#horses and bayonets

[taiwantalk]

We have a perfect video to match this article.

i decided to add this one also because it's important to hear what romney had to say about navy ships.

THANK GOD OBAMA WAS ELECTED AND THEN BIDEN. obama could not be more prophetic than that. sadly with gop and trump, all they wanted to do was to build "WALLS" appropriated very important funding from the military to the WALL.

trump abused his power to achieve that, it's legal, but that's your american style of corruption.

and stupid people who are crazy about patriotism want to elect him despite of everything that trump had done to harm america.

be warned, democracy everywhere. america can take a trump blunder, but do not try it yourself. it takes only 1 such asshole to send democracy to toilet and you may never come out of it.

[cheapcheapfaker]

Napoleon was a delicious delight if you like historical dramas btw. perfect balance of gory war scenes with josephine’s INSANE pussy game. cannons. gratuitous horse explosions. drag Marie Antoinette giving the grim reaper a blowie. sumptuous costuming. just enough historical inaccuracies at one point i thought ‘that little jowled man is going to do it. he’s going to take petersburg.’ they made the cossacks just overly scary enough that an undergrad film studies major could write an essay citing that and the way russia was portrayed in 80s Cold War era movies and tie it all in with the current war in Ukraine. Mwah. Perfect date night movie.

[dustedmagazine]

Being Dead — When Horses Would Run (Bayonet)

Photo by Niamh Fleming

Being Dead’s magpie run through the byways of eccentric American music with antic glee on this debut album. The trio of Falcon Bitch, Gumball and Ricky Moto don’t take themselves too seriously (as you might gather from their noms de plume). Still they match musical eclecticism with dark, grave lyrics to keep When Horses Would Run from cloying. Surf rock, jazzy interludes, melancholy country, space age steam punk, serious riffage, doo wop and handclaps collide, often within songs, as Being Dead swap vocal and instrumental duties to produce an album you can’t help but get absorbed in.

“The Great American Picnic” rides in on a rumbling beat and twanging guitar riff, the multitracked vocals recalling the halcyon innocence of early 1960s surf music fed through the B52s’ sincerity and knowingness. Being Dead explores this dissonance throughout the record. “Muriel’s Big Day Off” relates a search for friendship and fun, with a side of harmless pilfering, adding a jazzy piano interlude to its re-imaging of “Sweet Jane.” “Daydream” is a folky rush that recalls The Decembrists and it’s hard to resist the ramshackle theme song “We Are Being Dead”. Elsewhere things are a little darker. “Last Living Buffalo” decries slaughter for fashion, “Holy Team” combines beatific vocal harmonies with visions of self-sacrifice. “Misery Lane” reimagines “Lonesome Town” as a suburban nightmare, all slow burn bottom end Lynchian drama. “Livin Easy” is an operatic cowboy ballad replete with swelling synth and orchestration which deals with unforgiving God “My wrath has an attitude/Lashes out when forges feud/Some condemn me for my ways/But I know it’s just a phase.” It plays serious, but you sense the wink and nudge. 

Despite their darkest moments and constant shifts in tempo, tone and style Being Dead sound totally in control. The kitchen sink maybe threatened with an unmooring but Where Horses Would Run is greater than its many parts, held together by sheer joy of music making and the commitment of the trio to give free rein to their instincts. 

Andrew Forell

[darkbluekies]

King Edmund and Hedwig drabbles: running away but changing your mind and getting lost

Yandere!king & female!yandere x reader (female in Edmund’s case and gn in hedwigs)

I had a request similar to this like a year ago, but i deleted it because I couldn't come up with anything ... and now I have so ... that's annoying.

And this is probably the nicest Edmund has ever been. Weird.

BUT HEY I LOVE THE RELATIVES

Warnings: weapons, but actually pretty fluffy

King Edmund:

You had taken a horse and gone away into the forest. But here you are, sitting by a tree with the horse tied to a branch, hugging yourself and crying. What had you done? You finally realize how stupid you are. Why did you leave him? Why?

You're cold and lonely. Thieves are roaming the forest and you know that they would be delighted to find the queen all by herself. But you don't know the way home, and if you get up on your horse you risk going even further away. Staying in one place will be the best decision if you want to be found ... hopefully by the right people.

Suddenly, after what feels like (and probably have been) hours, you notice a sound.

"Y/N, your game is up."

Edmund!

You stand up and turn around, seeing him and his knights around you, their horses looking at you dumbly. The knights hold out their bayonets, but you don't care. You run over to Edmund, throwing yourself in his arms and crying ― crying in sorryness, in relief over being found by the right people, crying in fear and shame. Edmund's taken by surprise at first. He had been fully prepared to threaten you to get you to come back. Edmund's arms lock around you, securing your head into his shoulder.

"Lower your fucking weapons!" he tells the knights angrily. "Are you insane pointing them at us like that?!"

He turns to you, but before he has the chance to ask you how you're feeling of why you were so stupid to escape from him, you've already started rambling.

"I'm sorry, Edmund!" you sob. "I'm so sorry! I don't know why I did that! I regretted it immediatly, I promise! I wanted to go back but I-I lost my way and-" You can't finish your sentence, your breathe hitching with sobs.

"Shh, it's okay", he cooes, kissing your forehead. "You're back where you belong now, you're safe."

"I wanted to go back, I promise ... but I didn't know which way was the right one. I'm so sorry!"

You cry against his shoulder, hugging him tightly. Weirdly enough, you have never been happier to see someone that has hurt you. Edmund's your husband, you have accepted that. You hadn't realized that you had started to like him before now.

"It's okay, my dear", Edmund reassures you in a sweet, hushed tone and rests his head on top of yours, enjoying having you in his arms again. He rocks you back and forth gently, as if to coo you. "There's no need to cry, I'm here now. You will never have to worry when I'm here. You know that I will take care of everything."

His words are so comforting, so belieavable. You nod against his shoulder.

"Let's go home", he says. "You're cold."

He lifts you up on his white horse before cimbing up himself in front of you. You wrap your arms around his waist and hide your face into his warm back, crying even more. Why isn't he mad at you? You betrayed him. Edmund can't bring himself to be mad. You're genuinly sorry, he can't be mad at you for making a mistake ... a ridicolously stupid mistake, perhaps, but a mistake nonetheless. He needs to comfort you, not punish you.

"Make sure Y/N's horse comes with us", he says before riding off with you behind him.

Hedwig:

If you desperately had to fight with Hedwig about how controlling she is and storm off ... why did it have to be in a foreign country? You want to punch yourself for your idioticy. She's suffocating, yes, but you do love her ... somehow you still love her. And you want nothing more than to go back to her and have her hold you. How will you find her when you can't ask for directions back to her vacation house and can't trace your steps back. Why do European countries have to have such narrow, maze-like alleyways?!

You've found yourself on a bench in front of a cafe in the staking sun. You'll have to get up and look for the right way later, but your feet are probably bleeding.

"Y/N?!" you hear Hedwig's voice suddenly shriek. "Oh, my Gosh, Y/N!"

She runs over to the bench and you hurry to wrap your arms around her waist, hiding your face into her stomach. You can't help but sniffle in relief and sorry ... remembering how you left the house.

"I've been looking all over for you!" Hedwig pants. "I was so worried!"

"I'm sorry, Hedwig", you cry into her stomach. "For everything. I-"

She hugs your head closer and kisses the top of your head. "It's okay, I have forgiven you! "

She sits down on the bench next to you and cup your head into her hands. You sob.

"I'm just so happy to see you alive", she says in relief and brushed your sweaty hair out of your face. "But, dear, you're dehydrated! You'll pass out!"

She takes out a bottle of water from her handbag and feeds you half of it, before water starts to run down your chin.

"Why haven't you been drinking water?" she asks worriedly. "You could have passed out and who knows how dangerous that could have been?!"

"i didn't have any money", you say quietly. "I'm so sorry, I tried to find my way back, because I regret that I left ... but I couldn't ask for directions. I can't speak the language and I didn't have my phone and-"

"It's okay. I forgive you. But please don't do it again. It's dangerous. And I was so worried. My father was close to calling the cops and having them look for you."

"I'm sorry, Hedwig."

She hugs you, letting you rest your heavy head on her shoulder.

"It's okay", she reassures you. "I'm not mad at you. You know that I only want your best, right?"

You nod.

"You need to cool down", she says and stands up, holding out her hand to you. "Let's go get you some ice cream."

"My feet hurt really bad", you mumble.

"I will buy you new shoes too, and bandage and everything you need. Will you come with me? Please?"

You sigh and take her hand. Hedwig is the most confusing person you know, because how can she be so horrible, yet so magical?

[unboundprompts]

The Oh Hellos Prompts

➣ writing prompts from The Oh Hellos songs. feel free to edit as you see fit.

"The terrible fire of old regret is honey on my tongue." - Bitter Water

"There is beauty in the way of things." - There Beneath

"I am not the fool I was when I was younger." - Exeunt

"I am not afraid to die." - This Will End

"They were quick to recognize the devil in me." - Second Child, Restless Child

"I can't shake this feeling that I was only pushing the spear into your side again." - Passerine

"We have lived in fear, and our fear has betrayed us." - I Have Made Mistakes

"I want to be more than this devil inside of me." - Dear Wormwood

"I know I shouldn't love you." Bitter Water

"Leave the ruins where they fall." - Grow

"You can't take any gold or rings further than the grave." - Eurus

"I can see how this will end in all its bitter tragedy." - This Will End

"You'll bury me beneath the tree I climbed when I was a child." - Bitter Water

"The heavens can be both sacred and dust." - Hieroglyphs

"I cannot trust what you say when you're grieving." - Exeunt

"When I saw my reflection it was a stranger beneath my face." - The Lament of Eustace Scrubb

"Suffering is all there is to gain in life." - This Will End

"The sight held me fixed like a bayonet against my throat." - Pale White Horse

"We were born in the shadow of the crimes of our fathers." - The Valley

"My palms and fingers still reek of gasoline from throwing fuel to the fire." - Passerine

"You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen." - Like the Dawn

"I know that wicked shape to your smile." - Where Is Your Rider

"You have always been there in my mind." - Dear Wormwood

"I am coming home to you." - Thus Always To Tyrants

"I wanna give it all I've got, and I want nothing back." - Theseus

"I want to spin something out of nothing." - Zephyrus

"Blood was our inheritance." - The Valley

"I think that you're worth keeping around." - Soap

"I've got holes in my pockets burned by liar's gold." - In Memoriam

"You were the light that the fire would bring." - Passerine

"All the memories come flooding fast." - Grow

"Like the wind it slips again out of my fingers." - Eurus

"You've been too busy thinking ahead of where we're all going after we're dead to maybe consider our bodies are worth more than the dust that we can return to the ground again." - Hieroglyphs

"You were the song that I'd always sing." - Passerine

"We were born in the valley of the dead and the wicked." - The Valley

"Like the dawn you broke the dark and my whole earth shook." - Like the Dawn

"Death, she is cunning and clever as hell." - Eat You Alive

"They saw trouble in my eyes." - Second Child, Restless Child

"I stole from my father all I thought I could sell." - Wishing Well

"When I saw my demons I knew them well and welcomed them." - The Lament of Eustace Scrubb

"I was torn between my god and my Father." - I Was Wrong

"The rain will strengthen your soul." - I Have Made Mistakes

"If there's two things I know, it's that the sky looked white and then the water like wine when I first met you." - Lapis Lazuli

[froody]

Whenever you see me arguing with a British person online I want you to know that I am 100% without a doubt dressed like a Revolutionary War soldier about to engage in guerrilla tacts. You must picture me hiding behind a tree, wearing a raccoon skin hat with a bayonetted musket slung over my shoulder furiously typing into my phone through the haze of cannon fire and the stomping of frightened horses.

