I would rather make some of my own. But there are no men good enough."

The Princess sighed and sat down on her bed, looking up at the cheeky ginger. "And why are you whispering? Are you afraid that the man outside might hear?"

"I saw his face once, quite handsome. A bath would do him wonders. And new clothes." Brynja confessed, gushing over Hoenir. The seventeen-year-old mother shook her head, and teasingly smiled at Brynja.

"My, my, is someone in love?"

"Hush, Vanya! Or I will regret missing you at all!" Brynja joked back, fake glaring at the taller girl, while she laughed it off. It was good to be back and joke around, forgetting what is going to happen tomorrow.

The two girls walked to the door after the bath was prepared, saying goodbye for the night. Vanya watched her go with a small smile, thankful for her visit. She then turned on her heel and sat down next to Hoenir, who looked at her in confusion.

At least she suspected it to be confusion; it's hard to tell in the dark when he has his hood on. "I wanted to thank you for the advice you gave me in my dreams."

"No need to do that. You would have survived anyway; I had a vision of our meeting. It couldn't happen if you died before we met. My job now is to make certain you don't die from here on." His voice was smooth, yet a little bit rusty and monotone like always. She wondered if he felt any emotions or just his them pretty well.

"Then I thank you for that instead. But I wish for you to find a hut, not just a bench or a piece of fur outside of ours."

Hoenir shook his head and looked down at her cold frame. "I need to be near if somebody were to attack you."

"Ivar will be with me."

"Doesn't mean you will be safe."

Vanya sighed and looked out towards the sleepy streets of Kattegat, smiling softly. "I am safe. I am home, surrounded by friends and family. I have nothing to fear."

Hoenir scoffed and leaned back, ignoring the persistent ginger by his side. Vanya looked at him, expecting an explanation of his behavior, but he gave her none. "Say what you want to, Hoenir. If we are to spend a lot of time together, you should be able to say what you want to."

"You are very annoying."

"I know. Get used to it." She smiled at him cheekily, causing him to shake his head and stand up. Vanya looked at him in confusion, till he pointed at a crawling shape in the dark.

"Your husband's coming. And I have a hut to find. I don't want to hear anything I shouldn't." Vanya nodded, satisfied until the meaning behind the words hit her.

"We wouldn't if you were outside! That's so improper!" She scolded him, blushing madly. Did Hoenir really think that she and Ivar would sleep together if he were right outside their door?

He shrugged his broad shoulders and pulled his cloak tighter around his body. "You never know. I believe I have to take a bath, as well."

Vanya looked at him, shocked, and blushed even harder. "You heard?"

"Some of it. I am a better listener than a talker. So get used to it as well, Princess."

"Call me, Vanya. Please."

"As you wish, Vanya. Goodnight, Sleep well. Both of you." With that, Hoenir sidestepped Ivar on the porch and stalked off towards a random hut, entering it and closing the door behind him.

"Whose hut it that?" She questioned her husband, who watched the wanderer walk off as well.

"His. Mother gave it to him." He shrugged, crawling inside with Vanya behind him bewildered. The wretched man had a home all along and stayed in front of their hut instead. She didn't know if to be moved by his dedication or annoyed by his stubbornness. "Did you take your bath yet?"

"Not yet." She had her back turned to him while he sat by the tub. She put the dress away and slowly unbraided her hair. "Did you make a decision on who will kill Silas?"

"I will do it. Torvi went into labor. He will be with her, and I will Blood Eagle the little Monster." Ivar boasted pridefully, making her sigh.

She brushed through her hair and put the tie that kept it together safely away to find it in the morning. "Let's hope the Gods are with Torvi, and the child will be born soon."

"If it's born sooner, Bjorn can kill your brother in my steed. It should be me killing him! I thought I lost two of the most important people in my life. He didn't worry about you two as I did!" Ivar complained as he dragged himself towards the fire chairs by the fire and poured himself a cup of ale.

"Ivar." Vanya scolded, untying the laces of her dress. "Torvi shouldn't suffer so that Silas can die by your hand. She deserves better."

"I think so too, but she is the one who married Bjorn."

Vanya spun on her heel, annoyed by his words. She froze with her mouth open, looking at him sitting there sipping on his cup. He raised his eyebrow at her sudden silence and waited for her mind to start working again.

"Put a shirt on, Ivar! I am trying to scold you!" Ivar smirked at her flustered state and leaned back in the chair, showing off his naked chest.

"Why? Do you not like the view." He asked cheekily, making her pout and skip over to him. Kissing his lips, to wipe the smug look off his face, Vanya pulled back, raising an eyebrow at his satisfied face.

"You are a pain, husband. You are lucky I love you."

Ivar grinned at her teasing words and kissed her knuckles, gazing into her steel-blue eyes. "Good. I would be hurt if you didn't." Vanya chuckled softly and connected their lips again, enjoying being in Ivar's arms once again. "What would I be without my Freyja."

Vanya groaned at his question and slapped his shoulder pouting. The Ragnarsson frowned at her reaction, hurt by her dismissal. "I used to think you were the cleverest man alive. And here you are calling me a goddess like the rest of them. I am not Freyja or Frigg!"

Vanya stood up from his lap, dropped her dress, and stepped into the wooden bathtub. Ivar shook his head and put his cup down, looking at her seriously. "You are perfect, full of light and love. You love me despite everything I am and didn't blame me once for your suffering. Vanya, you are my wife, a survivor, and the mother of my child, far more powerful than you believe yourself to be. Min elskede (My beloved), you are either a gift from the Gods or a Goddess yourself, I have no doubts about that."

Vanya smiled at his loving words, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "Do you really think I'm powerful?"

He chuckled at her question and pointed at himself. "I, for one, find you terrifying." She grinned at the answer and bashfully looked down into the water, trying to hide her blush behind a curtain of red locks. "Who else sees you as a goddess anyway?"

"The people do. And Sigurd as well."

Ivar frowned at the last part and sourly drank the rest of his ale, while Vanya silently laughed at his jealousy. "He believes me to be a goddess because I endure you. But it's not such a hard task as everyone makes it out to be. I enjoy your presence quite a bit." She smirked secretly; her head turned to pick up a cloth to clean herself with. When she turned around, Ivar's face was close to hers, startling her.

The rag would have hit the floor if it wasn't for him catching it. The corner of his perfect lips lifted at Vanya's wide-eyed stare. He seemed like a predator, watching his prey, enjoying every second of the hunt. "I enjoy your presence, as well, obviously."

"Obviously." Vanya echoed, hypnotized by his hungry stare, his eyes like a raging storm, pulling her in deeper. She leaned in to connect their lips, but Ivar pulled away and crawled towards the beds to look at their child instead. She scoffed at his teasing and cleaned herself, pouting the whole time.

She expected Ivar to leave her alone after his stunt, but luckily for her, he had other plans. The moment she sat down on their bed, he kissed her and laid her down on the furs, making love to her carefully, in case she was still in pain after giving birth not that long ago.

The next morning, they were woken up by their son, whining in his bed, hungry and rested. They both groaned, exhausted from last night's lovemaking. Ivar sat up in bed, lifted Aros, and handed him to Vanya so she could nurse their little treasure.

"Silas will be bought to the Hall after our meal," Ivar informed her, watching her for any sign of hesitancy. But there was none. She decided he deserved to die even before Aros was born, and the fact that he threatened her son's life was the last nail in his coffin. Silas would die a painful death and burn in Hell for all eternity.

"Then let's go. The sooner we eat, the sooner this will all be over. And I can gust over Bjorn's and Torvi's baby." Vanya spoke, burping Aros while Ivar got dressed. After he was done, he took the babe from her and allowed her to clothe herself as well.

When she laced up her white dress and braided her hair, she walked towards Ivar and took the babe from his embrace, smoothing down the little hairs on Aros's head. Ivar picked up his axe and put it on his belt, so he wouldn't have to return for it later. When Vanya saw this, she frowned. "Wait."

Ivar looked at her, confused, waiting for her to continue. She laid Aros down on their bed, ensuring he was secure and walked over to her husband again. She took his axe and trailed her finger the edge, testing the sharpness. The sharp bite of the blade and the bead of blood that flowed down her finger reassured her that it was indeed ready to be used.

The execution would be smoother this way, which meant the whole ordeal wouldn't take too long. No matter her hate for Silas, she would hate for him to suffer under a dull blade. He always said he deserved the best, Vanya thought that should include the weapon that would kill him too.

Ivar gazed up at her, not sure to question her behavior or not. She seemed like she was in a trance, too deep in her mind to remember that she wasn't alone. He softly pried the weapon from her soft fingers and laid it on his lap, taking her hand into his and sucking on the fingertip to stop the bleeding.

Vanya kneeled in front of him and kissed the steel of his weapon, looking up at him pleadingly. "Make him pay. For everything."

"I will."

After breakfast, everyone gathered as Floki set up the posts where Silas would kneel. Ubbe walked to her side and tried to pull her back, but she wrenched her arm free and glared up at him.

"You don't have to be here, Vanya." Sigurd reminded her from her left, also looking at her with soft eyes like she would brake. As if she was weak, but he was wrong. They were all wrong. Vanya was a survivor like Ivar said.

The ginger shook her head and mentioned for Brynja to join her. She handed the babe to her and ordered Hoenir to take them to Ivar's and her hut. "I must be here. I have to see him die. If I don't, I will never be sure if it's over or not."

Ubbe watched her determined face and nodded, Sigurd on the other hand, scoffed and walked off, obviously displeased. "What is his problem?" Vanya asked, seeing the Ragnarsson stalk off, muttering under his breath.

Ubbe gave her a wry smile and shook his head. "He believes you to be tainted by Ivar. Sigurd thinks that he is forcing you into this. That he was the one who chose to Blood eagle Silas and not you."

Vanya scoffed at the explanation and glared at the retreating figure of the snake-eyed Viking. "If anybody deserves to see Silas die, then it's me. I was the one who spent three days in the middle of nowhere, freezing, bleeding, and starving. Silas made my life a living hell from the moment I can remember. I want him to suffer."

"I understand that. But Sigurd still sees you as that timid Princess who was forced to marry Ivar. Many of us do, but you have changed. You are stronger than before, more confident as well. But you don't have to force yourself. You did nearly faint at the mention of blood only nine months ago. No one would blame you if you needed to get some air."

Vanya smiled up at the worried Ragnarsson and linked her arms with his. "Then would you be so kind as to stand with me and catch me if I do faint? After all, you are my only friend left in the room."

Ubbe chuckled at that and led her towards a place near the door to have a good view and an escape route. Silas was dragged in by his arms, spitting insults at the men in English, not caring if they understood him or not. He was pulled on top of the podium and chained to the wooden posts, while a chair was positioned behind for Ivar to sit on. The Ragnarsson dragged himself up and sat down, looking for his wife, relieved to see her with Ubbe.

After a nod from her, he raised the axe and cut into Silas's flesh, a scream echoing around the hall. Vanya watched the display emotionlessly, taking in Silas's screams. They disgusted her; she wanted to cry but had no tears to shed. It was as if her heart and mind were two different entities, disagreeing with each other about what reaction to give. She hated the sight of blood, hated his screams and pain. But found relief in it.

He was dying in front of her eyes, and she was horrified by the display. But not enough to look away. Ubbe squeezed her hand in a silent question if she was ok. She shrank back but kept looking, cringing from time to time at the violence. This is the last time she would see death; she couldn't handle so much gore ever again.

"Vanya!" Silas screamed out between his cries for mercy, catching her eye in the crowd. Vanya locked gazes with his pleading one, her eyes cold and empty, a coverup of the turmoil in her core. "Please!"

