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eclecticvalor · 4 years ago

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7 Things I experience as a DID System. Mental Health Awareness Month.

In light of May being America’s mental health awareness month, I wanted to talk about something that has consumed my entire life for the past year and a half: Treatment and healing from a disorder that is stigmatised into the ground by poor representation and misunderstandings both socially and in the medical field. Those who are close to me know first hand how my symptoms and experiences have shaped the way I interact with the world since starting treatment, but aside from my closest friends and family, and the people I live with, I don’t normally talk about the fact that I have Dissociative Identity Disorder, and what that means to me.

Hi. My name is Atlas, some people call me Cadyn, and I am the primary host of 26 fragmented parts of my consciousness. I am not dangerous, none of my parts or alters are dangerous, and no, it is not like “Split”.

Dissociative Identity Disorder is a trauma based dissociative disorder listed in both the DSM IV and V, and is recognized as an uncommon disorder characterized by two or more distinct personality states existing within the same consciousness. These personality states come to be when natural childhood development is disrupted by severe, continued, or repetitive, trauma, the child has a natural inclination towards heavy dissociation, and a lack of adult or parental support to develop the means to cope with the things happening to them.

Unfortunately popular mental health media has seen an uptake in people viewing DID as a quirky “trait”, the ability to have functional imaginary friends living in your head... but in reality DID is a lot darker, a lot scarier, and isn’t something I’d wish upon my worst enemy. Because of this media spike I wanted to share 7 things that living with Dissociative identity disorder means to me

1. Amnesia

Living with DID means that I miss out on a lot of my life. A primary symptom of DID is amnesia. I have no solid memories before the age of 13, and the memories I do have are often skewed, incorrect, or completely false as my brain fought for a way to fill in gaps and cope with the loss of memory. I forget a lot, and not just things like forgetting where I left my wallet and keys, or forgetting the day - those do happen, but I also mean forgetting big things, important life experiences and things I wish with all my being that I could remember like my highschool graduation and my wedding reception.

I often forget important day to day things that make it difficult to maintain life as an adult, like doctors appointments, work schedules, meetings, and important daily tasks. I’ll forget that I’ve eaten at all that day and risk going days without eating, or overeating due to having no recollection of the last time I’d eaten. I forget birthdays (especially my own), anniversaries, and important holidays.

To an outsider, who has no idea what’s happening inside my head, this can come across as though I’m thoughtless or unreliable. That I am cold for forgetting an important date, or simply that I just don’t care when this very much is not the case.

2. Alienation

Oftentimes DID comes with a sense of alienation from people who you’re supposed to know. For me a really clear example of this is when I previously mentioned my childhood memories being skewed - I have a clear memory of a conversation I was having with some blood relatives a few years back in which I mentioned that one family member I had happy childhood memories of, and remembered playing together as kids, but with another family member they were practically a stranger to me. I had, and still have, no memories of ever spending time with them growing up, no memories of having any kind of relationship with them at all. My understanding of our relationship was that it was “forced” because we were family and our parents expected us to exist in the same space as we grew up, but that we never talked. But I was informed by a separate member of the family that I was very wrong, and this “stranger” was actually someone I had been close to growing up. This is a common experience with DID patients, and also a very frustrating one. It creates feelings of “You know me but I don’t know you”, and it’s extremely difficult to trust your own judgement of the people you know, because you often can’t tell if your judgement is skewed by your memories or lack thereof.

3. PTSD and Flashbacks

A diagnosis of C-PTSD (Or complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) is required for a diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder. This means that while the individual symptoms of DID can be frustrating, scary and sometimes depressing, the most difficult aspect of DID, and the most important to focus on in treatment is the PTSD symptoms.

PTSD symptoms in DID can be extremely powerful due to the additional dissociative aspect. This can mean that for a lot of DID patients, flashbacks can produce full blown body sensations, hallucinations and terrifying delusions. This is One thing that I find incredibly difficult to talk about, but I also believe is extremely important to understand. It can be embarrassing, shameful and while I only speak for myself in saying this, can cause a lot of guilt and grief. There have been times where I have been experiencing powerful flashbacks and did not recognize my own husband, resulting in lash outs and fear towards him being delusioned into thinking that he was out to hurt me, or had harmful intent for just existing in the same space as I was.

For me, a single wiff of a familiar smell, hearing a sound, a certain color, an idea, a name, a passing thought or comment can throw my previously stable mental state into one of pure panic, hyperventilation, hallucination, delusion, fight-flight-freeze and reactionary responses. Through treatment I’ve developed adaptive and healthy coping skills and management responses but trauma responses can be so quick, and so unexpected that I don’t always have time to process my coping skills before my body and mind respond in negative ways.

4. Decision making and skewed Behavior

Because living with DID, means living with a shared or fragmented consciousness, this often means that while I may not remember, my life is still being lived during my time of memory loss. Alters or parts will take control and operate my body, reacting to things, interacting with people, completing tasks and functioning. But oftentimes parts who take control are very different from myself, and make choices and decisions that I wouldn’t normally make, and sometimes decisions I wouldn’t *ever* make. An example of this is the fact that technically I am a conservative voter, despite myself as an individual having leftist or NDP views, or decisions to leave or apply for jobs and work positions that I have no interest in, or that I don’t even have the qualifications or physique to do, or leaving ones that I personally loved and excelled at. This also reflects a lot in everyday life in more subtle things, decisions like what food to eat, things to buy, activities to do shift between parts while they’re in control.

To outsiders this can look a lot like impulsivity, lack of self-control, or lack of a sense of identity. This is a huge reason why a lot of DID patients are often misdiagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder or Bipolar Disorder because the behaviour between alters can be so drastically different that it can look a *lot* like manic or depressive states.

5. Denial and Dismissing Trauma

A very common experience among DID patients is denial and being dismissive or disregarding the things that happened to them. I often find myself in a state of questioning whether my symptoms, my disorder, and even my trauma were ever real to begin with. In therapy I find myself saying “It’s not that big of a deal” or “It wasn’t that big of a deal” more times than I’m actually saying anything productive. A huge part of this is why I wanted to make this list, because the media, and a lot of medical circles deny that DID exists or believe it’s impossibly rare and those, while both false, can cause intense feelings of “Maybe I’m just doing this for attention”. DID is a very real, very difficult disorder to diagnose, to treat, and to live with disorder, and while it is uncommon, statistics show that approximately 1-2% of western population is diagnosed, and up to a suspected 7% are living with the disorder undiagnosed because of these misconceptions. It is not common, and it’s not something that everyone is going to have, but it is a very possible response to very real trauma and is a valid diagnosis to give to those meeting the criteria.

6. Hidden Symptoms

DID is often referred to as a “covert” presenting disorder. What this means is that most commonly outsiders, friends, family, employers and even the patient themselves can have a nearly impossible time recognizing the symptoms, and it often goes unnoticed until an event destabilizes the function of the person’s life. This can lead to a lot of backlash or denial coming from peers and family close to the person. This leads to the patient hearing a lot of: “I’ve never noticed personality changes”, “You don’t act like you have it”, “You couldn’t possibly have that”, “No, I would have noticed”, “You have to be mistaken”, “There’s no way, it would have been obvious”. And so, so much more. The reality of DID is that it’s *not* noticeable. It’s a safety response that the brain created to protect the psyche from the intense damages that come with long term trauma experiences, so it’s often designed to hide itself from abusers or perceived threats as a way to compartmentalize trauma memories and maintain the ability to survive through stress and unstable situations. Not being able to “notice” is kind of the point in most cases.

7. Wandering and Dissociative Episodes

Living with untreated or unmanaged DID can potentially be dangerous due to episodes of dissociation, “wandering” experiences (where the patient will wander away from home, family, or life in a confusion, attempt to return to a perceived life never lived, or in a state of belief that their current life is unsafe). For me this took a head last year, and was actually an event that led to the solidification that this disorder was the explanation to my experiences. According to nurses and my husband, I had wandered into the emergency room of a hospital in the middle of the night, with no idea who or where I was, with no idea how to return home, or even where home was. I was wearing a t-shirt, and it had been raining, and my body was so cold they needed to retake my vitals nearly 6 times because they were unable to get an appropriate reading. After discovering my identity, my husband was called to take me home. Working with a therapist helped to develop a safety plan during events like this to prevent harm from coming to my body, or from ending up in newly traumatic environments, but I was lucky. These situations can lead to re-traumatization, victimization, it can lead to kidnapping, assault, it can lead to being injured or harmed by environmental factors and so much more and it is so incredibly important that DID patients work with their therapist to develop solid safety plans proactively to make sure that the patient doesn’t experience any worst case scenarios during episodes like this.

Conclusion

My experiences are individual to me, and to my psyche. Not everyone will experience the disorder the same way, because not everyone experiences or responds to trauma the same way. I am so lucky, and extremely privileged to be able to access consistent care and treatment, that I found a professional who trusts me, and is focused on stabilizing and supporting. Too many people living with this disorder have no access to supportive mental health care because of the misconceptions that parts of the medical field hold regarding the legitimacy or frequency that the disorder develops, and too many peers and circles of people outcast or disregard the very real, very difficult experiences because they don’t understand the disorder, or believe it doesn’t exist, or believe it looks like split. If you, or someone you know is struggling with Dissociative symptoms, or dissociative identity disorder do not be afraid to reach out to a professional for support, and educate yourself on the reality of the disorder.

#dissociative identity disorder #DID System #dissociation #mental health awareness #mental illness #mentalhealthawareness #mental health #actuallydissociative #dissociative amnesia #education #psychotherapy #experience #actuallytraumatized #trauma #actuallydid #did/osdd

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fortheloveoflizards · 5 years ago

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ive actually been a fan of wof for years now, im just not super active in the fandom and i guess id like to be? so here i am, sending u an awkward ask lol. anyways, the more i think about animus magic, the more i hate the way tui executed the concept? like theres barely any consequences or limitations. dragons can do whatever they want with it, which is bad for the plot. idk what are ur thoughts?

Hah, this isn’t awkward at all, I actually do have a lot of thoughts on animus magic, particularly how it differs in each tribe. I think giving each tribe different types of magic, as well as individual drawbacks on top of the general “you go crazy if you abuse your power”. Though I think the latter could have worked as more of a “if you use your power selfishly, it’ll turn on you” sort of situation? In my headcanons, each tribe has a type of magic they work best with, and a type of magic that puts strain on their physical form.

