#i have such big plans for that story and i want to give it the execution it deserves

[dixonsbugaboo]

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦.

ꜱᴀᴊᴀ ʙᴏʏꜱ🎵

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 1 - 𝘒𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶

Fem!Reader x Saja Boys

Summary: Reincarnated in the body of a demon from the last film you saw before you died, you have decided to change the script of the story in your favour. But you didn't count on your presence in the story changing everything.

Warnings: slow burn, swearing, Jinu being an asshole, ooc (probably), kinda self-disdain too, no proofread (oops)

Word count: 3300+

A/N: Hey there! First of all, please remember that English is not my native language, so there may be mistakes (sorry about that), and this is the first time I've written for this fandom, but the hype is very real and I wanted to join in on the Saja fanfic craze. I hope you like it :)

Ch. 0

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From your perspective, being the producer of the Saja Boys was a wonderful idea. But in reality, it was a disaster and a task that would drain your will to live... if you were alive.

The Saja Boys were demons, in the most literal sense of the word, and they drove you crazy. They tested your patience, trampled on your pride, and were incapable of listening to your advice. You should have realised how difficult it would be to carry out your plan from the moment you first met Jinu... and you almost pulled each other's hair out, literally.

In the movie, Jinu was handsome, but in reality... he was simply breathtaking. Even in his demonic form, he was the most attractive man you had ever seen, with patterns crossing his sharp face like tattoos and radiant eyes that seemed to see right through you. Your demonic form, on the other hand, was a far cry from what a normal human would look like: with horns sticking out of your forehead, sharp teeth and eyes that were too big and outstanding. You were sure that if you could look at yourself in a mirror, your own reflection would be depressed.

Jinu walked confidently, heading in an unknown direction, not caring in the slightest that another creature from the underworld was literally drooling and staring at him. Or so you thought...

"Is this a staring contest?"

You tensed immediately when he stopped walking and spoke, his back still facing you, clearly addressing you.

"... Excuse me?"

"I asked you if this is a staring contest. Can you stop gawking at me? You're going to wear out my face...."

Damn conceited demon. There's nothing worse in the world than an attractive man who is aware of his good looks. Lesson learned.

You decided to continue on your way because you had a feeling that if the conversation continued, you would end up trying to scratch his eyes out with your claws.

"... he's not THAT handsome," you muttered as you walked away.

Silly you, Jinu heard you and teleported right in front of you, so you ended up bumping into his chest. Which, by the way, was pretty hard... considering you hit your nose bad, and now it hurted like hell.

"Pardon me?" he asked, hands on his hips and an arrogant look on his face. "I think you just lied to yourself." That smirk was driving you crazy.

"Lie? HA! All I see in front of me is a smug demon tortured by his past who tries to improve his days by bothering others because he has nothing better to do." You replied, rubbing your sore nose. You would never admit that, before you died, you were sure that if he were real, you would give him your soul without hesitating.

Apparently, your comment bothered him much more than you expected, and when he grabbed you by the shoulders, digging his claws into your skin, you were about to scream. The only thing that stopped you was your pride and the sheer terror that gripped your throat.

"You don't know anything about me. You don't know me."

Oops. That's right. You weren't supposed to have seen him before and didn't know anything about him. First mistake. But... what if you took advantage of the situation to speed things up? All you had to do was try to get along with him... and plant the seed of an idea...

"You know what?" you managed to say as you pulled his hands away from your shoulders, which were sore from his strong grip.

You had just dodged a possible death (if that was even possible, giving you were already dead) at the hands of your number one platonic crush. "You're right." You pretended to brush dust off your shoulders. "I don't know you. But I've heard of a demon who sounds a lot like you... and who was supposedly a musician in his human life."

Jinu raised his eyebrows, surprised and apparently calmer, letting his arms fall to his sides. Damn, he was tall. Next to him, you looked like a mushroom. A mushroom with horns and popping eyes.

"You know, before I died, I used to write music," you said, trying to plant the seed of the idea.

It wasn't entirely a lie... you did write music, although the demon whose body you occupied, through his memories, you learned that he had absolutely no knowledge of it, since they were a painter.

Jinu's gaze made it clear, however, that he had no idea what you were talking about. In fact, he thought you were crazy and waited respectfully for you to finish your ramblings so he could walk away and never come back.

"The thing is..." you continued. The poor guy wasn't very bright. "In the end, isn't it music that keeps us down here? Besides Gwi-ma, of course." You paused, looking for some response in his eyes. "Because of the hunters... because they sing... because their music keeps the Honmoon alive..." You continued, speaking slowly, trying to make him think it was his idea... but he didn't seem very interested. In fact, he looked at you as if he wanted to leave as soon as possible to get back to his miserable life in the underworld.

You snorted, bit your lower lip and decided to give up. What was the point of trying to get a demon with a brain the size of a peanut to understand the plan that, according to the script, would (temporarily) destroy the Honmoon? Because Jinu was clearly incapable of coming to that conclusion on his own.

You took a deep breath and decided to plant the seed deep in his mind, by force, to see if he would water it. As a gift.

"... Sometimes I think, oh, how awful it must be to live down here, hungry for souls, because of those tacky singers! And I realise that the problem has always been the same: the source of their power, which turns out to be the people who listen to their music... you know, right? their fans?"

Jinu nodded slowly, finally understanding where you were going with this.

"Guess we manage to steal their fans and... Ta-da! We're free!" You finish with a dramatic pose, looking at him out of the corner of your eye. At no point do you mention that this plan, if executed well, could be a feast for Gwi-ma, because that's not part of your scheme... although you'll figure out a way to deal with that in the future, when necessary.

Jinu remained silent, scrutinizing you.

Playing dumb didn't work for him, because even though his plan was to play bonkers so you would leave him alone, your intentions were apparently far from stopping talking anytime soon. Furthermore, he had been mulling over that idea long before you mentioned it... but he found it striking that you had thought of it. Did you say you wrote music?

You could even be useful for his plan...

Was that a sign to get started?

"You know what? I think it's a good idea," he finally said, after seriously considering disappearing so he would never have to see you again. "It might even work."

"Of course it would work, you idiot!" you shouted in exasperation, tired of the back and forth of the conversation.

Clearly, Jinu didn't like being called an idiot very much, and he stared at you with one eyebrow raised, weighing up whether it was worth slapping one of your eyebrows off. After all, even though you were a little rude and extremely irritating, with that brain of yours, you could be useful to him. And Jinu never let potential tools get away.

You cleared your throat, looking semi-serious again, before continuing: "The thing is... who knows? If someone who could sing found... I don't know... four other people who could sing... and a successful producer in her previous life... they could negotiate with Gwi-ma to form a band... and, you know, succeed?

You were tired of Jinu.

Jinu was tired of you.

But you needed Jinu to find the rest of the Saja Boys, and Jinu didn't mind a producer (not as successful as she claimed to be) with similar ideals to his... even though you were both sure that the other was the stupidest person in the underworld.

In the end, you decided that the best thing for both of you was to work together... even if that meant exchanging ideas again.

But if you thought that encounter had been disastrous, it was because you couldn't even imagine what it would be like to meet the others. Or to have them all together in one room. Or to explain to them how the roles and ‘personalities’ of a modern boy band work... or to get them to stop flirting with you just for fun. Or, quite simply, to get them to pay you the slightest bit of attention.

"I refuse to play the baby, even if Jinu asks me to. Nuh-huh. Not happening."

You put your hands over your face in frustration. Everything was more difficult because you already knew the roles played by each of Jinu's friends. And the hardest part was that they listened to Jinu and Jinu only, not to you, a grumpy, bossy stranger.

"But to satisfy the fans' absurd need to infantilise idols, there has to be one member of the group who behaves a little more like a youngster, Byeol." you said through your hands, tired of arguing.

It was a surprise (though it made sense) to discover that Jinu's friends had real names and not literal descriptions of their roles in the group. It was also a surprise to discover that Sang, whom you knew as Abby by his stage name, was the only one who really liked his role in the band: the himbo, muscular gym rat.

Byeol flatly refused to play the adorable maknae. Even though he was the youngest... and whose physique was more like that of a young boy.

Dasom wanted to be the leader, not the flirtatious Don Juan. Even though it had already been made clear that Jinu would be the leader.

And Minjun wanted to be the team mascot. Even though you had explained to him hundreds of times that boy bands didn't have mascots.

Jinu, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy your frustration. He knew your idea was good, especially after studying current music trends and fan preferences himself, but he would rather die (again) than confess that you were right.

You just wanted to pull your eyelashes out from the stress they were causing you. Because when they weren't complaining about your ideas, they were playing games to make you agitated and blush. Which was difficult when your lack of self-esteem and patience couldn't properly process the flirting and romantic jokes that Dasom, in particular, tried on you.

In the end, at the expense of your mental health, you reached an agreement: you would be strictly partners, and you would work as a team for the common good (making Gwi-ma happy so he would give you some space) and at the same time, for personal reasons: Jinu wanted Gwi-ma to erase his memories, Dasom and Minjun wanted to leave the underworld, even if only temporarily, Sang wanted to improve his quality of life in hell once they had destroyed the Honmoon... and no one knew exactly what Byeol wanted.

Thanks to Jinu, they accepted their roles and decided on their stage names (which, thank goodness, you didn't have to argue with them about, because they were able to come up with them on their own) and ended up accepting you as their producer and something like a secretary or manager or something in between... a helping hand to make their plan succeed.

In return, you only asked for three things: no flirting with you, even as a joke (or seriously), no asking what exactly you would get in return, and never, ever, telling Gwi-ma about yourself, since he didn't know you existed... and if he found out that a demon from his kingdom had a soul and wasn't under his control... you'd be dead.

You would think of something to prevent the death of the humans, Rumi's very avoidable misunderstanding with the others, Jinu's death and all that...in time.

For now, all your attention would have to go into producing their debut and making it a resounding success... and also convincing the boys that pastel pink was sexy.

They clearly had talent. Without using their powers, they were good singers, and you were surprised by Dasom's, now known as Romance, skills as a dancer and choreographer. Baby rapped effortlessly and was able to help you write, Abby had an incredible memory and physical resistance, Mystery had a heavenly voice, and then there was Jinu... who had all of the above, bathed in sarcasm. From that first encounter, your friendship never quite clicked. But you didn't care, because he would clearly end up with Rumi and they would live happily ever after, right?

Before you pitched the idea to Gwi-ma, you wanted them to be ready. You wanted their debut to be perfect. At first, simply because it was your plan, and because it was necessary for the story to move forward. But as time went by, it was also for their sake. Because even though they constantly drove you crazy and tested your patience, you learned to care for them. After all, part of your plan was to give them back their souls, and to do that, you had to understand them as best you could.

You learned that Baby was the most mature of them all despite being the youngest, even though he never talked about his past as a human beyond admitting that he had been a writer. You had the best conversations with him. He knew how to listen, he knew how to debate, and he was intelligent. Attractive, if you were asked for your honest opinion. One day, after rehearsal, you found him deep in thought, writing notes in a notebook. Although he found it difficult to open up to you, he finally admitted that even in the underworld he still liked to write, especially fantasy, and you convinced him to let you read something. After giving him your honest opinion in the form of constructive criticism and silly jokes, you two became closer. You found Baby to be a very interesting, attractive person with a great talent for storytelling. And to Baby, you were a reliable critic, smart (even if Jinu said otherwise), and although a bit grumpy, very funny. He learned to enjoy his time with you and to miss you when you weren't around. You were the one who could offer him the best conversation... and the best company.

Abby was much sweeter, and sometimes a bit childish. He was competitive and affectionate, hungry for physical contact. Apparently, he had been the eldest son in a military family, and from a very young age he had been raised to be the head of the family. That meant he was the only one of his siblings who couldn't have time for his mother's affection, because he had to be the strongest, and feelings only weakened men. Behind his confident gaze was a child who had never received a hug from his mother. The day you dyed his hair, he discovered how much he liked having his hair stroked, and since then, every now and then he asks you to do it, pretending it's good for his muscles, ignoring the fact that you both know it's the worst lie ever told. But after learning his story, you decided not to say a word about it and let him rest his head on your lap so you could run your fingers through his soft hair. What you didn't know was that, over time, it became Abby's favourite place, and that sometimes, when you hummed without realising while caressing him, he felt like he had finally left the underworld and came home. Because that's what you were starting to be to him.