She shook her head, keeping her head held high, not showing any sign of hesitance or weakness. She wanted Silas to see what he caused in her eyes before he died.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they who mourn,

for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,

for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,

for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful,

for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure of heart,

for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,

for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Vanya repeated in her mind, remembering how their mother drilled the words into their minds as children. If Silas is truly a martyr, then he will be reunited with God, which she doubts, but maybe it will give comfort to Silas. The blond King kept screaming as Ivar drew the lungs from his body, putting it on his shoulders, his time on earth coming short. "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." She whispered underneath her breath, seeing the life fade from Silas's eyes and his head fall.

He was dead.

#vikings #vikings imagine #history vikings #ivar imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson #ivar #original character #original female character

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totallycorrectpmdquotes · 5 years ago

Note

Super excited for more Backfire chapters!! 💖 Also DX. Is a thing it's happening i t s h a p p e n i n g

Y e s it’s going to be so great!!!

Also I’m just. going to use this ask for my other catch up chapter of Backfire since it’s one of my favourites

(Previous Chapters)

Uxie’s powers aren’t just limited to his lake, and affect all memories which could be traced back to the Time Gears. It’s easy to imagine the mental catastrophe this could cause in the mind of someone who’s spent nearly their entire life looking into them. In his defense, Uxie was really mad at Grovyle.

Azelf was anxious. He had everyright to be, of course, after what he’d heard from his siblings’ telepathy.

“I’ve finished at LimestoneCavern,” Uxie had said, “Ditto was trapped when time froze. Iput the time gear back, but nothing’s changed yet. I don’t know how long it’llbe until everything’s back to normal.”

“Nobody was at TreeshroudForest,” Mesprit had said, “There were hardly any ferals, andthere was no one at the end. I’m worried. I don’t know if she left of her ownaccord or not. I hope she’ll be back when time starts working here again.”

As worried as he was about Ditto,it was the state of Treeshroud Forest that had him particularly wound up. Andso, unfortunately, Azelf found himself teleporting off the central island helived on to its smaller, much more volcanic neighbour. He struggled his waythrough Dark Crater to reach the lesser-known sixth time gear.

In the heart of an almost-activevolcano, Azelf didn’t have much of a chance to admire the time gear held aloftby a quartet of obsidian spikes. He was here on business. So he raised his headand called out to the time gear’s guardian.

“Darkrai! Are you here?”

The room got the slightest bitdarker.

“Unfortunately,” came a voicefrom behind him, and Azelf turned to see the dark-type lurking in the shadowsbehind him.

Azelf did not jump; he frownedand ignored Darkrai’s thirst for drama. “Is everything okay?”

“Last I checked, we weren’tsupposed to leave our gears.” Darkrai snapped, “Don’t tell me you actually sealedyours in crystal?”

“That was a rumour,” Azelf saidcalmly. “We used it to draw the thief out. It worked, everything can go back tonormal now.”

Darkrai scoffed. “Too bad. Youshould have sent him my way.” He gestured to his own time gear inches above itslake of magma. “I’d love to watch a grass type try to get his hands on that.”

A rather large bubble of moltenrock burst right under the gear and sent a ripple across the lake.

“Right.” Azelf said, barelypaying attention to Darkrai’s faux querulousness. If he wanted to be needlesslydramatic, who was Azelf to stop him? “You’ve heard Cresselia’s gear was taken?”

“I found the wanted poster in abottle and read all about it. I’m sure she’s been insufferable about it.”

“Do you know where she is?”

Darkrai was silent for severallong seconds.

“How long has she been missing?”He asked, his tone much more careful now.

“We don’t know,” Azelf admitted.“There was no trace of her when Mesprit returned her gear. Do you have any ideawhere she could be?”

Darkrai frowned. “No. Have youchecked with Dialga?”

“You know it’s not that easy.”Azelf sighed, “We’ll keep a lookout for her. In the meantime, the threat may begone, but be careful, okay?”

At first, Azelf thought he’dmisread Darkrai’s look, but no. The other pokemon sneered at him.

“You too,” Darkrai said, and thecave lit up once more.

In a handful of seconds, Azelfnoticed a few things.

Darkrai was no longer in front ofhim, nor was he behind him. Darkrai was gone – as was the time gear. There wasa hole torn through time and space right beside it, which disappeared thesecond Azelf saw it. An overwhelming stillness had surrounded him. A wave ofelectric grayscale raced across the lake towards him.

Azelf didn’t have a chance tocall for his siblings. He didn’t have a chance to run. All Azelf could do wasscream as the wave hit him full-force.

A bubble of magma sat in themiddle of the lake, under where the time gear had been, frozen half-popped.

.-.

Chatot, currently, had twoPokemon under house arrest in Team Relic’s room.

Riolu had decided to tryrepeatedly to throw himself out the same window his partner had leapt from, asif that would miraculously reunite them in anything but the afterlife. As soonas the first lights hit, Corphish had gathered a team of water types to do theunfortunate deed of searching for the two. They had come back empty-handed, andDugtrio just so happened to realize that the currents at thattime last night could have carried them right across the bay towards themystery dungeon known as Brine Cave.

Experiencing that dungeon wasn’tsomething Chatot would wish on his worst enemy. But Riolu had been determinedto go reunite with his partner, so inevitably Chatot had made the executivedecision that there was no chance the boy would be leaving the guild.Especially with the still significant possibility that Vulpix, as a fire type,hadn’t survived her fall.

The other Pokemon was Dusknoir,who was much more understanding. He didn’t have any explanation for what hadhappened and seemed genuinely shocked when they only asked him to stay in theguild until they knew more about it. Chatot would deal with whateverimplications there were with that situation when he had a moment to think. Fornow, the Guild was closed to outsiders, the other apprentices had left up thecoast in search of anything, and the Guildmaster had gone toscour Brine Cave just in case. Chatot, as the head of intelligence, had stayedbehind to dig through files.

Well, officially he had beenasked to stay behind and rest. His injuries weren’t nearly that severe,however, and Chatot saw no reason why he couldn’t be productive.

Vulpix had seen something beforeshe jumped and had done so to push Dusknoir out of the way. When she’d savedGrovyle as well, the ledge they’d been standing on had been attacked. Thosewere the facts. Someone had tried to assault and kill the Pokemon from thefuture, and Vulpix had been an unfortunate extra casualty. The questionwas why?

So Chatot found himself buried inhundreds of mission reports and wanted posters as he tried to figure out whathe was missing when it came to Grovyle and the Great Dusknoir.

.-.

For a grass type, Grovyle hadhorrible sun tolerance. Breeze would be annoyed and embarrassed, but her’swasn’t much better – though, she was a fire type, she didn’t need thesun. It was just a nice and pretty bonus that could sometimes make her firetype moves stronger. Most grass types, on the other hand, would probably wasteaway and die without the sun.

Apparently, Grovyle was anexception to a rule that really shouldn’t have any of those. And Breeze was nota fan of that at all.

Most of the plants beside thedried riverbed they’d been traveling along were withered and dead. As soon asthey’d found a patch of shade, Grovyle had requested they stop for a rest.Breeze had tried to sit beside him, she really had! She was tired too, and he’dbeen so nice throughout the whole trip so far. He’d given her every healingitem they’d come across – which, admittedly, was only an oran berry and acouple heal seeds – and had double-triple checked to make sure she wasn’thaving any issues with their pace. He hadn’t been anything like the Pokemonwho’d nearly killed her and Dusk.

Unfortunately, vouching forsomeone’s second chance and actually giving it to them weren’t the same thing.As much as she tried to ignore it, Grovyle still terrified her. Every time shelooked at his leaf blades, all she could think was how he’d easily he’d thrownher and Dusk aside every time they’d tried to fight. She’d been knocked outbefore he’d struck her partner’s neck, but Breeze could picture it anyway – shehad been just outside the door when he’d told Chimecho all about it, becausehe’d thought she was worried enough about him without having to learn detailsabout how Dusk had nearly gotten his throat slit while trying to revive her.

So while Grovyle called for abreak in their journey to rest, Breeze lasted all of one minute waiting besidehim before she’d anxiously made an excuse and wandered off to ‘scout ahead.’

Breeze kept her head down as shefollowed the cracked, dry dirt further inland. Her tails dragged behind her andknocked bits of sand into her footprints. The wind from earlier had died downand left the smell of the ocean replaced by the scent of dust.

It wasn’t fair to Grovyle for herto be acting like this. Breeze knew that. He barely had any idea what was goingon, but he’d still tried to help her. She should at least be able to return thefavour instead of wandering off to who-knows-where because she was scared forno reason!

Breeze felt her eyes sting andstarted trying to blink away tears as she took another step forward – andautomatically stumbled back as her eyes and nose burned. Severalsteps back, for the first time, Breeze looked up and really took in where shewas.

She was on the edge of asandstorm, frozen in place mid-air. The wind didn’t blow. The sky was dark –the only light came from back the way Breeze had come. It reflected off eachfloating sand particle and speckled the ground in front of her with tiny silversparkles. A trickle of motionless water ran to her left, through weeds and mudthat were still fresh – but frozen. A lone magikarp was stuck mid-air, barelyabove the water, frozen in a desperate last jump to freedom.

Everything was frozen.

Breeze practically threw herselfback into the sunlight, back into the dust-scented wind, back onto the dry andcracked ground. She could feel her body tremble as she stood on the edge of thefrozen time and she nearly collapsed.

That was why the riverbed wasdry. That was why the plants had been dead, and the sun was so intense. Thisriver had probably come from the same spring Mesprit’s lake did. It was at theedge of Northern Desert and Quicksand Cave. Time was still destroyed here,thanks to Grovyle.

Breeze dropped to the ground andrubbed her face with a paw. What was she thinking? Dusknoir was right. Chatotwas right. Everyone was right. This was stupid. Just because he didn’t rememberit didn’t mean it didn’t happen. Grovyle had been trying to destroy the world! Shecouldn’t just ignore that. She couldn’t get distracted by the fact that he wasnice now, when he had no idea who she was or what was going on. If he ever gothis memories back he’d start again, and he’d attack everyone again, andeveryone would be hurt because she’d been an idiot.

There was a shadow cast over her.Breeze froze, waiting for Grovyle to speak – and then she realized that theshadow was nowhere near his body shape. The scent sunk in past the dust amoment later.

“Cha-haw-haw, what’s this?”

Breeze felt her breath catch inher throat. Very slowly, she turned – and Team Skull towered over her.

Breeze swore.

“Well isn’t this a surprise,”Skuntank said. He took a step forward, and Breeze braced herself. “Boys, itlooks like we’ve run into a friend.”

“I’m not your friend, you rottenjerk.” She snapped and let a fire spin build up in her throat.“Leave me alone.”

“Why? Who’s going to make me?”Skuntank replied. “You’re all alone, brat. We watched you walk here.”

“All the more reason to leave mealone,” Breeze growled. “What are you even doing here? Don’t you have anythingbetter to do?”

“I could ask you the same thing,”he said, “Come on Vulpix, help an old friend out.”

Breeze steadied her paws and spatthe fire spin right in Skuntank’s awful face before she duckedunder him and ran back the way she’d came.

“ Agh, boys -”Breeze was already out of earshot.

Her pounding paws dredged up moredust as she fled back the way she’d came. But she saw the shadow over herbefore she saw Grovyle’s rest stop.

Breeze tucked and rolled, dartingto the side as Zubat swooped down where she had been only a second before. Thestink hit her before Koffing did – but they both hit her hard. Breeze flippedand tumbled, her leg catching on a dying root and sending her right on herface. She felt a paw press down on her back.

“No Guildmaster, no cowardlyRiolu, no one coming to help you.” Skuntank said and leaned in as Breezesquirmed. “So why don’t we have that conversation now?”