As the tribe closest in appearance to traditional European dragons, I like to headcanon Skywing animus magic as Weather and Element based. Stuff like creating storms and controlling wind currents is easy to imagine, but also magic pertaining to emotions, often fueled by the feelings of the animus themselves. A Skywing animus might find it easiest to use an object to better conduct magic, like a branch or, most commonly, crystals of different types. Skywing magic is what you would call “cast spells”, meaning they have no need to write or say what they wish to do, just think or “feel” it. As for drawbacks, emotional instability is kind of obvious, huh? There’s also bad weather being attracted to the animus, and parts of their body slowly turning into whatever object they used to channel their spells. As an example, using crystals in his spells might result in an animus’ scales turning into crystals themselves, whereas an animus that used a branch to direct air currents would notice her tail growing small twigs and leaves out from between her scales. The magic Skywings have most difficulty with is Herbal and Brewed magic. I feel since Skywing magic is very much based on action and emotion, it would be difficult for a Skywing animus to properly channel it in such a passive way.

Mudwing animus magic is perhaps my favourite to think about, it being what I call Herbal or Brewed magic. Mudwing animi specialize in potions and medicine, though this is more of an inherent tribe skill, their magic works best when imbued into food or drink. To continue with this technique, “power-ups” would be cool to see. Potions to give a dragon super strength or speed, or to keep their scales permanently warm so they can always breath fire. I think Mudwings would be most likely to use so called “magical ingredients” for their spells, as in the act of the animus using an ingredient makes it magic, rather than a normal dragon including it in their stew. I don’t feel there would be much room for drawbacks when it comes to Mudwing magic, so I’m gonna say there isn’t one. However, I will say Brewed magic is one of the hardest to perfect, as if a quantity of ingredient is even slightly off, disaster is imminent. Transformation magic is likely to be the hardest for a Mudwing animus to use. While Brewed magic is hard, it’s precise and a recipe can be done a hundred times for a hundred different dragons, and the effects never alter. Transformation magic is the opposite, in that the spell must be altered for every dragon, as every dragon is slightly different.

Next up is Sandwings! They lean most towards Written and Solar based magic. As you can guess, this means their magic is linked at least partially to the sun. Though they can’t control them, Sandwing animi often have very keen senses when it comes to the weather and seasonal changes. Change itself is a big thing for Sandwings, so seasonal magic is common. Sandwings also find writing spells easiest, as the spell is then precise and exactly as they need it. Sandwing riddles, told at parties or in passing as a fun conversation topic, have their roots in animus magic. Sandwing animi also enjoy the company of animal companions, usually camels or vultures; animals that can carry scrolls and items for the animus in question. The downside for Sandwing animi can be either mental or physical. They can start forgetting things, losing track of time, generally being scatterbrained, which eventually leads to them losing their entire memory. Or, their scales begin to darken, although I’m undecided on what kind of colour they would turn. Should they just turn golden or maybe more of a sunburnt orange or red. Perhaps even black. I dunno, maybe all three. Spoken and Lunar magic are the clear opposites of Written and Solar, so it’s pretty obvious why a Sandwing animus would have trouble in this area. Sandwing magic can be very picky, kind of like a sadistic genie that goes by what a wisher says, rather than what they mean. A dragon has to be very careful how they phrase a spell, which is hard for most Sandwing animi, hence their avoidance of Spoken spells.

I think my Seawing animus headcanon is the closest to being confirmed in canon, since the Seawing animi we see using their magic are usually using what I’ve called Spoken and Lunar magic. This includes regeneration(like healing of themselves and others), curses, transfiguration of objects and generally verbal commands. And for the record, “verbal commands” is usually, like the animus test the Seawings take, telling an inanimate object to do something. Lunar magic is connected to the moon and the tides, opposite to Solar magic. This can mean it gets stronger under a full moon, and gives a Seawing animus a kind of bond to the ocean the more they use Lunar magic. As with Sandwing animi, the magic that comes most natural to Seawings involves change. Changing tides, moon rotations, drifting currents and rips, all those factor into their magic’s strength, in and out of water. Seawing animi can also suffer a lowering of inhibitions, and can suffer what I call “going feral”. Theirs is the most noticeable, though this final drawback can affect all tribes. I like to think the more a Seawing animus uses their magic, the more they start to look like a deep sea creature. Brighter glowing scales, thinner scales overall(sometimes so thin you can almost see their insides, bleurgh!), elongated, thinner teeth, and increased speed of growth to their whole body. As you can probably guess, Written and Solar magic are the areas that cause the most trouble for Seawing animi. I’m not sure what else to comment here, since I feel it’s pretty straightforward, so there you go.

Rainwings! The tribe I’m most like! I feel that since the average Rainwing can change the colour of their scales regardless of magical ability, Transformation magic would be a perfect match for any animi that might exist in the tribe. Transformation magic includes form shifting of themselves and others, body hrror/torture(which differs from simple form shifting because it’s specifically supposed to cause pain) and transfiguration of objects. Transformation magic requires knowledge of how the specific dragon’s body works, moves and how their mind reacts to things. You might think the average Rainwing is too self-centered to be capable of that kind of perceptiveness, but I believe they’re more perceptive than they’re portrayed in-canon. I think the most noticeable consequence of a Rainwing animus using their magic is their scale colours “glitching”. If the Rainwing is naturally purple and green and they try to turn red and blue, areas of their scales might change slower than the rest, or not change altogether. A camouflaged Rainwing might suddenly find themselves bright pink and orange. Stuff like that. Weather magic is most difficult for a Rainwing animus, since it requires a lot of, I guess passionate emotions? Weather magic is loud and aggressive and takes a lot of power to control. It also relies heavily on being strongly connected to every emotion, and can backfire terribly on a dragon that doesn’t know how to wrangle that kind of power.

Mind and Time magic is what I’ve assigned for Nightwings! I felt it fits with their whole Mystical Infinite Powers aesthetic. Obviously, Mind magic includes mindreading and and Time magic future vision - which were most likely a gift from a Nightwing animus a long time ago. Other abilities include fate writing(a spell that can change an otherwise unchangeable future), enchanting, illusions, and changing minds/the perceptions of a dragon. This magic is actually relatively simple to perform, and one of the most used types by all animus dragons. That doesn’t make it any less powerful or dangerous, in fact it’s probably more dangerous that it’s so easy to use. Nightwings certainly haven’t been using it for the best purposes. This is the magic I think is the root cause of dragons losing their minds, since “Mind” is like one whole half of the magic. The unfortunate thing is that Nightwings are excellent bullshitters, so they at least last a while before anyone figures out something’s wrong. The side effect of using other types of magic is most notably scale discolouration, to the point that there are records of completely white, full-blood Nightwings. Since Icewings and Nightwings are Enemies For Life I figure their magics would clash just as much, out of principal. Reflective magic in particular requires the user to be self aware, to know their faults and, if only momentarily, be at peace with them. Nightwings are pretty in denial about a lot of stuff, it’s part of the culture they’ve built up.

Finally, Reflective and Defensive magic is the natural inclination of Icewings. That means shielding and barrier magic - which can be physical or psychological, insightful magic, illusions and star spells. No insightful magic is Not future vision, if you make that comparison in front of even a regular Icewing you will be murdered. The Icewing mind is typically pretty guarded already, as we see when Moon tries to read them. I like to believe that an animus a long time ago used their Gift to make it so Nightwings can’t read the tribe’s minds, or at least not easily. This would be an example of a psychological barrier spell. Star spells are tied to the stars(no duh) like Solar and Lunar magic are tied to their respective namesakes. However, as opposed to change, star spells are constant. Once one is cast, it stays forever. Almost all Icewing magic is a star spell of some kind, making other dragons very wary of an animus born from the tribe. Thankfully, the fact that Icewing magic includes that of Defense, it’s rarely used for aggressive purposes. I believe Icewing magic would backfire by crystalising within the user’s bones, making their joints stiff and their mind fuzzy. They may dissociate from the world and eventually be lost, as with Sandwings. As I said, Icewings and Nightwings are opposites in magic, though there are overlaps which serve to infuriate both tribes. Considering Nightwing animus magic supposedly came from Icewings, the former retained some of the abilities of the latter.

There you are, my thoughts on dragon magic. This turned into much more of a headcanons post than an answer, so I hope you don’t mind. Thanks so much for the ask, and I hope you find content creators that make you feel safe being active in the fandom!

#Wings of Fire #Rose Brambles #Headcanons #Dragon Biology #Animus Magic #Mudwings #Skywings #Sandwings #Seawings #Rainwings #Icewings #Nightwings #i didn't think i had thoughts but then i did oop #guess who found motivation #i have so much stuff in my drafts #sorry to all the people following me who thought i was consistent #dunno where y'all got that idea

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officialtrashbin · 6 years ago

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Debris

Fill for @jogetsurin!

Rating: M+, for NSFW situations and violence typical of the Black Order. Corvus and Proxima have been married only a few months, so they’re still trying to figure each other out. Is a warzone a good place for a lover’s quarrel? Absolutely not. But it leads to a lot of rutting.

A/N: This got so incredibly out of hand. That’s all you need to know. It’s literally 4,000 words of just, me not knowing how to make something short.

When Corvus Glaive witnessed true death for the first time, he was an adolescent at the edge of the wheat fields behind his village home, hefting a bucket onto the platform beneath the water pump. He worked the handle once, twice, three times before discolored water finally sputtered out, then flushed clear, and he toed the bucket under the stream to fill. In the distance he saw rapid movement. Streaks of gray against a smudge of brown. He shielded his eyes from the sunlight, peered out—and witnessed a Deruswood doe sprawled out in the grass, begging for her herd while a razor-toothed Nynx tore her to shreds. The brutalization of the creature upended his world. He retched, the first- and only-time violence would ever have that profound effect on him, but he dared not look away. He didn’t think he could.

Corvus knew it then as he knew it now. He would never forget the sight of flesh wrenched from bone, the scent of wet blood in the air, and the haunting screams like prayers, all that anguish without answer, nor how it made his body sing. There was that terrible realization that he was half-hard, breathing into a body that didn’t feel like it was his anymore, forcing himself to endure the agony of spiritual reflection as the doe’s mournful wails diminished. That terrifying desire of knowing true peace.

When he remembered to shut the pump off, he saw the liquid swelled precariously at the lip of the bucket. That was how he would feel for the rest of his life: near to overflowing with a venereal desire he had learned in childhood and relearned in death.