At first, Mystery was the hardest to deal with, as he was the least vocal of the five. And not being able to see his expression made it even harder to understand his emotions. Was he happy? Sad? Angry? Maybe it was because he had gotten too into his role, but he was a complete mystery. Little by little, you learned to read between the lines, to interpret his silences. When he tilted his head to one side because he was curious, when he lowered his chin because he was angry... He was a bit like a kitten. And you understood why he insisted in been a mascot... without the need to talk, but kinda expressive. You learned that he was an orphan and had lived most of his life alone. As time went by and you learned to understand him, he opened up to you, little by little. He talked to you more, trusted you more. Until he explained that he had once been in love, that his heart had been broken, and that since then he had found it difficult to express himself with words and to open up to people. But for some reason, with you it was different. You never judged him, even though he went along with the others to tease and joke with you, and you were always patient with him. You wanted to understand him... and now he wanted to learn from you and try again to open up to people.

Romance hid a genuinely cheerful and funny boy behind a facade of smiles and empty flirting. Apparently, he had been a dancer in his human life, hence his talent, and he had had four older sisters, which made him the most patient with you. At first he was cold towards you, apparently because you reminded him of a life he couldn't return to, but little by little he came to understand that you had nothing to do with his sisters, hius past and his decisions, and that being distant towards you didn't benefit him at all. Gradually you talked more and more, understanding each other's tastes, and coming to enjoy each other's company. When Romance wasn't trying to embarrass you just for fun, his company could even be enjoyable. And although he didn't want to admit it, he liked spending time with you more and more, and he was beginning to enjoy getting on your nerves in a different way.

Jinu, on the other hand, was the one who had remained the most distant from you. You couldn't say why, but that's how it was. Maybe he was disgusted by your appearance, or maybe he was bothered by the smell of your breath, but he always stayed several steps away from you. He tried to look unbothered, calm, and composed, as long as he wasn't picking on you. How considerate. In fact, he practically only spoke to you directly to annoy you. It was frustrating because you knew he was sweet and kind to Rumi, but for some reason, with you, he was... like that. You wanted to strangle him every time he contradicted you or when he clearly pretended to be fine when his memories were torturing him. You couldn't see that he always turned to look at you when you turned away, that he was the one who cared most about you getting some rest, and that he was actually cold to you to try to prove to himself that you weren't important. That you were expendable. That you were stupid, no fun, not attractive at all, and in no way interesting. Because if he got closer to you, it could mean moving away from his goal.

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A/N: Well! Finally, a real chapter. I hope it was interesting enough to make you want to keep reading… My intention is to let the relationships develop slowly, and as the story progresses, and finally let you choose who will win your heart (wink). For now, everyone deserves a chance, right? Even Jinu, who acts all tough. Or should Jinu end up with Rumi, because they didn't give us that satisfaction in the movie?

Anyway, I hope you liked it and that you want to keep reading :)

See you soon,

Nun🐇​

[mikkomacko]

Him and I - 15

Order of Affairs

Mob Boss Nico Hischier x reader

Warnings: Mentions of death/faking death, mentions of depression, cursing, smut

A/n: Thank you all so much for reading! And for commenting and reblogging and sending asks. I absolutely adore chatting about this story with y’all and I’m so happy you care enough to want to discuss. Enjoy this chapter and new phase of our Mob babies!

Previous Chapter

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The kitchen buzzes with the unintelligible hum of the men in the other room, all of them gathered for the early morning meeting session Nico called a few days ago after your visit to the cemetery. Later than he would’ve preferred but things needed to be planned out, Timo needed to return home before he could make any big moves.

Jack’s overly excited voice rises above the others, flowing into the kitchen and you can’t help but smile to yourself. When Luke first told you that they always called Jack by the name of Rowdy growing up, you didn’t even have to question it. Bright and early on a Wednesday morning and he sounds like he’s at Disneyland.

“Black coffee? That’s not a good sign.”

You gasp at the familiar voice, abandoning Nico’s plain, bitter coffee on the counter in favor of whirling around. Timo is standing there, having just coming in through the garage door and even though it was only two weeks without him he looks different. Fuller maybe, happier for sure.

“You’re home!” You screech, and he laughs as Moose comes barreling in at the noise. Racing the dog across the kitchen, you wrap your arms around Timo and he does the same, squeezing you tightly. Moose sniffs at his pants and shoes.

“Worst trip of my life,” he says, jokingly. “2 weeks without you? Never again.”

Of course it wasn’t the worst trip of his life. He’s practically glowing from the inside out but the sentiment warms your heart anyway.

“Ugh I missed you so much.” You say, pulling back from him. He ruffles your hair, shoving you back towards the island so you can finish making your morning tea and add sugar to Nico’s coffee. Even though he told you not to.

He leans against the counter, turning up his nose at Nico’s mug. “He’s so stressed he’s abandoned creamer again?”

It’s a known thing between you two that when Nico has a lot going on, when he’s been dealing with something as stressful as the situation with your family, he gets laser focus. Focus that will apparently be hindered by any kind of sugar in his morning caffeine. You think he’s a little dramatic though and you hate kissing him after he’s had black coffee, the bitterness lingering on his breath, so you sneak in some sugar anyway.

“I don’t even know if he’s stressed,” you admit, “it’s more like he’s just so angry that this is all he cares about.”

Timo gives you a knowing look, “you mean you’re all he cares about.” Shrugging, you don’t verbally confirm his statement but the pleased smile you can’t contain says enough. Nico’s lost you too many times before and he’s not about to let it happen again at the hands of another family member.

“Seriously though,” he continues, playfulness gone as you mix in sugar cubes to your own cup of tea. “I mean this was a lot. Even if you’re going to downplay it for his sake or whatever. Your parents are fucked for what they did and I’m sure whatever Nico is doing is justified.”

Dropping a couple cubes into Nico’s cup, you shrug. “I know it’s justified. I’m the one that approved it all.” The kitchen goes still, your gaze locked on where you’re stirring the sugar around the mug. The only sound is the drag of the spoon and the chatter of the boys in the other room.

Timo ducks his head down, catching your gaze with a giddy smirk. “You approved it all? Really?”

“Well don’t be so surprised,” you scoff, “I beat you and Nico in Switzerland didn’t I? Besides, he promised me then that I get to have a say in getting back at people who hurt me so.”

Timo snickers, totally pleased and when you meet his gaze with a shy grin he’s beaming so wide his smile looks like it’s about to fall off the sides of his face.

“Thank god,” he laughs, “I was thinking I’d come home and you’d be going rouge again. Hopefully taking me with you this time.”

You roll your eyes. “I could never go completely rouge on Nico, you know that.” He gives you an imploring look and you sigh. “Of course I’d invite you this time Timo.”

He reaches across the island to ruffle your hair. “I’d go with this time, just for the record.”

“I think Nico would too,” you laugh, “but tell me about Switzerland! How was Amelia? Is she going to come visit?”

Timo doesn’t get the chance to respond. Nico is in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he nods back towards the dining room. “He can tell you later. Meeting is starting.”

You both stand up straighter at his tone, shifting from playful to all business. Timo purses his lips, motioning for you to go first and you do, Nico’s coffee in hand while yours sits on the counter to cool. You hand it to him as you pass, pressing a kiss to the harsh line of his clenched jaw in hopes that it eases him a little bit. His features don’t relax, but he pats at your side appreciatively. Him and Timo share a brief hug in greeting, the three of you lining up at the end of the table packed full of every Devils mob member.

Nico takes a sip of his coffee, setting it on the table top and the room falls quiet, Jack and Luke waving at you from their seats just to the left of Nico. You smile, wiggling your fingers back at them as Nico clears his throat.

“I know this is a different look to our usual meetings,” he begins, hands on his hips. “And I know you all know what that means.”

The hush that has taken over the room feels heavy, strained by Nico’s confirmation that this isn’t just a regular weekly meeting. It was obvious from the nervous chatter earlier that they did in fact know something was up. Nico has never moved a meeting to a private location. That’s only done when there’s a shift from the normal practices and laws of the Devils. When Nico first explained to you how their meetings work, he’d briefly mentioned his ability to move meeting locations. He’d only ever do it when he needed something to stay entirely between him and the Devils. It’s used for extra protective measures that way when Nico changes rules or protocols, he can insure it stays within the group. It gives them a cushion of surprise against an enemy.

You don’t know if the boys are aware of who this enemy is today. Of course the ones that had been with you that day know, but you have no clue what Nico has told the others. Maybe he hasn’t said anything and that’s why so many of them eagerly lean forward, hanging on his every word.

“There’s going to be some changes for the time being. I don’t have a timeline on how long you’ll have to abide by them but you will follow everything I say today until I give word.”

He pauses for a moment to let it sink in, the words hanging in the air far more grave than they should be. Alex catches your eye, his eyebrows pinched together in worry and you give him a reassuring nod. Nico has to be serious for this because it is serious. He’s not trying to scare Alex or any of the boys, he just needs them to know that this is important.

“The following protocols are to be memorized and used 24/7. Meaning you’re all on shift, always. Even when you’re at home, you keep them in practice, got it?”

A chorus of agreement comes from the table. Nico eyes them all for another beat before continuing, his tone not as barking anymore. His eyes stay dark and observing through, his jaw still clenched. The knuckles of his hands are white where they’re gripping his sides.

“This first one is the most important and I want no arguing or negotiating on it,” Nico sends Alex and the Hughes boys a pointed look. “Y/n is with me at all times. If either of us have to go in for work, we go together. Other than that, we’ll be running everything out of the house here.”

Alex gives you another worried look but doesn’t attempt to argue or question Nico. You have a feeling he’s waiting though until it’s just you two and him. He’d never question his boss in front of everyone, but he will ask his guardian after they’ve all left.

“With that in place, Timo is taking over all face-to-face business with Hischier Enterprises. Everyone under that side will report to him in person and follow what he says. For matters that absolutely require y/n, you come here or do it over the phone. Unless I say so, she won’t be at the penthouse. And you’re all still in charge of wellness checks and emergency signals without her. Timo will work out a schedule with you guys.”

Timo takes a step forward, pointing a finger at the line of boys that work under you and him. At his gesture, they all sit up a little straighter.

“Merc you’re with me now. All the second hand stuff you were doing before is the same, it’s just you’re my second hand for now.”

Your best friend steps back in line with you and Nico, Mercer’s gaze falling to you questioningly. Amused, you step up now, nodding at him.

“Keep training under Timo,” you tell him, “have his back the same way you did with mine. As for the rest of you…”

The three boys wait with wide and expectant eyes, intently waiting for instruction from you. “Johnny and Alex will stick together on all assignments, and while you’re technically still under the Enterprise, you’ll be following special orders from Nico and I. You’ll report here every morning instead of the penthouse.”

Just like you thought he would, Alex relaxes back into his seat, features softening into an almost pleased smile. Luke, however, has put together that with you out of the day-to-day picture, he’s now the odd man out, and his desperate gaze reflects that.

“You’ll be back with Jack,” you tell him, “the two of you will split time between handling some things for Timo and me, and handling other tasks on Nico’s side.”

Your fiancé steps in then, a heavy hand finding your lower back as he moves to your side. Addressing Jack, he says, “You’re going to have to step up a bit, do more for Jesp and Jonas who will be covering my post, yeah?”

Jack nods, bringing his hand up to his forehead in a far too serious salute. Nico ignores him, nudging you back when you let out a giggle. Your part is done now, at least for the rest of the meeting so you stand silently next to Timo, listening intently even though you’re already aware of the new rules.

“The boys working with me,” Nico starts, crossing his arms over his chest again. “I’m upping surveillance meaning I’m also upping everyone’s shifts. You’ll also be on a buddy system. Jonas and Jesp will give you your assignments after the meeting.

“These aren’t just bar watch assignments. The whole city is to be monitored. On top of camera surveillance, you’ll have patrolling shifts with your buddy. Our target areas are Devs protected establishments, particularly ones in Jersey City.”

If any of the boys realize his intentions with the new rules, they don’t react to it. Aside for your boys, you’re not exactly sure what the others know of your past. They know you’re from here, that you lost your family for this like so many others did. But you can’t even begin to guess what they’ve all been told about your journey into Nico’s life.

Do they know about the cemetery? About the deli too? Has Nico let anyone know that you’ve been disowned and treated like trash by your parents? They probably could guess it by Nico’s new protocols. Everyone knows he would never let anyone get away with disrespecting you. He’s said before that he’d burn cities and wage wars for you. Do they know that’s what he’s doing now?

Are all of these men eager to get in the line of fire for you?

“Last but not least,” Nico runs a thoughtful hand through his hair, settling it on his hip. “I’m putting the word out. Any business with Devs horns on the window is forbidden from serving y/n’s family. Names and photos will be distributed and any form of business, in person or not, is not permitted.”

There’s an almost still reaction, like the air in the room grows solid at his words. In all his years in New Jersey, Nico has never laid out such a rule for their businesses. He never wanted to be the cruel boss, never wanted to take away from the creativity and free flow of the city that made it so great. Nico loves New Jersey, you know that, the boys know that. This shift in rules particularly says enough.