“Get off.”

“No.”

“Why does this matter to you?!”She tried to push herself up – Skuntank pushed down harder, and Breeze didn’tmanage to stifle a pained gasp when his claws dug into her still fresh scabs.

“Because we’ve heardthe stories your Guild’s been putting out,” he said, “And how they’d offer up ajuicy reward to bring you back. So what was so important that you had to leaveyour Guild last night, huh? ”

“I didn’t run away, you idiot! ”Breeze squirmed again – if she could just flip over, she could roar, andthat would get them all far enough away from her that she could run again. “Andif you try to ransom me back to them, you’re not going to likewhat the Great Dusknoir does to you.”

Skuntank laughed again, and hiscronies joined in. “Why would an explorer like Dusknoir still care about aweakling like you?”

“He’s already saved me fromyou once, you think he won’t do it again?” She snapped, “Backoff, or you’ll have to deal with him.”

“That implies he knows where youare,” Skuntank leaned in, “if we shoot enough supersonics yourway, no one will believe anything you say. And you’ll talk then, too – so whydon’t you make this easier for yourself?” One of his claws hooked under herpersim band, “Tell us why you’re here.”

Zubat cleared his throat. “Uh,boss?”

Skuntank huffed. “What?”

“We’ve got company.”

Breeze had a brief, hopefulsecond where she was sure Dusknoir or the Guildmaster or Dusk or someone washere before Grovyle sprung out of the ground in front of her and clockedSkuntank square in the jaw.

Breeze scrambled out of his gripthe second she could, ducking behind Grovyle when he landed. “What are youdoing?!” She whispered, “They’re poison types, you’re a grass type, areyou insane?! ”

“Get ready to run,” He whisperedback.

Skuntank recovered from the blow,with Koffing at his side and Zubat ducked behind them. Breeze had a terrifyingsense of familiarity as she shuffled a few steps back.

Except, Team Skull didn’timmediately attack. They stared. “G-Groyvle?!” Zubat choked out.

“How do you know?” Breeze snappedback, “You don’t even have eyes!”

“You’re running around with theTime Gear thief?” Skuntank stared at her as he shuffled back. Breeze shot apanicked glance at Grovyle, who just looked confused.

“Y- no?” She said.

“The what thief?” Grovyle said.

Skuntank still looked shocked –and then his expression dropped. He chortled, and his cronies joined in. “I’llbet you’re worth a pretty penny.”

There was no chance for Breeze tospit back any flames – barely a chance for Grovyle to grab her and pullher down – before Koffing and Skuntank spat their noxious gascombo at them.

The pressure in Breeze’s noseturned from stench to sand, and Grovyle’s dig dropped them ina small, crooked hole.

Breeze coughed and wheezed,hacking up a few tiny flames. They smouldered and died in the sand, and theirsmoke hung heavy in the air. In the flicker of dim light, she saw the purpletinge around Grovyle’s nose and lips – and that he wasn’t moving, either.

“No,” she choked out, “no, no,come on.” She crawled forwards and nudged him with a shaking paw. “Why wouldyou do that? You – you’re a grass type, they had every advantage againstyou, why –” The smoldering bile she choked up this time had apurple tinge. “Why didn’t you hide behind me? You could’ve run. You could havesaved yourself. You – you could have…”

Breeze’s breath shook. Shethought then, about Grovyle asking why did you save me? Shethought of all the healing items he’d passed her way. He could have let herdrown. He could have abandoned her when she was unconscious – he hadn’twanted to stay, but he had. He could have let her suffer and kept the berriesfor himself. He didn’t know anything - he could have lookedafter himself.

But he’d chosen to look after herinstead.

A familiar sense of helplessnessclawed at Breeze’s heart and she didn’t like that at all.

“Help!” she choked out. TeamSkull didn’t matter – she could talk to them, not fight, and they’d take herhome. It was better than letting Grovyle die. It was better than doing nothingwhen he’d been trying so hard for her. “Please – please! HELP!”

Breeze choked up another poisonedfireball, and for a split second, she saw something floatingon Grovyle’s other side. She couldn’t make out the colours or details, butthere was something there.

“Help,” Breeze said again,“please.”

There was a heavy moment ofsilence. Breeze flattened herself down and coughed on the smoke from her ownfires.

“Alright,” a feminine voice said,and the tunnel lit up.

.-.

Dusknoir sat in the corner of aroom, a book in his hands and a panicked Riolu pacing around him. He’d tonedout every word the boy had said. Genuinely, he didn’t care. He, unfortunately,knew better than anyone how resilient Breanna and Grovyle could be.

Besides, Darkrai wouldn’t havebothered to target his sableye if the two were actually dead. And as far asprisons went, he’d certainly had far worse. If something came up, it would beno issue to escape before the situation turned serious.

A sudden silence struck him asodd, and Dusknoir looked up to see what had finally silenced the Riolu in frontof him.

The answer, apparently, was aDimensional Hole floating in the middle of the room.

Dusknoir mentally cursed, slowlyrising and inching towards the door. “Riolu,” he said, “you need to go getChatot.”

“Do you know what that is?” Theboy asked, his voice raw.

“Yes,” Dusknoir said, and floatedforwards, ready to grab and throw the Riolu the second anything changed. “Fornow, go - ”

The dimensional hole tossed outtwo prone forms and a significant amount of sand.

Riolu lunged for them at the sametime Dusknoir tried to snatch him. Riolu’s arms wrapped tight around a badlypoisoned Breanna. He pulled her away from Grovyle – fainted and unstable, worseoff than Breanna was – and nearly sobbed onto her shoulder.

Breanna held him back, tearing upas well. She looked up at Dusknoir. “Get help,” she croaked.

Dusknoir stared at her as hebacked out of the room and didn’t say the thought that stuck out in his mind –he hated the familiarity of this.

#PMD #Pokemon Mystery Dungeon #Not Quotes #anyway that first scene is what made me decide to ACTUALLY post these chapters on here instead of just telling yall to go to AO3 #I really like that first scene...#that said six is a GARBAGE number of time gears to have #seven? so much more satisfying #place your bets now folks! where do you think the seventh Time Gear is?#Here's a hint: it's a post-game dungeon #Anonymous #Backfire

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thelostgirlfindingneverland · 5 years ago

Text

Take me to Neverland (Part 2)

Imagine: Being Pan’s First Lost Girl

I furrowed my eyebrows and squinted my eyes at him. “What?”

“Neverland. You are in Neverland.” He repeated.

“You mean the Neverland out of a children’s book? That Neverland?” I choked.

“There is no other Neverland, my dear.” He walked around the approaching me.

I let out a breath and looked at him. “No, don’t get any closer to me,” I yelled.

“Come on, really? I tell you where you are and now you act scared.” His grin grew. “Come on, I won’t hurt you.”

“And if this is Neverland, then that makes you who, Peter Pan, a Lost Boy, a pirate?” I spit sourly.

“Ouch, what’s with the attitude? But yes, I am one of those.” He made an effort to sound hurt by my anger towards him, but I could see right through his sarcasm.

“Who?” I urged then out of no where he came up fast pushing me harder against the tree.

“Peter,” he said, “My name is Peter Pan.” I stood wide eyed both taken aback by his leap, his confession, and his overall closeness to me. Our faces were inches apart; I could feel his breath on my face. I gulped then gathered every ounce of courage I had and pushed him away.

“What dear? A little too close for comfort?” He chuckled.

“Ugh, for Christ’s sake, stop calling me dear,” I said dramatically. “And a little too close for comfort?” I scoffed and looked him dead in his mesmerizing, green eyes “It would be naïve of you to think I’m really that innocent.” His eyebrows rose.

“Ah, so the little girl has fire.” He bit his lip as he looked at me. “I like fire. And you haven’t given me your name yet, dear.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Lucy Oakwood, but everyone just calls me Lux.”

“Well Lux, why don’t you come to camp with me and meet my boys, we can talk more there?” He turned his head to the side and looked at me.

I stared at him with narrowed eyes, contemplating. If I stayed here I would be fucked, no food, no nothing, but if I went with him even if he was completely lying through his teeth there’s a chance I could sustain myself enough to find a way off this island.

“So, what’s it going to be Lux?” He grinned devilishly.

“Fine,” I said finally. “I’ll go with you, but if you try anything, I will not hesitate to grab that dagger of yours and slit your throat,” Peter laughed. I had no other choice and I sure as hell didn’t want to die.

Just then he appeared behind me. “Then let’s go.” I jumped.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” I yelled. He rolled his eyes as he put his arm around my waist.

“Hey now, what are you doing?” I said and before I knew it, we were off the ground.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” I stammered as I looked up avoiding looking down. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Peter’s grin widen.

“You will be fine; I promise I won’t let you go.”

“And that’s what worries me,” I mumbled. “What was that?” he retorted.

“Nothing,” I returned annoyed. All he did was laugh; I rolled my eyes.

Shortly after, we landed in the middle of a camp by a huge, roaring bonfire. Boys around my age and younger stopped and stared. The camp was cluttered with tents and weapons. Another boy, around my age, curiously walked up. He stood out from the rest, probably a whopping 6 foot or more; he had longer, wild blonde hair, blue eyes, and a scar across his face underneath his left eye. Clothes wise, he wore pretty much the same thing as Peter, in fact they all basically wore the same raggedy, patchy green clothing. I met his gaze and it was not friendly at all; it was almost hostile.

“Boys,” Peter yelled. “I found the source of that screeching yell.” He laughed and all the boys joined. I stood there both embarrassed and trembling.

Out of habit I held my bare arms and brought up my hand biting it as I nervously looked around avoiding all their eager gazes.

“Looks like my shadow decided to either play a sick joke on me or he really wanted me to diverse things up here because he’s the one that brought the girl,” he yelled. The boys looked around and started murmuring amongst themselves. “Boys, welcome our very first lost girl, Lux.”

I let out a gasp and looked at Peter with wide eyes. The rest of the boys gawked including the extremely tall one with blue eyes.

“I thought you said no girls,” one boy yelled. Others joined in saying “yeah.”

“I know, I know.” Annoyance echoed in his voice at their outburst. “But my shadow would not bring her here for no apparent reason, so until we find out what that reason is, treat her as one of us,” he said finally. “Now, off with you. Dance, play, or something.”

Peter turned to me. “What?�� he asked grinning.

“I-I-I have no idea what is going on,” I proclaimed quietly.

“You’re one of us now. We will train you, feed you, and treat you like our own, except that you’re a girl. It can’t be too hard,” he paused and looked me up and down. I instantly became nervous. “And plus, you look capable enough to do what my boys can do.”

“Are you serious?” The tall boy questioned furrowing his eyebrows at Peter.

“Dead serious, Felix. In fact, you’re going to be the one to help our little girl here start her training tomorrow,” he stated simply as he patted the tall boy’s shoulder.

“Okay, whatever you say.” The boy still in shock turned to me, “I’m Felix.”

I looked up at him and brought up my hand to shake his, “I’m Lux.” I smiled waiting for him to take my hand. Instead he narrowed his eyes and walked off. I brought my arms up in defense.

“What’s his deal?” I asked Peter. He laughed, “Felix requires more time and patience, my dear.”

“Ugh, I thought I told you to stop calling me your dear,” I exclaimed throwing my hands down.

“Ahh, but I love getting you all riled up, it’s fun,” he chuckled. I huffed.

“And what if I don’t want to be your lost girl?”

Chuckling some more he replied, “Well, it looks like you don’t have much of a choice. Either stay with me and survive or go out there and die of starvation and thirst within days.”