[redd956]

1700s-1800s Military Whump Prompt List

Getting stabbed by a bayonet

Medic bunching up tons of bandages/gauze against a heavily bleeding wound, ignoring the sounds of whumpee's agony

Whumpee falling off of their horse (and getting caught on the saddle, only to be dragged)

Getting shot but like musket style

Rickety vintage guns going off accidentally, and blowing a brand new hole in whumpee

Whumpee was so heavily focused on the dangers of guns that they completely forgot about the dangers of getting stabbed

Caretaker dipping a cloth in a bucket of water, in order to dab it against whumpee's overheating forehead, both ignoring the sound of battle in the distance

Caretaker having to hurry on a long traveling mission in order to get something that could hopefully save whumpee's life, only to be interrupted by the enemy

Getting whipped after being captured by the enemy

Stitches with no painkillers

Shellshock from canon fire

Whumpee managed to survive getting a non-fatal cut from a sword, but they failed to anticipate the poison that the blade was laced in

Caretaker having to haul whumpee over a horse to lead them back to safety

Deserter stowaways on a ship that gets lost at sea

Getting shot with a bullet that's been purposefully infected with diseases

Getting caught in dangerous wintery conditions. It all seemed possible to overcome, until the horses died

Ally and Enemy putting their differences aside to deal with a much more wealthier, trained, and populous third party

Whumpee fought tooth and nail for their win, only for a third party to come around and "mediate" the situation themselves

Having to get an amputation for much more minor injuries then what we would count for today

Having no clue where the hell you're heading, and what it's going to be like there

Gun blowing up in whumpee's face

Kicked by steel toed boots

Getting an arrow stuck in the shoulder

Having to dig a bullet out of a wound with nothing but a dagger on hand

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 8

Read on AO3. Part 7 here. Part 9 here.

Summary: You were thoroughly unaware of William Tavington's affinity for nature.

Words: 5000

Warnings: Some blood

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Cowritten with @bastillia <3

HELLOOOO, welcome back to chapter 8 - back in the vicinity of our wonderful bastard and enjoying alone time with him <3

If you've not seen the extended version of The Patriot, you may be unaware of a few cut scenes of Tavington that expand a bit on this portion of his character - allow me to enlighten YOU to my favorite (for multiple reasons) -

Heart of a Villain

Regardless, we are so so grateful to your thoughts, input, engagement as always. It means so much to hear people's thoughts and reactions to what we write! Genuinely what any fanfic author strives for. We love you! <3

“Be still.”

Over the past two weeks in the field, you’d become extensively familiar with Benedict Goddard’s tendency to sit for treatment like a wiry cat. Today—as he arrived to the medic tent with a contusion to his forehead—was no different.

“Oh, please, please be careful with him!” Lottie called from beyond the canvas. “He’s tender, you know, he got such a knock on the head, please make sure—”

“Lottie,” you replied. “He’s in good hands, all right?”

“That’s right,” Goddard added, eyeing you with caution despite his attempt at reassurance. “Don’t fuss, sister.”

Normally, Lottie would have preferred to treat her own brother. But the excess of blood that had spilled from his brow, paired with the general excess of men currently occupying your tent sporting bayonet wounds, had turned her too green to volunteer.

“Funny for you to tell her not to fuss when you insist on squirming,” you mumbled.

He huffed, easing away from you. “You’re being rough, that’s why I’m squirming.”

First, of course, he’d have to cooperate.

“I'm not rough.” You chased his forehead with a cloth, dabbing hard at the split above his brow. “You’re sensitive.”

“Ah! Is that what you say to every soldier?” He winced. “That hurts! I’m an officer, you can’t just—”

“And I’m a nurse.” You frowned. “And officer you may be, but you’re not the only man in this tent needing treatment.”

As if on cue, another soldier groaned out in pain behind you. You craned around to see that one had removed the lint packing from his gunshot wound, which now spurted a crimson river down his leg.

“I told you to keep pressure on that, Evans,” you snapped, pointing, “or are you keen to lose the damned leg?”

You turned back to Goddard, swooping back in on him with the cloth. He yelped.

“Next time,” you said, finally revealing a bit of the wound’s edge through the blood, “perhaps you’ll think twice before engaging in a jousting match with a tree.”

“It wasn't a tree. Ow! It was a rebel. Bastard dragged me off my horse.”

You snorted. “Perhaps practice better riding, then.”

“No wonder everyone says you're so mean,” he grumbled.

“Mean?” You gawked. “What do you mean, ‘mean’?”

“You're just—ah—well, you're not exactly gentle, are you?”

You rolled your eyes. “I don't hear any complaints about wounds healing poorly.”

Goddard simply grumbled something about plenty of other complaints, and conceded to your efforts to make him hold the cloth in place himself while you considered the table of instruments beside you. There was still plenty of lint for staunching the bleeding, but…

Frowning, you glimpsed the wound over his eye. It was already bleeding through the cloth. The chances of a blood malady were higher than you'd like—and should that occur, the potential for him to lose his eye would multiply like rodents in spring. If he were Grace and you were a stranger, you'd want the stranger to do anything they could to prevent that.

The bottle of whiskey sang to you from the edge of the table. You picked it up.

“What are you playing at?” Goddard whimpered, beginning to recoil again. “You can’t very well amputate my head, so I can’t see any reason—”

“Stop being so theatrical,” you said, tipping some whiskey onto a fresh linen. “I’d be finished already if you weren’t making such a fuss.” You turned back to him, soaked cloth poised, and motioned for him to remove the soiled one from his head.

He clutched it in place protectively. “You’re mad.”

“Trust me.”

“No!”

You scoffed, patience rubbing thinner than an old billet. Your voice rose. “Ensign Goddard, remove the cloth.”

He ducked as you reached to snatch it from his brow, leaning away from your advance. You pursued.

“I’ll not let you mangle me with your—your speculative medicines!” He planted a hand on your hip to keep you at arm’s length. Redirecting, you reached to cup his cheek and forced his face back around to yours.

“I’ll mangle you with something else lest you—“

The tent flap flew open, letting in a gust of summer air.

“What’s this racket?”

Goddard stiffened. “Colonel, sir.”

You stalled. Without releasing Goddard, you turned to see Colonel Tavington standing in the middle of the tent, hands at rest behind his back, eyes glittering with irritation. His focus snapped to Goddard’s hand on your waist, then to your own hand on his cheek, the curl of your fingers along his jaw. Then he found your gaze. Swallowing, you threw Goddard off and straightened.

“Colonel,” you began, “I’m simply following what I know to be the best procedure for this particular type—”

“No, sir, she’s not!” Goddard said. “What she’s doing is madness—”

“—of wound, I’m preventing a blood malady—”

“—and doesn’t follow any standard of care—”

“—so his target-sized forehead heals properly!”

“—so if you could please just bring in my sister!”

Tavington stood, now staring straight between the both of you, like the tent wall would explain why the two worst people he’d ever met were both shouting him down. A slow breath left him, and he looked to Goddard.

“You’re correct, Ensign,” he said. “What she’s doing is madness.”

Your jaw dropped. You were going to kill him.

Goddard moved to scramble away. “Thank you, s—!”

“However.” Tavington paused, waiting for Goddard to settle back to where he’d been. “You shall allow her to do it.”

Or, perhaps, you wouldn’t.

He balked. “Wh… Colonel, she’s attempting to put alcohol on my—!”

“I am aware.” He turned to exit the tent.

“With respect, sir, if you’re so keen on her methods, why don’t you allow her to treat your wound?” Goddard said. “I saw you become well-acquainted with a bayonet.”

Tavington paused. “It’s nothing,” he replied. “You have your orders, Ensign.” He met your eyes briefly, his jaw tight. Then he disappeared behind the flap.

Chin raised toward the sky, you turned to Goddard, smiling. “Your orders, Ensign.”

Goddard glared at you, releasing the cloth from his forehead. “Just. Finish up.”

“As you wish.” Feeling a bit merciless in your vindication, you slapped the whiskey-drenched rag to his wound.

He screamed.

The rest of the afternoon passed as a red blur, pierced with the silver flash of a suture needle. By the time evening bruised the sky, you’d managed to make neat work of each man’s wounds, and your pulse had migrated to the raw, aching pads of your fingertips.

It was remarkable, based on the carnage, that no man had been killed outright in the morning’s fray. Even more remarkable perhaps that none had bled out in your tent. Part of that could be attributed to your sheer determination to keep the casualty count at zero. If nothing else, simply to prove that you could.

All that was left now was to wait for your handiwork to pay off in perfect healing. You knew that it would. But that didn’t stop the claws of fatigue that raked you from scalp to toes as you sank down beside the cooking pot and glanced across at the group of women seated in a circle, their backs like a fortress wall to you.

The handful of wives that Tavington had permitted to follow camp were sitting down to supper, several of them patting and cooing at a very pale Lottie who stared into her bowl as if it were one hundred yards deep. To her credit, she had tried to help—while fighting through fainting spells to do so—but she’d tried.

You sighed, poured yourself a bowl of stew and, after ensuring the cooking pot was empty, commandeered it. You’d finish your meal later. Since you’d forced the last of your alder bark decoction down a soldier’s throat earlier in the day, you needed to start on another batch. First you needed to gather water and start a boil, so you hauled it down to the river.

The interaction you’d had with Tavington today had been the most meaningful you’d had since your decision to join his legion. In fact, you couldn’t think of a single word you’d exchanged with him after he’d left the hospital. It made his behavior today all the more strange. It was clear he trusted you—even valued your skill with his men—but all he seemed capable of doing to communicate that fact was to stare at you.

You waddled back to camp once your pot was full from the river, water sloshing over the lip. It was frustrating enough to meet Tavington’s eyes over and over again, a bid toward connection that he reflexively denied, but even more so to do it in a daily crowd of strangers. The longer it had gone on, the stronger the impulse became to know exactly what possessed his thoughts.

You hated that.

Sighing, you hung the pot over the fire, became its sentry as it waited to boil.

Is this all a man had to do in order to arouse your interest—your desire? Thrust his hard cock against your thigh and then refuse to willingly speak to you ever again?

If only the boys at church had known.

You sorted through your pockets. There were still a few ingredients you wanted to gather before the day was out, but it could wait.

Reluctantly, you admitted that your draw to him went beyond physical hunger. William Tavington was perhaps the only man who to you seemed unreadable; the only man to incite your curiosity. He was certainly the only man besides your father who had ever acknowledged your capabilities, and he’d only needed to meet you a single time. Since then, he’d never underestimated you again.

It infuriated you.

Tiny bubbles gathered in the belly of the pot.

It electrified you.

Grumbling to yourself, you measured out what you needed from your supplies. You supposed it wasn’t important what you thought of William Tavington, or what he thought of you. What simmered between you would never be given heat. You were on two opposing sides of a war, each with a life’s investment in the other’s annihilation. Even if he were a different man—the kind of man you could gift with your virginity and not feel traitorous—anything between you would wither and rot in the blood-soaked earth under your shared bed.

You hummed, tossing in handfuls of bark as the pot burbled to a boil.

“Brewing new concoctions already?” said one of the wives—the one named Alice, you realized—tossing a look over her shoulder. “Was yesterday’s batch not sufficient enough for you?”

“Decoctions,” you said, glancing up at her. “And no. I ran out today, in fact.” Had she not noticed the wounded men wobbling in en masse?

Alice frowned, scrunching her little golden locks into her bonnet. “How much of that stuff are you using on our soldiers?”

“I'm using whatever I feel sufficient or appropriate for the issue presented to me,” you replied.