He’s drawing battle lines. He’s getting a step ahead because for the first time, Nico is preparing the Devils for the biggest defensive action they’ve ever taken. They’re not just surviving now, not just living in the fabrics of New Jersey. He is preparing for their first territory battle.

All of it at the defense of you.

It doesn’t hit you lightly.

Since joining the Devils, you knew your place in the family was different. Nico had always told you as much, Timo had warned you from the get-go. You would never just be a member. Unlike the others, you didn’t come to Nico and join out of circumstance. No, he came to you. Nico made the space for you here. More so, he made that space a place of leadership and power.

He changed the entire layout of Devils so that you ruled alongside him. Most other families simply marry the women into the group and rely on them to bring up the next generation of members.

Nico didn’t bring you into the Devs for that, to be a wife and a mother, to be a homemaker. He brought you in because he loves you, because he wants to share the family he built with you. And he wants you to keep building it by his side rather than from his shadow.

It’s a lot to take in, being loved so much. Especially coming off the low of being cut out by your family. Their only daughter, the miracle baby they never thought they’d have, and yet they let that miracle fade out. Your parents are living the lonely, childless, two-income life they used to say they feared. And it’s all at their own hand.

Knowing that they’d rather live in their worst nightmare than with you being happy hurts in a way you can’t explain. It’s the same feeling you’d imagine Luke and Jack have towards their family. Alex too, especially with the state of his departure from Sweden. At least the Hughes boys have contact with their mother.

You and Alex have nothing of the sort. Unloved, unspoken of, forgotten and abandoned by the mothers that were supposed to love you unconditionally and whole heartedly.

Nico dismisses the meeting with a final order for them all to touch base with either Jonas and Jesper, or Timo and Mercer in the case of your boys. Your best friend has only a moment to pass by you, briefly touching the bend of your elbow with a reassuring gaze as he heads to gather with the younger boys.

Lost in thought, you stare at Nico’s abandoned coffee mug on the table top until he’s touching the small of your back, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your cotton tee.

“You okay?” He asks, eyebrows creased in concern when you blink up at him, lightly shaking your head out of its stupor. Now that he’s no longer running the meeting, and a such a serious one at that, you tuck into his body, hands coming up to rest on his chest.

“Yeah,” you promise, “it’s just a lot.”

You don’t have to further explain because he already knows. It’s a lot to do for just you. Even though you looked over this plan with him and approved of it all, it still feels like too much for just you. Him putting the boys in danger like this, pulling focus away from whatever was going on over in New York.

What if he misses something significant there because he’s too focused here? Too focused on you?

“For you,” he murmurs, gravely “it’s not enough. You’ve spent years missing them, hoping that one day they’d come around just to be hurt beyond reason. With us, with me, there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do to make up for that.”

Rising to your toes, you press a kiss to the scar on the corner of his lips, then another to his mouth, smiling when his hold on your waist tightens.

“I know. I’m just worried that we’re going to miss something else because we’re so busy with this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Miss something like the Rags?” At your hum of confirmation he continues. “We’re not going to miss anything. Lee is keeping an eye out and with you and me being together all the time, we’ll pay attention. There’s enough of us to deal with your family and deal with whatever Trouba is up to.”

You hadn’t thought of that before. How being home with Nico everyday will open up your schedules now. Even if the sole focus is work, you’re bound to get time with just him. Unless there’s an absolute emergency, he’s all yours.

A part of you warms at the thought. You’ve missed him lately. It feels like ever since you got back from the hot mess that was Vancouver, you only see him at night or the couple hours put aside to teach him to drive the new car. At this point though, he’s pretty much got it down and your lessons have turned into driving around the city with the windows down, having sex in the backseat, and then going for food. Not that you’re complaining but it’ll be nice to be at home with him more often.

“I don’t want to be on lockdown Nico,” you say though, thinking of Switzerland. You had this conversation then and you’re hoping to god he didn’t just forget it. “Please don’t ask me to stay in the house with 24 hour surveillance. I want to actually help and actually be a part of it.”

He smiles down at you with mirth, pretty dimples in his cheeks and eyes moony with fondness. Something else glints there too, underneath all that warmth and love, a look of pride, and you know he didn’t forget.

“You won’t be,” Nico assures, tucking your hair behind your ear. He takes your chin between two fingers, his thumb tracing over the dip of it with a touch so soft it makes your whole chest grow hot. “I’m not locking you up in a tower and leaving you here. The reason you’re going to be with me all the time is for emergencies. If something happens with the guys, I need you close so you can make a decision right away.

“You’re leading us here, baby. I’m just the messenger.”

Almost giddy, you giggle and blush like a schoolgirl at his words. It makes him chuckle too, tucking his head down to press a kiss to your forehead. Faintly, you wonder if maybe you and him are crazy. Laughing and kissing over the knowledge that together you’re both about to make your parents lives absolute hell. Maybe the mob did change you, did make you in this unrecognizable and unredeemable person.

Alex sidles up and you break back from Nico to pull him into a hug, rubbing your hand up and down his back in greeting. You didn’t really see the boys when they got here this morning, not that there was much time for chatting with them anyway. Though you wish there had been because Alex is turning to Nico before you’ve even fully let go of him.

“I want to stay with you guys,” he says firmly, to no one’s surprise. “After Switzerland and stuff she should have two of us with her. Especially since it’s personal this time and I understand Italian basically so I can translate.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Nico stares down at Alex with a raised eyebrow, as if he’s actually considering the offer. You have to bite your cheek to keep from laughing at his little game. You were the one to assign Alex and Johnny to special assignments under Nico, simply because you wanted Alex with you. When Nico downright refused to leave you with just Alex, this was the compromise.

You knew Alex wouldn’t be entirely happy with it, at least not until he understands what the promotion, so to speak, actually means. Which is why you wanted to explain to him before hand. Now Nico gets to have his fun with it.

“Johnny is fluent,” Nico counters, “maybe I should keep him and send you with Timo. He’s got a lot more experience too which is safer for her.”

Even with his back to you, you can picture the way Alex’s mouth drops open in offense. His whole body bristles, hands coming out to his sides as he squawks, “what? No I want to stay! Come on Nico don’t send me with Timo. Please let me stay here.”

Nico clicks his tongue. “I don’t know…” he shrugs, looking around at the few boys still lingering and Alex keeps blocking his gaze, stepping side to side so that Nico is always looking at him.

“Okay,” you laugh, cutting in after Alex lets out a distressed huff. “Alex I assigned you and Johnny together.”

He whips around, gaze wounded and mouth open in offense. You quickly shush him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Special assignments from Nico means you’ll be with us most of the time. Unless there’s an actual location you need to be at with Johnny, the two of you will be monitoring and working with us.”

His whole body relaxes, features morphing into a happy smile and he shrugs, “Oh cool.” Like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just get all wound up and defensive over the thought of not working with you and Nico.

“Oh cool,” Nico mocks, pinching at the back of Alex’s neck and he yelps, shoulders hunching up to try and get away from the sting. “Who do you think you are questioning us, huh?”

His tone is light hearted and teasing, easy going as him and Alex start shoving and pinching at each other.

“I’m a hyphenated Hischier,” Alex retorts, sticking his tongue out and then laughing when Nico jabs at the soft spot between his chest and arm. “I can say what I want here.”

They keep half wrestling and bickering, Alex laughing at each little poke and swipe as Nico backs him into the wall. He’s not giggling quite as much as Alex, but he’s got that smile on his face he only gets with the boys, especially Alex. The one that crinkles by the corners of his eyes, narrows them so much he’s all dark and long eyelashes, jaw clenched as he tries and fails to fight back that big of a grin.

Timo slings his arm over your shoulders, squeezing you into his side and you laugh, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Glad he’s still having fun,” Timo says, referring to Nico. “Didn’t really know how he’d be with all of this.”

You know what he means. Nico can be far too serious sometimes, shouldering things that are too heavy for just him but he never tries to share the burden. He likes being the to one to do it. To fix things, to take care of everyone, especially you. Even if it’s not good for him, he’ll wear it.

“Yeah,” you agree, “Alex is good at getting to him to take a breath and start acting his age instead of like a 50 year old man.”

Timo laughs under his breath, the two of you still watching them fight with each other. Moose has joined in now, wiggling between their legs and bullying his head into Nico’s knee or Alex’s calf.

“You think we’re ready for this?” You ask Timo, a little quieter than before.

He’s silent for a beat, contemplating. “Yeah I think so. Like I said before, Nico is ready for everything. Even when the rest of us aren’t.”

“I really missed you.” You turn into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and squeezing him tight. He returns the embrace, patting at your back soothingly.

“I missed you too, a lot. We’ve got a lot to catch up on huh?”

There’s so much to talk about. Not just the rundown of what happened with your parents and everything else concerning work, but with just you two. You want to tell him how much it sucked seeing them that day. How stupid and powerless you felt. That you really wish he’d seen how well Mercer did too. And you want to know about Amelia and Switzerland, if they talked more about the future. You want to ask if he saw Luca or Katja, how they’re doing. Did they mention Nina too?