I gulped; he was right. I wouldn’t survive one day out there alone. I didn’t know how to hunt, how to skin and cook an animal, let alone pick out safe fruit/vegetables to eat. Knowing my luck, I would probably end up dying from a delicious looking poisonous fruit. “Okay Peter, so what do I do now?”

“Now you rest my dear,” he sighed as he put his hand on my right shoulder. “Follow me.”

He led me into the largest tent. Inside, there was a large bed in the left corner with a chest in front of it, a huge cabinet on the right wall, and another flap door in between the two leading to another room.

“Alright, stay here for a moment while I go talk to Felix,” he stated. “Don’t get any funny ideas.”

I gazed at him giving him my “really?” look. “Oh, you wouldn’t want that, now would you,” I sassed as I bit my lip.

His eyes grew dark. “Oh, trust me dear, you do not want to cross me.”

Then I gave him my most innocent look. “Or what, you’ll punish me,” I teased leaning back on the bed. I think I might have thrown him off because he just stood there looking at me with this unexplainable look in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he dared, “I will.” And with that he turned around and left the tent.

What was that look? Rolling my eyes, I laid back on the bed. It was so comfortable. With its thick fur blankets and soft, feather like pillows. I let out a loud moan and rolled over. Finally, a comfortable place to sleep, I thought. Before I knew it, darkness descended upon me and I fell asleep.

#peter pan #peter pan imagine #Felix #felix ouat #neverland

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anastasiaskarsgard · 5 years ago

Text

So this was a request from @anxiousamandapanda

Concept: Roman is being an asshole, and the reader just loves him so much that nothing he can say will push her away. Plus she loves his sassy face. Arguing turns into smut,

I even ended it with fluff as a bonus. No one is more surprised than me!

Warnings: smut, cursing, violent roughness, rejection

Katie nervously walked up to the familiar modern mansion where The man she knew would be her eventual undoing, lived. Roman Godfrey. She’d tried to run away and forget him, traveling to the far corners of the globe, in hopes of locating whatever or whoever, could make her forget Roman. But relief never came, and the farther away she got, the more she yearned for him. She knocked and rang the bell, but after a few minutes with no response, she tried the door. Luckily it was unlocked. She peeked inside, not seeing anyone so she yelled out, before closing the door behind her, and seeking him out.

Katie: Roman! Are you home? I knocked but no one answered,so I let myself in. Helloooo????

She checked all the rooms downstairs, and then heard something fall from Romans room. Butterflies sprang into action at the thought of seeing him after all this time. She walked in his room and couldn’t help but feel pure joy, looking upon his gorgeous features.

Roman: I was ignoring you. Please see yourself out.

Katie: is that any way to talk to your favorite girl in the whole wide world

Katie slowly approached Roman, like he was a rabid animal.

Roman: Wow. You’re delusional and you don’t fucking listen. I don’t have time for your bullshit Katie.

She heard his words, but she didn’t believe them. She ran over to him attempting to crawl in his lap,?desperate for any kind of contact.

Katie:! Oh Romie! I missed you!

Roman looked at her in utter disgust, grabbing her by her shoulders and pushing her off his lap, watching as she flailed her arms, before crashing on the ground and sliding several feet away.

Roman: are you fucking insane? Don’t fucking touch me!

Katie looked up at Romans sneering face, and her heart melted.

Katie: God you’re so fucking hot when your mad

Roman: can you ever take anything serious? Where the fuck have you been?

Roman didn’t want to admit it, but the past four months had been hell. When the one girl he actually believed when she’d told him she loved him asked him if he loved her, he had refused to answer. Sure he could see it caused her a lot of inner conflict and pain, but he’d tell her that he loved her when he felt like it. When he was certain. He never dreamed she’d walk out and stay away for months without so much as a text or email. It had broken him and he’d just recently started functioning again.

Katie: I got side tracked.

Roman: for four fucking months??

Katie crawled slowly across the floor like a cat, trying to lean against his leg, looking up at him longingly.

Katie: it was a large track

Roman: get the fuck away from me, before I rip your throat out....

He pushed her hard, making her roll over, landing on her hands and knees. She stayed thAt way a few minutes, breathing harder than Roman felt was needed. His lips upturned a bit at her dramatic antics. He loved how ridiculous she was. He’d never admit to that either but she was exciting. Suddenly she jumped to her feet and marched right up to him, looking him in his eyes defiantly.

Katie: as long as you touch me, you can do whatever you want to me

Roman: don’t say it unless you mean it.

He absent-mindedly played with her hair, thrilling internally that she’d returned. He loved how she was such an obedient whore for him. She allowed him to do whatever depraved perverted acts he could think of, and be thrilled she’d made him happy. He had gotten used to having that constant source of love, and craved it like a drug. He tried to find it in some old booty calls, and had even gone on a date with one, but it wasn’t the same. Sure these girls were obsessed with him, and some even said they loved him, but it wasn't real.

Katie: fuck me up Daddy, I deserve it.

Katie grabbed his bulge above his pants, keeping eye contact, biting her bottom lip

Roman: I fucking hate you...

Katie: not as much as I hate myself

He growled and bit her lip almost hard enough to draw blood before pulling back

Roman: we are both so fucked up. Last chance to get the fuck out before I take out all my fucking aggression on you.

Roman looked for a reaction, but she didn’t even flinch. He turned around and stalked away leaning against his counter looking in the mirror. He stared at himself, trying to figure out what he was feeling, when it hit him. He was happy. He turned his attention to Katie, who was now stark naked, jumping on his bed. She squealed when he turned around and met her eyes.

Katie: you know just the thing to say, to get a girl naked.

Roman: you are ridiculous, why are you naked? What makes you think I'd even care to see you again?

Katie: I can see your smile shining in your eyes fool! You can glare and sneer all you want, but your mouth is a dirty liar. You eyes never lie. But maybe you get over things better than me. Time offered me no relief, neither did distance. How long did you miss me? Be honest.

Roman: I missed your bat shit crazy ass every day. Every hour.

She stopped jumping and walked closer to Roman standing just in reach to tempt him. She could see his bulge straining against his pants, so he was still at least physically attracted to her.

Katie: I missed you.

Roman: why?

Roman regretted asking as soon as he said it. He didn’t want to appear weak or vulnerable. When he looked at her face and observed her puzzled lost expression on her face, he saw red.

Katie: why did I miss you?

She was impossible he raged. He tried not to explode. She knew why he asked why. He had had it with her nonsense, turning away from her. He balled his fists, and clenched his jaw.

Roman: just go. Everything is a game with you.

Katie: I left because I love you too much. I’d follow you through the gates of hell if you’d hold my hand.

This was what he’d yearned to hear, her weird little professions of love, he could feel his walls coming down, and he was close to giving in.

Roman: stop!

Katie embraced him again defiantly. Holding him tighter as he tried to shrug her off. He understood she was mad he didn’t answer her question the way she wanted to hear, but he wasn’t going to live in fear of being abandoned when she didn’t get her way

Katie: I tried to stop. I left the country trying to forget you, but I couldn’t so now I’m not leaving. You’ll have to kill me. I’d rather be dead, then away from you.

Roman: how do I know you won’t just up and run away again? I couldn't survive it a second time

Katie: because I got away from you and we both know you weren’t going to ever try to find me, and yet I came back. knowing you might kill me at any moment.

He grabbed her by her chin, looking her in the eyes with a sinister smirk playing across his lips...

Roman: how do you know I won’t just fuck you until I’m bored of you, and then throw you off the roof, or drain you dry?

Katie: as long as I get you one more time, I’ll die happy. But I know in my heart, you’d never really hurt me. The only thing you ever do, is push me away when I won’t stop touching you.... like now.

He was trying to push her away, but nothing scared her away. He wanted to touch her, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stop once he started.

Roman: how could you go knowing I’m left here alone?

Katie: you don’t have to be alone ever again

He wanted to believe her. He tenderly ran his hands across her body, having to use every once of self control to play it cool.

Katie: just answer my question I asked the day I left

Roman continued running his hands across her body, lost in thought it seemed, before looking her dead in the eye...

Roman: no

Katie: thats really your answer?

She took a step back, tears already filling her eyes, threatening to spill over. She searched his face for a hint but when his expression didn’t change she lost it and screamed in his face

Katie: answer me! .

Roman: get on your fucking knees.

Before she realized what she was doing, she slapped him across his smug face. His expression became more sinister, as she saw his eyes darken and his smile appeared forced as it spread across his face.

Roman: God, Ive missed your fire. Now get on your fucking knees, bend down and kiss my shoe, and then do that sexy little crawl you do over to the bed. NOW!!!

She immediately got on her knees, laughing excitedly, clapping her hands with glee. She looked up at him with the cutest look on her face, and it took his breath away for a moment. As dark and lustful as his thoughts were, and as hard as he was trying to be an asshole, she somehow always softened him up with just a glance and a giggle. She fascinated him but she didn’t listen well.

Roman: what are you supposed to be doing

She remembered what she was supposed to do as she kissed his shoe, and made her way over to the bed. Roman went in his closet and grabbed some ties, picking up her underwear before climbing up on the bed, pushing her on her back.

Katie: What are you doing? What’s behind you? Let me see.

Roman took her underwear, and shoved them in her mouth, gagging her. He then grabbed her wrists, securing them together and tying them to the headboard. He beamed down at her, and wiggles his eyebrows at her

Roman: that’s better.Finally, you’re quiet and helplessfor me to do as I please

She whimpers through the gag and his smirk gets bigger. He slowly strips off the rest of his clothes and makes his way towards her, never breaking eye contact. He settled next to her feet and She closed her legs tight, feeling embarrassed. He grabbed her ankles and yanks her legs apart, crawling between them and humming as he sees how wet he’s made her, and then looks at her with a raised brow.

Roman: are you sure? There’s no turning back. Till death do us part.

She nods her head and then bucks her hips as he licks along her slit. He grabs her thighs, opening her up wider, pinning her down so She can’t move. She whimpers and whines through her underwear as thrusts his tongue deep inside her, laps up her juices and sucks on her clit. Her eyes slide closed as the pleasure completely takes over and she ges lost in the sensations Roman is giving her. Just as Her climax builds to seconds away from bursting, he pulls away. She cries out in frustration, but it’s muffled by her gag.

Roman: What was that? I can’t understand you. You’re not being a brat are you?

She blinks at him, growling in the back of her throat at his mock concern. He glares at her and She cries out in shock as his hand slaps down on her thigh, leaving a perfect red imprint of his palm. He lifts his other hand and She squirms, trying to shift away from any more slaps. He rolls his eyes, And yanks her back, sitting on her shins to pin her down. He slaps her thighs over and over again until Shes sobbing, almost insane from arousal.

Roman: I’m going to remove your gag, but I can put it right back in

He leans forwards and pulls her underwear out of her mouth.

Katie: please Roman!

Roman: Please what? Say the words

Katie: Fuck me, please!

Roman: When I’m ready.

He begins to trail kisses up to her breasts, taking his time on each breast, looking up at her making the most delicious sounds.

She arches into his mouth with a moan and then scream as he bites down.

Katie: Roman! please!

He shakes his head and pushes his knee between her legs, pressing up against her pussy. She moans and bucks her hips, grinding against him, desperate for any kind of friction.

Katie: Roman, please claim me. Make me yours

He stills and then she hears a low growl come from his throat. She gasps as he roughly grabs her hips and pushes his other leg between hers. She whimpers as he lines his cock up with her entrance, slowly rubbing his head across her swollen clit, before placing himself at her entrance, hovering above her but then he freezes.

She wants him so bad she feels like she’s going to explode, but she doesn’t dare buck her hips, or try to rush him.