“And where did you receive training on these methods?” Her voice seemed a little strained. “I don't remember seeing a physician ever use these… I don't know, soups?”

Lottie offered a weak grin, sitting forward. “Alice, she just treated your husband today, aren't you glad for that?”

“Perhaps! Perhaps not,” she said. “We don't know where she's getting these ingredients she uses—”

“Yes, you do,” you replied, an edge entering your tone. “You physically watch me gather them.”

“But they could still cause disease!” Alice sat up straighter, gesturing to the other wives. “You've treated half of our husbands today and with practices that doctors don't even use.”

An involuntary laugh escaped you, and you gave her a restrained smile. “And because of that, half of your husbands will keep both their feet out of an early grave.”

“Lottie, didn't she put whiskey on Benedict’s eye?” said Alice. “You're telling me you don't think that's dangerous?”

“No,” Lottie said, her face reddening instantly. “No, I trust her, she's very good—”

Alice scoffed, turning to her meal. “Then you're both mad!”

With a slow breath, you reined in your instinct to grab the pot from the fire and dump the water over Alice’s head. How would Grace handle this? You considered: The day had been long, the men returning injured had been stressful. It was far more likely that Alice’s love for her husband was inspiring her current outburst than any real animosity for you.

Perhaps she just needed reassurance.

“Alice, it's been a trying day, and I know you were frightened to see your husband wounded. I understand how you feel,” you said, though you couldn't begin to understand her hostility towards the person helping her stupid husband. “But please know that I wouldn't attempt anything on him that I wouldn't attempt on someone I loved—”

“But you don't love anyone!” Alice stood, her bowl clattering to the ground. “You don't understand how I feel! You're not married and never have been, and if you think I'm going to let my husband die from an illness brought on by witch remedies made by some… some spinster—”

You shot to your feet. “You know what—”

Lottie gasped. “Alice!”

“—next time, I'll do you a favor and let your husband’s foot rot like your fetid womb!”

Another gasp, this time from the other wives who otherwise sat in silence, their stares dancing between you and Alice. Lottie’s jaw had snapped shut, her face the color of a ripe apple. Alice glared at you, her eyes wet and furious, her mouth parted.

You exhaled, glancing at the ground. So much for emulating Grace. “I should go,” you said, backing away. “I must… um, I must… go.”

Turning on your heel, you escaped the group of women and rushed into the field beyond camp.

The sun was in its Midas hour, grass gilded and sky shimmering from its touch. Without the heat, the air had softened from wool to silk, and you relished it as you breathed. Every exhale released some frustration, albeit with the efficacy of a chisel to a boulder—a boulder that seemed ever-burgeoning since you’d met Tavington, a boulder that laughed at the Sisphyean efforts of your chisel.

You hiked your skirts to your ankles, taking long strides toward the valley where you knew you’d find wildflowers. There was the alder bark that needed gathering, of course, but you also wanted to dig into some dandelion.

Hopefully, by the time you returned this evening, Alice would be calmed. You knew you’d have to apologize, even if you weren’t really sorry. There was no reason to cause everyone to hate you.

You stepped down a length of stone, turning the corner of a hill into the valley, and stopped.

There, in your precious field of dandelions, stood William Tavington.

He’d discarded most of his regalia, his jacket hanging open as he surveyed the landscape. You swallowed, forcing your eyes to focus on the flowers instead of how the sun silhouetted him in aurelian splendor. Or, at least, you tried. And failed spectacularly.

For a moment you began to turn away, but your feet fastened roots into the ground. You weren’t going to let him drive you off—you needed those dandelions, and you certainly weren’t going back to camp. Holding your breath, you crept toward him, hoping you could grab what you needed without alerting him.

Tavington crouched, examining the patch of wild violet at his feet. A soft breath left him, his face so absent of malice that it appeared angelic. His thumb stroked the stem of one of the blossoms, following the fragile formation of the leaves until he reached the flower. Head tilting, he traced the outline of the petals with a tenderness that paralyzed you.

You couldn’t keep watching him. You shook off whatever demon had temporarily gripped you and reached for a batch of dandelion, grabbing it whole. Gaze trained on Tavington, you tested once, twice, and yanked the bunch free with a quiet crack.

His head snapped up. He twisted around.

You froze.

Tavington stood, glaring as if you’d caught him bathing. “Taken to stalking through the grass like a wild animal now, have you?”

You rose to your feet as well, back straight to match his. “Hardly.”

“Perhaps you can explain why you appear to be stalking through the grass like a wild animal, then,” he said, gesturing to the debris stuck to the hem of your skirt.

“I’m—” You shook your head, since your presence was far more explainable than his. “What are you even doing out here?”

“What do I appear to be doing?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know, admiring the flowers?”

Tavington said nothing, his brows raising in response, as if this was a perfectly typical activity for him.

If it was, you hardly had enough insight on him to know. But the grass seeds stuck to the soles of his boots, the affection with which he’d regarded the violets—perhaps William Tavington still had the capacity to surprise you. Realizing you’d been staring, you held up the flowers in your hands.

“I… I came to gather dandelions.”

He stepped back, inviting you to scavenge the stretch of them at his feet. You waited, perhaps for him to yield more ground, or to leave. He did neither. Heat building in your cheeks, you knelt down, beginning to pull stalks from the ground, wiggling to see if any of the roots would pry free. You felt his eyes following your hands, studying the way they moved. More heat, this time down the back of your neck.

The roots were well-buried—you’d need to dig them free. Grunting, you stuffed your fingers into the dirt, flinging fistfuls into the air to reveal your quarry.

Tavington side-stepped one of the scatterings. “Is that necessary?”

“It is, actually,” you grumbled. Yet another criticism of your methods. “Different parts of the plant have different properties.” You cleared a net of roots from the ground, trying to ignore the pressure of his gaze as he watched you.

“How so?” he asked.

You paused, wondering if you’d heard him correctly. Tentatively, you glanced up and met with eyes the color of clear lakes, gleaming whiskey in the light. For a moment, you forgot to breathe.

You cleared your throat, breaking his gaze. “Well.” Nodding toward the leaves in your hand, you continued, “For example, the leaves work well for reducing inflammation. Far better than bloodletting, from my observations. And, ah, the roots can help sustain a balance of the humors.”

Looking back down to your hands, you resumed plucking and separating the plant by parts, a strange, almost self-conscious heat rising to meet the scalding beam of his attention.

“And the flowers?”

You stopped again, snapping back up to look at him before you could stop yourself. Distrust settled over you like a cobweb, spun in the wake of Alice’s venom and every other insult that you’d already had to deflect today. Was that all this was, too? Did he simply mean to try and humiliate you? To punish you for disrupting his solitude?

“Forgive me, Colonel,” you said, narrowing your eyes, “but as I find myself unable to discern the nature of your interest in a topic for which you have previously expressed such ardent disdain, I must inform you that I’ll not entertain further ridicule.”

“You are implementing these remedies on my men,” he said, his voice filling with an authority that made the hair on your nape stand straight. “To the effect of considerable skepticism among them. You will therefore answer any query of mine regarding these practices, and you will answer it fully and truthfully without insolence.”

Your teeth locked together. So his meditation in nature hadn’t quelled the more irascible parts of him that you’d come to know so well. In some absurd way, that comforted you. This version of William Tavington was far more familiar. Far more predictable.

Your chin jutted forward. His eyes flashed.

Yes, this was how things should be.

“The flowers,” he repeated. “Their properties. Tell me.”

A short exhale left your lips. “They make a lovely wine,” you said, exhaustion driving you to redirect your frustrations upon another firmly-rooted plant rather than engage him in battle. “The entire plant is edible. It can supplement our rations, medicinal properties aside.”

“Hm.”

He continued to observe as you worked more dandelions from the earth. He did not ridicule you. He did not needle you further for a fight. For a moment, you half expected that he might turn and walk away.

“Where did you learn this?” he asked, breaking a silence that had spanned several minutes.

You blinked, sitting back on your heels to regard him. Once again, the bile had retreated from his gaze, leaving only a whisper of curiosity across the otherwise placid plane of his brow.

As you observed him, something deep in your belly kindled slowly to life. Something that felt hot and terrifying and good, like the first time you’d discovered your own climax. It swelled, threatened to burst at the recognition of his interest. At the possibility of his sincere trust in your skill, of his presumable willingness to defend you in the face of his own men’s misgivings. Your heart throbbed in your throat and between your legs.

“My, uh, mother,” you said, popping more flower heads from their stems. “She taught me some of it. Before she died.” Brushing the roots clean, you stuffed them away. “The rest I’ve learned through testing my own hypotheses. Extending my knowledge through practice and evidence.”

“And your father?” he asked. “He encouraged this?”

“Very much so.” You scooted forward to start on a new patch of dandelions. Tavington slid his foot back, yielding you access. “Grace was often poorly as a child,” you continued, fingers piercing the earth. “Physicians weren’t exactly in abundance.”

A quiet, thoughtful noise left him. “So you came to spurn their practices.”

“Not at all.” You frowned, peering up at him.

A tiny flash of confusion marred his brow, clearing as fast as it had come. You wrestled against the inexplicable tug of a smile, turning back to your work to hide it and clearing your throat.

“Whenever my father would go to Charlotte,” you said, “he would bring back all sorts of books and pamphlets for me. Anything he could find on the topic of medicine. I employed the latest scholarship on suturing just today on your men, as it were.”

Tavington hummed. “And the latest scholarship on whiskey?” he said. “Do enlighten me.”

Though his tone bore no rancor, you struggled not to sag. Why was this everyone’s sticking point? As if some physicians didn’t use leeches, which was objectively more questionable. You sighed.

“The evidence for its efficacy is irrefutable, Colonel, you’ve seen it yourself.” You dug up a root with a bit more force than necessary. “The same cannot be said for some modern practices.”

Your skin felt like molten iron on your bones, too hot and too heavy. You wanted to peel it free and dunk yourself in a freezing river, rid yourself of this feeling that you’d exposed your innards to him. Whatever had bedeviled you to flay yourself in thin layers for his derision, you needed to find it and squash it to a paste beneath your shoe.

“Such as bloodletting,” he murmured.

Your hands stilled, the breath evaporating from your chest. For the second time, you questioned whether you’d misheard him. Whether it was your own mind’s fabrication that he had somehow actually listened to you, actually heeded your opinions at some point over the course of these past weeks.

You gazed up at him, and his attention moved from your hands to your face.

“Yes,” you replied. “Such as bloodletting.”

The warmth in your chest returned, like a fire granting respite from the bitter, lonely winter. It suffocated you—this man was no hearth. He was the winter, he was the icy, unforgiving cold. Finding belonging here was akin to finding belonging in the belly of a blizzard. The thought twisted your insides. Why was he offering you interest when he’d spent the past weeks staring from afar?

You sat up, abandoning the plant beneath your hands, and looked at him squarely.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, head tilting.

Tavington tensed, his focus darting between your hands and eyes again. “I hardly consider you important enough to avoid.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And yet it’s almost certainly what you’ve been doing since Charleston.”

He snorted. “Name it avoidance if you wish. Duplicitous agitators require surveillance,” he replied. “As of now, your motives remain unidentified after your unanticipated presence at the hospital.”

“Unanticipated?” You folded your arms over your chest. “Did you expect me to just sit in the Goddards’ home until you returned?”

“I expected you to escape at the first opportunity.”

You blinked. Then snorted. “And go where? Back to Catawba, so you could hunt me down, burn my house, and string my sister up in front of me in retribution?”

Tavington’s brows rose slightly. “Do you believe yourself deserving of such a punishment?”