The Shadow Guilds had ensured that much.

* * *

To his master, Corvus was the doe: a necessity to the food chain, something to be meticulously dismembered and masticated for the good of everything else above and below. Thanos had worded it quite delicately—how that doe rejected death only because it had been damned by its ancestors, who earnestly filled the role nothing else would for the betterment of all. It was a death the creature knew awaited it, from the day it was born to the day it felt claws lacerating its hindquarters, but never when.

Corvus grasped the neck of his glaive. He was the doe, anticipating his own death, yearning for it—yet on the battlefield he was the predator, too terrifying and too mighty to be killed so easily. In each scenario he was molded into his element. That was a rare thing: a beast that was both predator and prey, that excelled at both. Around him, the hinterlands of Muldari IV were burning, a sight he had seen a hundred times before on hundreds of other planets, yet every instance of battle filled him with a carnal need that could never be sedated. The predator that hunted and was damn good at it. A self-fulfilled prophecy.

Corvus was perched on the steps of the hilltop temple, and from here he took in the chaotic panorama: dismembered torsos of the fair-skinned and sharp-lipped Muldari scattered along the ground, detached heads in the rubble, the paths offset by broken staves of ill-designed weapons, which Corvus expected from a race which had never seen violence in all its centuries. He’d be impressed by their pacifistic diligence if it could be separated from the species’ weakness.

“To think,” he said to his companion, “if they had only given us their tribute, we could have avoided this.”

Proxima Midnight scoffed under her breath. “Strength in spirit is often grounds for short-sighted foolishness, Husband. Though, I suppose in the face of the inevitable, it doesn’t pay to give up what you’ll lose regardless.”

She was the only one who understood him. Corvus was guilty because of it. He had seen death so often it felt like a familiar memory, always lingering distantly in the back of his mind for when he sought its comfort, yet as the months passed, he became aware of how afraid Proxima was while he welcomed unlife with open arms. To be without him. To be alone. To die alone. She hadn’t cared about that in almost half a decade, but they were married now, and her concern felt…different. Personal. She knew this about him going in. Now her voice was always there, guiding him in the dark, bringing him back to her as if it had been embedded in the essence of his glaive. A desperation he was beginning to think he reflected.

Still, here they were, overseeing the aftermath of another slaughter and basking in the ambiance of the violence.

“Midnight,” he started, and she looked at him. “Do you regret marrying me?”

She was running the tip of her finger over the sharp crest of his blade. He felt the pressure of her touch but couldn’t deduce its intent. “Should I?”

“You are a survivor, formidable and enduring, but I am a creature that begs for death and warrants little self-preservation. Does that make it seem like I do not value you?”

She moved her hand to his cheek. “Probably,” she said, “though the intrinsic worth of value has never been a universal consistency. We have our certainties in life, sometimes with others more than ourselves, and that is the result of individual experience.”

Proxima always made it sound so simple.

He did value himself, as he valued her and the Order and above all else, Thanos—but he could never transpose into words how desperately he craved death for reasons as intensely adjacent but wholly unique to his master’s own. “I—I do value you,” he said, laying his hand across her thigh, “just so you know. I do not want to make you feel otherwise.”

An Outrider lurched by them, lightning-quick, and descended on a Muldari soldier who was groaning about his legs, crushed beneath the stone of a toppled pillar. It sliced open his torso through his flimsy armor. Organs blossomed from the wound—a flower, reaching for sunlight. The shrill screams rang out amongst the distant cacophony of other wails; Corvus’ lips split into a terrible grin as the desperate pleads for their goddess went unanswered, and the soldier gurgled to death on his own blue blood.

Another Outrider bounded up to Proxima and dropped to its knees, head bowed low. “Word, my lady,” it hissed out. “He is incapacitated but awake now, as you requested.”

“Excellent,” Proxima said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “Shall we, my love?”

Corvus followed his wife as she ascended the steep crest of the hill to the temple of the Muldari’s goddess. This town, like all others, had been built around a place of worship, it seemed, and they went through the open doors into the foyer. The corpses of Muldari citizens filled the room of religious homage. Several Outriders hovered around the cadavers, snapping at each other over entrails and the spoils of flesh.

The duo moved towards the alter.

An Outrider threw a man down to his knees at Proxima’s feet. He was dressed differently compared to the other Muldari soldiers, his uniform crested by gray feathers and finer metals, face and body bruised from the Machiavellian tactics of the Mad Titan’s army, and a thick trail of blue blood dripped from his thin mouth and along his soft chin. Proxima kicked him squarely in the chest and sent him sprawling onto the platform of the alter; she slammed her foot down into his sternum, pinning him there beneath the listless gaze of their goddess.

“Husband,” she purred as his figure moved into her peripheral vision. “This is the man they call General. Such a pathetic sight.”

“I was hoping they’d put up more of a fight,” Corvus said. “Pathetic and disappointing.”

“What is it you want from us?” the General begged, grasping Proxima’s ankle to keep her foot from sliding into the delicate plush of his neck. “Please, we are peaceful—”

“You could have remained in peace if you had given us tribute,” Corvus told him. “We are the Black Order, the judge, jury, and executioners of the Mad Titan Thanos. Give us what we want or we will continue to gut your planet until all that remains is its husk. Have I made my intentions clear?”

The soldier nodded furiously.

“Good.” He twirled his glaive around and slammed the blade through the floor mere inches from the Muldari’s head, and he shrieked, pupils blown wide with fear. “Tell us where you’ve hidden your children. The village is suspiciously lacking, and if we were anything less than observant, my wife would have had you castrated by now.”

“Please,” the Muldari soldier said. “There is no need, they are only children—”

“You brought this on yourself,” Proxima interjected, pressing her weight into her leg. “We asked for an understandable amount of tributes, between the standard ages of sixteen and twenty-two, but you had the audacity to deny us. The rest of your miserable race would have remained untouched.”

“Please,” he uttered. “Please—I beg you—”

“This is why I wish we had come with the Maw,” Corvus told his wife bitterly. He bent down, tapping the tip of his claw against the focal point of the General’s forehead. “Though, I suppose it is more fun to decimate the planet. This universe is already swarming with enough short-sighted species.”

“Swear to me!” The Muldari exclaimed. “Swear to me you will leave my people alone if I tell you! Even if I am to die, just—swear it—”

Corvus withdrew his hand. He crouched for a long moment, and then said, “All right, General. You have my word. We wish only for our tribute, and then, we shall be on our way.”

The General put his palm flat to the floor. “There are catacombs beneath all our temples, for protection!”

“Protection? You are pacifists.”

“We were once decimated by a meteor. The wrath of our goddess, so we believed! Though it was ages ago, but we built the systems beneath our temples to protect our species should it ever happen again. That is where you will find them.” He pushed against Proxima’s weight. “Now, please, call off your armies!”

As he stood, Corvus’ eyes flicked up to his wife. She seemed to know what he was thinking, and asked him, “Shall I defile their place of worship with his blood?”

He grinned, baring the predacious teeth of a voracious killer. “Of course, my love. But make it slow—compensation for denying our master his tribute.”

Proxima smirked deliciously. Methodically, the tip of the spear pierced through layers of flesh and muscles, splitting the Muldari’s neck open front to back. His pleads for mercy were pushed through the edges of the wound. Blood ruptured, overflowing like a bucket filled over the brim with too much water, but Proxima left it there, at that precipice, so the General asphyxiated on his own vitality. Fluids trickled into his lungs, slowed by the intrusion of the spearhead. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

Corvus thought of teeth slamming down into a helpless creature’s hide, pulling flesh away, the tearing and snapping of skin like thread—and he bent at the waist, the glottis in his throat vibrating intensely to release a bestial hiss. He became aware of Proxima’s apprehensive look. He was breathing heavy, sucking in deep breaths as if winded by the very sight of the gore, and each exhale was shakier than the last—but Proxima gazed at him knowingly. Her eyes wandered his body. His half-crumpled posture, his trembling shoulders, his quaking knees, and she knew the desire that coursed through him.

She flicked her wrist at the Outriders. “Leave us. Locate the entrance to the catacombs.”

The beasts departed one after another, throwing themselves back into the fray outside; soon, they were alone, and Corvus snarled like he had been struck hard enough to render pain. Proxima ripped her spear from the Muldari’s body, pointedly looking at her husband as she did, and then set it against the statue of the uncaring goddess. Blood leaked down the statue’s exposed thigh in rivulets.

“My love,” she said, and sauntered up to him. Her hands traversed the expanse of his chest, gliding over the thick material of his suit, up to his shoulders. “You poor, insatiable creature; you’re shaking.”

“You must understand how overcome you make me feel,” he hissed out, clasping his hands at her waist. “How…how difficult it is to resist—”

“Why resist?” One hand caressed his face, and the other slid downwards, over the valley of his abdomen and to his plated belt. She traced her fingertip over the intricate details on her descent. Then dipped lower, to where she felt him harden under her touch.

“Because it is—an inopportune time to be this—”

“Allow me to alleviate your suffering.”

He dipped his head into her shoulder. “I cannot ask that of you.”

“My love, you are afflicted by the heat of battle and the intimacy of death. Have I not been the same way? Do you forget Keruuva?”

Ah, yes. Keruuva, a seedy planet in the corner of the universe; they were eradicating the Keruuvian Deathsquad in trade for information from one of Thanos’ underhanded informants when Corvus went down on her in a squad leader’s office. “I remember,” he said then, flexing his claws to pantomime the grip he had maintained on her thighs to keep her from crushing his skull. “Still. It is—we have been given our orders.”

Proxima shrugged one shoulder and gave him a little smile, but he saw the disappointment behind the pallid filament of her eyes. “Your tone betrays your words, Corvus… but it is your decision all the same.”

Corvus knew she hadn’t been trying to guilt him. They were always eager to satisfy the other, with anything and everything, whether it was sexual fulfillment or emotional gratification, so of course there was despondency to be had in a situation of denial. Proxima merely wanted to help—

There was a mischievous glint that crossed her gaze. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips, then to his chin, his right cheek, his left cheek. Her mouth captured his, and for a moment Corvus surrendered to her, returning her affections by deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue curiously against hers. She hummed against him, into the cavern of his jaws. It was a deep vibration he felt reverberate into every bone in his chest as if he was made hollow by her existence. And she tilted her head, and he took in her quizzicality, feeling how she seemed to be looking for—for—

White, hot pain flared through his face. He reeled back, slamming back-first into the curve of the wall, and he was snarling. The reflex of a cornered animal about to strike. It should have been enough to deter her otherwise, yet Proxima was smirking at him like she wasn’t afraid at all. A drop of crimson blood meandered down her chin. He instinctively brought his hand up to the swell of his lower lip, where he felt the point where his skin was rendered in two.