Katie: I love you Roman Godfrey

He slams into her, giving her no time to adjust as she feels his cock bottom out. He cries out from how tight she is, and can barely move inside her as he feels her walls clench around his shaft. He pounds into her more aggressively, causing her to gasp and moan With abandon. She wraps her legs around his waist as he fucks her into the mattress, groaning and mosning, saying the dirtiest sweet nothings in her ear. He lifts her up a bit as he settles back on his haunches, pushing back inside her, grabbing her by the hips, so tight she’ll for sure have marks, and starts fucking into her, slamming her down as deep as he can go. He hammers away at a frantic pace, watching his cock slide in and out of her perfect pussy. She scream his name as She cums, arching her back, desperate to get her hands free, to touch him. He groans as She tightens around him even more, crying out as he cums deep inside her, his fingers digging into her flesh. He collapses over the top of her as he pants for air. She whimpers and pulls at her restraints so he might get the hint and untie her.

He leans up and unties her, carefully checking her wrists. When he’s done, he lays beside her and pulls her against his chest, kissing her forehead.

Katie:. i love you so much

Roman: good

Katie: I’ll never leave you again

Roman: you better not princess.next time, I WILL fucking find you, and I’ll RIP out your treacherous heart and eat that motherfucker.

Katie: perfect. I’d deserve it.

Roman: you were so tight. You didn’t share my pussy while you were away did you?

Katie: absolutely not!

Roman: I can tell.

Roman had had several women In her absense, but none of them made him feel the way she did and for the first time in his life, he wanted to be completely faithful. She was all he wanted.

Roman: Katie. Open your eyes,

She obeyed and gazed into his pretty eyes, as he seemed to be trying to find his words. He had the cutest look of frustration before he just grabbed her face and crashed his lips into hers whispering “I love you’s” over and over between kisses. He pulled back and looked the most vulnerAble she’d ever seen him look

Roman: I’ve only ever said that to my sister and my daughter.

Katie: that’s makes me the winnner at life. The best boy loves me so I win.

Roman: now I wanna just say it again and again. I never got why people said it so often, but I feel it now. I love you Katie. I truly do.

Katie: I love you more Roman Godfrey. Can we rinse off, get clothes on and go get pancakes?

Roman rolled his eyes, but then smiled and nodded his head.

Roman: you can have anything you want.

Katie: seriously?

Roman: name it

Interactive story Bonus!What should she ask for?

#e #bill skarsgard #billy skarsgard #bill istvan günther skarsgård #roman godfrey #hemlock grove #roman godfrey fiction #soft roman #roman #fanfic #roman prompt #roman drabble #roman godfrey fanfiction #my writing

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wellmeaningshutin · 8 years ago

Text

Short Story #100: Hypnagogic State of Death.

Written: 4/18/2017 Romantic Intermission

My grandfather has always had a metal plate in his head, and he always used to tell me, when I was a kid, that it was ‘from the war’, and then would refuse to explain any further than that. Of course, being a kid and not yet knowing about the realities of the world, I had assumed that he got it from storming some enemy camp, and killing, like, a hundred men before somebody was finally able to clip him. Sometimes I would imagine that he would walk out of the enemy camp, smoke and ruins behind him, with his injured buddy slung over his shoulder, being heroically taken to get medical assistance, before the old bastard even realized that he was shot, which he laughed about after learning. However, when I was old enough, and his mind was about to make a French exit, he eventually told me the truth of how he had gotten it, and I was shocked to hear it. First off, he was never any sort of war hero, and I guess I mainly assumed so because of the injury, and the medals, whose meanings to me were completely grounded in my own imagination. The old guy was actually working in communications when the enemy took over his base, and there was hellfire and death circling his building, preparing to come in, and so he got out his pistol, and shot himself when he saw the enemy enter the building, no desire to live as a prisoner of war. Of course, he wasn’t successful at the attempt. Somebody had gotten to him and the bullet ended up hardly even touching his brain, and just carved out a good amount of bone from his skull, which must of hurt like a mother fucker. When I asked him why he had taken the cowards way out, which now I admit was a fucking terrible question to ask him, a terrible thing to accuse him of, and am deeply embarrassed that I had said that, he replied by telling me that there was no cowardice in what he did, because most people wouldn’t have been able to pull the trigger. He told me that it was braver to end his life then, in the service, doing his job, then to go through the horrors of being in a prison camp, clinging to the hope that there will be more to it, too afraid to face death head on.

Now, I don’t really know if there’s a whole lot of truth to what he had said, but I know that most people would have trouble pulling the trigger. Hell, people would do anything just to keep on living, and it seems that everything gets a priority before suicide, like that only becomes an option unless torture, or a worse death, is present. People would eat another human being before they would let themselves die, even though if they tried to slit their wrists, or whatever form of death was available for them, they could escape their hunger by escaping life, and they could escape the psychological trauma that would follow them if they survived, the trauma that would follow them around, knowing and remembering what it was like to eat another person. How is that worse than jumping to your death, or hanging yourself? Okay, I guess I’m not somebody who is in the position to fully understand, because without having to face anything as bad as cannibalism, torture, whatever, I still wanted to kill myself. And for some reason, people don’t think that clinical depression is really as bad as those other things.

I guess I don’t really care if they share my opinions either. Maybe I am a coward. How should I know?

The first time I tried to kill myself, it was a relatively simple affair. I had written a note for anyone who would find my body, pinned it to my shirt so that it would be impossible to miss, lied down in my bathtub, and then slit my wrists, horizontal cuts, and waited for everything to be over. Waited for that great sleep in which I would never be able to wake up from. This is what my note said:

I don’t want to do this anymore, there is no point in sticking around. I never liked any of you anyways. Do not think that I’m just saying that because I’m depressed, and know that I really do, from the bottom of my heart, think you are all terrible people.

Leave my body in the forest. I don’t want people to use my death as an opportunity to make themselves better, as a way for people to talk about how much they loved me, or to lie about how great I was, just so that everyone could think of them as something other than a terrible person. I want my body to be dumped somewhere deep, and I hope it can make a change in some animals life. I want to give back for once.

Donate my possessions to science.

I could explain to you the context behind any of that, explain who I was referring to, and why I hate them so much, but that is unimportant right now. Why should I spend my time dwelling on the people that I hate, instead of the people that I love? I mean, I might not even come back this time. So, on the subject of the people that I love, I guess its time to mention her. Now, I don’t really know her name, I’m not sure if she even has one, but that’s all besides the point. I met her during my first suicide attempt, around the time where I had started to get pretty cold, when everything was starting to fade away. All of the sudden, she had appeared, had been sitting on the edge of the bathtub, looking down at me, and I remember I first thought that she was an EMT or somebody like that, some nosy person in the medical field that would try to save me by forcing me to continue living in agony. However, at some point I realized that she was somebody else entirely, there was something about her that made me feel… she made me feel the comfort I hoped to feel when I died. That’s the best I could do to describe her, because other than the feeling I got, there was nothing specific that I could remember, like it was as if she was one of those images you see, or voices you hear, when you’re incredibly close to falling asleep, when you’re on the border of waking and sleeping. When I see her, in person, she’s very clear, its like I remember all of the sudden and it makes a lot of sense, but afterwards she doesn’t stick in my memory, and all I can remember is the feeling that she gave me.

The first time that I saw her, we talked about something forgotten, but made me feel as if I wasn’t alone, as if there was somebody who really understood me, somebody I could genuinely connect with instead of going through the motions. I’ve gone through most of my life (or at least what feels like most of my life) feeling as if I were dead inside, as if nothing really mattered, if everything was to terrible for me to want to deal with. I mostly just wanted life to be over with, I didn’t want to have to start the next day, and when I would have to deal with every day, I would just wonder why I was bothering to try, why I would show up to my classes when I couldn’t even focus on what anyone said, why I would try talking to all of these people that I couldn’t care about, who I couldn’t be honest with, without them rejecting me, because how do you casually and honestly bring up that you wish that you were dead? And even showing, just a little bit, how I feel inside would make them just try to help me out, to find out what was wrong and make me happier, but how do you explain that there is no problem to be solved, there is nothing that’s actually wrong? How would I even be able to try to explain this without making myself worse, knowing that everything that I’m feeling is so fucking irrational, but being unable to do anything about it? So, I just had to fake my way through everything, I had to pretend and pretend, just hoping that there would be some point down the road where I suddenly wouldn’t feel horrible, where I would be able to make a connection with somebody, instead of having to listen to all of their bullshit, and, well, you get it. Life was awful, I just kind of went through the motions, the world kept spinning. Until I met her, that is. Because, even though I have no idea how we connected, why things felt so genuine, I know that there is somebody out there that I can feel that way with. She made me want to live, if only for her.

And then I woke up in the hospital, and there were my family and friends standing around me, acting concerned, asking why I did it and that whole song and dance that I was avoiding when I tried to hide my depression in the first place. And then they start fucking trying to guilt me about trying to off myself, saying that I’m ‘selfish’, or that I ‘am throwing away a good life’, but the worst part was that it wasn’t like they were berating me or anything, they just tried to pepper in those comments while they had a pissing contest about how upsetting the whole thing was, not realizing that the whole ordeal made me want to do it all over again. At some point I just stopped listening, it didn’t seem like there was any point to it, they just wanted to talk at me, to try to force their feelings down my throat, holding my hand and breaking down into tears, stuff like that, when I clearly want to be left alone, when I’m the one who tried to end his life! It reminded me of when I was a kid, and my family would celebrate my birthday by not letting me do a single thing that I wanted to do, by forcing me to deal with relatives that made me uncomfortable, by going out to a dinner that I never asked for, and never wanted, making me have a rotten day while they kept saying it was for me. ��You’ll look back on this and you’ll realize you were wrong! You’ll be thankful that we went through all of this trouble for your birthday!’ Well, fuck you, my opinion still stands. And I’m the selfish one for wanting to die? And later, in private, my father confronts me about the note, telling me that I didn’t mean any of it, that its just the depression talking and he’s going to get me help, like he knows better, like he wasn’t… fuck. No, there’s no point in talking about these people.

The whole time that I was waiting in the hospital, I was waiting for that girl that I could hardly remember. I think I assumed that she was like a concerned neighbor or something, somebody that had seen me through a window, maybe, and came in the house and called for help. Sure, that might had been a silly idea, but it was the best guess that I had at the time, and I hoped that at some point she would come in and check on me, but she never came. I waited though, I waited for a long time, even when they thought I was able to go back home, she was the only thing that motivated me to stay alive. I think I hoped to see her in the neighborhood or something, maybe walking her dog or driving by, so I would sometimes stare out the window of my front yard, knowing that when I saw her I would recognize her, but that was all to no avail.

So, without that person I could actually connect with, feel alive with, and with all of my father’s prodding for me to finally ‘man up’, I decided to try for a second time, and tried to hang myself by my belt inside of the study. I thought it would have been funny for the son of a bitch to think that everything was figured out, that his son just needed to ‘stop being a pussy’, only to walk into the study to find me hanging there, blue in the face and dead as disco, with a note pinned to my shirt that claimed it was all his fault. It wasn’t, but apparently the previous note wasn’t enough to get the message across, and I bet he would have thrown a huge funeral service for me, the fucker. Although, I guess it was his fault in a way, since he did leave me alone.