Right now isn’t the time though. Nico’s let Alex go by now, ruffling his hair before giving him room to escape into the kitchen. Which means it’s time to get work now. Starting with a visit to your gravesite.

~~~~

“This is actually insane.”

Nico scoffs out a sarcastic laugh, shaking his head in disbelief and planting his hands on his hips. It’s such a far off look from the man that was horsing around with Alex this morning, laughing and full of light that you immediately reach for his arm, hooking your hand through the crook of his elbow.

“That’s one word for it,” he mutters, but he lets out a deep breath and stretches his arm out to you, lets you tuck your fingers between his.

“At least it’s going to be gone.” You offer as a comfort, and then, like he’s trying to back up your statement, the slow rumble of the crane starts up from across the way, the groundskeeper already rolling it forward and towards your plot.

“Where am I supposed to put my flowers for you?” Timo pouts, the store bought bouquet of white roses in his hand and you laugh. Nico, who doesn’t find it very funny, reaches around you to snatch them away.

“Hey,” you complain, “those are mine!” He dodges your swiping hand, tucking the gathered stems of the flowers under his other arm. The crane inches forward, the three of you backing up to give it more room. You shift in the thick leather jacket Nico insisted you wear, the fabric hot and sticky in the humid air. Between that and red bandana tied over your head, pinning down your hair that’s grown frizzy, it’s almost unbearable out here.

You’d take sweating in Nico’s jacket and hiding behind devils red any day though if it means you get to see this. It swells up inside you, bubbling in your gut the closer the claw of the crane gets. Your fingers squeeze Nico’s, the relief and excitement growing and growing as the metal teeth enclose around the top of the headstone, digging into the stone until it cracks. There’s no need to preserve this stupid rock anyway.

You almost laugh at how easily it’s lifted into the air, not even constructed to look or act like a real grave marker. Temporary. Hastily done. It makes you wonder what the point even was. Did they plan on removing it if you ever came back? Pretending nothing happened? That they never did this? Or was it made so shitty because they put no real thought into killing you off? They made the decision and just executed it off the bat.

“That’s a little lackluster,” you grumble, “It’s so small. I fake died and they couldn’t even get one that goes buried in the ground?”

Nico elbows you, gaze unimpressed under those dark eyebrows of his. You wish he could see your eyes through your black sunglasses, see that you do find this kind of funny. You jut your bottom lip out at him.

“You’d never do this to me, right baby?” At your teasing tone his lips twitch, fighting back an amused smile that just eggs you on. “Right?” You press your chin into his bicep, nudging his arm annoyingly so.

“No I wouldn’t,” he assures through a grumble, rolling his eyes fondly. “Build a fucking statue for you baby, okay?”

Smirking proudly, you rise to your toes and press a chaste kiss to the hinge of his jaw. “Yeah I know. Nico Hischier and too small have never been in the same sentence, have they?”

Both him and Timo snort, Nico’s ears turning pink at the tips and he runs his tongue along the inside of his dimpled cheek. Shaking his head in both disbelief and laughter, he hands you your flowers in favor cupping your jaw. Holding your gaze, he narrows his eyes in an all too telling way. The same one he gives you when you’re toeing the line of what’s acceptable to say to him in public. The line has a little more grace when it’s just Timo around, fortunatly for you, but you already know you’ll be making it up to him later for that one.

“We’re surrounded by dead bodies and you’re trying to get in my pants?”

You shrug, the movement a little awkward with how he’s holding your face still. Over his shoulder, the crane inches away with your headstone swaying from the hook.

“Can’t do it in front of living people, can’t do it in front of dead ones, when am I supposed to do it?”

Nico shakes his head, fingers flexing into a light pinch and then he lets you go. He blows out a puff of air, fighting to contain the smile you were searching for in the first place. You and Timo share a hushed snicker, only silencing when the rumble of the tractor returns.

This time in its claw hangs the thick chain weaved around the new headstone, a hulking black slab of marble dangling from it.

“That’s a little menacing,” Timo says, arms crossed over his chest as the new marker inches closer and closer to your newly renovated plot. Shifting to look at you, he eyes you carefully.

“Why do you think they did it? Like what was the point of the headstone?”

It’s the same question you and Nico have been pouring over everyday since you first came to the cemetery. What did they want to accomplish with that? How long had it been sitting here before you found it? Most concerning, how did they pull it off? You know how Nico got the new headstone made, how much he paid for it to be illegally placed here. With his influence though, that’s a price he can easily pay.

Your parents can’t. You have no idea how they got around the law to fake your death. It was a risky move, one that could’ve ended with them in jail. Instead they’ll face something worse. They’re staring directly at you and Nico now, two people without much of a limit on what kind of damage they can do.

All to send a message that could’ve been sent in an email if you’re being honest.

“Isn’t it obvious?” You mumble, “it was for me. They wanted me to know it was actually over.” What you did when you chose Nico was unforgivable. Even though you’d always left that door cracked for your parents, always hoped maybe things would be better again, they shut that door a long time ago. Locked it from the outside and sealed it tight with a pretty headstone on top. “They never intended to be my parents again.”

Nico reaches for you again, nose flared and eyebrows lowered thoughtfully. You step into his side, let him pull you close and comfort you in the only way he really knows how. Protecting you, loving you. Even if he looks like he’s mentally far away from you, his mind most likely sifting through everything he wants to do to your parents. He wants to kill them. You know he does.

“How’d they do it?” Timo questions, “Do we know anything yet?”

Nico’s tone is clipped when he responds. “No we don’t.” You slip your arm around his waist, pressing your hand into the tense spot between his shoulder blades and rub your palm in soothing circles. He’s frustrated, you know that. He wants to get ahead of this, needs information if he wants to get a foot up. Every time you’ve said Nico is smart, you mean it. Knowledge is power and like he told you the night you met him, he’s never just on a power trip.

“There was nothing on public record of it,” he continues, a little less angry and more exhausted sounding now. “No obituaries, no news headlines or articles, not even a certificate of death.”

On paper, all of this is impossible. If you were to look at it in black and white, there’s no way your parents would’ve been able to pull this off. And if you had any other life than a mob one, it would all seem like some sick prank or joke. Except you are a mob wife and you know there’s always more.

“That’s what Alex and Johnny are for,” you explain, motioning to the two boys that have been monitoring your corner of the cemetery. They’re not as bundled up as you but they’re in all black, weapons concealed in their waist bands and a red bandanas tied around one of their legs. “Alex is like obsessive and Johnny is good with details. We’re hoping together they can do better digging than Nico and I could.”

That and you need a distraction. If your parents are now on the lookout for you and Nico, especially after he visited their home, they’ll have their ears to ground for any sign of him. They don’t know Alex or Johnny, didn’t see either of them with you that day. If anyone can sneak around them for information, it’ll be those two.

While they’re watching you and Nico, your boys will be watching them.

Almost impressed, Timo looks you up and down, something warm in those blue eyes of his. Not the same warmth that he gives you and Nico just because you’re his best friends. It’s more like…admiration.

“You’re good at this,” he says in explanation when you give him a questioning look. “Being in charge, being a prinzessin.”

His words make your heart well, fluttering up with relief. By now, you think you’ve proven yourself about being able to handle mob business. But Nico has grown up in this. He was literally bred to be the head of a mob family. And Timo, while not born into it, got in with Nico at such a young age too. They’re the ones that know what to do, have this life ingrained in them.

Hearing that from Timo, seeing that look in his eyes, is such a heavy compliment it makes you want to cry. He’s known you from day one, has heard every fear and concern you’ve ever had about Nico and the Devils. He was the one that took that broken girl, the one still insecure and lost after you’re break up with Nico and the loss of your family, traumatized and mentally unwell from Philadelphia, and taught you to be strong and capable.

These past few months, between Nico showing you that all this time that he’s been building up the Devils for you and Timo admitting that he’d follow you over Nico, it’s almost too much.

Blinking away the flattered tears that have gathered in your waterline, you take a steadying inhale as the crane comes to a stop. The groundskeeper, a man unknown to you but now on Nico’s payroll, maneuvers the arm until the newly engraved headstone is placed in the indent left from yours. Only this one is triple the size, stretching across the entire plot, on all three spaces under your parent’s name.

Shiny and new, the black marble swirled with flecks of gold is a stark contrast to the white one that had been here. It’s unmistakable, unmissable. If your parents so much as drive by and glance over they’ll know that it’s been swapped. And they’ll come over to see the latest warning that’s been put in place.

Glaringly obvious who it’s come from. The stone is engraved with their names, a large and gothic looking font spread across the entire top half. Nico didn’t put any dates on it but he did add a personal touch.

For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but cast them into hell and committed them to chains of gloomy darkness to be kept until the judgment.

You can’t help but smirk at the scripture he stamped under their names, framed by two imposing devil horns on either side. In case they happened to miss the message, the devils logo will hopefully do the job.

No matter what they do now, how they might try to go back or rationalize themselves, Nico will not be sparing them. As of right now, they’ve already been caught. All he’s waiting for is the explanation you want, the reasoning that will condemn them.

The irony of him being God here isn’t lost on you. If they want to take you off this earth unwilling and untruthful, he can play God bigger and better than anyone. He can do worse. And you won’t stop him.

“What’s next?” Timo asks as the groundskeeper dropping the chains from the crane. They crash to the ground with a ringing clatter, falling away from the headstone until the whole thing glints freely at you.

Nico squeezes your hip, peering over your head to his friend. “We start pushing in on them,” he says, going into the plan you and him have laid out. You’ll monitor Johnny and Alex from the house, sending them out to tail and take tabs on your family. They’re going to get down whatever routine and schedule your family might have, figure out why and how your nonna is suddenly in town. And anything she might’ve known about your death. While the four of you work on that, Timo and Mercer are going to be enforcing the new rules for Devils protected establishments. The next round of check ups he’ll make sure they’ve been notified and are in agreement with the protocols. Anyone who isn’t will be dropped from their contract.

The others will be awarded a compensation for any income they may miss out on by denying your family services. Timo will be working out the numbers on that and making sure it’s all distributed. Then he’ll be double checking that all businesses have a way of reaching Jonas and Jesper in case of emergency or any retaliation on your parents side.

“I don’t want any trouble for our people,” Nico concludes. “You gotta keep a close eye there Timo. That’s the only way we keep them safe and her.”

He gives you a shake on the final word, your sunglasses slipping down your nose as you giggle and curl into his chest. Smiling softly, he presses a sweet kiss to your forehead.

Timo makes a noise of realization. “You’re going to up root them. Make them unwelcome in their home.”

You purse your lips, unwilling to admit that this part of the plan was fuzzy. Yeah you want them to suffer, want them to feel as lost and uncomfortable as you did. But Nico had offered more, the ultimate punishment and you still haven’t answered.

“It’s nothing worse than what they did to her,” Nico defends but you both know Timo wasn’t judging. He just hasn’t been here for it all, doesn’t know what exactly you’ve contributed. He’s trying to get a feel for how far this will all go because from the looks of it, Nico is going to cross that line.

“So this is how it ends?” He nods towards the headstone. “It’ll stop when they’re here?”

The words hang in the air, both of you unable to answer. Nico won’t make this decision for you and you won’t make it either. Obviously you know they’ve done that, have made the hard choice of completely removing you from their life but they lied about it. They didn’t actually try to kill you. Though you supposed the only reason they didn’t is because they’ve always assumed the worst of Nico. They probably thought he would get you killed and then all of this here wouldn’t be a lie. More of a prophecy come to life.

Up until last week though, you still had a space for them in your future. You were already mulling over the idea of inviting them to your wedding, of figuring out a way with Nico to at least let them know that they’d be welcome to be there for you if they wanted to make the leap. You hadn’t written them off yet and you’re still not sure you want to.

All you know is that you want to make them pay. And you want them to know it was you. Nico isn’t the only one calling the shots here, even if you’ll let it appear that way. So you step out of Nico’s hold, crossing the untouched dirt of your fake gravesite and lay the bouquet of flowers at the bottom of the new headstone.

A pretty little personal touch, a gesture of hello from you to them.

~~~~

The soft glow of the kitchen lights, only half of them flicked on, greets you at the base of the staircase. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you tip toe across the entryway and into the kitchen, a low smile taking over your lips at the sight before you.

Nico’s hair hangs messily over his forehead, still rumbled and frizzy from what little sleep he’s had. The pajama pants he so rarely sleeps in hang low on his hips, the band of them hidden under the apron he’s tied around his bare torso. In the little light he’s given himself, he’s hunched over the countertop and layering a spoonful of cream in a glass dish.

“Hey,” you greet softly, pausing in the doorway. He looks up, eyes a little wild and startled before realizing it’s you.

“Hi,” he murmurs, gaze softening. He drops the spoon into the large bowl of whipped cream, straightening out. “What are you doing up?”

Laughing to yourself, you round the island as he wipes his hands clean on a dish towel. “Not baking, that’s for sure.” You tease, stepping into his space.

“S’not baking technically.” He defends, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. Laying your cheek against the scratchy fabric of his apron, you examine the contents laid out on the countertop. The lady fingers, the bowl of cold coffee, and whipped topping.

“You’re making tiramisu?”

He hums, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Yeah. Wanted to make you something sweet for when you woke up.”

Slipping your hand around his waist, you let your fingers trail up the curve of his bare spine, reaching the peak between his shoulder blades before tickling back down.

“Could’ve done it in the morning,” you reply ambiguously. If Nico is up in the middle of the night, unsettled enough that he had to come down here and physically do something with his hands, it’s not a great sign. Whether he’s unable to sleep from the general events of the past week or something else, you don’t know.

Luckily, he takes the opening you give him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles, fingers squeezing your shoulder. “Got a call while you were tucking Alex in.”

Dramatic, you gasp. “And you didn’t tell me until now?”

He scoffs, shushing you by reaching down and pinching your ass through the thin cotton of your pajama shorts. Hard enough that it has you jolting, leaping forward just to end up squished even closer to him.

“Hey!” You complain but he just snickers, dropping his hands to grab at the back of your thighs. He hefts you up and onto the counter, fitting his hips between your knees.

“Do you mind?” He asks, “M’trying to tell you something important.”

Clearing your throat, you sit up straighter, hands on his shoulders as you stare intently into those warm eyes of his. Fondly, he shakes his head before continuing.

“Keefe down at the station called,” he says, lips twitching with amusement when you scowl. You know Keefe all too well from the time he arrested you and the boys. No matter how many times you told him you were Nico’s wife, he insisted that it was in his contract with the Devils to hold you until Nico could come get you. The worst part was that he made poor Luke sit on those stupid hard benches even though he’d just been hit by a car.

Teasingly, Nico squeezes your knee. “He said your parents have filed a police report. About a break in at their house and they’re insisting it’s organized crime related. They want him to escalate it even though nothing was reported stolen.”

It worries you a bit, that Nico was up in the middle of the night over something like this. Like he said, nothing was stolen and you know it was him that did it. Keefe can throw away the report, no harm done and they can all move on. Your parents will then know that the police will be of no help to them and hopefully they’ll back down from whatever they were trying to achieve with reporting in the first place.

“He can just get rid of it, can’t he?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “It’s not a big deal right? Like you said, you didn’t technically break anything or steal anything.”

Almost pityingly, Nico purses his lips, head tilting to the side like a sad puppy. His thumb starts to draw soothing circles into the bend of your knee and your breath catches in your throat, wondering what the hell could be in that report that has him this worried.

“I can have him throw it out, yeah.” He says gently, “But this still means they know baby. Or they at least know I’m up to something and they’re willing to fight back.”

Oh, you think dumbly. Of course that’s what this all meant. You feel a little stupid for not thinking it earlier. Why else would they go to police? They’re making an effort (a futile one at that) to take a stand against the Devils, against Nico, against you.

“So?”

He takes a deep breath. “I could tell Keefe to throw it out and we carry on with the plan. They’d know after that, that I’ve got the cops in my pocket. Or I let him escalate it.”

Toying with the knot of his apron, you frown. “What happens if he escalates it?” At your worried tone, Nico cups your face, the pad of his thumb tracing under your sleep swollen eyes.

“Nothing bad,” he assures, “S’just we didn’t account for it. If Keefe escalates though, we could get into the station for interviews and statements. Hear directly from them what they think they know about us.”