“You bit me,” he said dumbly.

“A promise for tonight,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “Unless you’re through making excuses?”

“Excuses?”

“We have been given our orders. Are those not your words? My ears have yet to fail me, and that sounds very much akin to an excuse.”

“We are in a warzone, Proxima.”

“A point that would maintain its leverage if you weren’t so obvious with your need. Was Keruuva not a warzone as much as this?” Corvus grit his teeth, but she briskly added, “I can always tell when you’re omitting what you want to say.”

“And what if I don’t wish to say anything?” He advanced on her, blood leaking from his split lip. It gave him the terrifying qualities of a predator. “How can I so casually admit that the sight of death was the only commiseration that made me feel alive until I met you? Or how afraid I am to lose that?”

“I am your wife,” she shot back. “Has it not dawned on you I feel the same?”

“Of course it has! But it makes me vulnerable in a way I haven’t felt since—since—” He ripped his glaive from the floor and threw it in anger across the room, where it smashed through a far wall. “This damnation! What the Shadow Guilds did to me! I no longer fear death, I fear a life I am forced to live without—”

Proxima was looking at him, breath pillowed up in her chest.

With the glaive no longer in his grasp, he healed much slower. The blood hadn’t yet coagulated. If he had been born anyone else, perhaps he could have kept the scar. “I apologize,” he said then, putting the meat of his palm to his lip to feel the dangerous wetness through his vambraces. “This is…new territory for me, both mentally and emotionally. I am afraid that I’m going to—inevitably—do or say anything that is too much or goes too far. It is quite terrifying.”

“You worry about non-existent troubles. We have devoted our entirety to what Master Thanos commands—if violence were a matter I could not stomach, I would not be his harbinger.” She raised her hand. He loyally went to her open palm and maneuvered his cheek into her touch, exhaling softly, fulfilled by a comfort he had once thought was beyond his reach. “Do you not trust the words of your wife, Corvus Glaive?”

“I do. I’m sorry.” He took her in his arms and nuzzled her neck. “Then, may I ask—”

Proxima laughed affably. “Ask. Oh, you insensible creature, have you not realized I find battle as arousing as you? Especially when”—she pushed him back against the wall, no rough but firm all the same, fists in his cloak, her limpid gaze flaring with desire—“in your words, I become the predator, the hunter. Judge, jury, and executioner. You think that doesn’t excite me?”

Corvus’ heart was in his throat. He looked at the upturned grin on her face, at the dried trail of his own blood on her chin, and as the scent of her hormones rammed their way up his nose, he felt vindicated.

“I,” he started to say, claws curling under her jowls, “am very much in love with you, Proxima Midnight.”

He brought their mouths together. They were feverish and anguished, hands asking for more of the other as he worked her open and wrapped his wrapped his arms around her waist and sucked on her tongue. The metallic taste of his blood was on both their lips, igniting the cingula in his head with that instinctive, beastly desire to hunt: to take her apart and make her his. She undid the circlet of his belt, connected to his hip guards, with deft fingers that slid in behind the front plate as quick and precise as a snake bite—and she moaned into him, hurriedly pushing the piece down. It clattered to the floor; in the hollowed room the sound reverberated, like a pipe deflecting off a sturdier pipe, that weaponized bang.

In that moment he decided it would take too long to undo all their clothes. At his guidance they tumbled to the cold floor, where he caught her against him as he would in their bedroom and pressed his forehead into hers to feel nearer. The vastness of the temple was scaled significantly down in her presence.

“You’re being awfully impatient,” Proxima said coyly.

Corvus slid his arm under her knee and lifted her leg to his waist. “Worry not, my love,” he told her in kind, lining his hips adjacently against hers, “I will ensure you still come first.”

He pressed his erection to the apex of her thighs and began to move, feeling the wet warmth of her through the thick of their colliding suits. She didn’t seem to mind that they were reduced to rutting on the floor like beasts in heat—actually, she quite enjoyed it, edged by the friction generated from the cloth and the not-quite-close-enoughness of their position, wanting more but being denied, trapped at the midpoint of frustration and relief. Quickly, she began to move against his motions. A heated moan slipped past her lips, then another—she tensed, nails in his indicators along his spine, and tossed her head back and arched her hips and pushed her clit at an angle against him.

“That’s it,” he said into her neck, “that’s it.”

Her sounds were intensifying. He sought out the pulse point at the divot of her collarbone and bit down; he felt her shudder and whimper. The scent of her arousal worsened. His head began to spin, wild with need, taking in her pheromones, her noises. His teeth were sharp enough to tear her flesh away if he really wanted to. But he had always known how to restrain himself, and even as she weakened his resolve, he managed not to break her skin.

She rolled her hips with fervor; he returned the affection. Grinding the orgasm out of each other. The rolling and crashing of energy and ecstasy.

“Corvus—”

“Midnight.”

An image flashed through his mind—the doe, but her cries are slow and silent, mouth tilted upwards to the sky—and he gazed into Proxima’s eyes, slotted like blinds against the sunlight, the midpoint of falling closed to focus on the sensation and snapping open to ensure he was still there. Curiously, she became all he could think about. There was no longer the memory of beasts tearing into flesh or blood glistening against dried summer grass. It was only her, and—

She came harder than he had anticipated. Her head rolled back, her spine arched off the floor, and he felt her trembling moments before her body seized up. Then she was pulsating. Grinding roughly with each involuntary jerk of her hips, her orgasm ripping through her body and she cried out as she tumbled through it, release after release. When Corvus came it was easy; he hadn’t realized he was that close but the sight of her surrendered to her orgasm beneath him was what he had needed, and he lurched for his other arm, sinking his fangs through the material of his clothing, piercing skin. Blood filled his senses like the first time he was ever killed. Red, hot, acidic pain.

Then, nothing.

* * *

For a while afterwards, they remained there on the tarnished floor of a once religious sanctum, him above her, until the reality of how uncomfortable the platform was forced Corvus to sit up, bending his legs over the steps of the altar. Blood dribbled from between his fangs, giving him the visage of both a predator who had hunted and the half-executed prey. At least his lip had healed. His arm, shredded in comparison, was beginning to amend itself too.

Proxima rose up to meet him and put her chin to his shoulder. Her fingertip traced a lemniscate along the length of his spine, over his environmental indicators, but the veil of the cloak allowed the sensation to pass without stimulation. “What are you thinking about, my love?”

There was sunlight everywhere, lancing through the windows and falling across everything, a predator in its own right by claiming whatever it thought necessary to endure and survive. In the distance beyond the temple walls, the screaming of war was gone. Silence, reflection. Water in a bucket. Blood on the floors.

“You,” he said honestly. “Just you.”

#corvus x proxima #corvus glaive #proxima midnight #request fill #hope you like it!#also we all know Corvus was lying and that whole planet is sooo dead.

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queenmaracasandlove · 6 years ago

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You’re My Best (Sex) Friend - Roger Taylor x F!Reader - Part IV

Word Count: +:- 2800

In the last chapter: Y/N and Roger had an amazing night after Queen’s concert on Christmas Eve but they have decided to keep their feelings for themselves. Roger wants to wait until the end of the tour and Y/N doesn’t believe it it’s mutual. Warnings: (Minor) angst in this one.

A/N: This chapter is not as full of action but the themes in it are really important to me. Hope you life it !

Part I Part II Part III Part V

MASTERLIST

Permanent Taglist: @reedusteinrambles

It had been more than a month now that Roger and Y/N had seen each other for the last time. He was in the middle of a tour in North America and she had been casted as a member of the ensemble in a West End musical. Y/N was still living in Roger’s flat and had made a few alterations to it, making it more welcoming, something worthy of a good homecoming. It’s been also a few months now that they had realise their true feelings for each other without saying anything about it. Roger wanted to wait until the end of the tour to ask Y/N on a date when she had decided to move on, or at least try to.

Y/N was coming back home after her Thursday evening show and she was exhausted. Although she was usually drained after the performance she was spending more and more time backstage every night because of one particular person, and came back very late. But she knew that nobody was waiting for her anyway. She had mixed feelings about it, not sure of what to do. She was afraid of letting herself go and to let him go at the same time. She was pouring herself a glass of water when she heard the telephone ringing. Only a few people knew she was living here and according to the time she immediately guessed who was calling, her heart starting to rush inside her chest. She quickly picked up.

��Y/N?”

She immediately recognised his raspy voice on the other end and she could not help but smile. She was so happy to hear him, delighted he would take the time to call her just to small talk.

“Roger? How are you?”

“Great, although knackered. And you love?”

“I’m great too. Tell me, where are you tonight?”

“I’m not sure but I think it’s Cincinnati. Can’t keep up really” he laughed

The phone calls were never long but they were always good. They usually exchanged on their daily lives for a few minutes before going back to it. Y/N started to think that maybe she should mention the person that was in her mind, now almost as often as Roger but she wasn’t sure. She found herself ridiculous. She could speak to him, he had always listened and she knew he would not judge her. But what she wanted wasn’t advice, it was more than that...

“Are the guys doing okay?” she asked

“Yeah. I’m trying to get on Brian’s nerves as much as possible. John finds it funny and Freddie barely cares”

“Sounds fun. Don’t be too bad okay? You’re already painful without trying too hard.” she added, able to picture the scene in her head perfectly

“Ah. Ah. Very funny.”

“You know I’m right that. I almost miss your shitty behaviour sometimes” she sighed

“So how do you deal with the pain of being away from me? How’s the show? Made any friends?”

“Well…”

Y/N felt her throat drying by the second. She had convinced herself that she had to move on and forget him. But she wanted to be sure, that she was not missing out on something. Christmas Eve had been very confusing but nothing since then had made her think that it was in fact different from their previous nights together.

“Yes. The show is doing amazing and I love it. Each night is different even if it’s the same show. And um… One of the dancers, Linda, she wants to go to the cinema with me next Monday, it’s our day off…”

“That’s great!” he said

Y/N was quite surprised by his answer. It came from the bottom of his heart. She was not sure he had understood well what she was implying.