Anyways, when I was hanging up there, my legs jerking around, not in a struggle but more in some strange, excited pre-death dance, like I couldn’t contain my excitement towards the great, beautiful void, I ended up seeing somebody standing in front of me, I think it was after I blinked. For a second, just a second, I was worried that they would try to hold me up, to keep me from being strangled, but I was able to recognize that it was her. She was kind enough to not try to save me, and even though I couldn’t tell you a word of what we said, I woke up in that hospital deeply in love with her, so it had to have been something amazing, something beautiful. However, I cannot express how painful it is to be in love with somebody you can’t even remember, it added an additional layer of pain to what I was already going through, it made me have a very, very small amount of sympathy for people with dementia. It was only a small amount because I spent a lot of time not being able to think about other people, all I could do was hate myself. I think one of the worst things I hated about myself wast the fact that I thought I had known heartache before, that I was just a whiny little bitch who pretended that he had serious problems, that he was actually going through emotional pain, but really just wanted to feel sorry for him self. This was mainly because a couple years before all of this, I was in love with a married woman, and had to deal with the frustration that came from wanting nothing but to be with her, but knowing that it was never possible, and I would beat myself up over this, angry that my heart couldn’t pick somebody that was actually an option. Now it did, but I had no clue who it was.

When you have two suicide attempts, back to back, they ignore your determination and make sure to lock you away somewhere where they’ll make sure that you’ll be forced to live. I don’t really know what to say about this period of my life, because it was really just a numb sort of blur. I was on some sort of medication that made me feel nothing, I talked to some people that said they wanted to help me out, and after a long while, I was suddenly back into the outside world. It wasn’t good or bad, it wasn’t really anything.

After this I may have become happy, I think I may be happy now, so if you find this note, don’t be too confused, just keep reading. Now, I know that this is really long, but nobody took the last two seriously, so I’m hoping that this one will finally drive the point home, especially if nobody is able to stop me this time. I really do hope that somebody will find me again, but if not this is goodbye. Sure, I have some stuff to live for, but I just can’t stop thinking about that girl, and at this point it seemed like she may have been the reason that I survived the first two, but I could be wrong on that. Hell, I hardly know what I’m talking about when it comes to her, and all I really know is that I love her, I want to be with her, and if I have to risk my life to do so, then so be it. I’ve never really been alive anyways. ———————————————————————————————————

That note was, once again, pinned to his shirt, and, just like the first time, he was lying inside of his bathtub, wrists cut, waiting for her to show up. People were home, and they would eventually get suspicious of his disappearance, his time in the bathroom, and they would eventually come in to check on him, worried, and would be able to do this without any problems, since he had left the door unlocked. Waiting, he wondered if she wasn’t going to come this time, and as time passed, the reality of his situation started to set in, and he tried to get up, blood getting all over his clothes, until he head somebody say, “Why are you doing this again?” It was a woman’s voice. He turned over and saw her face, and he knew that it was her.

“I-I had to see you. I was desperate to see you.”

“Why? I thought.. Damn it, why the hell would you want to see me?! How many times do I fucking have to explain this to you?!”

“What?”

“You can’t seriously have forgotten all over again.”

“I just, I love you. Or, I remember loving you. When I see your face now I can remember that feeling stronger, and-”

“So, that was your only reason for doing this to yourself? You’re in love with me, you just wanted to see me again?”

“Why-what’s with all of the questions? What else was I supposed to do? I-”

“Do you even remember who I am?”

“No, but I remember how I felt about you.”

“Do you remember why that was?”

“Look, can you-pleas just, can you explain to me whats making you so upset? I did this for you, I’m risking my life just to talk to you. Because of this I’m going to go back to that hospital, its going to take me forever to get out, could we just-”

“You’re so pathetic.” Her laughter shocked him, but before he could say anything, she said, cruelly, “You know what? You’re not going back to any hospital, you’re not living through this again. You have no more chances left, pal, you’ve fucked up for no good reason. No, don’t try to ask any questions, I’ll explain. I don’t have much time anyways, by the look of all of that blood.

“When we first met, I explained to you that I was, in a sense, death. Or at least an easy way for people to understand death. See, we talked for a little while, and I had a lot of compassion for you, because you never really got a chance at life, you were always unhappy, basically dead inside, so I decided to help you out. I told you how to be happy, you were found, and I thought that I would never see you again. Good deed done. Except, it wasn’t really, because you come clambering back the second time, and as you were hanging from that belt you told me about how your warm reception, and I wondered why you hadn’t tried again sooner, and once again I had some compassion. You know that feeling of love you felt for me?” He nodded. “You know why you felt that?” He shook his head. “It was because you wanted to die, that was the only reason. I don’t know how you though there was anything romantic here, because none of that ever existed, you just wanted a way out from life, you just wanted me to guide you into that numbing oblivion. And now, you throw it all away to be with me, but-”

“Oh god.”

“But-”

“Oh god, I don’t want to die.”

“Shh. Its fine, there isn’t really a god, or at least not the one that you believe exists.”

“What did I do?”

“There’s no point in struggling, you’ve dug your own grave. Its not like its going to hurt or anything, its not like you will even know it when you die. There is no reason to fight against it, because its going to happen. No matter what you try to do right now, its going to happen, because nobody is going to hear you, and you’re much too weak to do anything to save yourself.”

“There has to be, there has to-”

“You misguided boy.”

“I was, I was, I actually had a chance at happiness, but I, why did I..”

“And you threw it all away for somebody like me. You know-”

Trying his best to scream, “Somebody help me! Help!”

“-you didn’t really have a reason to feel so sad all the time before. I really did feel bad about the way that you hated yourself, but now-”

“Get me out of here, somebody!”

“-you really have a reason to hate yourself. Did you think that this was romantic? Why would you trade your happiness, and possibly your life, away for some girl you apparently couldn’t remember?”

“It was, I remember the feeling, I remember loving you so much.”

“Isn’t context everything? Isn’t it important to know why you loved me so much? You only loved me because I’m death, I was the reason why you attempted-”

“I get it! Fuck you! I get it! There’s no reason to keep, keep mocking me while I’m… Oh god.. I really fucked up. Are you sure that nobody will come for me, wont they hear my screaming?”

“You poor boy. You’re not really screaming, you know.”

“What?”

“Look at my lips while I’m talking, right now,” when she said that they did not move, they only stayed in a smile. “The same is happening for you, right now. You are much weaker than you think you are, the only words you can get out are too faint for somebody right next to you to hear. Its no more than a whimper. Sure, it feels like you’re screaming, it feels like somebody should hear you, but-”

“Fucking-”, struggling to put his cold, numb, blood soaked hand to his lips, “You have to be wrong you.. God damn it. No..”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this. These are your last moments of consciousness.”

It was becoming difficult for him to keep his eyes open, “Fuck you.”

“Would it make you feel better if I pretended to love you? Would it make your last moments any better? Would it make the fact that you are about to die any less terrifying?”

“I-I don’t, I don’t-”

“Shh”, putting a finger to his cold, still lips, “don’t worry, don’t think to hard. You don’t have enough time to think it over.” Placing his face in her hands, then kissing him on the lips, making sure to use tongue, “Did that do you any good? You’re such a great, I love you so much. Are you happy now?” It sounded as if she were holding in a laugh, “This is everything you ever wanted, you can finally be with me. I love you, don’t you love me? Tell me that you love me.”

“I, I love you”, he was able to say to her, before everything stopped.