It sounds like a good thing. Nico had been plotting how to get direct information out of them. You’ve been using Johnny and Alex to try and do it. This way is so much simpler and you don’t have to risk your parents noticing the two men suddenly tailing them everywhere. Except Nico is still looking at you like it’s not a good thing. Dark eyebrows furrowed in worry, bottom lip between his teeth as he anxiously waits for you to say something.

“Isn’t that good?” You ask. “You could get Keefe to give you answers to everything.”

“Yeah I could,” he shrugs, a little indifferent. “But I’m not going anywhere without you by my side and I don’t know if it’s the best idea for you to be that close to them.”

You’ve never really considered yourself to be an aggressive person. You can be protective and mean when pushed a little too far, and yeah you maybe have killed a person or two but that was all self defense. You can confidently say however, that you’ve never had the downright urge to hurt someone with your bare hands.

You could right now though, you think. Cuteness aggression must be a real thing because the overwhelming need to take Nico’s precious face between your hands and squeeze him until he pops has rushed through you. This is what the big fuss was about? He’s up in the middle of the night making your favorite dessert because of this?

Nico’s always made you feel so special and loved, like you’re the most important thing to ever walk the Earth, but this is a new high for him, you think.

“Neeky,” you murmur, holding the sides of his face with gentle fingers despite your brain telling you to pinch and poke violently at the dimpled scar on his cheekbone. “I’m not afraid of them. Especially not if you’re going to be there with me. Anything they could say about me or you, it doesn’t matter. We know us. I know you. They’re not going to change that ever.”

He’s still for a moment, lips parted as he takes a deep breath. His gaze flickers between yours like he’s trying to decide if you’re being serious. It’s almost devastating to think that he was willing to give up this good deal because he was concerned of how it’d affect you. He didn’t want you to hear terrible things and get hurt.

Even if it meant making his job harder. Putting the boys in risky spots when now they won’t have to. You shouldn’t be surprised though. After all, he argued with you in Vancouver when you tried to make him promise that he’d protect Luke and Jack before you. Even then he never fully agreed, just let you talk until time was up and you had to get moving.

He’s always putting you first.

“I-I don’t want you to be hurt by this.” He insists. “We don’t know what they’re going to say and I can’t protect you from mean words. Not as much as I’d like to.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, dragging his face down until you can smash your lips to his. He makes a high pitched sound in the back of his throat, his hand slipping around your waist to draw you closer to him.

“Escalate it,” you tell him, the words just a murmur against his lips before you’re pecking at them again. “I trust you Nico.”

He groans, surging forward to kiss you again. Warm hands trail up your thighs, slipping under your pajama shorts to grab at your ass. He pulls you to the edge of the counter, your knees hiking up by his waist. Swiftly, you find the knot at the back of his apron and pull it loose, breaking apart long enough for you to lift the strap over his head. He doesn’t complain when you drop it haphazardly to the kitchen floor, wrapping your arms around his neck.

You trace the muscles there, the dips of his shoulder blades. His skin is overly warm the way it always seems to be. Even in the frigid air of the alps he radiated a heat you’ve never had. Underneath all that warmth though, your fingers find the knots in his back, tight lumps from days of stress, of apparently not sleeping enough, of choking down black coffee to keep himself focused.

“You’re all tense,” you murmur into his mouth, Nico humming absentmindedly as he tucks his face into your neck. Like the rest of him, his lips are too warm on your pulse, his teeth biting a mark of heat there that blossoms down your body, spreading like wildfire. “My poor baby, all worked up.”

He groans at your teasing, rising on to his toes and shifts his hips forward to grind the bulge of his cock into your center.

“Course I’m fucking worked up,” he says into your collarbone where he’s stretched your shirt down your shoulder. “What was it you said the other day? Something about being small…”

“Oh that,” you giggle, massaging your fingertips into his tight muscles. He groans, the sound devastatingly beautiful in how it rattles out of his throat. “I think it was something more about you not being small.”

He hums, content and flattered, and you lock your legs around his hips, balancing precariously on the edge of the counter to grind against his hard cock. “And I stand corrected.”

A thread in the collar of your shirt snaps, drawing you back from him with an affronted gasp. Nico does the same, a wolfish smile on his face when you pout at the loose neck of your shirt. It’s technically his shirt, one you’ve been stealing since the first time you ever slept at his place though so it is practically yours. And now he’s gone and messed it up.

“Nico,” you whine, “you stretched it out.”

Pleased with himself, he blinks those pretty brown eyes at you. “S’not gonna be the only thing stretched out, huh?”

It’s a terrible joke. Actually horrendous and even he seems to think so by the way his own nose scrunches in distaste. But then you’re both giggling, cupping his face and drawing him down until your smiling lips are messily pressed together.

“Alex asleep upstairs?”

You hum in confirmation, knowing that he’s still tucked into the bed in his room, exactly how you left him after you laid with him until he fell asleep earlier. You had enough mind to check on him in your search for Nico earlier, worried that maybe your fiancé was up and soothing him from a particularly bad dream. He’s been on edge lately, more than usual with all that’s going on so you didn’t hesitate to follow him upstairs after dinner when he asked you to tuck him in, ignoring the amused smirks coming from Timo and Nico.

Speaking of.

“Timo?” You mumble, letting out a noise of protest when Nico blanches, pulling back from you with terrified eyes. “What?” You asks, heart suddenly thumping nervously.

“Baby we are not- M’not stretching out Timo.”

“Oh my god!” You groan, shoving at his chest. “No I was asking if he went home, oh my god.”

Disgusted, you shiver with a frown, physically shaking off the idea. You love Timo, really you do. And he knows practically everything about you and Nico, even in your private life, but that’s too far. Way too far. The reason you’ve always been able to go to him about stuff like this is because of the fact that he’s simply your best friend. There’s never been anything there but that.

Nico’s whole body slumps with relief, dropping his forehead to rest against yours as his eyes flutter shut. “Oh thank fuck,” he gasps, “I was honestly about to throw up.”

You frown. “I think you’ve maybe ruined the mood Hischier.”

He blinks open his eyes, annoyed as he swiftly slips a hand under the flimsy fabric of your shorts, fingers immediately coming in contact with your bare pussy. Instinctively, you shift into the rough pads of his fingers, mouth dropping open in a soft moan.

“Ruin the mood my ass,” he jests, but then his face softens and he touches a gentle kiss to your lips. “Do you want to just go to bed baby?”

You bat your eyelashes at him. “No, I want you to fuck me.”

A sly grin takes over his face. “Right here? Want me to fuck you just like this?” He punctuates the question with a slow rub of his middle and ring finger in a circle on your swollen clit. Your eyes flutter closed, mouth dropping open with a soft breath of pleasure. But-

“No I want-on the couch Nico.”

You can see the face he makes even with your eyes closed just by the displeased tone of his voice. Well that and the way his fingers have stopped their ministrations, stoic between your legs. “The couch?”

Sure enough when you blink your eyes open, he’s frowning down at you like this is the biggest inconvenience of his life. You grip his shoulders, kneading your fingers into the knots there and his demeanor shifts, lips parting in a content moan.

“You’re already too tense baby. Let’s go to the couch, please?”

He offers no rebuttal, planting a hand on your ass and slipping the other down your thigh as he stands with you plastered to his chest. Abandoning the mess of half made tiramisu on the kitchen counter, Nico navigates into the dark living room with you, laying sweet kisses to your temple and cheek as he goes.

Somewhat graciously, Nico drops you into the overly stuffed cushions, chuckling at the little “oof” you let out as you flop into the couch.

“Undress for me,” he instructs in a quiet voice, nodding to your shorts as he goes to work on his own bottoms. You don’t bother with the pathetic excuse of a shirt you’ve got left, simply letting it hang low on your chest as you wiggle out of your pajama shorts.

Nico’s undone the knot on his pants now, dropping them down his legs and kicking them off to the side. Even in the dim light of the living room he looks so good, all dark body hair and thick muscles, the effects of his stupid black coffee diet already apparent in the smaller pudge of his stomach. Upset about it, you splay your hand out under his belly button, the coarse hair of his happy trail tickling your fingers as you admire him with a pout. From the tip of his fluffy bed head all the way down to his thick thighs, cock hanging hard and heavy between them. Noticing the absence of his boxers, you laugh and snuggle back into couch when he lays himself on top of you.

“Not much for us to take off, is there?” You comment as he settles back on his haunches. His hands travel up your thighs, squeezing at them appreciatively before spreading them wider. Compliant, you let him drape them over his hips, knees parted to his liking. It only takes him a moment to shove your shirt up, just high enough for you boobs to peek out at him.

“Couldn’t be bothered,” he replies, palming at your chest, the skin of his hands hot and calloused. “Was just waiting for you to jump me.”

You raise an amused eyebrow. “Oh really?” He nods, a close lipped smirk on his face as he traces the inside of your thighs again. “Should’ve been taking care of you huh? My poor Neeky, so stressed and worked up.”

His eyelashes flutter prettily at your words, a hand dropping from groping at your thighs to wrap around his heavy cock. Nico’s body is strong over yours when he shifts forward, bracing himself on his elbow above your head. Giddily, you tangle your hands in his hair and bring his mouth down to yours, parting your lips for him when the soft, slick sounds of him working his hand up and down his cock fill the otherwise silent room.

Never one to indulge in his own palm, he’s quick to tease the thick head of his dick through your wet folds. There’s no real rush to his movements but you feel like you only get a moment or two to breath in the air he exhales against your lips before he enters you in one swift, solid movement of his hips. Whatever shallow breathes you’d managed to inhale get caught in your throat, so full it’s like there’s no room for any air to fit around the space Nico’s taking up in your body.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, voice heavy and rough in your ear. Lazily, he presses wet kisses to your jaw as you hitch your legs around his waist and force yourself to take deep, relaxing breathes. “Fuck you feel good baby.”

“God Nico,” you gasp after a beat, turning your head to capture his lips. All at once he’s licking into your mouth, drawing his hips back and finding a slow but bruising pace of fucking into you. You slide a hand down his back, finding those same knots and tense muscles you’d poked at in the kitchen, now flexing with effort, and massage your fingers into them again.

A whimpered noise comes from the back of his throat, almost pained sounding but more pleasure filled than anything else. Your knees shake with it, the drag of his cock and the gruff of his voice so attractive it burns you from the inside out, pulls at every sensitive part of who you are.

“Feels good,” he grunts through a rattled breath. You keep going, fingers aching as you dig into all the tense spots of his back, and Nico - god Nico makes these raw little groans with each one, jolting and jumping when you catch a particularly tender spot. It throws off the rhythm he’d been fucking you with but you don’t even care. The startled, sporadic juts of his hip work just fine if not better, whatever intensity they’re missing being made up for with the pretty sounds he’s making.

“M’sorry I didn’t take care of you sooner,” you coo at him, scratching your nails at his scalp. Goosebumps run down his skin and he lets out a disbelieving laugh. His eyes are inky dark and wet when they meet yours, pupils blown so wide you might see a perfect reflection of yourself in them if the room weren’t so dark.

“Shhh, you’re perfect.” He assures, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth when your thumb circles a solid knot of muscle on his lower back, right where his spine first starts to curve down to his ass. The pain must be good though because neither of you miss the way his cock twitches appreciatively. “Fuck, taking care of me now aren’t you? Doing it so good too. Letting me have you like this, dead in the middle of the fucking night.”

You don’t bother giving a real answer. You know what his rambling means, when his accent bleeds in thicker and his heavy tongue lets every thought on his mind drip out. If you ever wanted words out of Nico, you know by now that you can get them out of him when he’s on verge of coming. Whatever block in his head that silences him under normal conditions falls away as soon as he’s laid bare like this. When he’s with you, vulnerable in one the most terrifying yet exhilarating ways.

Where he knows he can trust you, can just be with you. Somewhere you’ll always take care of him, hold him and make him feel good no matter the time of day.