“Yeah. I’m not too sure about it. Maybe now is not right time to…”

“Just go for it Y/N! I’m not gonna be around for a bit and I know you already have other friends but one more is always good. You sure need someone around.”

“Well… Guess I’ll give it a go then. But I don’t want just to fool around anymore, so if there’s a chance for it to be serious I…”

There were screams and loud noises over the phone, preventing Y/N from finishing her sentence. She wanted to tell him that she wanted a real relationship now and that if things started with Linda she would not stop when he would come back. That their little business would be over and that nothing else would be possible anymore. There had been times since the beginning of their friends with benefits thing where one of them had been involved in a relationship and they had stopped, starting again when both of them were single. But this time was completely different. And things could not go one the way they were anyway.

“I’m sorry love I have to go, soundcheck is about to start. Enjoy the movie. I miss you too.”

Roger hung up the phone before going back to the dressing room where his bandmates were waiting for him. He was upset that the phone call had been so quick but he was happy that Y/N managed to have a social life outside of work. He had convinced her to stop working at the hotel saying that it was useless and that she could stay at his place until she found somewhere affordable when he came back. In his wildest dreams she would never leave.

During the lonely hours on the tour bus he had confessed his feelings for Y/N to his friends who had all been supportive. Of course they all suspected it, apart maybe from John who wasn’t paying attention anyway more focused on his newly born son during the past few months than to everybody else’s love life. Freddie thought it was stupid of him to wait whereas Brian had been surprised by Roger’s patience and consideration. He wasn’t just a ladies’ man, he had had a few girlfriends, but he had always gone too far too fast. His feelings had to be very serious this time for him to be so careful.

“So, how’s Y/N?” Freddie asked

“Great! One of her colleague is taking her to the cinema next week.”

All the boys stopped what they were doing to look at him, surprised. That’s exactly why Freddie had said waiting was a stupid idea, because Y/N would probably go on with her life and find someone who was smart enough to ask her on a date without waiting.

“Are you okay with her going on a date?” John asked, suddenly curious

“It’s not a date, she’s called Linda and she’s a dancer in her production. I was very happy when she told me about it. I encouraged her to go.” Roger replied, confident

There was an uneasy look between Brian and Freddie and Roger noticed it. She was her best friend, he would know about it right? According to his confused look he did not.

“What?” he asked

Brian was trying to find the right way to put it but Freddie was not that considerate.

“She’s into girls too Roger. You’re fucked.”

Roger frowned, not sure he had heard it right and turned to Brian who nodded a little, confirming Freddie’s words. The news was a complete shock. He did not care that she was bisexual, that wasn’t the point although he did not understand how he could have not known that. They were supposed to be friends, that’s the kind of things he should have been aware of.

“When… How?”

“You did not remember when she was with Chris?” Brian said

“How was I supposed to know he wasn’t a fucking dude Bri?” Roger answered

“Maybe because her name was Christine and she came to the pub quite often?” John added

Roger was boiling. He was completely mad. Mad at himself for being so stupid. Of course now he remembered. Y/N had been very shy about giving them details about Chris, her partner at the time, it was right at the beginning of them starting to know each other. There was a girl who was often there also, Christine. And she suddenly stopped coming one day, after that Y/N was quite sad for a while. But for some reason Roger had never been able to put two and two together.

Before he could throw a tantrum they were all asked to go on stage for soundcheck. John was the first to leave the room, tapping on his friend’s shoulder on the way. Roger shrugged, feeling completely lost but followed him . He understood now, why she was so private about seeing other people. He knew she saw people from time to time but it’s not like they were going to talk about their ex-partners while sleeping together. And he wasn’t dumb, he knew that it was the seventies and that was not something you could talk about easily.

Roger wasn’t blind and he knew about Freddie, everybody did. But nobody said anything, it was not their business and they would support him no matter what. If he ever felt like telling them they would listen without judging, because there was nothing wrong. Roger was also aware that lesbians were less under the radar of the restriction laws but that did not mean they were safer in this stupid world. He understood her silence but he had just made a big mistake.

Roger banged his drums harder than ever during rehearsal without missing one beat, he rarely did and in fact was pouring all his heart in what he was doing. The first news was surprising, the upsetting one was that he had just old Y/N that it was okay for her to go on a date with Linda. He doubted she was asking for his approval but he knew he had just blown up his chances to try anything with her, worse than that, if this thing worked out, it would mean that they would not even been able to go on with the type of relationship they had before.

He knew it would not be fair to call her back and tell her not to do anything. She was free and she should do whatever she wanted to. He could only hope that he would still have a chance after the tour.

-------------------

Roger had not call for almost a month and soon it would be the end of the American leg of the tour. Y/N had been worried but understood that the band had other things to do. She had phoned Mary to have some news but she did not have much more information than Y/N, she was also pretty upset about something but did not want to say what. This comforted Y/N in her decision to try and erase any dream of a love relationship with Roger. In fact Linda had helped her quite a bit to do so. From the first day they had met they had known, they had noticed this little spark between the two of them and Linda had made the first move.

They had gone to the movie theatre together, and went for an ice-cream afterwards. They had hold hands during the film and that was it. Y/N was still confused, and she did not want to pretend like everything was fine. So she had told everything to Linda, how she had fell in love with one of her best friends (with whom she was occasionally hooking up) and how she wanted to get over it. Linda had listened, first like a friend would and then she had been honest. Was she pleased to know that Y/N’s heart was partially taken? Absolutely not. But Roger was away and Linda and Y/N were together in London. So they decided to give it a go.

They saw each other every working day but they made a rule not to behave as anything else but colleagues or friends at work. The show business world might have been more open minded than the rest but still, no need to risk being unsafe. Tonight was their fifth date, they had gone to an underground lesbian club and Y/N was really excited. Linda was much more aware of the events and parties of the community than she was. There had been many drinks and much dancing.

“You’re way too beautiful to be real Y/N.” Linda said “I can’t believe that stupid rockstar never fell for you”

Y/N’s hands were around Linda’s neck and she was thirsty for her every word. Linda was not afraid to say what she thought, she was not ashamed of her feelings and Y/N could tell she really cared about her and so did she. So she slowly kissed her lips and it felt great, it felt sweet and needy at the same time. Linda was right, Roger had not been able to see more than just a body in her (being a friend was something else) and she deserved to be in love with someone who did. Although it was only a spark for now she believed it could become something else.

It was so good to be able to kiss another girl and not worry about it. Y/N smiled during the kiss, making it more passionate as her hands were getting lost in Linda”s hair.

“Should we go back to my place?” Linda asked

“I would love too”

-------------------

Roger knew he was acting childish but he did behaved like he was used to anyway. He had not called back since Cincinnati, not even to tell Y/N when he was coming back. He was too afraid. He felt so stupid for telling her to go on a date with someone else but he had no right to be jealous. The boys had convinced him to enjoy the rest of the tour and not to worry about it. He would stay true to his first decision, wait until he was back to London. Although he was planning to ask Y/N on a date as soon as he would be back, without waiting for the end of the tour. If it wasn’t too late.

He would have less than ten days before going back on tour for another month but it would be the last leg and then he would be home for good, at least for a few months. All he had to do was to prove to Y/N that he was worth the wait. For hours he had thought about was he was going to tell her. The plane journey had been a torture and he had barely slept. The problem was, he didn’t realise that the world did not stop turning while he was away. That was often the case for people who were traveling, the feeling that everything would be the same as it was when they left.

He almost ran up the stairs to his flat, he wanted to hug Y/N, to make love to her and tell all the things he should have ages ago. How much he had missed her, how much he had fun, how much he wanted to share all his best memories with her, how much she meant to him, how much he loved her. He even had bought a scarf for her, a nice one that he had scene in Chicago and that immediately made him think of her. In fact he had went to a record shop in New York and asked for the latest vinyls from Musicals and had bought five of them because he knew she would love that.

He finally arrived in front of the door and took a deep breath in. His hands were almost shaking as he put the keys inside the lock.

“Y/N ! GUESS WHO’S BACK!”

But there was no answer. It was the middle of the day, maybe she was out he thought. He took the time to look around him, so many things had changed. He could smell her perfume in the clean flat. Some flowers were on the coffee table and there was a new plant next to the window. She must have nosed around his things because there were pictures on the walls. He put his bag on the floor to look at them. Some with his family, his friends, his bandmates and with her. He did not remember the one in the middle, Y/N and him after the Christmas Eve concert, his arm around her waist and hers around his neck, smiling and happy as ever. If only he had told her that night. He sighed, more impatient than ever to see her again. He would unpack waiting for her. Going to the bedroom he saw the paper on the counter with her lovely handwriting and the smile he had on his face immediately disappeared.

“Hello Rog’, You’ve probably been really busy because I had to call Mary to know when you were coming back… I decided to go to Linda’s place for the week so you could rest, her number is next to the phone if you have time to call. Can’t wait to see you (whenever) ! I’ve missed your stupid face. Love, Y/N (the best friend/flatmate in the world)”

#queenmaracasandlove #You're my best (sex) friend #queen #queen imagines #roger taylor #ben!roger x reader #roger x reader #roger taylor x reader #borhap #bohemian rhapsody

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creative-type · 7 years ago

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Monster of the Salt Rock Hills IV

First

AN: There’s some fairly minor speculation on Thistle’s past here that may be jossed in the future. Also, apparently paper bags were invented in the 1850s, which fits in the vaguely Victorian aesthetic in the comic. Lastly, it’s probably going to be a week or more before my next update. I’ll try my best for a quick turnaround

AO3

Summary: The day after stopping a drath summoning gone horribly wrong, Orrig and his team are summoned to the Salt Rock Hills to find and eliminate a monster that has been ravaging the countryside. But things quickly go awry and it soon becomes apparent that nothing about this case is as it seems. Thistle must learn to work together with her new coworkers and overcome her own insecurities to find the truth of the monster of the Salt Rock Hills before it’s too late. Set immediately after Chapter 6: The Knowing Ones

Chapter Four: Lost Causes (and the Fighters Who Champion Them)

It was a quiet walk back to town. Both Brent and Lyra tried to explain what had happened, but Orrig silenced them both with a grunt. Thistle thought she understood his reasoning: They had already embarrassed themselves in front of a fellow guild member, a citizen of the Salt Rock Hills, and the one surviving member of Marco Russo’s team. It was an enormous loss of face, and Orrig’s reputation would suffer if their gaff were ever made public.