You rolled your eyes. “Do you deny that such a punishment would have been visited upon me, should I deserve it or not?”

He shrugged, glancing at the dandelions still in your lap. “I do not.”

“Of course.” You almost wanted to laugh, if it weren’t so clear to you that both of you continued to fail at reading the other’s next move for reasons you still could not grasp. “Have I defied your expectations sufficiently enough while being here to have warranted my release?”

Tavington clucked his tongue. “If you’re asking whether I trust your commitment to the Crown, the answer is no.”

Sighing, you started to grab some of the fluffy dandelions around you. “I imagine there’s very little I could do to earn that anyway.”

“Not distracting my men would be a start.”

“Dis—” The wind rushed by you, exploding one of the dandelion clocks into your clothes and hair. You sputtered and wagged your head before beginning to pat yourself free of seeds. “Distracting your men?”

“Your relations,” he said, as if it were obvious. “With the ensign.”

You frowned, picking more of the seeds from your shoulders. “The��” Ensign. He couldn’t have been serious. “Goddard?” you balked. “He’s barely seventeen!”

Tavington examined his fingernails before gazing off into the horizon. “I make no assumptions about your predilections.” He returned his attention to you. “I simply observed that you and he were very close.”

“He was being very belligerent, that’s why.” You stood to brush the fluff from your skirt. “I’m not—I have no interest in the ensign.” With a huff, you tried to bat the remaining bits from around your face. “Not that it matters whom I have interest in. I’m my own woman and free to associate with whomever I choose.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, taking a step toward you. “But my concern stands.”

“I fail to see why such a thing should concern you at all.” You raised your chin.

“Because I require my men to be sound of mind and body,” he said. “And any sort of association with you would rend a man like Goddard into ribbons.”

“Ribbons?” A sharp, mocking laugh escaped you. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Pray, then advise me as to the sort of man suitable for me to associate with.”

“One experienced in taming vicious creatures.”

His focus was a blade, penetrating your chest. You went to speak, your mouth parted—but stalled. Your thighs pressed together. You stopped attempting to pull what you thought were the last flyers from your hair. Finally, you inhaled.

“I need to be tamed, do I?” you managed to say.

He took another step. “Moreso than any creature I've encountered.”

In the sun’s embrace, he was luminous, every hair on his cheek filtered through with flame. You could only watch as he reached toward your face, his hand floating toward your hair. Time slowed. The pad of his thumb, as gently as it had skimmed the violet petals, grazed the shell of your ear. You inhaled a shaky breath, your nipples tightened, and you suppressed the tremble that ricocheted through you.

Tavington plucked the two remaining seeds that had nestled into your hair and released them to the breeze. He paused, looking from his fingers to you, stepping back in disbelief as he seemed to come back into his body. Your eyes fluttered, drifted across his face, caught the rusted splotch at his clavicle. The wound Goddard had mentioned. It was obvious he hadn’t treated it at all.

“You…” You swallowed thickly. “You should really allow me—” You reached for his chest.

His gaze widened. He retreated another step, snatching your wrist mid-air before tossing it away like he’d grabbed a hot iron. His jaw stiffened, and he exhaled sharply.

“I said before that it’s nothing,” he growled. “And it is.”

He shouldered past you, stalked through the field to return to camp. You stood, baffled, eyes trailing him as he left. His fingers flicked in and out of a fist as he walked, like he wanted to cleanse himself of your touch.

The dandelions felt heavy in your pockets. Drawing your forearm across your brow, you realized you still needed to collect alder bark. And attend to what you’d left in the pot. You turned, heading toward the woods, the tip of your ear tingling until the sun finally set.

[goodoldroyalty]

BILL AND BERTIE

On May 9 1927 a horse-drawn landau, complete with postilions wearing horsehair wigs, deposited the Duke and Duchess of York at the front steps of Parliament House. The Royal couple had arrived to open the building and the first sitting of federal Parliament in Canberra. After the ceremonies, the Duke had to take the salute at a troop review in what is now York Park, southeast of Parliament House. The two-hour review was to feature more than 2,000 troops, including Light Horsemen, and massed brass bands.

But the Duke couldn’t take the salute standing on his own legs. He had to ride a horse with the strength and stamina to handle the pressure. The horse also had to be very calm, because the saluting Duke would be holding the reins in one hand. These requirements were a big ask of an animal whose instinctive response to loud or scary situations is to flee.

Some 250 police horses were considered for the Duke. Only one made the grade: ‘a big, black mare, of magnificent appearance’, reported Brisbane’s Daily Standard on May 6.

In this photo, the Duke looks very nervous. He is perching rather than riding, and holding the reins high and tight. Perhaps he was trying to hold Bill back. The Age of May 10 reported:

‘As soon as the Duke approached the saluting base … a blast was blown on a bugle. The Royal Ensign was unfurled at the mast … and the troops came to the slope. Another blast and the troops were given the command to present arms. At the same instant the massed bands from the navy, army and air forces, stationed at the rear of the parade, played the National Anthem, and the Duke, whose horse was restive, received the salute.’

The fluttering pennants and flashing bayonets startled at all angles. The blaring bugles and thumping brass bands sent strange vibrations through the earth and air. Bill pulled and bounced and flung his rider about.

One spectator, Hilda Abbott (the wife of Northern Territory Administrator Charles Abbott), recalled ‘the Duchess looked anxious and her face had flushed as the horse had pranced about’. 

An elegant solution: the Duke swapped to Black Bess and the Governor-General mounted Lord Cavan’s horse. Most spectators did not notice the change.

[can-of-pringles]

The Oh Hellos are so underrated and anyway I just really wanted to talk about their song Pale White Horse and probably my favorite lyric from it (though all the rest is amazing too)

"But the sight held me fixed like a bayonet against my throat"

Like?? It's so clever and gives very vivid thoughts it's powerful and if you listen to the rest of the song it's such a good description because it's witnessing something bad y'know so the bayonet symbolism is such good imagery idk my brain is full of keyboard smashes I just love it so much and I love this band I should talk about them more

[fullmetal-scar-simping]

Hii! I wanted to ask your opinion on smth since you're like, the Scar acc on here.

I keep listening to Pale White Horse by The Oh Hellos and I keep thinking of Scar and Lust when it comes to the song. If you've listened to the song, do you think similarly?

I dunno, I've been thinking about it for the past hour while I've been working lmao

Hey! I'm honoured to be considered the Scar acc from the Wrath acc 🤝 (tho tbh scarwasright should absolutely wear that crown)

I Gave "Pile White Horse" a listen, and wow! Yeah, I absolutely see what you're picking up here. These lyrics especially fit Scar and Lust beautifully:

Heed the sirens, take shelter, my lover Flee the fire that devours But the sight held me fixed Like a bayonet against my throat Neither plague or famine tempered my courage Nor did raids make me cower

And the final set of lyrics scream "Amestrian genocide of Ishbal" + Scar and Lust being unable to shake the sense of recognition of someone they once knew, their shared past:

It was the raging storm Of a foreign war And a face I'd seen before

The lilting voice of the singer and the deeper thrum of the backing choir lends this track such a tender, sombre presence to the heartbreaking lyrics. Perfect for Scar and Lust!

A song I also feel works for them, imho, is "When the Night is Over" by Lord Huron. Particularly:

Now the trail has gone cold I don't know where else to go And my time, I fear, is nearly over [...] When the night is done, you'll vanish in the sun Will I hold you when the night is over?

And the outro, as the music swells and the vocalist laments:

I hear the river say your name By the stars above, I know we were in love I hear the river say your name I have only 'til the night is over

This song hurts my feelings without fail, every single time.

Thanks for giving me another song to torment my ScarLust brain with (fully positive)! If you, or anyone else, has any other songs that fit these two (or their individual characters), I'm down for suggestions!

[3rdeyeblaque]

On September 6th, we venerate Ancestor Tašhúŋka Witkó aka "Crazy Horse" on the 146th anniversary of his passing 🕊

[for our Hoodoos of First Nations descent]

Crazy Horse was the legendary Oglala Lakota Warrior who spearheaded the war against invading colonizers sweeping the land & recognized as a great leader committed to preserving the traditions and values of the Lakota ways of life.

Tašhúŋka Witkó was born into war; at a time when the European colonizer threat was growing, encroaching on sacred land & driving friction between Indian communities. Even as a boy, the warrior spirit was strong in him. He raided horses from Crow Nation at age 13. Once he came of age, he took up initiation through Vision Questing. Tašhúŋka Witkó fasted alone in the wilderness for four days and nights seeking guidance from Great Spirit. What he received from this monumental moment would chart his course through life as the greatest warrior his People had ever known. He earned his reputation among the Lakota, not only by skill, but also by his fierce determination to preserve the traditions of his people. He was known for refusing to be photographed, leading with the traditional belief that by doing so would capture an essence of his soul.

By his mid-teens, Tašhúŋka Witkó (by then Crazy Horse) was already a full-fledged warrior; known for his staggering bravery and prowess on the battlefield. He rode into battle with a hawk feather in his hair, a rock behind his ear, & a lightning bolt slashed across his face. The ancestral mysticism and rituals that went into preparing him for battle is what blessed him with the power & protection to succeed.

He led his first war party in Oglala Chief Red Cloud's war against the European colonizers invading lands Wyoming from 1865-1868. He met U.S. forces in open battle for the first time in 1876 after he became a resistance leader against the Lakota being forced onto reservations. He led a band of Lakota Warriors alongside Sitting Bull, the Cheynne, & other neighboring Tribes in counterattack in the Battle of Little Bighorn against Custer’s 7th U.S. Cavalry Battalion. Custer, 9 of his officers, & 280 soldiers, all lay dead in his wake. From then on, the U.S. Gov. targeted the Northern Plains tribes who resisted its encroachment. After a year of forcing the displacement of many Indigenous communities, slaughtering the Buffalo population, and driving their starvation into surrender, eventually the same fate fell upon the Olglala Band of Lakota Nation. In 1877, under a truce flag, Crazy Horse traveled to Fort Robinson to negotiate terms of mutual surrender.

Negotiations with U.S. Military leaders broke down, allegedly as a result of the translator's incorrectly translationof what Crazy Horse said, which spurred them to quickly imprison Crazy Horse. Once he realized their scheme, Crazy Horse broke free & drew his knife. A infantry guard made a successful lunge with a bayonet and mortally wounded him. Crazy Horse succumbed to his wound shortly thereafter once it became infected. After his death, his parents buried him at an undisclosed location near Wounded Knee, South Dakota. There he rests among with the Ancestors he venerate so deeply.

"[ “Where are your lands now?”] “My lands are where my dead lie buried.” - Crazy Horse's response to a U.S. Cavalry man's taunts at the Battle of Little Big Horn.

We pour libations & give him💐 today as we celebrate him for his unbridled warrior spirit, his leadership, prowess, & for being a beacon of light leading all Indigenous American descendants back to our traditional ways of life.

Offering suggestions: prayers toward his elevation, libations of water, offerings of tobacco, & Oglala Lakota songs/prayers

‼️Note: offering suggestions are just that & strictly for veneration purposes only. Never attempt to conjure up any spirit or entity without proper divination/Mediumship counsel.‼️

[balladofthewhitehorse]

Rocky Roads

Context: Set during WW1, a very old GerEng fic that I started long before I even had this blog or was part of the Hetalia fandom. It's a very old piece of writing that I had no intention of finishing so I've pruned it from 11 pages to 5 pages into something approaching okay. I do think England is a bit OOC for how I usually write him these days, but otherwise I think it's okay. I mostly just want it out of my drafts.