He’s got you and you’ve got him.

~~~~

You’ve been in this interrogation room before.

The slick, silver table and metal chairs that are nowhere near comfortable. Vulnerable and exposed in the air that’s just on the far side of too cold. Above your head, the vent rattles with the constant hum of the air conditioning system.

You remember that from when you sat at this table directly across from Nico, shy under his mafioso stare as you admitted to being an accomplice in the hit and near-run of Luke.

Today Nico sits next to you though, his knee touching your thigh where his legs are spread out wide. A possessive hands rests on the inside of your thigh, not commanding or patronizing, but instead a comforting weight. Solid and soothing.

Across the table, Keefe is fielding the brunt of your fiancé’s attitude today. In his own place of work, sat at the interrogation table he typically mans, the sheriff looks small compared to Nico’s looming presence.

“They’ll be here in about twenty minutes,” Keefe says, sliding the file over to Nico. The tab of the  manila is labeled with the first initials of your parents and their last name, the sight of it making your stomach tighten with anxiety. You hate that name, hate that’s it’s been attached to you for so long even though you haven’t been in that family in a long time.

You don’t want to rush your wedding with Nico, but you can’t wait until the day you get to legally change your name on everything. When you’ll finally match him, and Alex too, and even Moose. You don’t doubt that you’re an apart of the family, don’t feel left out or anything, but it’ll be nice to share that with your boys.

“This is all they shared?” Nico asks, free hand flipping the file open. “Pretty thin.” He sits forward to start reading the police report, eyes ghosting over most of it before he’s presenting it to you.

“We didn’t expect it to go anywhere so we never followed up,” Keefe explains, “Besides, they didn’t seem to eager to be sharing a lot of detail.”

Yeah, because they’re liars. Leaning your elbow on the table, you lay your palm over the edge to keep the a/c from blowing it anywhere and read over the statements. Much to your annoyance, Nico and Keefe are right. Your parents barely even gave enough information for this to be fileable. The date, where they were when it happened (out on an errand, how cryptic), and what they noticed. Nothing stolen or broken, but things moved around and paper burned in their sink. No sign of forced entry.

“This is nothing,” you sigh, closing the folder and giving it back to Nico. “They won’t say where they were or what was destroyed.”

Keefe raises an eyebrow, looking from Nico to you and then back. “Do I need to know what was destroyed?”

Nico makes a face, shaking his head. “It was all fake documents,” he says, patting the inside of your thigh. “It’ll be fine baby. We’re going to listen in to their questioning. Keefe’s got some stuff I told him to make sure to ask, we’ll figure out what they’re up to.”

Keefe nods in agreement, picking up the file and you all stand from the table. Wrapping Nico’s leather jacket tighter around yourself, he guides you out of the room and out into the hall. Moose perks up from where you left him sitting by the door to the interrogation room, coming to your side when Nico whistles at him. Intrigued, Keefe watches Moose flank to the side Nico’s not at, the two of them standing protectively around you. He doesn’t say anything though, instead just leading you a few feet down into another open doorway.

The room is small, roughly the size of a large storage closet with a few chairs lined up. But the two way glass covering the far wall overlooks the room you’d been sat in not even five minutes ago.

“Can settle in here,” Keefe motions to the seats. “If you need anything Nico, they’ll be an officer posted outside the door. Just knock on it and she’ll come in.”

“Thanks Keefe,” Nico nods, nudging you into the room. You settle into one of the chairs, Moose sitting politely by your feet. “Appreciate it.”

The two men share a hard handshake, Keefe giving you a half wave before he’s stepping out of the room. You shift in the tall chair to face the two way glass as the door clicks shut behind you. You can feel when Nico turns to look at you.

“You doing ok?”

Running your fingers through Moose’s fur, you nod. You were never nervous for this. Maybe anxious, but more so in the way that you’re ready for answers. You’ve already had an awkward, panic inducing interaction with them and you’re not going to have one again. Whatever care you held for them vanished after that day.

“Yeah I’m fine,” you promise, offering him a soft smile over your shoulder. “Annoyed with them but I don’t- I don’t really have any feelings towards them anymore.”

Nico comes to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around you and leaning in to kiss your temple. Moose’s tail wags, tilting his snout up to look at Nico and then he’s resting his head on your thigh where he can see you both.

“Hi Müsli,” he murmurs, chin digging into your shoulder and his fingers scratch softly between Moose’s eyes. Softer this time, he asks, “What about your nonna?”

Until now, you hadn’t been thinking of her. It’s a little too much if you’re being honest. So much went down that day and so much has happened since then that you haven’t wanted to think about your grandmother. If you don’t think about her, you don’t have to think about what she may or may not know. She was shocked to see you that day in the deli, so obviously she didn’t have any idea of your death being fake, but she hasn’t reached out since. You don’t want to think about what that means.

“I guess we’ll see right?” You shrug, but an ugly feeling is bubbling in your gut. A little anxious, a little scared, but more disgusted. Everything about this situation has just left a bad taste in your mouth.

Nico hums, mouth parting with words that never get spoken because the muffled sound of the door opening on the other side of the wall comes through the low speakers. You both sit up, attention turning to the glass where Keefe is guiding in the two people you’ve been waiting for.

“No nonna,” Nico comments, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. He gives them a reassuring squeeze, thumbs pressing into the tense spots on your neck.

Your mother is the first to sit at the table, a modest black dress on her frame that looks like it’s meant for church more than it is a casual Friday at the police station. Like the fabric of her clothes, she sits cold and stiff, purse balanced on her crossed legs.

“Yikes,” Nico murmurs, “Katja Hischier anyone?”

Which he’s not exactly wrong. While you’d say your mom was a lot warmer than Katja seemed to be, they both exude the same haughty, superior air. Your mother especially now that you’ve become public enemy number 1.

By now your father has sat down too, awkwardly folding his hands on the cool metal of the table. Keefe doesn’t so much as glance at the two way mirror as he moves to sit across from them, an unknown officer with him. They take a moment to settle, the officer pulling out a blank form from the folder and a pen.

“Thanks again for coming in today,” Keefe starts and your mother’s lips twitch into a polite smile. “I’ll try to make this quick so you’re not spending all day here. Why don’t you just walk me through the initial report again.”

Nico’s fingers continue to massage at your shoulders and neck, gentle but strong in their touch. He doesn’t speak, any words unnecessary when his hands, the ones that always know how to hold you together, do enough to keep you grounded. A silent support as the two of you intently analyze the scene happening in front of you.

“Well last week we returned home to find that someone had been in our house,” your mother states, her tone plain and simple. Like it’s all that clean cut. Someone broke in so the cops should arrest them. No further details needed.

A silent pause. Keefe and the officer, pen hovering over the paper share a look. “Do you remember what day?”

Your mother purses her lips. “Thursday.”

Another awkward pause. The officer writes down the date on his sheet. Your father shifts uncomfortably and Keefe clears his throat. “What time did you arrive home?”

“It was dark,” she responds immediately. “After dinner hours.”

You roll your eyes. “Dinner is six o’clock,” you murmur to Nico. It’s been dinner at six every day of your life until you went to college. No matter the date, weather, holiday, birthday, whatever dinner was always served at six.

“What?” Nico asks, his fingers pausing their massaging. “Everyday dinner was served at 6. Even if we ate out, it was timed so that we’d be seated and ordering at 6. She’s being cryptic for some reason.”

He hums thoughtfully, squeezing your shoulders again. Methodically, he drags his hands down your biceps, flexing his hands as he goes. On the other side of the wall, Keefe purses his lips.

“What do you consider dinner hours?”

Indignant, your mother scoffs. “Anytime after dinner?” Her expression has gone sour, neck growing splotchy with agitation and you revel in for a moment. At least until your father sits forwards, offering a placating smile.

“It was probably around 7 or 7:30 that night. We got home and found the rug in our living room messed up, pictures and things moved around. Something was burnt in our sink.”

Finally, the officer starts scribbling down actual useful information and Keefe’s large shoulders slump with relief. Even as your mother side eyes your father, tongue in cheek.

“Was there any sign of forced entry?”

“No sir,” your father replies, blowing out a sigh. “The door was locked even. We checked the windows and other exits, nothing. We have no idea how someone got in.”

Your mother scoffs, rolling her eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest, foot beginning to shake restlessly under the table. “We know how he got in.”

He. Nico. So she does know.

“Oh,” Keefe hums, “you do? Nothing was stated in the initial report?”

She takes the chance to argue her case, to prove that she’s right just as she always has. You’re all to familiar with the way her nose flares, eyes narrowed in challenge as she speaks yet it still takes your breath away.

You can picture her standing over you as you sat on the staircase, telling her about how you’d failed your elementary Spanish test that week because you kept mixing in Italian phrases instead and she’s muttering that she knew it, that she knew it’d be too much for you, that you couldn’t handle it all.

“It was that mafia running around here,” she says matter of fact. “The only person who’d be interested in our home, our lives would be that Hischier man.”

Behind you, Nico makes a pleased noise, like the disdain dripping off her tongue is the biggest compliment. His breath is hot on your cheek when he leans in, a giggle in his voice. “That Hischier man huh? Sounds pretty legit.”

You shake your head in amusement, turning to catch his smile for a chaste kiss. “You are pretty legit Hischier.” You tell him, warmth blooming in your chest when his smile widens, and he starts thumbing at the hinge of your jaw.

“Hischier?” Keefe asks, almost incredulous. “As in Nico Hischier?”

“Yes!” Your mother insists, gaze a little wild. “You know him then? And what he does?”

“Yes ma’am we know all about Nico Hischier.”

The two of you snicker under your breath. She has no idea just how much Keefe knows about Nico and the Devils.

“Then you’ll know that this wasn’t a coincidence or anything,” your mother says triumphantly, shaking her head. “No he’s had an eye on us for a while. A few years ago my husband here was being followed, kept feeling like someone was watching him. He’d see that Hischier guy all over town almost everyday. And then it just stopped. Now all of sudden our house is messed up and no one can find any sign of who did it. It’s sneaky mafia business is what it is.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh, rubbing at your eyes. “Following my dad? I think she might actually be insane.”

Except Nico is suspiciously quiet. Eyes narrowed, you slip out of the chair to look at him, hands on your hips. He’s still leaning into the chair you were sat on, eyes wide and innocent. Too innocent.

“Oh Nico,” you mumble, exasperated. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” He insists, holding his hands up in defense. “I didn’t do anything technically. I just maybe was keeping an eye on them.”

You’re not even surprised. Despite laughing at how absurd your mother sounded accusing him of tailing your father, you should’ve known better. It’s not the first time you’ve become privy to him tailing someone unknowingly. He’d done it to you back when you were in school.

“When?” You ask, unimpressed.

He shrugs. “When we were broken up. I just- it wasn’t even about them, I was making sure that you were okay. I wanted to know that you didn’t go back to them.” 

Of all the reasons, you didn’t think that would be why. He was following them for you? When you weren’t together and thought you meant nothing to him? Was he following you then too? When he had no right to? Though you suppose he always had that right with you because something about the thought of him still being with you back then is nice. All that time you spent feeling so scared and alone, abandoned by family and friends but worst of all abandoned by him. He had your back even then.

You wonder why he didn’t just ask Timo about you. He was still your friend at the time, the one you turned to for everything and maybe you weren’t the best of friends back to him, but he was always there. Always just a text or call away. Like he was right there. A sour thought bleeds into your brain.

Was Timo tailing you? When you thought he was just being a friend did Nico actually have him watching you? You know Timo and Nico had a strained relationship after the breakup but you also know that Timo is undeniably loyal to Nico. He’s picked him over you before. Why wouldn’t he have done it then, even if they were on rocky ground?

“We can’t talk about this here,” you shake your head, moving back to your seat and ignoring the guilty droop of his eyes. “We already missed things.” Settling back in your chair, you cross your arms over your chest but you don’t shake off Nico’s hand when it sweeps your hair to the side, finding its resting place on the back of your neck.

“And your daughter,” Keefe says, flipping through the folder like he’s looking for something. “Y/n, she’s his target is what you’re saying?”

You have no idea what she said before to bring you into the conversation but you don’t care right now. Eagerly, you lean forward, not wanting to miss a single word about what she says of you.

“No not a target just-“ she makes a frustrated sound. “She had been seeing him a few years ago. Before he was following my husband. We heavily disapproved and they both knew it. Now he’s retaliating against us because we told our daughter about who he really is.”

The air feels tacky and sticky in your throat, stuck like it’s trying to hang around and hear what else she has to say. Because she hasn’t said it yet, that you’re dead. She’s implying it for sure, saying you were with Nico in the past tense, that after they warned you of him that was it. That all of what is coming at them is Nico’s fault, is Nico’s reaction to them stopping your relationship.

Lies, lies, and even more bullshit lies. It’s terrifying, disorienting even that she can do it so easily and without remorse. What else in your life has she lied about and you never knew? Because if it weren’t for the fact that you’ve been with Nico all these years, you’d believe her right now too.

“Would your daughter be willing to give a statement? Tell us what she knows about Hischier and his friends?”

There’s an uncomfortable pause, one that makes your father drop his gaze to the table with what you hope is shame.

“No she wouldn’t,” your mother answers plainly, “we’ve been…estranged with her since everything happened with Hischier. There was a lot of tension and emotions. You know teenage girls and their feelings, they’d rather run than admit they’re wrong about a boy.”

It makes your blood boil. You weren’t a teenager and you weren’t wrong. Your feelings, your emotions were right this whole time. The gut instinct you had at the young age of 21 made a better decision in trusting Nico than hers did in deciding she’d ever be a fit mother.

“So she’s had no contact with you?” Keefe asks and your mother shakes her head. “Has she had contact with Hischier?”

Your mother clicks her tongue. “I don’t believe so, no. My daughter would never make such a dumb decision.”

Ouch, you wince but what can be done. You’re not their daughter. You haven’t been for a long time now. While the reminder hurts, it only throbs dully in that bruised part of your heart. Yeah you lost them, but look at everything you’ve gained.

“Why would Hischier come after you now then? Unless he’s been in contact with her?”

Your father is the one to speak up and you’re grateful. Unlike your mother, he’ll at least give something of significance.

“We ran into her last week at lunch. She was out with another boy and a dog. We tried to talk to her, to ask her how she was doing and about this new man but she freaked.”

Freaked? You freaked? You guess that’s a valid thing to say considering you did well up with tears and almost knock over a table before leaving. But without the context, no that’s not true.

“Freaked how? Did you know she was in town?”

Sighing, he shakes his head. “We had no idea where she’s been. She spoke to my mother for a moment but then got weird. Started to leave and when I tried to tell her to wait she turned her dog at us. This big, vicious thing of a dog. Honestly, it shouldn’t have been around anyone else acting like that. My mother almost had a heart attack.”

As if knowing he’s being talked about, Moose rises from his ball on the floor, tilting his head curiously at Nico.

“Is that you Müsli?” Nico asks teasingly, patting his head. “Vicious thing? Daddy is so proud of you.”

You both know he’s not joking about that. Moose did exactly what he was trained to do. Keep harm away from you at whatever cost. When it comes to protecting you, Moose rivals Nico in his viciousness.

“She just ran?”

“Yes sir,” your father raps his knuckles on the steel table. “The next day the house was broken into. We thought maybe it was no big deal, just something to unnerve us. But then a couple days ago we drove by our cemetery and found something else.”

Oh, you think giddily. They noticed almost right away. You wish you’d thought to leave a camera or something at the site. You’d pay good money right now to see their reactions, the horror on your mother’s face when she saw the scripture and devil horns. You bet she grabbed at the cross on her neck, bet she backed away like she’d been burned.

“There was a headstone placed there. With our names on it and devil horns.” Your father continues. The sign of Nico and the Devils. The horns that are littered around Jersey courtesy of him and his boys.

“We decided to report the break in after that.” Your mother says, “The threat was clear as day. Everywhere that man goes those horns follow.”

You touch the horns around your neck, pulling them out from under the collar of Nico’s leather jacket to thumb at the metal. Does she know just how true that statement is? Does she know just how many wear those horns for Nico? Does she know that you’re one of them?

“Yes we did some digging,” Keefe responds, looking through the folder again. For what, you’re not sure. “Yesterday some officers just did basic investigating of the neighborhood, looking for any suspects. We saw the gravesite but it appeared another one had been there first. Do you have any relatives buried there?”

That wasn’t in the folder. He wasn’t looking for anything, just a way to bring up the topics and questions Nico specifically asked him for. He even told Keefe that he’d illegally placed the new headstone there.

“No we don’t,” your mother says, frowning. “Another headstone? Are you sure?”

“Yes ma’am. It was apparently on the far left plot.”

She makes a noise of realization. “Ah yes we sold that plot after the falling out with our daughter. I’m not sure if anyone new bought it and buried a relative there but it wasn’t us.”

And back to square one on the lying. There’s no way they sold that plot back to the cemetery and then didn’t notice that headstone with your name on it. The dates themselves gave it away. They knew when you picked Nico over them.

“That’s bullshit,” Nico suddenly spits. He’s stepping away from you then, pacing back and forth as he glares daggers at your parents through the glass. “Everything they’ve said this whole time hasn’t been true! Including the part about you being dumb.”

It startles you for a moment, seeing him like that. You know angry Nico, felt the sting of his harsh words and mean eyes. You heard the way he mocked you, cold and brutal when you defied him in Switzerland. You always through he could be meanest when he’s scared but now you think this is it. He’s not scared, not nervous, he’s just unfathomably angry. His neck and cheeks are turning splotchy red, cheeks hollowed by the tight clench of his jaw, but it’s his eyes that are the most telling.

They’re so dark, so unlike the warm honey ones you’re used to. Even when he was mad at you, he’s never looked at you like that before. You’re jarringly informed of why so many people are scared of him.

“I know that Nico,” you say carefully, rising to your feet. Tentatively, you approach him with a hand reaching out to touch him. “I know it’s bullshit Nico, it’s ok.”

He halts, gaze turning to you with such ferocity your heart stutters. “It’s more than bullshit,” he hisses but he lets you touch him, doesn’t move as you take a hold of his wrist. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. You- I mean imagine if they knew that it was you that figured this all out. It was you that got me into their house. That everything coming for them, even this interrogation is you playing games with them. Because you’re smarter than them.”

“I know,” you assure, cupping his face in your other hand. He presses into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. Nico looks so sweet like this, standing over you with his dark eyelashes resting prettily on the apples of his cheeks, leaning into you with the gentlest of movements. You wonder how everyone thinks he’s so hard to read sometimes, especially with what just happened. Because if he opened his eyes right now, you’d know just how upset he is. They’re his tell, always. His eyes and eyebrows have always given him away.

“Imagine how stupid they’ll feel when they realize.” You murmur. “We’ll get to see the looks on their faces when we tell them that the cops are with us. That the whole city is with us and they have nothing left.”

Taking even breaths through his nose, Nico blinks his eyes open. Under his lowered eyebrows he still looks angry, but his gaze is warm and loving again, shining with adoration when he looks at you. “They’re liars Nico. And we’re going to use that against them.”

“Yeah we are,” he promises.

You press your thumb into his clenched jaw, urging him to relax with slow circles. “But you’re not a liar so I need to know why you didn’t tell me you tailed my father.”

His eyebrows soften with guilt. “Because it was pathetic, wasn’t it? Me acting like I was protecting you when I was the one that had hurt you? I had no right to do that and I- I didn’t want you to see how much I failed.”

Your eyebrows knit in concern. Pathetic? Failed? Does he not remember how pathetic and useless you were without him? That you consumed more alcohol in that month than you have your entire life, even now. That you compared every man you met to him, that he followed you everywhere. The smallest of things reminded you of him and once that reminder was there it festered until you were actually envisioning him in front of you.

“You-what Nico? You didn’t fail me, you came back for me. I didn’t- I never tried to get you back. If anyone was pathetic then it was me.”

His frown deepens, dimples popping sadly at the downturn angle of his lips. “No I had just broken your heart baby. You’d lost everything and then I made you think you’d lost me. That’s- none of that was your fault.”

You had lost everything at the time. Not because you’d been disowned by your family and lacked genuine friends, but because you’d lost him.

“Timo,” you murmur, almost afraid to ask. “Did you have him follow me?”

Nico blanches, pulling back from your touch like it’s just stung him. Taking ahold of your wrists, he squeezes them so tight your fingers tingle. “No I didn’t. Timo wasn’t- he wasn’t my friend then. Not really. He was so pissed at me. Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, burning with embarrassment. “You were tailing my dad and I know now that you always intended in coming back from me so I thought maybe you were having him keep an eye on me. He was- he did a lot for me then Nico. And it wouldn’t be the first time you had one of the boys follow me to make sure I was okay.”

Almost desperate, he brings your hands up to his lips, pressing a smattering of tender kisses to your palms. His beard scratches at your fingers. “Timo was there for you because he loves you. He didn’t do much with me then. We could barely sit in the same room together. And I was doing jobs on my own so he was free a lot.”

You let out a sigh of relief, shoulders slumping as you accept his answer. He may have kept things from you before but he’s never lied. As soon as you ask him for something, he always gives his all.

“Okay,” you nod, and he presses one final kiss to the ring on your left hand. “Sorry I just had to know.”

“S’okay,” he promises, watching you for a moment. The questioning happening behind you has long been over, Keefe and his officer now sharing notes, waiting for you and Nico to emerge. Then he’ll hand over the information your parents gave and you’ll have another one up on them. “Can ask me anything, anytime baby, you know that.”

“I know,” you promise, squeezing his hand. “We should get going. We have to meet Alex and John.”

Nico hums in agreement but doesn’t move to leave. Instead he slips his hands out of yours, wrapping them around your shoulders and caging you into his chest. You melt into his hold, face tucked into his shoulder and inhale the rich scent of his cologne.

“In a sec,” he mumbles, “need to put more space between your parents and me.”

Which is fine with you.

23 blocks away, Johnny and Alex move silently through the house Nico had bullied his way into last week. Just as he’d entered, they’d come through the front door with guns tucked into their waistbands and black duffle bags over their shoulders. And for the whole hour and half your parents spent being questioned at the police station, they tucked into every crook and cranny of the house, wireless bugs. No visuals will come with but you’ll have constant access to the sounds in their home.

Johnny is finishing up placing the last black microphone onto the inside paneling of the curtain rod when Alex comes into the kitchen, a vase of flowers in hand. He stops at the sink to fill the vase, oblivious to the way Johnny is watching him in confusion.

“What are you doing?” He asks, leaning against the counter. Alex shuts off the water, tastefully rearranging the white roses.

“Y/n asked me to leave them,” he explains, carrying them over to the dining room table. He places the vase at the center of the table, admiring it for a moment. “Are these the flowers she left at the cemetery?”

Johnny purses his lips. “Yup,” he nods, “so I’m guessing they’re not exactly a gift huh?”

Alex steps back, picking up his duffel bag from the kitchen tile and shouldering it. “No I don’t think it is.”

The significance of them goes unspoken. You’re playing the game too, the twisted and demented narratives they’ve been spinning all turning to this tangled mess of paranoia. You want them to know that the Devils have been here again. Maybe they’ll think it was Nico. Maybe they’ll think it was you.

Either way they’ll know. You’re not backing down again.