Thistle couldn’t help but think it was somehow her fault. She should have noticed the magic in Rhys’s bracers sooner, or gotten Lyra to calm down faster, or done something to prevent the situation from getting so out of hand. They had gone out to the scene of the attack representing Orrig and failed – she had failed, and Orrig would have no choice but to punish her for her mistake.

—i don’t know what you expected. good for nothing, insolent brat, i’ve told you that time and time again. maybe orrig should fire you—

The voice, always so close, was relentless in its attack. The scene replayed in Thistle’s mind dozens of times, hammering home each and every one of her inadequacies until they were all she could remember. She’d let Lyra be humiliated and once again failed to protect Brent from harm. A fugitive glance revealed that the bump on his head was now the size of a goose egg. She hadn’t even had time to rule out a concussion.

Dread and shame made Thistle’s belly twist into knots. She wanted to apologize to the others so badly it hurt, but with Orrig’s embargo on conversation she didn’t dare. The burden of her guilt felt heavier with each step, and by the time they reached town Thistle was almost drowning under the weight of it.

“Ve go to bar,” Orrig said.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be allowed to drink?” Lyra said sarcastically.

Orrig grunted. “Ve not on job now.”

The concession caught Thistle by surprise, and when Lyra almost tripped over her own feet she guessed that she wasn’t the only one. Surely Orrig wasn’t going to pretend that their disgraceful behavior hadn’t happened? Or maybe he was trying to soften the blow of their punishment, whatever that may be?

For the first time Thistle wished that her employer’s thoughts weren’t so difficult to discern. There was a certain amount of comfort in the knowledge that Orrig was level-headed and almost supernaturally stoic no matter the situation. He was the anchor to Lyra and Brent’s raging storm of emotions – unmovable, dependable, and unfortunately unreadable beneath unsounded depths that Thistle had not yet learned to navigate.

He led them down the street Carson had pointed out earlier. Orrig had to duck his head to fit through the entranceway of the tavern, and none of the seats had been built with an orc’s girth in mind. It was too early in the day for most business, there was someone manning the bar nonetheless.

The man eyed the mercenaries suspiciously as they took their seats. “Are yeh buyin’? I ain’t got time for loiterers.”

“A pint of whatever you’ve got that’s good,” Lyra said.

“Same for me,” Brent added.

Thistle looked fretfully from the hematoma on Brent’s forehead to his vacant gaze. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Pfft, I take harder hits than that all the time,” Brent said. “I’ve got a thick skull.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Lyra said under her breath.

Brent shot her a glare, but didn’t say anything. Thistle screwed up her courage to speak up again, “I, um, I’d like to take a look anyway. I might be able to get rid of the swelling. That is, if you don’t mind…”

“You can heal?” Brent asked.

Heat flooded Thistle’s cheeks, and she managed to nod. “A little.”

“Huh, I didn’t know that. Well, if it makes you feel better, I don’t care.”

It was embarrassing how relieved Thistle was not to be brushed off or be dismissed as needlessly worried. She could feel Lyra and Orrig watch her as she put Brent through a basic concussion protocol – which despite a little wooziness he passed with flying colors. It was only after she made him follow her finger with his eyes, tell her his birthday, and test his hand grasps that Thistle called on her magic.

The hematoma, though unsightly, was not dangerous. With so many blood vessels in the scalp even a minor trauma could turn into a large bump – and running face first into Rhys’s force field was not minor trauma.

Thistle frowned to herself. Even removing the fact that Brent could have been seriously hurt in the explosion, Rhys should have realized he was risking the integrity of the scene by activating his bracers. Thistle was troubled that the elf would escalate the conflict like that. It wasn’t as if Brent had been charging him. He hadn’t even been holding his sword at the time.

“It’s cold,” Brent said when Thistle touched his forehead.

“If it’s uncomfortable I can stop.”

“No, it feels good. Like when you pop a really big zit and all that pressure’s gone.”

Thistle had to choke back a giggle, almost causing her spell to fail. Their drinks had been brought over sometime during Thistle’s assessment, and Lyra made no effort to hide her disgust as she took a long draught.

The spell was a simple one. Thistle had learned it out of necessity the first time she’d been chased by angry villagers armed with stones, and in seconds the bump was gone. She couldn’t help but be pleased with her handiwork. “Alright, one last check to make sure everything’s okay…”

Thistle placed a hand on Brent’s temple. The ethereal blue of her magic brushed against his skin, and even wearing gloves Thistle was acutely aware of the intimacy the gesture implied. His eyes fluttered closed, and the hair near her hand stood straight up, innerved by an unseen energy that seemed to Thistle both unknowable and unquestionably right.

“What in the world…?” Thistle said as her magic brushed against something that felt alien to her senses.

“What is it?” Brent asked. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Thistle said. “It’s just…I can’t believe it. That mage put a bug on you!”

Once, when Thistle had been very young, she’d heard of a mage being tried in the realm’s highest court for casting a spell on a boy that made him forget the death of his mother. The newspapers caught wind of the case, and it became so infamous throughout the country that it was rumored a Wizard had been called into help with the proceedings. At the time she hadn’t understood what the mage had done wrong – Wouldn’t the boy be happier without such a painful memory weighing on his heart and soul? Hadn’t the mage cast his spell in good faith? Why were they being treated like a criminal when the end result was a blessing and a mercy?

It was on that day that Thistle learned that there were lines that magic should never, ever cross. Years of hard experience only reinforced the dangers even the most well-intentioned magic had on the mind.

The spell Mum had cast on Brent wasn’t quite to that level, but it was close. It was subtle and insidious, as finely woven as a gossamer thread. Thistle never would have noticed it under normal circumstances, and the part of her that wasn’t indignant was amazed at the intricacy of the spell.

“What?!” Brent exclaimed. “What he’d do to me?”

“It’s an altered communication spell used to spy on people…a metaphorical fly on a wall. They can hear everything we’re saying,” Thistle clarified when his face screwed in confusion. She scooped the delicate matrix of spellwork into hands that glowed blue. It reacted to her magic, shimmering with golden light. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

This last exclamation was addressed to whoever was listening on the other end of the spell. Disgusted at the mage’s lack of ethics, she forced her hands together the same way she would shut a badly-written book. The spell shattered, and an unpleasant jolt of energy shot up her arms.

“Are you sure it wasn’t Rhys?” Lyra said darkly. “It seems like something that’d be right up his alley.”

Thistle shook her head. The bug had the same fingerprints the Teleportation spell, and that had undoubtedly been cast by Mum. And while she couldn’t rule it out entirely, Thistle was almost sure that Rhys had no magical talent. Why else would he have expensive enchanted bracers?

“When’d he *#$@!$ cast?” Brent asked. “He never moved!”

“You have to be close for something this fragile,” Thistle said. “It must have been right before Rhys, er…”

“Knocked you on your @$$,” Lyra finished for her, seething. She slammed her drink down, and seemed on the brink of another tirade when Orrig raised his hand.

“Stop. I vill send complaint to guild. They vill take care of mage. Dis not our job”

This reassurance did nothing to assuage Lyra’s temper. “And that’s another thing! What the $&#@ do you mean, this isn’t our job? We were asked for specifically! You said so!”

Orrig sighed, and reached into his bag to pull out the requisition form. He pointed a thick finger to a number printed at the top, one that Thistle had failed to notice when she read the listing for the first time.

“What’s your license number got to do with this?” Brent demanded.

“Vas copy error. My number similar to elf’s, vas sent to wrong place.”

“So we’re just gonna leave?” Brent said. “We came out all this way for nothing?”

Orrig nodded. “Vas mistake, ve technically not hired. Against guild rules to interfere.”

“Goddamn it. I’m going to need another drink,” Lyra said. “And if I see that pretty-boy’s face again I’m going to break his nose.”

There was a hearty hear-hear from Brent, and the group settled into an unhappy silence that was only broken when Lyra called for another pint. The bartender – who Thistle belated realized must be Carson’s father – sauntered over to them. He was a portly man with a receding hairline and a scruffy brown beard. While he had not been blessed with his son’s height, Thistle could see the familial similarity in the shape of his nose and the line of his jaw.

“Coin first,” the bartender said. “A silver, if it pleases the lady, ‘n I’ll get yer beer.”

“A silver? For a pint? That’s highway robbery!” Lyra exclaimed.

“An’ I’ve got a business t’ maintain,” the bartender said flatly. “Not that an outsider’d understand, runnin’ around chasin’ phantoms. Between you lot an’ the cripple, you’ve done nuthin’ but fill my son’s head with crazy-talk and waste my hard-earned money huntin’ a monster that don’t even exist. I got every right to throw you out on th’ street. A silver or nothing.”

A muscle in Lyra’s jaw twitched. She shoved a hand into her money pouch and pulled out the coin. Carson’s father snatched it greedily out of her grasp before handing over a fresh drink.

It was only then that Lyra snapped. She rose to her feet, and in one fluid motion she flung the contents of her mug onto the bartender’s face before slamming it back on the table. Before anyone could react she shoved away from the group and stomped out the door.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Thistle was frozen in place, torn between horror at what Lyra had done and pity for the events that had driven her to that point. Carson’s father sputtered with outrage, beer dripping down his face and staining his shirt.

At this rate they were going to get chased out of town. Thistle brushed her hand across the bartender’s shirt, a small surge of magic drying the fabric instantly. She left the stain untouched – he had basically goaded Lyra into retaliating by massively upping the price after she’d already drunk one pint, and was lucky she hadn’t thrown him through a table.

Orrig, Brent, and Thistle made a hasty exit after that. Further down the road Lyra was turning a corner and disappearing out of sight.

“Should we go after her?” Thistle asked anxiously.

“Good luck with that,” Brent said.

“I think it best if ve leave,” Orrig said. Thistle thought that he looked troubled. “Lyra need space. I vill try to find vay to Crossroads today.”

“We can’t just do nothing,” Thistle said.

“Hmm. You and Brent go find vhile I get vay home. Vill leave as soon as possible. Is better that way.”

“She could be anywhere by now,” Brent said. “We should split up to cover more ground.”