Nobody had ever said it was easy to keep friends, Germany mused ruefully - and when one's life was fettered with the troubles of treaties and politics, it was twice as hard. Squinting across the rubble of Niemandsland, Germany fought back the rise of bile in the back of his throat, and doubled down. The days of the Hanseatic League were long-gone, the days of him and others (Not kin, but others like him, the dozens of German states as they were known, but not kin) walking side by side with the likes of England and Scotland. The days where he’d once, briefly, thought England the sun - blinding and great, as precious and gold as coin. In turn, England had valued him too, but nothing good belonged to the likes of them. He knew better these days, of course. But Germany would not ignore that once he loved England and England had loved him back. It was not just the gold, he told himself quietly, fist bunching around his bayonet. Smoke trailed wrathfully across the upturned earth, tangles of wire, men and horse obscuring his vision. Throat tightening, Germany (and his thousand states, all part of him now, the ones that didn’t make it) stood up slowly and narrowed his eyes. It had been four months since the start of the war, and there was a lull that set every nerve in his body on fire. The Napoleonic Wars weren’t this dull. Germany mused to himself, at least France knew how to put on a show. Enough of a show that it England on the hunt for allies, gold coin exchanged palm over palm - staring knowingly at him, the same infuriating smirk on his face as ever. Not much convincing was needed, England had teased as he did Germany’s shirt up for him. He’d responded it was out of a mutual dislike, a frustration with France more than anything - but England was oddly perceptive, for a brute  - or perhaps I’m just that obvious? (‘’Why so dour?’’ The German Empire looked up with a jolt, a sheepish flush across cheeks that otherwise remained as if stone. England did not look away, and Germany found himself trapped in his stare. If things were simpler, perhaps Germany could’ve found a better answer, could’ve taken hold of England’s hand and kissed them sweetly. As it stood, nothing was ever simple for them and the Empire let out a wearisome snort, as if England did not know. ‘’The Naval race, everything. You know the answer, you’ve still got eyes, you know…’’

‘’Shut it.’’ England groused, pulling a cigarette from his lips and placing it to Germany’s. A kiss, transferred in smoke and warmth and an embrace they would never have. ‘’Things might change. Nobody truly wants war, except for the penny-pinchers.’’ There was a half-hearted laugh from England, but joy was as inconsequential as candyfloss in a gale in these darker times. ‘’Sense will win out in the end.’’ England murmured half-heartedly. They both knew the answer. If mortals had sense, they would not be where they stood, in the shadows of treaties and wars that loomed large like storms. While the latter was a comforting lie, the former was a truth that Germany had hoped not to hear.‘’I miss you, you know?’’)

-----------------The Christmas Truce ------------------------------------

He’d never seen such a miserable sight before. And never seen such a sight he was thankful for before either.Germany strode forward, a heart of lead, as he clenched his fists and walked like a storm incarnate. Snow and bone, what was the difference, crunched beneath his feet and he could finally look at England proper. ‘’How are you not dead?’’ He gasped softly, staring at purpling and red skin, hollow eyes and smile that flickered - a ragged flag. Germany wondered for a moment if he looked the same, a corpse propped up, staring. ‘’You should be dead.’’ Sniffed Germany, noticing a wound on the man’s neck, festering and red-hot, trench fever setting in.

A question trembled on his tongue - Who did that to you? Are you okay? - and keeled over, Germany’s eyes blazing as he glared at England. ‘’You shouldn’t be here, go back to your trench.’’ He hissed, pointing a finger across the snow-smothered terrain. ‘’Don’t take another step.’’ Come here. I missed you. Come here. ‘’Go back to your trench!’’ He begged, trembling as the sounds of singing floated above him, bringing good tidings - tidings not meant for such creatures as them, lands bathed in more blood than either remembered.

‘’Or what? You’ll shoot me?’’ His laugh heaved with nicotine, the German wincing slightly as England coughed and hawked. ‘’Yeah, right. You’re a mean shot. You’d have done it the moment I stuck my head out of that trench.’’  England pointed out, procuring a crumpled, cold packet of chocolate and pushing it into Germany’s hands. Briefly, as fingers brushed against one another, Germany fought back the urge to hold his hand, and he knew without speaking, England felt the same. ‘’Cadbury’s. Best chocolate in the world. Swear on it.’’

Germany rolled his eyes, breaking a piece of chocolate off and handing it to England. ‘’You’ll have to fight Belgium for that one.’’ He paused a beat, a lump in his throat. Cloying air and the harsh sting of toxic gases, he’d watched her stagger and stumble in the darkness, unable to see, unable to call out. Yet, here he was, joking about her as if they were nothing more than workplace friends. As if England hadn’t sworn to stand by her side.

 ‘’Ah, poor taste that one.’’ He muttered under his breath, shaking his head. ‘’Forget it. Don’t tell Belgium a word.’’ He’d woken up, almost thinking the whole war a nightmare, until he’d turned a little to his left and spotted the grim, haunted expression of Austria. He couldn’t escape that look, and by the looks of it, Austria couldn’t escape his own nightmares either. ‘’Wasn’t planning to.’’ England replied softly, looking down at mud-caked shoes. Water seeped in through the cracked leather, and privately he wondered if it was his turn to suffer from trench-foot like so many of his brothers in arms had. ‘’She’s too tired to talk.’’ He frowned, expression crumpling like a stack of cards. Though the men sang, the idle chatter of boys at play - he’d not missed the young faces, the ones that should’ve stayed at home, the ones that were not of age - exchanging gifts -, he knew it was not the same for some of them. Scotland and Wales were talking to a few soldiers, pretending as if they had not put a bullet between their friend’s eyes. Humans might die and take their grudges to their graves, but they were left behind in the uncomfortable wake of it all. Here he was, talking to the man who he’d promised so dearly to his friend that he would see to it that he was defeated. 

‘’I miss you.’’ England spoke hoarsely. ‘’Please…don’t hold it against me if I shoot you.’’ It was nothing personal, this was not his war. Not Germany’s either, England mused ruefully, but it had to be said. He had to let Germany know. Friends ebbed and flowed, draining from his fingers, and England wasn’t going to lose another one. Not if he could help it. ‘’I’m just keeping my word.’’ He was quite sure it was the same for the Empire before him, a ghostly smile on his lips. 

The Empire was not so sure, expression falling - dusk encroaching on day, the lean man stepping back as he was faced with the earnestness of England’s words. He’d been around a hundred years and a hundred years more, and for a second, Germany had to wonder if in all that time war had taken on a different meaning. If it even had a meaning at all. ‘’You might be quicker to forgive, but I’m not.’’ Germany straightened, raising his chin. ‘’I’m doing this for Austria-Hungary, not for you.’’ He thought that’d been perfectly clear - as stark as blood on snow, as vicious as the bullet that had pierced England’s lungs. ‘’It’s for my friend, and my friend only.’’ Germany ground out, staring England down. ‘’Don’t get your hopes up.’’ ‘’I-...’’ A flicker of hurt, like a gunshot wound. ‘’Of course, Germany.’’ 

England’s gaze hardened, tumbling stone as he stared the Empire down. Really, it should’ve been expected. How many of your men have I shot so far? How many of them did you know personally? Did you feel their bodies fall on the mud? Clearing his throat, England nodded mutely, shoving a bar of dark chocolate - wrinkled and worn from sitting in his cold pocket, a remnant of sentimentality perhaps, not yet blasted to smithereens against all odds - into Germany’s chest. ‘’Just take it, please. You look like you’re half-way into the grave.’’

‘’England, don’t-’’ 

‘’Don’t what!?’’ England snapped, a dog’s snarl in his throat - the red shimmer of the shuck across sea-blue eyes. He backed away, the sounds of laughter and singing, a thousand unlikely voices murmuring turned bitter in his ears. England wanted them all to shut up. Wanted all of them to go away and leave them alone. Alone. Just him and Germany. He sighed heavily, breath fogging in the thorn-sharp air. Typical, wasn’t it? England set his jaw as the taller man lumbered forward, a trembling hand tracing his jawline. ‘’Why do you have to make it more painful, German Empire?’’ He hissed the man’s name, glaring quietly at him.

‘’You look terrible.’’

‘’Oh cheers.’’ England snarked bitterly. ‘’Strange way of flirting you’ve got.’’

Germany winced, grasping England’s shirt collar and yanking him closer. The two of them shuffled down into a mine-crater, amidst the dirt and the dead, they sat. ‘’Don’t get hurt.’’ It was a fool’s errand, asking that of him. During war too. Licking his lips hesitantly, Germany leaned forward and pressed a kiss to cracked, bloodied lips - red-welled from the harsh winter winds or a man’s knuckles, Germany wasn’t sure. Ugh, can I not make up my mind? 

Love wasn’t always so kind to logic, that was what he was rapidly finding out. ‘’I-...just don’t step on a land mine and blow yourself up, England.’’ Germany swallowed thickly. ‘’Die in honourable combat, by my hand - not by…by someone else.’’ He wanted England’s last thoughts to be him - and that terrified Germany. Why? Why do I want him to remember me?

‘’Romantic, aren’t you?’’ England groaned, ribcage heaving as he leaned forward to hug Germany. In spite of everything - every bruise, wound and corpse - he felt some comfort in the way his body fitted against his, as if his hands were always meant to be cradling him, holding him - hurting him too. It made his head spin, England’s cheek pressed against his chest. Everything was so damn complicated, and he could not pull away from Germany. ‘’You bastard.’’ England growled, as he held Germany’s body. There was companionship, certainly - but not one that came to him easily. Laughter rang out, the sounds of a football softly bouncing along the ruined earth, England screwing his nose up in resentment. Why can’t that be me? Why can’t that be us? Stupid and insignificant? Carefree and pointless? Germany winced as England pressed close to his body, shaking like a wounded dog. ‘’Hm, that I am.’’ He mumbled thickly, tensing like a spring as he felt England’s hand drift to his scalp - and then relaxing when he felt his hand gently run through his dark curls, snowflakes glittering his hair as they drifted absent-mindedly through the sky. Mud, blood and snow - clinging to his trousers - felt an oddly fitting place for them. Dirty, unholy and fragile - that was what they were, was it not? Carding his hands over England’s body, Germany rested his chin on England’s head with a heavy sigh. 

‘’I do love you, it’s just…’’ His heart quivered like a cornered rabbit, nails digging into the back of England’s shirt. ‘’There’s too much, what’s to say that by morning that I won’t have killed you?’’ He’d do anything for his people, what was he but an extension of their beings? A thousand and more hearts beating in unison? Who was he to waste their hearts on England of all people? To be so damned selfish? To bend and waver, where he ought to stand tall?

‘’And what’s to say I won’t do the very same to you?’’ Growled England, a furtive kiss pressed against Germany’s neck - heated against cold, prickling skin. He fumbled with his pockets briefly and tugged out a battered cigarette. Quietly, Germany pulled out his lighter and lit England’s cigarette - the spark lighting up England’s eyes. They bored into him, the lean man shivering as he watched England take a deep drag of the cigarette. Smoke coiled in the air, as coquettish as dancers. ‘’You underestimate me, Germany.’’ He snorted as he pressed his cigarette to Germany’s lips, a kiss transferred in smoke and embers. 

‘’Nein. I estimate you perfectly.’’ He sighed, dragging in a lungful of England’s cigarette. He wrapped an arm around the other as England leaned on him, heart thudding. ‘’I-I…’’ A carol drifted through the air, juxtaposed against the silence of the guns. Something, something about peace and holiness. Could not be further from anything relating to us. Germany thought, resting his cheek against England’s hair and tentatively pressing a kiss to his head as England sighed, eyes fluttering shut - snowflakes glittering on his eyelashes, hand pressed against his chest. ‘’...England, I-’’ He grimaced, eyes stinging all of a sudden. ‘’I-’’

‘’Don’t talk.’’ England wrapped his arms around him. ‘’There’s no need.’’ He reassured him, as the snow slowly drifted from the sky - laden on men's shoulders, as heavy as sin, as they quietly dragged the fallen back to their trenches. Tenderness reached with an outstretched palm from a wolf-grey sky, their heads lolling against one another - England’s on Germany’s shoulder and Germany’s on England’s head, as they stared into the falling snow. 