~~~~

The steaming shower water fogs up the glass doors of the showers, drips down the bathroom mirrors. Nico’s skin is red from it, splotchy in a way that makes you wince. You have no idea how he’s capable of taking such burning hot showers. Though you can’t say much because the steady jet beating down on your skin is cool compared to the heat of his mouth below your ear.

“Fuck Nico,” you whimper, hips jolting forward when his fingers curl up into your g-spot. He presses a hot kiss to your wet skin, voice deep and husky when he goes, “yeah baby? That your spot?”

“Yes, yes right there Nico.”

You arch down into his hand, head pressing into the tiled wall and the claw clip keeping your hair out of the water digs painfully into your scalp. Not that you care. The feeling is dull, almost nothing compared to the way Nico’s fingers are taking you apart. Thick and calloused, they rub brutally at that sensitive spot inside of you, winding up the invisible string that’s still holding you together.

Your hand shakes, the detached shower head in it trembling as your other hand claws at Nico’s shoulder, desperate for something to ground yourself with. The slight slip of your hand doesn’t go unnoticed however.

“Nuh-uh baby,” Nico grunts, the hand on your waist gripping your wrist. He shifts it back up, directs the jet of water directly on to your throbbing clit. Your legs shake with it, body only head steady by the thick thigh he’s got pressed between yours. “Hold it right there for me.”

It’s too much, his voice, sexy and heavy with his accent, his fingers curling relentlessly inside you, his mouth on your neck, the water stimulating your clit. You feel overpowered in the best way, helpless to him even if you’re the one holding the shower head. “Please, please, please…” you beg, hips shifting on their own accord. You don’t know whether you should be moving down into his fingers or forward towards the stream of water.

“I know baby,” he mumbles, a little mocking in his sympathy. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?”

Blindly, you nod, gnawing at your bottom lips as that thread of pleasure pulls tighter and tighter in your belly. “Keep that hand still,” he reminds, “you’ll come if you do what I tell you, yeah?”

“Yes Nico,” you gasp, unsure if you’re agreeing with his words or the vigor of his fingers. Placating, he nips at the column of your throat, the muscles in his shoulders and arm flexing with each curl of his middle and ring finger.

“Sound so pretty, sweetheart,” he compliments gruffly, chuckling when your pussy bears down on him. “Can you even hear it? How wet you are for me? Dripping down my wrist. Or how about those little sounds baby? Crying for me like that. It’s too good huh? You need to come?”

You can’t hear it, can’t hear anything except his voice and the blood rushing in your ears. He makes you sound pathetic and desperate though, a whiny and sloppy mess just for two fingers in your hole and it’s so hot. The way he says it with awe, never mocking or degrading, but honored.

That thread in you snaps, the coil of your orgasm spinning out in your core in a rush of white hot pleasure. You lose track of holding the shower head exactly where he told you, your limbs shaking and trembling as you pulse around his fingers and claw at his back.