#Free Write #Short Story #Writers on Tumblr #Love #Depression

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andya-j · 6 years ago

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In spite of its dark history, the entrance to the Brotterling Cave complex, eleven miles south of Kremming, Kentucky, appears bucolic, even inviting—a rocky, green arch, swathed in bulblet ferns, Virginia creepers, and sumacs meandering in lazy zigzags along the slope of the hill. In summer, a sumptuous veil of ironweed and lobelia spills over the lava-dark basalt, and cavers, from novice to expert, grind up the mudhole-pocked logging road in their four-wheel-drives, leave their rides in the turn-around, and trek inside like ants marching into the maw of a sleeping triceratops. Most of the time, they come back just fine. I’ve caved in the Brotterling a few times myself, but never before alone and always in thoroughly mapped parts of the cave system. And even though I’d heard all the stories, I was never afraid. Now I’m terrified. Just before sunrise, a little over seven hours ago, I crept through the woods alongside the dirt road and slipped inside the leafy green mouth of the cave. Only Boone knew what I wanted to do, and he didn’t approve it, of course—how could he, when he’s captain of Bluegrass Search and Rescue? In the heat of our argument about how to find and extract the four cavers who are currently missing, he called me “reckless and goddamn delusional” and accused me of thinking I was invulnerable because “you’ve got that synthetic thing going on.” I bit back a laugh that would’ve embarrassed us both and told him the word was synesthesia and mine is a rare form in which sounds are “heard” through the skin as vibrations. I explained to him again how my ability could help in a situation where noises inside the cave appeared to be causing a neurological event in the brains of those exposed to them. I said I would go into the cave wearing the in-ear waterproof headphones I use on occasion to get relief from life’s general babble, which can prove overwhelming for someone with my sound sensitivities. He just shook his head and looked at me like I was contesting the curve of the earth. But this morning, no one was posted at the cave entrance to stop me, so I took that as his tacit blessing. Or maybe he was so desperate to get Pree and the others back that losing me is an acceptable risk, albeit one he won’t sign off on. As any caver around here will tell you, even minus the uncanny noises, the Brotterling can kill you in any number of ways. One is by tricking you into thinking it’s not a damn dangerous cave. The first two hundred feet or so are deceptively easy: after you’ve slithered and squeaked past a row of huge boulders crowded together like a mouthful of grey, diseased teeth, the cave opens up like a belly. A bit farther on, you stroll down a broad, pebbly incline while the natural light gradually dims. The vertical slit of the opening shrinks to the size of a peach pit. Suddenly, you find yourself in a constricted, mausoleum-black oubliette. You switch on your headlamp and commence the descent, scuttling through barely shoulder-width tunnels, snaking up vertical cracks, traversing a series of amber-blue lakes, some of which you can ford without getting your knees wet, others deepening into treacherous sumps where you’ll drown if you don’t have a rebreather or a damn good set of lungs. Piece of cake was my grandiose appraisal the first time Pree Yazzie guided me through the Brotterling, but I was twenty then, brand-new to caving, recently graduated from the University of Louisville with an altogether useless BA in English lit, and just out of a closet I had not fully realized I even was in. I was also in love with her and thought it was mutual, a conclusion based on nothing more solid than a couple of nights of hot sex. I didn’t realize then that the only thing Pree ever lusted for was adventure, which she found in equal measure in caves, beds, and underground rivers. She came, she saw, etc. We’d met at a meeting of Search and Rescue, where Boone gave a presentation on abseiling techniques. I paid scant attention; Boone Pike was just another fortysomething, hardcore cave rat with a granite-gray ponytail, a smile like a crack in an anchor bolt, and big, spade-shaped hands that looked like they’d been crushed and pinned back together a time or two. I kept sneaking glances at Pree, the only other woman in a room full of men who, as the bumper stickers boast, “do it in tight places.’ A line that would make me chuckle right now, if I could expand my squeezed lungs enough to get a full breath of air. Tight places, indeed. During that day when Pree and I explored the Brotterling, she filled me in on the cave’s not-so-savory past—how every few decades, a caver fails to resurface or, worse, crawls back out physically whole but with a maimed mind and homicidal intent. Not quite what I wanted to hear a quarter mile under the earth, but I loved the sound of her voice when she explained the cave’s frightening history. The first incident was Dr. Reginald Moore, a caver and Presbyterian minister who spent four days lost in the Brotterling in 1935. Lacking modern caving equipment and (perhaps a greater hindrance) a suitably arachnid-like frame, he was thwarted by narrow tunnels and unswimmable sumps, but eventually found his way to the surface and described the “eerie and infernal yodeling” of demons who tormented him by chanting the Psalms backward in fiendish, fist-thumping cadences. Widely mocked by the press, Moore later hung himself after setting fire to his house with his wife, father-in-law, and two young sons tied up inside. Twenty-seven years later, Garth Tidwell, a teenager who entered the Brotterling on a dare, killed himself, his parents, and a neighbor hours after exiting the cave, writing in his suicide note about singing that sounded like “a wild hallelujah of wind chimes and fornicating bobcats.” The lurid description was dismissed as psychotic rambling, probably exacerbated by the terror of being alone and disoriented. If Tidwell had heard anything at all, it was explained away as wind hissing through passageways or water burbling up from an underground stream. But now we come to the Hargrave brothers—Mathew and Lionel—experienced cavers who entered the Brotterling this past Sunday. Lionel, an Iraqi War Vet whose hearing was lost to a roadside IED in Mosel, is totally deaf. A few hours after the two men entered the cave, he emerged alone, battered and bloody. He described how, half a mile below the surface, Mathew had signed to him that he could hear music “coming from distant and delicate singers” and insisted they search for the source of the sound. For a while, Lionel obliged him, but when the way proved too difficult, he suggested they turn back. In response, Mathew became enraged, bludgeoned his brother with a rock, and left him unconscious and bleeding. When Lionel finally found his way to the surface and summoned help, three senior members of Bluegrass Search and Rescue were dispatched—obsessive, spearmint-gum-chewing Bruce Starkeweather, extreme ectomorph Issa Mamoudi, and the ever elusive Pree Yazzie. Boone’s Dream Team. That’s when things started getting weird. At nine that night, Starkeweather contacted Boone via cave phone to report high-pitched humming or chanting. Boone told him to return to the surface. The final transmission, a few hours later, came from a distraught, incoherent Mamoudi—mangled syntax and a garble of English, French, and Farsi that degenerated into choking and wails. No one’s heard from any of them since. Which is how I come to be half a mile under the earth, worming my way through a twist in the moist, black, and aptly named Intestinal Bypass, a wretched, rib-crushing, claustrophobia-inducing belly crawl. Nearing the end, just a minute ago, I came to a plug in the tunnel about ten feet ahead. I can see the bottoms of dirt-packed, lug-soled boots, a damp, filthy oversuit, and, if I crane my neck almost out of joint, I can make out the white dome of a mud-splattered helmet. It’s not Pree, who’s waif-thin and wears size six boots, but one of the men, Hargrave, Mamoudi, or Starkeweather. I crawl closer, scraping along on my elbows and toes, but get no reaction to the light flaring out from my headlamp. My initial thought is that the caver’s become wedged in the last few feet of the Bypass, where the tunnel cinches like a cruelly corseted waist. The first time I came through here with Pree, I tore a rotator cuff trying to shove myself through the passage. Now, four years later and at least fifteen pounds thinner, it’s still a brutal squeeze. My second thought, after I grab a leg and begin shaking it, is that while he may or may not be stuck, this guy’s stone-cold dead. Which means if I can’t push him out, I’m fucked. Shit. Panic pinballs around my ribs. My lungs rasp, and all the air’s vanished. Forget whatever’s inside the cave. Forget Pree and the chance of finding survivors. I want out of here—NOW! Then a soothing, calm voice that I’ve trained for just such situations begins speaking inside my head: Breathe, Karyn. Just breathe. You’re okay. We’ll figure this out. It’s my own voice, the voice I’ve heard in other bad situations above and below ground, and I heed it. I must if I want to live. Gradually, I coax a full breath past the terror constricting my throat. I’m not going to die down here. Not yet, anyway. A numb resolve settles in: I can do this. Trying to eject a dead guy out the end of a tomb-black tunnel while you’re flat on your belly feels like a sadist’s idea of a stunt on some nightmarish survival TV show. I push until my biceps blaze, but it’s impossible to get any traction. I might as well be trying to strongarm Atlas’s Dick, a colossal stalagmite cavers use as a waypoint in one of the Brotterling’s upper chambers. I strain and curse and hyperventilate. Drink tears and cold, musky sweat. The white noise churning through the headphones under my helmet provides an incongruous soundtrack to my struggle: monster breakers shattering on a raw, rocky coastline of black sand and a harsh sun (at least, this is the image I get of it). The sound’s meant to protect me from the singing, but right now—pinched like a thumb in a pair of Chinese handcuffs—the buffering noise only intensifies the terror of being stuck in a limestone tube with a corpse. Desperate, I decide to wiggle back out and look for another way to go on, but the tunnel twists and contorts at excruciating angles. It’s impossible to slither out the way I came in. All I get for my efforts are bruised elbows, torn knees, and the mother of all wedgies. Panic claws at my throat. I’ll never get out. I’ll die here, squished inside a stone straightjacket. But the voice in my head bullies and curses me onward, so I crawl back to the body. Since I’m not strong enough to rely on brute force, I devise a slow, minimalist series of tweaks that gradually loosens this obstinate flesh-cork in its stone bottleneck: nudge, twist, rock side to side, nudge again. The poor son of a bitch must have died two to six hours ago, because rigor’s setting in, which helps me extract him. He’s plank-stiff and (I discover later) both arms are arrowed out in front of him like a cliff diver, the body so rigid by the time it finally pops free, he could double as a javelin or a maypole. I wriggle out, shaking and sweat-slick, and aim my lamp down at the dead man, groaning when it illuminates the back of Mamoudi’s seamed, bloodied neck and reveals the muddy helmet to be a porridge of gray matter and hair glommed around a split, trepanned skull. I picture Mamoudi frantically trying to birth himself out those last crushing inches of squeeze, the irony of a rockfall shattering his skull just as his head poked free. It’s a reasonable theory, except that I don’t see any fallen rocks or broken stalactites to back it up. Looking around, I find myself in a wide, high-domed chamber forested floor to ceiling with dripstone. Farther back, overlapping ledges of white limestone crease and crinkle like bolts of brocade. The scene is enchanting and eerie, a grand Gothic hall carved out of calcite and ornamented with aragonite blooms. At one end glimmers a deceptively shallow-looking pond where eyeless albino salamanders laze on its mineral shores. I know from the survey map this is a sump, the entrance to a flooded tunnel leading into the next chamber, but whether it’s swimmable without a rebreather, I won’t know until I’m underwater. Before I can ponder this or Mamoudi’s demise any further, something more compelling than mere violent death snags my attention: a rapid-fire spitting of sound energy, like a mad tattoo artist bedeviling my nervous system with rhythm rather than ink. The energy natters against my palms and wet-kisses the space between my breasts. I get a sense of its volume and pitch, the aural equivalent of a blind person reading Braille, and I’m lashed with fear and euphoria. Although I’ve come down here to find Pree and the others, I also want to locate the mysterious noise. Boone must have realized that too. It’s why he didn’t want me to go. Displaced air caused by something big lunging out of a passageway makes me whirl around. A frenzy of shadows spills over the chamber as my lamp illuminates a surreal sight: Bruce Starkeweather, his naked torso smeared with geometric designs painted in cave dirt and gore, brandishing three feet of a blood-streaked stalactite. His shell-shocked stare tells me all too clearly I’m nobody he’s ever seen in his life, and my death is all he desires. As the sound energy from the faraway singing swells over me, he raises his club and charges. “You should wear headphones to block out the sounds,” I’d told Boone and the others less than twenty-four hours earlier. We were in a small conference room in the Timber Hill Lodge outside Kremming. A map of the known parts of the cave system was tacked up on a board, the shaded areas indicating parts not yet surveyed. Mamoudi and Pree sat together, guzzling coffee and wolfing down bear claws, while Starkeweather, ascetic as ever, stripped foil off a stick of Wrigley’s. Boone, unshaven and haggard-looking, had just come from the hospital where Lionel Hargrave was recovering from a concussion. He told us Hargrave had described his brother’s manic insistence on finding the source of the singing. In his deafness, of course, Lionel heard nothing and, probably for that reason (and because he evidently had a thick cranium), had survived to talk about it. At my remark about the headphones, Pree laughed. Boone looked away, and Mamoudi got up to refill his and Pree’s coffee mugs. I couldn’t entirely blame them. I was technically there as backup, but since I’m also the newest member of the team and never found time to get my cave diving certificate, my inclusion in the expedition was unlikely. Pree, looking fetchingly peeved, said, “How do we communicate if we can’t hear? What are we supposed to do? Use sign language? Text?” Starkeweather mimed headbanging. “Maybe it’s a death metal band down there making people go batshit. That used to drive my old man insane.” Met with such thoughtful responses, what could I say? I wanted to point out that noise isn’t always benign, that whatever’s down there might be the aural equivalent of lobotomy picks jabbed into the brain via the ears. But it’s only a feeling I have, and this group, Pree especially, is not into feelings. Starkeweather asked a question about the survival kits, and while Boone was responding, I went outside and paced alongside a thin strip of forest next to the parking lot. After a short time, Pree came up beside me and tried to slide her arm beneath mine. I swatted her off like you would a pesky mosquito. Only a few hours earlier, she’d stopped by my apartment to try to rekindle some romance. We’d smoked a joint, laughed about old times. Then she took everything off except Mamoudi’s engagement ring and made love to me like I was the last woman on earth. And I let her. Figured I’d hate myself for it later. Seemed like later had come sooner than I expected. “Seriously, Karyn,” she was saying, “if anything goes wrong down there, if there’s a problem, Issa and Bruce and I will deal with it. We know the Brotterling, and we know what we’re doing. So, don’t try anything heroic.” She should’ve stopped there, but she