Voices sung faintly in the distance, smoke coiling around their heads as they passed a single cigarette between them - Germany sighing as he pulled out a cold bar of dark chocolate, splitting it with a snap and handing half to England. Eyes twinkling gratefully, England took it and kissed Germany in return, sighing as a hand drifted up to cup the man’s scarred cheek. 

Germany kissed back, trembling as he wrapped his arms around his stout waist. ‘’This is ridiculous.’’ He mumbled, drifting between logic and want - Dear God, he wanted this so much, so badly. - as he nudged England a little closer to his lap. Mud and blood and snow clung to the seat of his trousers, Germany shuddering at the feeling of the cold slush against his back. He didn’t want to think about tomorrow, didn’t want to think about the morning that surely brought a devastating promise. Cracked lips and worn knuckles, he clung to England and blocked out that dreadful reminder.

 ‘’Mph-’’ He gasped softly as England kissed him on the lips, straddling his lap as warm body pressed against warm body, chasing away that spectre of doubt. ‘’Now of all times? You’re so inconsiderate.’’ Germany blustered, pushing against England’s chest as the other snickered faintly, frosty fingers lacing with each other. 

‘’You love me.’’ A distant shot rang out across the field, both men looking up as night bled into day. There was no more laughter, no more songs and reluctantly - though knowingly, bitter for their understanding all the same - they stood up, brushing the mud from their trousers. ‘’Well, back to business?’’ England sighed wearily, slowly closing his eyes.

Exhaustion ringed his face as he rubbed his eyes, stepping slowly out of the crater and pulling Germany after him. England’s footfalls crunching through the snow as Germany followed - half dead - behind him. They lingered for a moment under the stars, staring at one another with the furtive, shy glances of a pair of secret lovers, caught in a courtesan’s dallance in the midst of a glamorous ballroom. And then they parted, the illusion of a glittering ballroom fading, leaving only the cold, dark wake that was No-Man’s Land. As he approached his trench, Germany tensed - his gaze trawling through the rank and file of soldiers, the idle and excited chatter. It wouldn’t last, he mused, jaw tensing as he watched their higher-ups approach with flinty expressions. It wouldn’t last. It never did. And it’d do good for him to remember that, Germany scolded himself, brows furrowing as he watched his soldiers.

His people were what mattered, Germany corrected himself. To think so otherwise, went against his entire being, his whole purpose.

[embersoftheorder]

DWC - August - Day 7 - Victory

"He's been down there a long time," murmured one of the miners as the pack of workers stared at the cave with worried glances. They shouldn't be this frightened but after so many years of torment by the Coven, Hexsworn, demons, and Tides knew what else had climbed out the gloom they had every right to be. Things in the night rarely didn't bump.

Foreman Strohnev crossed is arms and shook his head at the miner's whine, a loud 'hrmph' coming out from under his thick walrus mustache. "We jus gotta give em time."

For weeks things had been going well at the silver mine. Resources plentiful, work steady, and morale high as the profits that lined their pockets. The New Lion Mining Corporation was on it's way to becoming one of the most successful business ventures of this new Drustvar. A small work town had begun to spring up nearby in hopes of perhaps beginning an actual settlement as money was pumped back into the community.

Then the wailing had begun.

Most had hoped it would be some kind of soft cooing in the depths of the mine, something that would cause the willies and startled heads to rise thinking something was over their shoulder. This voice would have none of that. As a pick had struck rock, it came sharp and clear as a meal time whistle exploding through the carved tunnels to reverberate against stone and into flesh. High above in the upper corridors of the mine, men and women had cast aside tools to clutch at their ears in shock as they looked for the source. All eyes had traveled to the elevators further into the depths, whispers of those who might remain below.

None had come back up.

A search party was sent to investigate, the supervisor a hardy dwarf who had been down in the dark for years in the old country hills of Ironforge and Dun Morgh. Troggs, trolls, and beasts had plagued his life since he was a young beardling. He could handle a wail in a cave with a few other muscles to help him out.

The New Lion Mining Co was now short 12 men and had put up a posting for a new supervisor.

They hadn't had an interview yet.

Since the initial wail and disappearances, no one had dared to go down into the mine and memorials had already been scheduled along with letters of condolences to the families of those lost. Sad letters and pocket watches did not fill bellies or pay for supplies though, and word was sent east for aid from House Waycrest. Perhaps the guard would come or maybe a wizard to blast out the mine for the growing tragedy of New Lion as it was being whispered about. Foul moods, broken hearts, and no profits were stunting the fragile growth of this new colony.

The inquisitor arrived on a Tuesday afternoon upon an old black horse with a matching silent crow astride his shoulder.

He was an older man, his hair thin and gray to match the shabby beard he wore but his eyes spoke of a steel that ran deep and true despite the feet at the corners of them. With a crooked nose, chapped lips, and a voice to make men grimace as hard as him he had come to the office of the foreman. Broken leathers, tattered tabard, and an eclectic assortment of Tides knew what clinked among his carried belongings. The Order of Embers was always in dire straights with finances, but in service of Drustvar and House Waycrest there were none better to handle this sort of thing.

This inquisitor said his name was Eldridge. Eldridge Candell.

On Wednesday morning, the inquisitor had tied off his old horse and gathered his assortment of oddities to make his way into the mouth of the mine. He hadn't said anything to anyone, only asking for extra oil and a couple of lanterns to match some rough travel rations. With an old axe strapped to his belt to match an even older bayonet, Candell had swung a pack over his back and entered the mouth of terror.

The crow had planted itself in silent watch as the inquisitor disappeared.

Wednesday came and went.

Thursday passed without a sound.

Friday the miners began to murmur.

Saturday they gathered a watch.

Sunday broke with burning red sunlight and night fell with a spring storm.

Monday came with talk of what to do with the horse.

Tuesday was gone with the wind.

A week had gone by. No work. No news. No sound. No money.

No hope.

The crow sat silent in it's vigil. Was it waiting for the inquisitor's return? Or was it guarding the mine from the miners going in?

Or from what might come out?

Strohnev rubbed his mustache as he ordered the workers to get back to work. What work they would do, he didn't know but he wasn't getting anything for his coin having them worry and fret staring at a hole in the ground. He was not looking forward to writing to the Stand about needing another inquisitor or for them to at least come pick up the remaining effects of the missing man. Another man dead for this, what the hell was he gonna tell the authorities?

The crow let out a sharp croak, that made the foreman nearly jump out of his skin as he looked back to the mine entrance.

"Tides preserve," came a whisper that Strohnev was more shocked came from him as he stared at Inquisitor Candell.

The man leaned wearily against the frame of the door, his face grim and coated in thick layer of coal dust as his grimace caused the wrinkles to crack white lines across him. His pack was missing, his tabard was black and indiscernible of the colors of the Order. His knife was in his belt and a broken lantern hung loosely from the same. The man looked like hell had given him a proper chewing and spitting like he was the bitterest chew.

The foreman strode forward as the other miners spotted him and began to call out at the return of their 'savior'. A sick wet thud stopped him in his tracks as a stained leather sack flopped into the loose gravel.

A few tentative steps forward brought him to the sack as he leaned down to gently peer into the rank leather bag. The torturous withered face of an eyeless woman stared back at him, her face pockmarked with holes like a termite ridden floorboard. Her tongue languished out of her mouth, stained with black much as the stump that might have been her neck.

Foreman Strohnev shuddered as he quickly covered the bag back up and looked up to find the inquisitor standing over him looking grim. The older man grimly reached up to his shoulder and growled as he plucked something from his neck, a soft high squeal much like a piglet. It was insanely unpleasant as he felt his hands come to his ears, holding them tight as he looked in the inquisitors hand.

Squirming in his gloved hand was the oddest bug he'd maybe seen in his life. Bulbous red eyes, black body, orange legs with crystalline orange wings to match. It buzzed and flitted a bit in his hands as it struggled to right itself in his palm, the flecks of the old man's blood still shining on it's pincer mouth as it continued to wail.

It didn't last long as Candell closed his hand around it and squeezed hard enough to shake with as much violence as it took to snuff out the insects life.

Strohnev gaped at his hand and looked up into the inquisitor's face as he finally spoke with a dry cough and hoarse growl.

"Get back to work."

@daily-writing-challenge

[gellavonhamster]

the wolf and the moon

Turn: Washington's Spies || Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge || unspecified fantasy/magic AU ao3 link eng || this was first written and published on ao3 in Russian in 2017 but I didn’t attempt to translate it into English back then. 

You must not be afraid of the changes that I've made

I have come now to bring you away

To our bed that I have made with the seven stones I've laid

And covered in the finest of clay

Lay your head upon the ground, you shall never be found

I will guard against dangers that be

Until dawn comes around you must not make a sound

And I swear you will forever be with me

(Birch Book – Werewolf’s Eyes)

Looking back, Ben is utterly angry at himself for not catching on to what was happening to him until it was too late.

First he notices all smells become sharper. Gunpowder, sweat, horse dung, damp earth, campfire smoke, hair pomade. Hundreds of smells that were not as distinct before surround him in a smothery cloud that seems dense enough to spoon it up like fat broth. Ben frowns, dizzy with this suffocating mixture, and steals furtive glances at the others, trying to find out if they feel the same, but everyone is acting like everything’s normal. He does not dare to ask, suspecting how strange that would sound. The other officers keep their guard up with him as it is – sure, he’s well-mannered and all, but still, heaven knows what to expect from those magicians.

On the last night before the full moon, he blows out a candle in his tent, and suddenly realizes he can see perfectly in the dark. Then he begins to understand – although just what, not how. If he was bitten, he would have remembered it – or would he not? Leave it to Rogers and his men to wipe out his memories. Everyone knows his unit is made up of only those endowed with at least middling witchcraft powers. It is for this reason that much later Ben is so surprised to find out that Jordan – that is, Akinbode – has joined the ranks of Rangers. It is odd and upsetting to know that all those years someone else in Setauket was able to do magic apart from the four of them, and they had not the slightest idea.

It might be that the bayonet he was wounded with was soaked in something. Werewolf’s blood? Werewolf’s saliva? The next day, Ben all but runs to his tent each time he has a minute to spare and leafs through his papers frantically, his own notes and torn-out book pages alike. His command of sorcery is much poorer than imagined by most people in their army, Washington included. Compared to those who couldn’t even deal with a simple spell, he’s a magician indeed. In truth, however – and being aware of it has never made him feel as dejected before – he’s just another self-taught amateur. If what is happening to him is exactly what all the evidence suggests, then he is helpless. All he can do is steal out of the tent when it gets dark and the moon’s silver disk starts to glisten behind the clouds, and rush towards the forest. He manages to put on a smoke-and-mirrors spell so that no one notices he’s gone; at least he’s good enough for such trifles.

He makes it to the woods in time – as soon as he steps into the thicket, he convulses with excruciating pain. A bayonet is like a mosquito bite compared to that; worse, finishing off his brother in arms so as not to give himself away in front of Rogers and his band of warlocks is like a mosquito bite compared to that. It feels as if huge invisible hands are kneading him like dough and sculpting his flesh and bones into something else, ugly and unnatural. Ben struggles to keep his mouth shut, but he still screams.

Then he howls.