Bad things seemed to happen when they split up, but Thistle nodded anyway. She and Brent started in the general direction Lyra had disappeared to, and with a final grunt Orrig ducked back into the bar. At first Thistle wondered if he might have gone to issue an apology, but for some reason she was reminded of their interaction with Grand Master Wu. Orrig had only intervened when Lyra stooped to crude insults and had never once asked Lyra to apologize for shouting curses at a Wizard capable of turning into a dragon. It seemed like he let his employees speak their mind, up until a certain point.

Thistle wasn’t sure if Orrig’s leniency was always a good thing, but right now she was grateful for it. She could imagine all too well what Lyra was feeling right now, after being insulted and humiliated by Rhys and then being discriminated against by a bartender they didn’t even know.

“So, do you want to go left or right?” Brent asked, drawing Thistle from her thoughts.

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” Thistle said.

He sighed. “Not really. I mean, usually I’d say check out the taverns or the bars. I know a couple of her haunts back in the city, but out here? Who knows.”

Thistle thought for a moment, hesitating. “Brent, do you know what that ouvrière means?”

“It’s Elvish,” Brent said. “I think it’s a rude thing to say to a girl who wears pants and works? You hear it from the more stuck-up city elves every once in a while. Usually Lyra brushes stuff like that off, no problem. I think the @$$&^* just caught her by surprise.” He rubbed his neck. “Anyway, we should get looking. I’ll go left you go right?”

“Sure.”

Thistle walked slowly, trying to process everything that had happened. Off of the high streets the buildings grew even more decapitated, many with sagging roofs or stucco walls covered with mold and dirt. She had traveled enough to know the difference between a small town that was thriving and one that was not, and the Salt Rock Hills had the feel of a town taking its final, tortured gasps. There seemed to be little diversity among what was left of the population, and each person who stopped to stare at Thistle was human.

Struck with inspiration, Thistle gathered every scrap of her fraying courage. Scanning the street she found an old man sitting in front of a butcher shop who looked neither suspicious nor afraid of her. Thistle clung to the strap of her bag to keep from fidgeting and approached him carefully.

“Excuse me, have you seen an elf come this way?”

“Sure did.” He smiled at her, exposing a set of false teeth that appeared to be made out of wood. “Tooted up the street not too long ago spoutin’ all sorts of wickedness that ought not be repeated in mixed company. She a friend of yours, stranger?”

“Um, yes.” I think. “My name is Thistle, and we came up to figure out what was attacking the winged horses, only there was a mistake and the job went to someone else.”

The man nodded sagely. “I see. Well, it ain’t ev’ry day we get so much excitement ‘round these parts. I think I’ll treasure the look of Minnie Baker’s face when she heard yer elf friend for the rest of my days.” He stuck out a hand. “Name’s Frank. I used to be the butcher, but I can’t do much cuttin’ these days.”

Thistle clasped fingers gnarled with arthritis. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Frank chuckled. “Trust me, stranger, the pleasure’s all mine. Can’t say enough how much I ‘preciate you all comin’ out here to catch the monster in th’ Hills, even if it ain’t yer job. Are you gonna stay for a bit? Maybe the other mercs will let you join th’ hunt.”

“My boss is actually trying to find a way to Crossroads today.”

Disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Ah, well, don’t know what I was expectin’. Not enough money for two teams, I suppose. Tell yer boss to talk to Jacob. He’s th’ owner of the tavern down yonder an’ oversees the stables here in town. It might cost a pretty penny, but it’s the best way if yer lookin’ t’ leave on short notice.”

“Oh.” Thistle’s stomach sank. “I think we might have met.”

Frank’s wizened face twisted into a grimace. “Shoot. I don’t suppose he made a right fool outta himself? Was he the one who sent your elf friend in a tizzy, spoutin’ his usual garbage?”

Thistle didn’t answer, but her lack of response was enough. Frank spat in disgust and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Go find your friend, stranger. I’ll see if I can talk Jacob into seeing sense. Th’ monster is real, and something’s gotta be done afore someone else gets hurt.”

“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Thistle said.

“Ha! You’ve done nothin’ but entertain these old bones through another day of drudgery. ‘Sides, Jake’s got the only rooms in town to let. If you can’t get him t’ help you leave, then yer gonna have t’ spend the night.”

Frank tipped an imaginary hat and set off from the shop in a slow, shuffling gait, his shoulders stooped with the weight of age. It didn’t seem right for him to get involved with the dispute, but Thistle got the impression there was nothing she could say to stop him.

He didn’t make it more than a few steps when someone called his name. Both Frank and Thistle turned to see where the voice had come from. A woman waved at him from across the street before jogging over. She wore a long white coat over a simple plaid shirt and held a heavy back bag in one hand.

“Hullo, Doctor,” Frank said respectfully. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I was just gonna go give Jacob a piece of my mind.”

The woman brushed away a strand of curly brown hair that had fallen out of her plait and smiled enormously. “Whatever keeps you young,” she said blithely. “I was just wondering if you’ve seen Isla come this way. I was expecting her in the surgery over an hour ago.”

Was it Thistle’s imagination, or did his expression darken? “Can’t say I have, Doctor.”

The doctor’s face fell. Thistle took a half-step forward. “Excuse me, but do you mean Isla Clark? I saw her earlier today with the mercenaries investigating the winged horses.”

“By the spring?” the doctor asked, almost disbelieving. When Thistle nodded, she threw her arm up in the air in exasperation. “Did she walk all that way? No, don’t answer that. Of course she did, despite my explicit warning against pushing herself too far.”

The doctor took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose. “Well, that settles that. Frank, why don’t you tell me who your new friend is?”

“Her name’s Thistle, and she’s just passin’ through. ‘Parantly there was some mix up with the mercs an’ her group is lookin’ to get outta town afore dark,” Frank said. “Thistle, this here is Doctor Maureen Malady. You won’t find a better sawbones anywhere in the world.”

“I don’t know about that,” Doctor Malady said, the lines framing her eyes and mouth crinkling with suppressed mirth. Hers was a face made for smiling, and there was something about her demeanor that put Thistle instantly at ease. She adjusted wire-framed spectacles before extending a hand. “I’m sorry your stay at the Hills will be cut short.”

“Actually,” Frank said while Thistle shook the doctor’s hand, “she were just lookin’ for an elf that was travelin’ with her. I expect she wants to get back to searchin’.”

“I see,” Doctor Malady said. “I’d check the general store just over yonder.”

Thistle perked up at this. “Really?”

She nodded. “Ooohh yes. There aren’t many elves that come this way. Is yours rude and too pretty for their own good?”

“Uh…”

“The general store,” Doctor Malady said with a sympathetic smile. “It’s just up the way, you can’t miss it.”

Thistle reluctantly turned in the direction she indicated. It seemed wrong to let the slight on Lyra’s character to go unchallenged, but she’d wasted too much time here already. She waved goodbye and jogged up the street, and before long came to her destination. Everything from spools of ribbon, penny candy, canned goods, and cigars decorated the storefront window, while a pair of tethered horses (of the mundane variety) pawed impatiently at the ground.

It seemed like an odd destination for Lyra, but Thistle braced herself nonetheless. It was entirely possible that Orrig had already found a way back to the city and was waiting for them to rejoin him so they could leave this place behind. Cheered by this thought, Thistle strode boldly – or as boldly as she could manage – into the store.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t got any crates. Need to go to the lumberyard for that,” the man at the register said irritably. The bell over the door alerted him to Thistle’s presence. “Can I help…you?”

He stared dumbfounded at Thistle, but for once she didn’t notice. She stopped dead in her tracks as Rhys Taliesen leaned back from the counter, an eyebrow raised.

“I didn’t expect to meet you here,” he said mildly.

“I, er, neither did I,” Thistle said.

Shouldn’t he be at the springs investigating the dead horse? How had he made it back to town so quickly, and where were Mum and Rizaek? Her thoughts shifted to Isla Clark, who by Dr. Malady’s reaction shouldn’t be making the long walk from the springs to town at all. Had he left her behind? Thistle drew her hands to her chest and took a tentative step backwards.

“Please don’t go,” Rhys said. “I would like to speak with you.”

“You would?”

“Yes,” he said with almost boyish earnestness. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name before. Mum said you found his spell. No one has ever done that before.”

“You knew he put the bug on Brent?” Thistle asked. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

His eyes flickered to the storekeeper. “Why don’t we take this conversation elsewhere? There are matters that I would like to discuss with you privately.”

For a moment Thistle was frozen. Rhys’s presence alone was enough to disarm her, and now he was sounding polite and reasonable? Was this the same person who had attacked Brent without provocation and insulted Lyra because she wasn’t wearing a skirt? Thistle’s clothes were baggy, but there was no mistaking that she was also a girl who, as Brent said, wore pants and worked.

A spark of anger thawed her indecision. Thistle barely knew Orrig, Brent, and Lyra, but they had been nothing but kind to her during that short period of time. Lyra especially had apologized for her part in their disastrous first meeting, and then put up with all Thistle’s weird awkwardness while traveling to the Salt Rock Hills.

Thistle crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, but no. That spell Mum put on Brent was unethical – if not illegal.”

Irritation flashed across his brilliant green eyes. They were the color of bottled glass…or poison. “Look, I didn’t realize that Mum had cast the spell any more than you did, and I certainly didn’t tell him to do it. You were there. Did you see me do anything untoward?”

Yes, Thistle thought stubbornly. “When did you find out?”

“When you broke it.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never seen Mum jump so high. He’s a talented mage, you know.”

Thistle’s heart beat faster as Rhys took a small step forward, but somehow she managed to stand her ground. Her pleading look to the storekeeper was useless. He was too busy pretending she and Rhys didn’t exist to interfere.

“I’m surprised you associate with that lot,” Rhys continued, a note of reproach in his tone. “I made inquiries when I learned of the clerical error for this job. Orrig seems like a decent enough fellow – he’s had a solid career and maintains an excellent reputation – but there’s no denying he’s a little long in the tooth, if you pardon my phrasing. The mercenary guild is no place for old men.”

“Excuse me?” Thistle said.

“It’s obvious that he’s already lost control of his subcontractors, yourself excluded.” Another step forward, this time blocking the view of the shopkeeper entirely. Sometime during the exchange Thistle had backed herself into a corner, and Rhys had her completely boxed in as he continued, “And even if he hadn’t, the orc will be retiring within the next season or two. When he does you’ll be out of luck.”

“Excuse me?”

“A mage of your skill shouldn’t be wasting their time in a position that soon won’t even exist. And even if the orc doesn’t hang up his axe this time next year, do you honestly believe you’ll get anywhere with his crew of miscreants?