added, “I know it must be tempting, you with your superpowers and all.” I glared and walked faster. “Okay, sorry. It’s just that hearing sounds through your skin, that’s pretty bizarre.” That’s one word for it. It’s also a gift, this intertwining of hearing and touch, where sounds can be physically felt as everything from a shy tap to a punishing blow. It’s a door into something most people never experience. Pree’s voice, for example, feels lemony, tart. It fizzes under my nails and buzzes up my spine like spikes of Kundalini flame. Intimacy enhances the effect. Pree’s voice used to give me not just sensations but images, too: a fire crackling in the kiva of a house that must be from her childhood in Gallup, New Mexico, a young Pree popping figs into her mouth outside an adobe church, and a pale, bearded man who cooed to her while he lay over her body and pounded. My skin drank her life in through her voice. None of this, of course, I could tell her. “Bizarre’s not the word I’d have chosen,” I said. “But when you put it that way, I feel so special.” “You are special, though, aren’t you? You got written up in that magazine.” She was talking about a story that ran in Scientific American (June 2008), in which I was tested along with a number of other more “traditional” synesthetes. Some heard colors; others tasted or smelled numbers and words. An anomaly even among anomalies, I was the only one who could pick up tactile sensations and images via sound waves, even when I didn’t understand the language. “Aural imagism,” the writer of the article called it. I sat with my eyes closed and listened to a woman recite the same passage in a foreign language over and over. Later, I learned it was Finnish. Her vocal tones prickled the soles of my feet; it felt like dancing on tiny ball bearings. The vibrations of her voice formed images like patterns in a turned kaleidoscope. I described a dark red cup, a yellow rose, a strange bird on the wing. The man doing the testing glanced at his notes and paled. The speaker had read a quatrain from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, and I’d just described the primary imagery. Pree laid a hand on my biceps, but I flinched, holding on to my indignation like it was a winning lottery ticket. I said sullenly, “Boone’s screwing up not to send me down with you. I’d be able to feel the singing before the rest of you even heard it.” She sighed and fell into step with me. “Look, Karyn, you’ve been inside plenty of caves. You know what the silence is like down there. Gigantic. A void you don’t want to fall into. Then all of a sudden, you hear something so spooky and so unexpected, you just about crap in your pants. If you heard it topside, you’d know it was nothing, maybe the caver in front of you farted or dropped a carabiner, but underground, it’s terrifying. Most cavers shrug that stuff off, but some people can’t. They have panic attacks; they hallucinate. For all we know, what Hargrave heard was a colony of bats or maybe a few million cave cockroaches.” When I didn’t answer, she snapped, “Dammit, Karyn, are you even listening?” (More intently than you can imagine.) “Maybe Hargrave went crazy because the singing he heard was too beautiful,” I said. “What are you talking about?” “There’s a line in the Duino Elegies by the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke. It’s something to the effect that beauty is the beginning of terror we can just still stand. Maybe that’s the deal with the singing. It triggers a level of terror humans aren’t meant to endure. It’s too beautiful.” Her mouth set in a pinched line. I thought she was going to slap me. “Nothing’s too beautiful. That isn’t possible.” Then before I could argue, she gave me a punch on the arm that was too hard to be play. “Don’t worry, Karyn; it’s gonna be fine.” She looked back toward the motel as though somebody there had just called her name, although nobody had. She said, “See you on the surface, babe,” and hurried away. Right now, as the sound energy of the singing floods into me and Starkeweather charges, that surface Pree spoke of might as well be on one of Jupiter’s moons. Starkeweather halts just short of the sump. He spits out a lump of gum, bares his teeth in a cannibal grin, and takes a few warm-up swings with the club. I think he’s going to pound me to mud, but to any real caver, what he does next is unimaginably worse: he starts attacking the cave itself, swinging viciously, destroying elaborate lacework and yards of dripstone that have grown at a rate of a half inch per century. Clusters of wedge-shaped helictites explode overhead; stalagmites as tall as a man shatter and crash into the sump. The destruction sickens and horrifies me. Within seconds, something sublime and ethereal has been reduced to an empty mouth full of snaggled teeth. Starkeweather, surveying the rubble, cocks his head and does a bizarre little jig, like he’s shaking off a swarm of cave spiders. He shimmies and scrapes at his face while his lips form the words Shut up! Make it stop! When his eyes refocus, his red gaze finds me again. I switch off my headlamp, and the world floods away in a torrent of black. I drop to the ground and start inching along the cave floor. The headphones are a real hindrance now; they prevent me from hearing which way Starkeweather’s moving. The only sound I can feel is the singing, and that has receded to a shivery caress, a centipede skittering over my eyelashes, a salamander disturbing the roots of my hair. A hail of stones peppers my back and pings off my helmet. Suddenly, Starkeweather’s big hands paw at my legs. I kick out blindly. My boot thuds meaty groin. Then he’s on top of me, spearmint breath hot in my face, mud-slick fingers fumbling for my jugular. A blacker, thicker shade of night starts shutting down synapses, accompanied by a dazzle of sizzling white stars expiring behind my retinas. Under my hand I clutch a slab of smashed dripstone and heave it in the general direction of his head. He releases my throat but then latches on to either side of my mouth and tries to unsocket my jaw. I bite down on a finger until my teeth close on a nugget of bone, then roll away as blood fills my mouth. Next thing I know, I’m underwater. The sump’s frigid and inky, and— Starkeweather be damned—I switch my headlamp back on. I’m inside a flooded tunnel where so much silt has been stirred up, it’s like swimming through horse piss. I look for an air pocket overhead but can make out only jutting mineral walls and the segmented bodies of albino worms ghosting behind swirls of particled water. My lungs bleed for air. The sump narrows into a long, jagged throat, where beyond, water splashes over a pale, fluted ledge. Between me and the air glitters a gauntlet of stone cudgels and knives. My cave pack rips off and my oversuit’s torn. Dark red snakes squiggling too close alarm me until I realize I’m batting away my own blood. My head punches the surface, and I heave myself onto a milk-white dome of flowstone, then collapse across it, teeth wildly clattering. Eventually, I rally enough to fill my hands with rocks and wait to see if Starkeweather follows me. A short time later, he pops to the surface floating facedown. I let him stay like that for five minutes before I grab his belt and haul him up next to me. His neck and cheeks are grotesquely ballooned. When I turn him over, jagged pebbles and mineral chips mixed with shattered enamel gush out of his mouth in a torrent of red. I want to think Starkeweather was already dangerously unstable and would have acted out sooner or later, but I don’t really believe it. I know the singing has unhinged him to the point of attacking the cave with his teeth—the same sounds Mamoudi and Hargrave must have heard, and that Pree, if she’s still alive, is hearing right now. It feels stronger and a helluva lot closer than it did before I passed through the sump. Those previously faint waves of energy are now sharp and urgent, a persistent scratching at various parts of my body, like a frantic child seeking entry to a house at one door and one window after another. But the images accompanying the sensations aren’t so innocuous: a debased horde of humanity crammed into a stadium of bleeding, cruelly crushed bodies, on their knees weeping and howling. Heads thrown back, ready for the knife, keening mad invocations to an obscene deity. Their blood soaks the earth, out of which bloom stone flowers brimming with nectar and death. The vision claws at my heart and I hear my own voice telling me to get moving, to find Hargrave and Pree and get out. It’s hard to obey. I go on. The next chamber confounds me: a sprawling catacomb dripping with soda-straw stalactites and mounded with nodular masses of calcite popcorn. Crystals of moonmilk, a carbonate material the texture of cream cheese, festoon the floor. None of it corresponds to any maps I’ve seen. Even worse are the braided mazes of lava tubes offering a bewildering array of possible paths deeper into the cave’s interior. But the cave, in its infernal sentience, appears to respond. The energy of the singing amplifies, the frequencies becoming imperative, like the head of a silky mallet pinging a flesh xylophone. Letting it guide me, I scramble up a succession of ledges to access a passageway midway up the wall. Its coiled path empties into an angular chamber that resembles a vandalized ossuary: stone pillars surrounding a scattering of femurs, ribs, clavicles, and fragments of skull. That the bones have lain here since long before cavers first discovered the Brotterling is made clear by the centuries-old webs of calcite deposits that veil them. I pick my way through the boneyard as quickly as possible. Beyond it, my headlamp illuminates the area from where the sound energy seems to emanate—a lavish display of boxwork about four feet overhead, where calcite blades project at angles from the cave walls, creating a dense and elaborate honeycomb. Between the mineral blades gleam dark seams, fistulas of ebony pulsing like fat heaps of caviar that vibrate with an avid, luminescent life. Fine, blood-red webbing threads through the black, a network of alien capillaries that carries not blood but warm, coppery sound—it seeps under my scalp and teases behind my ears, seeking to peel back and penetrate the soft, vulnerable creases of brain. If I get out of here alive, I know what I’ll tell Boone: the singing’s not random or chaotic; it has distinct meters and color tones, and it pulses with dark languor underlaid with vicious intent. I will tell him the creators of this song are not human, but not unsentient, either. And if the term life-form applies to them at all, it’s a life in service only to the obliteration of all others. Long stretches of spellbound time pass as I stand here, watching the tiny caviar mouths pulse and burble out a black saliva of sound that feels ripe and almost sexually decadent. Avid and succulent and, yes—Mathew Hargrave nailed it—delicate, too. I want to slather my hands in the mineral meat between those basalt blades, squeeze up fistfuls of its alien iridescence and lather it into my pores, let it replace all the blood in my body with its unholy wails. I take off my helmet and hurl it away. Then I reach up to remove the headphones. And stop. Above me, imbedded into the hivework, loom strange columns worked into the stone, skeletal formations lifting toward the obsidian sky. Sections are patterned with ovoids and creases of lighter stone, the pale areas inlaid with vertical striations of crimson. The sight wallops the breath from my chest. One of the columns is watching me. Basalt doesn’t bleed, but burst eyeballs and lacerated skin weep red down the sides of the dripstone cloaking two human forms in their mineral shrouds. Mathew Hargrave has been almost entirely consumed. Crusts of muscle and gashed bone jut out from his stone sarcophagus. Only his upper chest, the arms tucked into his torso like folded wings, and his slack, swollen face are still recognizably human. His remains are being played like a bone flute as torturesong rasps from his mouth. But Pree, oh Pree, is another matter. Her time inside the Brotterling has been briefer than Hargrave’s; less of her has been entombed. Rigid and ashen-faced, she balances on a narrow outcrop a few feet above, tarry squiggles of hair falling over the rags of her clothing. Her mouth convulses in torment. Skeins of sound tangle in her teeth and snake from her lips. Tendrils of it adhere to her face. The frequency of the vibrations chugs to the lowest registers, rich and mellow, bassoon-like, the notes unspooling in hypnotic spirals, so that each births the next lower note on the scale, and all the while, Pree’s terrified eyes tell me the truth: it’s a death song and she can’t help but sing it. Black rings frame the edge of my vision as Pree’s silent screams flail me. Her body spasms. A rent opens under her breast as the slender spear she’s impaled on exits her chest in a gleaming red fist. Behind two snapped ribs, I glimpse a gray, pulpy thing beating feebly. The ledge is slick and cushiony, weirdly flesh-like, when I climb up, wrap my arms around her, and try to lift her free from the stone. Crimson bubbles erupt from her mouth. She tries to form words. I put my face close to hers as she exhales. Her death-rattle breath goes into me like an intubation tube, rancid and chokingly floral. There are no last words, no blessing, just a sob that’s a truncated ode to damnation as she bleeds and convulses in front of me. And I leave her. God help me, I abandon her there and begin the torturous trek to the surface, a wet, nasty, soul-crushing ordeal, while with every step, I expect the cave to crush or consume me. Most of the way, when I’m not using my hands to climb or to crawl, I clutch at the headphones, terrified they’ll fall off and the singing will overpower and annihilate me. Yet despite hours of exhaustion and terror, somehow I prevail. The passages, in fact, seem to widen as I pass through, the skin-you-alive cold of the sump is less heart-stoppingly frigid, the waypoints more easily spotted. Even the terrifying Bypass, outside of which Mamoudi’s body still sprawls, feels smooth as a tube and excretes me effortlessly. When I finally reach the surface, blinking and bedazzled by the afternoon light, a small army of cavers, media, and National Guard are assembled, as another team of cavers prepares to go down. Boone’s there among them. Seeing me alive, his eyes well, as do mine. I tear off the headphones and sweet sound rushes in, the wind whistling, a truck backfiring, the crowd erupting into ecstatic cheers to see someone come out alive. Then they get a good look at me and my appearance—soaked, shivering, smeared with cave dirt and blood—shocks them silent. As one, they reel back. Finally the braver ones gather their wits and being firing off questions. What happened? What’s down there? Is anyone else still alive? But these are not words the way I remember them. What I hear is a saw-toothed cacophony, an unwholesome chorale—discordant, repellant, impure. I want to rush back inside the cave to get away from their cawing, but I remember that first, I have something important to do. I must warn them of the terrible danger, so I focus my mind and conjure the sounds I will need. When I know what I must say, I run toward Boone, who is already beckoning me. I scream, Get back! Get away from the cave! Everyone inside is dead! But that’s not what comes out. An excruciating hitch unlocks in my chest as an arcane melody, a kind of cryptic trilling, slithers free and soars to the winds—the feral and wondrous, delicate song birthed from the mouths of monsters, from Pree’s mouth into mine—into theirs. Madness made tangible. Contagion by sound. It spews from my lips—a song of such deadly beauty and unholy allure that I experience only the briefest frisson of horror—an emotion something inside me instantly quells—when their mouths fall open, songstruck, enthralled, and they begin to rend their own flesh and tear each other apart. I understand this is how it must be. I go on, unfazed by the carnage, undeterred by the din. For I am the throat of the Delicate Singers. In the cities, the towns, in the streets, and beyond, I know others are waiting to hear me.

From Horror photos & videos July 03, 2018 at 08:00PM

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