Then he’s racing through the woods surrounded by thousands of smells, which don’t seem as obnoxious as before, and he feels good – as good as never before, especially compared to that terrible pain earlier. The moss is springy under his paws and the air is fresh, and the blood of the hare he caught is hot and tastes better than any food he’s ever tried. There is no trace of the fear that has weighed down on him that entire day. How could he be afraid of this?

But when he wakes up at dawn in the depths of the forest completely naked, shivering with cold, his human face smeared with blood, the fear returns.

And the night after it proves itself justified.

***

After the second night, Ben returns to the camp, slips into his tent, falls down on his knees and howls and howls more than he did at night in honour of the full moon.

He has only vague memories of what happened. A dark silhouette sneaking through the woods. A jump, a loud cry, the cracking of neck vertebrae. A blue uniform torn to pieces. A warm throat in his maw. All of it blurred, befuddling; an unpleasant dream right before waking up. But what he saw in the morning he remembers clearly – and will never forget.

He’s not throwing up. He’s choking on tears, he’s shaking with disgust, but he’s not throwing up at all. God, why isn’t he throwing up from the thought of having gorged himself of human flesh last night?

Ben forces himself to get up. His body moves as if by itself – and is it his own anymore, really? Or is the only body he inhabits now that of a wolf, for which that nightmare is just another hunt, and not the most heinous crime imaginable? He keeps looking around the tent dully, until he understands that the thing he needs, the only thing that can save him and the others, is already at hand.

He cocks the pistol and puts it to his temple.

“No!”

An unseen force wrenches the pistol from his hand and throws it into the corner. A shot rings out – in vain.

“You shot a hole through my wall,” Ben says, tired. He doesn’t turn around; he can’t look Caleb in the eye, not after what he did last night. But Caleb is beside him in a blink of an eye, grabs his hand painfully, and makes him turn around – and then he has to look.

Ben isn’t sure he’s ever seen Caleb in such rage before.

“Screw you, Tallboy,” Caleb spits out wrathfully, looking up at him. “Have you lost your mind? What the hell was that?!”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s easier just to blow your brains out, right? Ben,” the tone of his voice changes, and so does his look, and now Caleb is looking at him with a desperate plea and fear and concern, and Ben wants to push him away and shout at him leave, I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve a single drop of your worry, leave. “What’s going on?”

Ben wants to push him away – and yet he cannot.

“You’re going to hate me if I tell you.”

“No,” Caleb says firmly.

That’s what I fear, Ben thinks.

When he comes to the part about him killing someone – no, not just killing but half-devouring him, tearing him to pieces to the point of barely being able to make out the face in the morning, not a familiar one yet still striking horror and grief into him – he realizes he’s crying again. Ben wipes off his tears with his sleeve violently, hoping that Caleb doesn’t think he’s asking for pity. Pity he does not deserve. All he deserves is the pistol, now picked up off the ground and lying on the table, in wait for its hour. Ben knows what he’s going to ask of Caleb when he finishes his story. Ben is tormented by an almost complete certainty that Caleb will refuse him.

“We-e-ell,” drawls out Caleb when Ben is done. He was listening with uncharacteristic sobriety, but with no apparent fear, and that is wrong. He ought to be scared. “What was that poor devil even doing in the woods at night…”

“Caleb, what’s the difference?”

“Was he tryin’ to desert or what?”

“What. Is. The difference?” Ben draws back and stares at his friend with outrage. “What of it if he was? Even had it been a redcoat – Caleb, I bit a man to death! Tore out his throat like he was a rabbit!”

“Hush,” Caleb raises up both hands as if trying to shield himself from Ben’s voice. “Quit yelling. Here, drink,” he fishes a flat flask of Madeira out of the inside pocket of his coat, and pushes it into Ben’s hands.

“Right,” he begins as Ben drinks, gagging and coughing. “So we have to figure out what to do with that trouble of yours.”

“I’ve already figured everything out, and I was trying to do just that, until you barged in.”

“And thank God I did! Ben, I won’t let you kill yourself!”

“Then you will have to kill me,” Ben retorts, and takes the pistol from the table. “In the woods, now. Let’s go.”

Caleb stares at him in horror.

“No.”

“Lieutenant Brewster,” Ben raises his voice and holds the pistol out to Caleb, “that’s an order!”

Caleb takes the pistol and throws it aside – not by magic this time, but simply by hand.

“Stick your orders where the sun don’t shine, Captain,” he replies, his chin defiantly up. “Listen to me. We’re both magicians, right? We’ll figure it out and no one will have to shoot anyone. I’ll figure it out.”

Ben is silent. He’s scared of death, because he knows for sure he’ll go to hell – a magician, even though the church has a complex stance on magic; a killer, even though everyone kills at war; a werewolf, even though not of his own volition; a sodomite, even though he hasn’t ever dared to proposition anyone. He hates himself for this weakness, but he really is scared, man and wolf inside him alike. Besides, the army needs him, Washington needs him, his friends whom he dragged into another risky business need him. Of course he would prefer to stay alive – but he doesn’t see any conditions under which it is possible without subjecting others to mortal peril.

“Trust me,” Caleb says quietly, resolutely. He stares at Ben, imploring him with his warm, always so endlessly warm eyes, and Ben gives up.

***

At night, Ben returns to the forest, and the wolf returns home.

He throws off the scruples of conscience together with his former appearance. Only a tiny part remains, caught on that scrap of human sentience that still remains with him. That scrap causes him pain, but it also brings him hope – hope that strong as the wolf might be, it cannot beat Benjamin Tallmadge. He’s still here, with his guilt and his fear and his remorse, and he has no intention to leave this head.

But the wolf’s hunger is strong, and now, when the wolf has already partaken of human flesh, it’s all the more dangerous.

The camp is asleep. Only the sentries are walking to and fro, small figures barely distinguishable from the edge of the woods. Ben – no, the wolf, that’s all wolf – looks at them and makes a step forward.

A noise behind his back makes him turn around.

It’s a bear. Not the biggest there is, but undoubtedly still bigger than him. Ben bares his fangs, but is in no hurry to run away. It is the first time he sees this bear, the first time he sees any bear, but this one smells like something very familiar, something like home, and for the wolf it is enough not to be afraid of it.

The bear approaches him, extends a foreleg the way a person would extend a hand to point at something, and growls as if calling him somewhere. Ben turns to look at the sentries again.

The bear growls louder and gently nudges him with its paw, and Ben gives up.

Together they disappear deep into the woods, and then they hunt down a big deer, and its meat tastes almost as good as the meat of that young man – deserter or not – that Ben recently murdered.

When Ben wakes up as a man, he realizes two things. The first is that at night he managed to return closer to the camp, because the gnarled oak under which he’s lying is well familiar to him.

The second is that someone’s lying by his side, hugging him at the small of his back.

Ben detaches himself, pushing off the hugging arm, and sits up abruptly.

“Caleb,” and of course it’s Caleb, naked and muddy like him, with leaves and tiny twigs in his hair and beard. “Caleb, wake up!”

“Why are you yellin’, why d’ya always have to yell?” Caleb mutters drowsily, and bats Ben’s hand away when Ben tries to shake him by the shoulder. At last he opens his eyes and sits up too. “Morning, Benny.”

“Morning?” Ben is positively at a loss. He certainly doesn’t like the most obvious explanation – that is, that Caleb followed him through the woods last night, at the risk of being mauled by a beast that does not care who Benjamin Tallmadge’s closest childhood friends are. “Caleb, how did you get here? How did you find me? Did you go after me last night or what?”

“Yeah,” Caleb shrugs, stretches, and gets up, and Ben does his utmost to look away. Caleb pulls clothes, his own and Ben’s, from a hole beneath the oak roots, and throws him his shirt. “Spent all night with you, don’t you remember?”

When it dawns upon Ben, he is halfway through putting his shirt on, and his sudden shudder almost results in him tearing it.

“You’re out of your mind,” he hisses, leaps to his feet too, and grabs Caleb by the shirt. If someone catches them like that – away from the camp, scantily clad – it won’t be easy to explain themselves, but this is not what he’s worried about at present. “I thought you promised to figure out how to stop the wolf!”

“And I did,” Caleb replies nonchalantly, struggling to pry Ben’s fingers away from his sleeve.

“By becoming the same thing as I?!”

“I’m not the same thing, Ben! You were turned, I turned myself. You become a wolf, I keep a man’s mind in a bear’s body. A curious ritual, I learned about it in Canada,” Caleb covers his hand with his own and grins with delight. “Was eager to try it out for some time, see if I could handle it.”

Ben could say a lot about Caleb’s flippant attitude towards magic, but he has long understood that in some cases, it is no use wasting his breath.

“And how is this going to help up?” is all he asks.

Caleb smiles. Every time it gives him laughter lines; this mirth is going to make him all wrinkles when he grows old.

“Weren’t you lickin’ your lips at the sentries last night? But you didn’t go to them. You went with me. I’m stronger and bigger, I can hold you back if needed,” he gives Ben’s shoulder a friendly slap. “As long as I’m with you, you won’t hurt anybody.”

No, thinks Ben, but if neither you nor I are strong enough to resist our respective beast, there will be even more victims.

***

Strange as it may be, it works out. From one full moon to another, their lives are nearly the same as before – the military affairs, the spy ring business, magic-related or not. The bear guards the wolf against hunting in the camp of the Continental Army. Lieutenant Brewster guards Captain – now Major – Tallmadge against going mad with self-loathing and self-abhorrence.

Nathaniel Sackett, a seasoned magician, gets to the bottom of it at once.

“You need a suitable amulet, young man,” he says, looking over Ben with the curiosity of a scientist who has caught a peculiar bird. “Then it will be easier for you to control yourself. You’ll even be able not to depend on the full moon and transform whenever it is convenient for you. Like your friend here.”

“Convenient?” Ben echoes, frowning. “It will never be ‘convenient’ for me, sir. It is not about my convenience, but about the safety of others.”

“But you could be useful on the battlefield in this, hmm, capacity.” Sackett doesn’t seem to notice Ben’s indignation. “Haven’t it occurred to you?”

“No,” lies Ben.

Sackett clicks his tongue. “I’ll see what could be done.”

“He’s insane,” whispers Ben in frustration, when Sackett leaves to meet Washington.

Caleb shrugs. “All magicians are a bit out there,” he points out philosophically. “Just look at the two of us. Though we clearly have a long way to go compared to him.”

“Oh, it’s all fun to you, isn’t it? You furry blockhead.”

“No furrier than you,” Caleb replies good-naturedly.

If it was not for his cheerful nature and eternal unshakeable faith in them being able to get through it all, the wolf would have long gnawed down Benjamin Tallmadge’s soul.

***

The amulet that Sackett hands him looks like a flower or an open pine cone – petals made of different species of wood, and a silver core.

“Put it around your neck on the full moon. And don’t you dare take it off even if it hurts. And it will hurt,” he instructs. “Concentrate on the memories of home, family, friends, loved ones – everything that makes you human. Brewster shall watch over you. I believe it sensible for him to do that in his bear form, to be on the safe side.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ben says ardently as he takes the pendant.

The first night of the full moon, he doesn’t succeed. The amulet hurts him indeed – like pressing a hot iron to his chest. Ben musters all his strength, but in the end he cannot bear it, and tears the pendant off. On his chest, a red print remains. That night he howls at the moon desperately, and Caleb lies in a pit and watches him and waits patiently for him to cry it all out.

The following night, Caleb ties him to a tree.

“Are you sure?” he asks for the last time.

Ben snarls.