“What are you getting at?” Thistle asked quietly. She thought she knew where this was going, but a part of her couldn’t believe what she was hearing and wanted Rhys to say it for himself.

“I appreciate talent,” Rhys said. His voice was low, intense, persuasive. “I saw it in Mum when no one would hire a mute and he was on the street peddling for coin. I saw it in Rizaek when he was mucking stalls for a pittance. And I see it in you.”

“I couldn’t possibly…I mean, I work for Orrig. He’s the one who hired me,” Thistle said.

Rhys nodded. “Loyalty is an admirable trait, but it will only get you so far in this line of work. I don’t need an answer now,” he said as Thistle stiffened, mistaking her indignation for something else, “just promise you’ll think it over. I’ll be staying at the tavern owned by Jacob Swinehart if you change your mind.”

There were a great many things Thistle wanted to say, first and foremost being that Rhys had to be out of his mind to think she would want to work for him, but it was as if the surreal nature of the conversation had jammed the gears of her mind to a grinding halt. He left the store a moment later, leaving Thistle gaping after him like a fish out of water.

Is yours rude and too pretty for their own good?

The fact that she had mistaken Lyra for Rhys would have been funny if she weren’t so mortified. What would Orrig say when he found out rival mercenaries were giving out job offers? What would Brent say if he found out she had let Mum’s disgusting invasion of his personal privacy go unchallenged?

“Er, ma’am, are you alright?”

“What?” Thistle said, jumping at the unexpected voice of the shopkeeper. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. I…I was just leaving.”

The shopkeeper gave a wary appraisal of Thistle’s unusual appearance. “Alrighty then. Have a good day.”

“You too.” Her voice sounded distant, as if someone other than herself were saying the words. Thistle left the general store, forcing a façade of normalcy over her growing anxiety. Too much, this was all too much. First the dead horse, then the debacle with Rhys and Jacob, and now this? Thistle wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

always were weak-willed. never had the stomach to speak up…you ought to be ashamed of yourself

She didn’t need the voice to tell her that. Shame came as easily to Thistle as breathing. Once again she hadn’t been able to speak up against Rhys’s vicious slander. Thistle couldn’t believe he had gone so far as to attack Orrig, who seemed to her the epitome of professional competence.

but what if it’s true? what will you do if orrig retires? you have no references, and no one would speak for someone so ungrateful. where will you go when they finally see you for what you really are?

mercenaries hunt monsters. your hood is the only thing separating you from whatever is killing the winged horses. once they see that for themselves, they’ll hunt you too.

Thistle felt ill as she wandered through town. The faces seemed less friendly, the air colder. She could see town people’s suspicion, imagined she could hear their thoughts as they moved out of their way to avoid her. The anxiety was giving way to panic. Even if Thistle knew where Lyra was, she didn’t think she could manage a conversation. Instinctually her feet led away from town – away from the wary strangers and their unforgiving eyes.

The only good thing about the Salt Rock Hills was that it was tiny. It didn’t take Thistle long to reach the outskirts of town following the road that she guessed led to the abandoned mines. She remembered Mayor Stone saying Carson was the only one who went to the Hills voluntarily, and he was probably back in his father’s tavern by now preparing for the evening rush.

Thistle was alone.

Taking a cleansing breath, she found a bit of broken down fence that had once marked the boundary of a large pasture. The pasture was long-since abandoned, overgrown with knee-high grass, half a dozen different wildflowers, and countless weeds. There was bishop’s lace, ragweed, yarrow…and thistles.

Her heart was heavy as she cupped her most recent namesake with her hand. There were no blooms, but a small spark of magic changed that. The thistle’s flower unfurled, purple and perfect and beautiful.

“What am I doing here?” Thistle asked herself. She pulled away from the plant and sat on the fence, staring out at everything and nothing. As before, there was no answer.

She sat until the knot that had been growing somewhere under her breastbone loosened, and long enough for her to wonder if Brent had had any more luck with their mission. Dwelling on her most recent failure made a melancholy feeling sit heavily in her chest, but melancholy she could manage.

It was no use continuing to look for Lyra when she’d most likely already been found. Resolving herself to face Orrig knowing her disgraceful interaction with Rhys was the most difficult thing she’d done since arriving at the Salt Rock Hills, and despite her eagerness to leave she was in no hurry to see her employer again.

Swallowing her reluctance, Thistle hopped off the fence and made one last, sweeping glance of the pasture. It really was quite peaceful out here, and she could understand why Carson wandered out this way. Farther up the road there was even someone resting up against a lone fencepost…

Thistle did a double take, but there was no mistaking that red armor. “Lyra?”

The figure startled. “Thistle? What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you,” Thistle said. “Orrig wants to go back to the city.”

“Oh thank the gods. How long have you been standing there?”

As Lyra approached, Thistle noticed she’d applied a fresh layer of makeup. “Not too long. I thought Brent would find you first.”

“Ha! Brent couldn’t track himself out of a wet paper bag. Is Orrig seriously leaving today?”

“If he can get transport,” Thistle said, taking some joy at the way Lyra’s face brightened. “Apparently Jacob owns the only stables in town.”

“Who’s Jacob again?” Lyra asked.

“The, well…the owner of the tavern.”

There was a beat of awful, terrible silence. “%*@#.”

“He also owns the only rooms to rent, so if we can’t use his horses we’ll have to pay him to stay the night.”

“Double %*@#,” Lyra said, scrubbing her face with her hands. “If he expects me to apologize he’s got another thing coming. Charging a silver for a pint of beer is a %*@#!+& joke, especially out here in this country backwater. Most the people here probably haven’t seen a silver in their life. You don’t suppose that orc will let us use his flying horse, do you? I bet we could fit all of us on that thing and make it to Crossroads before dark.”

“Rizaek?” Thistle asked. “I don’t speak Orcish, but I got the impression he didn’t want anything to do with us.”

“Hmph. I wouldn’t trust anyone who works with that pretty boy @$$&*^# anyway. I was serious when I said I’d break his nose if I ever saw him again.”

Thistle didn’t have a response for this. The fury in Lyra’s voice was almost a palpable thing. In Thistle’s limited time with her, Lyra’s anger had burned hot, fierce…and quickly. Rhys’s words must have struck a nerve.

“It’s not worth fighting about,” Thistle said, trying to convince herself what she was saying was true. “Not if we’re leaving today.”

Lyra leaned over the fencepost and stared out at the hills. In the distance a winged horse had taken flight and was soaring higher and higher into the air. “You’re wrong,” she said. “@$$#*&% like Rhys live their whole lives thinking they’re better than everyone else just because they have more money or connections or something extra dangling between their legs, and if no one ever proves them wrong they’ll keep on thinking it for the rest of their lives. I’m tired of it. He can call me whatever stupid name he wants, but I’m not afraid of him and I’m not going to back down. No one’s going to fight for me, so you’d &@#% well believe I’m going to fight for myself.”

She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and offered Thistle a crooked smile. “Sorry for the speech, but I’ve met too many Rhyses in my life to given two $&%!$ about this one. If I give up an inch he’s going to take a mile and come back looking for more. So yeah, I’d say it’s worth fighting over.”

“Even if you don’t win?” Thistle said.

Lyra laughed. “Oh, I know I’m not going to change his mind, but if I can make him think twice before spouting slurs to strangers who might take offence, then, well, that’s a win in my book.”

Thistle thought about this for a moment. She could see where Lyra was coming from, but there had to be a better way. Or maybe there wasn’t, and she was just too much of a coward to admit it. Thistle spent the majority of her time trying to help people, and to date she’d still never been accepted by anyone who knew what she truly was.

“What does ouvrière mean?” Thistle asked before she could stop herself. Her throat tightened when Lyra gave her a curious sideways glance that she could not decipher. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“I’m more surprised that you don’t know,” Lyra said. “It’s Elvish for ‘worker’.”

“That’s it?” Thistle said.

“That’s it,” Lyra said wryly. She propped her chin up with a hand. “That’s what I hate about Elvish. It’s got no real curse words, and everyone is so %*@#!+& obsessed with high society and being polite that they have to come up with creative ways to insult those they think are lower than they are.”

“But how can calling someone a worker be an insult?” Thistle asked.

“Oh, it’s not the word we use for someone who’s respectable,” Lyra said. “It means someone who does dirty work, common work, or a girl who doesn’t have a husband or father or brothers to take care of them so they go out in trousers and a shirt that they can actually breathe in, walking the streets without a chaperone and likely getting themselves into all sorts of undesirable situations with all sorts of undesirable folk for a little coin.”

“That’s…that’s terrible,” Thistle said.

Lyra shrugged. “It’s just a word,” she said flatly. “And like I said, it’s not even a real curse. Now dwarvish has some fantastic swear words. I picked up a bunch from a chatty drunk back in the city. Maybe I should throw some of those in Rhys’s face before I break his nose.”

It was a poor attempt at a joke, and they both knew it, but Thistle forced a chuckle anyway. “Do you suppose we should head back? Maybe Orrig’s found a way to Crossroads.”

“Gods I hope so,” Lyra said. She slid off of the fence and glanced at Thistle again, this time a sly grin spreading across her face. “So if you didn’t know what ouvrière meant then that means you’re not an elf.”

It was as if someone had snatched the air out of Thistle’s lungs. If Lyra had already figured out she wasn’t a city elf, how long would it take for Brent to realize she wasn’t human, or Orrig to see her for the monster she truly was? Thistle had known them for all of three days, and they were already starting to guess at her identity. They were mercenaries, professional monster hunters, how long would it take for them to see through the mask and shadows…

Lyra doubled over and laughed a laugh that sounded more like the maniacal cackle Thistle had once heard from a villain in a play. “I can’t believe it! That’s fantastic!”

“What?”

“I bet Rhys is the type to think elves are the best mages in the world. I would pay good money to see the look on his face when he realizes his pet spell slinger was schooled by a human girl!”

Lyra’s laughter drowned out Thistle’s weak protests, and she was still laughing when they found Brent and Orrig sitting outside city hall. It was just as well that she was in a good mood, because no amount of coin that would convince Jacob arrange transport to Crossroads, and there was no one else who could assist them on such short notice. They were stuck in the Salt Rock Hills for the night, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

#The Monster of the Salt Rock Hills #creative-type writes #fanfiction #fanfic #Daughter of the Lilies #Thistle #Lyra #Orrig #Brent #dotl

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