The moon comes out, and the amulet bites into his skin, into the still-raw yesterday’s burn. Caleb shucks off his clothes and shapeshifts. Ben still cannot get used to how awful the transformation appears to an onlooker – the body mashed and spread and bent, the limbs twisting unnaturally, the fur growing out in an instant. Ben is well familiar with the kind of pain Caleb is experiencing, but even it seems like nothing compared to the one caused by the amulet.

Sackett told him: when he subdues the wolf, the pain will cease.

Sackett told him: keep thinking of what makes you human.

Through pain, Ben reminisces his father and his late mother, his brothers, their sweet old house and the neat small church in Setauket. The memories of home seem like the memories of a past life; none of this exists anymore. The British soldiers sit in their church. Samuel is dead. Nathan, whom he also reminisces, whom he could never forget, is dead as well.

The silver burns his skin, the tree bark scratches even through the shirt, and the wolf inside him howls in pain. It is hard to focus on anything but pain, yet he tries.

Father. Abe. Anna. Washington.

Happy New Year, Tallboy.

Caleb, his sleepy smile, the warmth by his side, the arm on his waist.

I won’t let you kill yourself.

Ben screams until he suddenly realizes that the pain has passed. The bear lying next to him raises his head and nuzzles against his thigh.

The night after, he stares at the moon with human eyes, the amulet pleasantly cooling his chest.

***

Little by little, he learns – not only to trap the beast inside, but also to let it out when it is his own wish, not that of the skies above. When the moon isn’t full, the hunger isn’t as strong, and he need not fear that his feet – his paws – would bring him to the camp; not that Caleb would let that happen, anyway. What he is the most afraid of is losing the amulet in the thicket; he keeps Sackett’s notes, in which it is explained, among other useful things, how to make one, but that would require a long time and a variety of materials that would be hard to come by.

Little by little, he learns to accept that he likes it – the quiet of the woods, the moonlight, the wind singing in his ears, the delicious night air, clear as spring water. The thrill of the hunt and the lazy bliss of fullness. Falling asleep with his nose pressed into the coarse brown fur; waking up with his cheek pressed against Caleb’s chest. Something completely unthinkable and still completely natural, as if someone decided way before they were born that they would sleep best like that – nestled up to each other, not a scrap of clothes between them, the all-forgiving starlight above.

Sometimes Ben is grateful to Rogers for cursing him.

Once, having woken up at sunrise, he goes through the memories of the past night – now that his animal form is subject to the amulet, it is much easier to restore them. They killed a deer and feasted on the hot meat, and then fell down to the ground, sated and tired. The bear tumbled on his back spread-eagle, rolling about funnily and flattening the moss. The wolf climbed on top of him and nipped at his nose. Both had snouts and paws covered in blood, and they licked each other for a long time, played like pups, until the wolf fell asleep and the bear must’ve fallen asleep after him.

Ben, having carefully disentangled himself from Caleb, gazes at him and thinks absentmindedly that the dark hair on his chest and belly looks like animal fur. And that the wolf has already fallen asleep, retreated into the farther corner of his mind, and yet he still wants to lick.

Ben has no idea if beasts are prone to the same sin as some men, including him, but he knows that a wolf cannot and would not think of mating with a bear. The shade their night-time games acquire in his eyes does not come from the wolf, which cannot tell right from wrong. It comes from Benjamin Tallmadge, reverend’s son, the honorary virgin of the entire Continental Army, who’d rather die than admit why he never joined his fellows on a visit to a brothel. He remembers Caleb telling him that the ritual lets him keep a human mind in a beast’s body. Ben is not sure it is still so; Caleb turned without him present several times, stayed alone with the bear, and sometimes Ben worries that confident in his power, he might succumb to his second nature entirely. Still, what Ben would like to know most of all is what Caleb the bear, or Caleb the man in a bear’s frame, thought when he ran his rough tongue over Ben’s belly.

He daren’t ask, but in the evening, when they already can sleep peacefully in the camp because the moon has begun to wane, he comes to Caleb’s tent. The candle is blown out, but Caleb, who is now able to see in the dark perfectly well, like Ben, is still awake.

“Tallboy, what is it?” Caleb asks anxiously when Ben enters and carefully closes the tent flaps. “Has something happened?”

Ben steps up to him, heart beating so wildly as if it is going to break out of his body, and tilts his head to lick Caleb’s neck, animal-like, and then kisses him on the lips, as people do.

Caleb sighs loudly, his eyes closed, and leans to kiss him back.

He growls, leaning on Ben with all his weight on the cot too narrow for two, and Ben bites Caleb’s shoulder when he comes, but apart from that they have no reason to blame all that on the animals in their heads.

That night, Ben presses his snout – no, his face – to Caleb’s neck, and sleeps even more soundly than in the open air.

***

Gradually, the truth comes out. Not all of it, fortunately; not about the two of them. And not about Ben, in contrast to Caleb, being turned against his will, not being able to control the beast at first, and tearing a fellow soldier to pieces on top of that. Everyone believes Ben made the decision to turn in order to become a more dangerous foe to the British army. Washington thinks so. Everyone thinks so. Ben is in no hurry to change their minds.

On the battlefield, both of them are of more use on two feet, with weapons and spells ready, but a couple of times, when ambush is required, they face the enemy in their other bodies. This is enough for the British to start talking about them. As Ben learns from Townsend, casting a spell to communicate with him through a bowl of water (at the end of the conversation, Townsend, icily polite, asks him if he could henceforth warn him somehow before appearing in his washbasin – if it is not too much trouble, of course), the blue-eyed wolf even gains some grand nicknames in the enemy camp. The General’s Cerberus, Washington’s Hellhound. The fact that Ben, lofty manner notwithstanding, is still considered to be a dog is insufferably amusing to Caleb. The latter, however, is not accorded anything more sophisticated than the Shaggy Devil or the Hairy Devil or similar variations on the theme of the devil and bears. Ben likes to respond to Caleb’s dog-related teasing by saying that Caleb’s human appearance is as deserving of these names as the animal one, if not more.

In the camp, they’re respected, yet given a wide berth – both of them, even the ever jovial Caleb, and that continues when Anna joins them. The soldiers are intrigued by her, but also intimidated – which is not unwise, to be fair, considering she’s always been the most skilled magician among the four of them. Washington’s coven, soldiers whisper. A witch and two warlocks – only Abe is missing from the set.

Ben is glad Anna is with them – not just because he needn’t worry she might get in trouble away from her friends, but also because they need a safeguard. He’s reached an understanding with his wolf, and Caleb has been in tune with his bear from the start, but at the end of the day they are still wild beasts. He makes Anna a copy of the instruction on how to make the amulet from Sackett’s notes, and tells her to always keep a pistol with at least two silver bullets at hand to stop him or Caleb if worst comes to worst. Or (he doesn’t say that, though) to stop Caleb first and then, regardless of circumstances, him. An amulet is an amulet, but Ben cannot shake off the feeling that the lion’s share of his control over the beast is tied to Caleb’s presence.

He has heard somewhere that wolves mate for life anyway.

“I just hope I won’t have to use it,” says Anna with a sad smile, accepting the pistol.

“You won’t have to,” Caleb says with confidence and hugs her by the shoulders. “It’ll be alright.”

Ben looks at them, and the wolf in his head curls up snugly and falls asleep.

[blood-mocha-latte]

I would love to see "Dear Wormwood" and "Pale White Horse" for the Oh Hellos asks... Any pairings but maybe a nice Winnix or a Luztoye? Or some gen Brotherly Man Angst?

Full Disclosure: this is actually a long-winded fic that I’ve been chewing on for the past three or so months, so I figured posting a snippet of it as both a preview and a drabble request would be a good way of releasing some of my Brain Demons. I hope you enjoy <3

“You have always been there in my mind.” – Dear Wormwood

“The sight held me fixed like a bayonet against my throat.” – Pale White Horse

---

July 1967, Nighttime

Joe watched him as he picked his way closer to the stands, waving and saying something or the other every two seconds to some stranger as he got steadily closer.

It was always the same, seeing George. Like he couldn’t breathe, like for a brief moment, letting even just his gaze settle on the other was enough to cut his throat. 

“Thought you wouldn’t come!” He shouted over the din of the crowded basement, felt warm as George’s gaze snapped towards him, the way that his whole face seemed to become brighter.

“The diner closed early!” He shouted back, holding what looked like a cardboard box from the restaurant above his head. “I had to run to get down here, but it seems worth it!”

George hit the side of the ring easily, the bottom of it coming up to the middle of his chest, and held up the box higher. Joe snorted, reached down to take it from him before dropping to sit, cross-legged, to meet his eyes more fully.

“Guess so,” He said absently, pushing the lid of the box open with two fingers before letting it drop closed again. “Sandwiches?”

“Two.” George confirmed, resting his elbows near Joe’s knees as he looked up at him, eyes warm and bright. “For after.”

As he finished speaking, his words were almost drowned out as the crowd began to swell again, ever growing and ever louder. Joe didn’t bother to look behind him, knew it was something to do with the other man in the ring. George wrinkled his nose, careful, and it made Joe want to laugh, the urge smothered somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

“I forget how loud it is here.” George shouted to him, eyes crinkled at the corners, and Joe watched him for entirely too long before looking away. He placed the box in front of him carefully and pushed it back towards George with his fingertips. 

“Feels like it’s always getting louder!” He shouted back, dropping his hands back into his lap, the scratchy wrap over his knuckles serving only as a minor annoyance. George’s gaze was near hesitant, cast somewhere over Joe’s shoulder.

“Who’re you against tonight?” He asked, eyes moving back to Joe’s face slowly, light and curious. Joe shrugged, barely cared.

“Some guy.” He said, didn’t want to expand on it. “What’d you study today?” George’s eyes sparked.

He hadn’t put anything in his hair, and it had grown out, slightly; curling around his ears and parting around his face. It looked nice. Joe considered telling him so and decided against it.

“Some guy.” He said back. “Either learnin’ about them or fightin’ them.”

Joe huffed, looked somewhere over George’s shoulder at the mess of people yelling behind him, jostling each other and everything else. Underground fights were always more hectic than he was ever expecting. “Guess so.” He rasped.

When he met George’s gaze again the other's face was unreadable, warm and careful and a thousand other words that Joe wasn’t smart enough to find. “I’m alone for the rest of the night.” He told Joe, tilting his head enough to glance to the side. “Frank is out until Thursday on some assignment.”

“I’ll drop by.” Joe said, before he could think to say something else, and George watched him carefully, still warm but slightly more apprehensive.

“I don’t like being stood up.” He said, a bit of a warning, and Joe winced, slightly. 

“I fucked up, last time.” He said, low, leaning further forward on his knees to get closer to George, shifting to rest both wrists on the taut rope between them. The changed angle seemed slightly more private, less unobstructive, though everyone was still screaming and everywhere was still crowded.

“Yeah, you did.” George told him, solemn, but the corner of his mouth crooked up soon after, and he shifted, resting the sandwich box between his hip and forearm. He was still leaning against the raised platform of the ring and reached forward with his free hand, pressing a finger to Joe’s chin before shifting to press his palm to his jaw.

He leaned in before Joe could think to pull back, pressing his mouth to the space just below his cheekbone and whispering a soft good luck, soft lips and warm breath and smelling, vaguely, of chlorine.

It gave Joe pause, unable to do anything to breathe George in before he was pulling back just as quickly, stepping away from the platform, fingertips shifting to press to the seam of his own lips.

“Fight hard.” He said, taking another step backwards. “I’ll wait for you.”

Joe blinked, looked vaguely around at nothing. No one had saw that, he knew, the effect of being completely alone because everything was too crowded. His cheek was still warm.

“Okay.” He finally managed to say, hoarser than he’d like to be, and the crowd had already swallowed George completely.