Faintly, you feel his lips moving against your ear, his hand leaving your hip to cover the one you had holding the shower head. He’s gently with it, drawing your hand back and then moving it in slow circles, dragging out the last aftershocks of your orgasm.

His hand stills, letting your trembling one let go in favor of holding his bicep that’s still flexing with the lazy drag of his fingers in your pussy. The static in your head fizzles out as he returns the shower head to its holder, softly gripping your side again.

“You okay?” He murmurs, kissing your damp temple. “Done?”

Tongue heavy, you blink up at the ceiling and nod, then mumble out “mhm Nico.” Another kiss to the bulb of your nose, one to your chin, his lips whispering light apologies as he slips his hand from between your thighs, you wincing in overstimulation. You’re still staring blankly at the ceiling when he grips your chin between two fingers, tilting your head down to look at him and you frown at the sticky feeling on the pads of his fingers.

“Ew Nico you did not-“

He buttons his mouth to yours, licking into your slack mouth and giving you a taste of yourself. Your complaint from earlier goes forgotten. When did he stuff his fingers in his mouth and lick them clean?

“Tell me for real now,” he says when you part. “Are you okay? With everything?”

It’s an odd place for him to be checking in, an odd time too with the way your thighs are still quaking but it’s sweet too. Because to him there’s never a bad or weird place to make sure you’re okay.

“I am,” you promise. His gaze is soft and imploring when you finally get your brain to focus, stirring with arousal but more concerned with you than himself. “I know it’s a lot- or it should be a lot- but it doesn’t feel like it. I just feel like I’ve earned this I guess.”

“You have,” he encourages, wide palms cupping either side of your face. “You’ve earned the right to break the Geneva Convention I think.”

“Wow,” you giggle, “permission from the Swiss himself. Maybe I will then.”

He chuckles, all deep and rumbly in his chest as he touches his forehead to yours, wet hair hanging over his dark eyebrows. “Before we do that, you don’t need anything, right? Like you’re not feeling…sad again?”

Sad. Depressed. The word you’ve never let him use even though it was true. It’s always that you were sick or unwell because you were. You took meds though and you went to the doctor and you’re better now. For some reason though that word gets stuck in your throat, has been lodged there since the first day you came out of therapy with an official diagnosis and prescription. And when Nico saw it, asked you what it was for you couldn’t even say the word then. You simply showed him the slip.

“I’m not…” you pause, unable to look into his eyes as you clear your throat, feel the words on your tongue. If you can’t say it, it’s because it’s still there right? You don’t feel like it’s there though. This is the happiest you’ve been in years. So you need to say it.

You inhale, steel yourself. “I’m not depressed.”

His eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening in surprise that you’ve actually said it out loud. But then he goes soft again, shock turning to awe and his eyes shine with happiness when you finally meet his gaze again.

“That’s good baby,” he says with earnest. “That’s so good. M’so proud of you.”

Your ears go hot, body flush with heat. “It’s you. I feel better with you. Like you’re so solid all the time I don’t ever have to worry.”

He’s silent for a moment, dimples sinking into his cheeks as the two of you listen to the lukewarm water splatter into the opposite shower wall. Nico butts his nose into yours. “I- I’m glad. You know I’ve got you.”

“Yeah,” you agree, “No pressure or anything Neeky.”

He laughs, eyes crinkling fondly before he’s closing his mouth to yours again. Nico kisses you into the shower wall for a few more minutes, strong and solid just like you said he was, like he’s telling you just what he thinks of the ‘pressure’ of taking care of you. The shower water grows icy though and the two of you get out shivering, fighting over the large fluffy towel hanging on the bathroom door before Nico manhandles you into wrapping up with him.

You spend the rest of the morning giggling and kissing him, sharing pecks and teasing comments as the two of you dress and get Moose ready to go. Still laughing as you pile the dog and Alex into the car, trying not to blush when Alex visibly brightens in the backseat at your bubbly mood today.

That floaty feeling is still there when Nico pulls up behind Timo and Johnny at the cemetery, the two older men already chatting with the groundskeeper. Timo is the first to greet you when you get out of the car, abandoning the conversation to throw his arms out wide and you drop Nico’s hand in favor of skipping over to hug him.

“Oh god I miss you,” you whine dramatically, Moose wondering up lazily behind you to sniff at Timo’s shoes. “We used to see each other everyday and now I’m stuck with him.”

“Oh okay,” Nico says from behind you, his large palm swatting at your ass in a stinging slap. You flinch away from him, pouting as he stares you down through narrowed eyes. Moose makes an unhappy growl in his chest that Nico chooses to ignore. You scratch behind the dog’s ear in appreciation.

“Now who’s being inappropriate in a cemetery,” you mock, slipping up and laughing when his smile widens with delight.

“You’re chipper today,” Timo interrupts, falling into step at your side as you all gather back with Johnny and the groundskeeper. “Good morning?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, leaning into his shoulder and lowering your voice. “It was a really good morning. In the shower specifically.”

He snorts, elbowing you into Nico and your fiancé snatches up your hand in his, a knowing smirk on his face. You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s in on the bit, even if he didn’t explicitly hear you talking to Timo. The conversation stops there, replaced by a new one as Nico greets the man waiting with Johnny.

“Hisch,” he nods, “I was just telling your boys here that I looked into that site. There’s a transaction under that last name of when they bought all three plots but that’s all. Clerk made a note though that about a year ago they came by and looked into the price point of selling back to the cemetery but nothing official happened.”

Nico’s eyebrows stitch into a frown. “They never sold the third one? Is there any record of them laying that headstone there?”

The groundskeeper scratches at his neck uncomfortably. “Nah man. If they sold it, it was done under the table to someone else which you can’t do without approval here. Must’ve been done illegally. And there’s no record of the headstone either. Don’t even know who made it. Must’ve been laid there before I got here though.”

Nico’s jaw ticks, his grip on your hand tightening for a moment. Johnny sighs through his nose, shifting his weight onto one leg. “That’s it? They just did it all illegally and now no one knows anything?”

Helpless, the guy shrugs. “I’m really sorry. I wish I could help but this is my first summer here and I don’t know who even helped those guys out with doing that.”

Almost in sync all four boys huff, clearly annoyed and disappointed at the lack of information they’ve been given. You can feel it radiating off of Nico, the thought that he’s paying this guy for nothing if he can’t help them.

“It’s fine,” you assure the poor groundskeeper who’s already done more than he could. “I mean, lots of things can be done illegally for the right price so just-thanks for your help.”

He smiles in thanks at you, look to Nico imploringly. You’re fiancé waves him off and the guys almost scrambles away, heading back towards the cart he must’ve drove over here to meet Johnny and Timo.

“We’re never going to figure out where that headstone came from,” Timo says, “not unless we get her parents talking.”

Alex perks up. “We have! Well kind of. Johnny and I haven’t listened to all the bugs yet but I mean, we can probably scare them into talking about it right?”

It’s a smart idea, you’ll admit. And Nico must think so too because he tilts his head thoughtfully, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he thinks.

“Could work,” Nico finally agrees. “Maybe get Keefe to call them back in, nonna too this time. Have his question them separately about the grave. Play it off like he’s investigating us so he needs to know where the stones came from. If they think it’ll keep them safe, they might admit who they sold it to.”

The five of you lapse into silence, thinking it over. You saw first hand how your parents lied to Keefe. They must not be too concerned with secrets infringing on their goal of taking down Nico if they blatantly made up stories just days ago. They haven’t spoken to your nonna though, left her waiting in the front area during their questioning but with the right questions she might speak. After all, she has no background with Nico or your relationship with him. All she knows is what your parents told her. And who knows what was true there. Maybe you could even catch them in a lie.

“Let’s head home and start sorting through audio files then,” Johnny finally says, clapping Alex on the back. “Smart idea though kid.”

You’re trudging back to the car when Alex stops, lightly touching your free hand. You look to him, find him pointing to a bouquet of lilies on a gravesite. “Those are nice,” he says casually. “Like for a wedding.”

His sly smile gets you, makes you and Nico both laugh. He reaches around you, flicking Alex on the ear. “Stop prying would ya? This is personal.” You shoo Nico away, taking ahold of Alex’s hand and swinging them between you.

“They are pretty but we already picked flowers.”

Timo and Johnny stop, the three of you barely having time to stop before you’d bump into their backs. They both turn around, eyes wide like they can’t believe what you just said.

“You’ve been wedding planning?” Johnny asks in disbelief. “Finally?”

And well that’s a little offensive because you’ve had a lot going on! You and Nico wanted to enjoy the holidays and bask in your engagement for a bit before jumping into planning. And then you went to Vancouver and that was a mess. With Nico working so much now and you and the boys getting Hischier Enterprises together, you’ve been busy. Not putting off wedding planning or anything. Just busy.

“For your information we’ve done a lot of planning.” You scoff, jabbing at his shoulder.

“Do you have a date yet?” Alex cuts in, “A venue? Am I in the wedding? Is that allowed actually-“

“Okay calm down,” Nico interrupts, giving them all a pointed look. “Nothing has been ordered or reserved or anything, we’ve just agreed on some things. Wedding party not being one of them so don’t even ask.”

Wedding party, you internally wince. That’s going to be the worst part of the wedding you think. That’s a topic you and Nico haven’t even brought up, well aware that there’s going to be overlap in who you both want standing next to you. You have no doubt that all three of the men in front of you will be in the wedding but you have no idea where and with who.

“We have to settle on a date and venue first,” you tell Alex, squeezing his hand. Slowly, you all continue moving to the car, dragging your feet because Moose is taking his time to sniff at every blade of grass before Nico steps on them.

“Sweden is nice,” he offers innocently. “Really nice, especially in the summer. Have you heard of Midsummer?”

“I have,” you nod, “but we don’t know if we want to do something in Europe. We have to figure out guest lists first.”

“I think you could do France,” Timo throws out over his shoulder. “Nina would be over the moon. And it’s nice there.”

Nico, tone a little suspicious is the one to respond. “Since when are you thinking about Nina? Or France?”

It makes you pause, eyeing the back of Timo’s head as he shrugs. You still haven’t had time to talk about his trip to Switzerland. Did he see Nina there? Is that why he’s thinking of her? Does Nico think that Timo dropped in on his family?

“S’just close to home without being in Switzerland, right?” Your best friend deflects. Questioningly, you turn to Nico. He’s frowning at Timo too, cheek flexing as he gnaws at the inside of it. Something is going on there and you have no idea what. But you’ll find out, that’s for sure. Even if it means talking to Nina yourself.

“Doesn’t matter right now anyway,” Nico finally reminds, any playfulness he had from this morning completely gone. “Wedding can wait. We all need to focus on this and that stupid fucking headstone.”

He goes on to remind Johnny of the quickest way to sort through the audio, reminding him to actually let Alex do some of it too so that he can learn the skill. And two sets of ears is better than one. You’ve stopped listening by then though because your phone chirps from the pocket of Nico’s leather jacket, and you dig it out to an email notification.

Not even to your personal email though. It’s to the default, private user email that everyone under Hischier Enterprises is given when you officially hired them. It’s an odd combination of numbers in place of a name, the domain email being one you don’t recognize. You quickly unlock your phone, opening up the notification in the mail app.

They’ll never tell you anything about the headstone. At least no one that’s left in the clerks office. I can help but not right now. Need things to calm down first. Sorry. Be in touch when I can.

-M73

“Nico,” you call, steps faltering as the full message hits you. Whoever this is, however they got your email and know about it all, they’re not a Devil.

“What?” He asks, grabbing both of your arms, crowding around you. “What is it baby?”

You hand him your phone, biting at your bottom lip as the other boys press in around you, shielding you and Nico as he reads over the email. You don’t even know what to say. Not really. That email isn’t listed to anyone public. It’s for clients only meaning it had to come from someone who’s under contract with the Devils. Or really close with a business that is. You think of the tag line at the end. M73.

Your mother was born in 73. Not that you’d ever think she’s helping you. The number is significant to her though. After all it was the passcode to all her things when you were a kid, the pin on her credit card, the combination on the safe in her closet, the code to unlocking her car. The M could be anything of your honest but there’s something about it that sticks out.

“M73,” Nico murmurs, looking up at you. “Who is that? Do you know anyone it could be?”

It stupid. A thought you shouldn’t even have but as the boys pass the phone around you become more and more convinced. Because she wasn’t in that room with your parents. They didn’t want her to know everything, or didn’t want her telling Keefe that your parents faked your death. Maybe she knows something.

“My mom, she was born in 73,” you tell him, still hesitating. “And my nonna, she was married that same year. It was her second husband I think but his name was Mateo and everyone always said how in love she was with him. Like obsessed. She’d talk about him all the time.”

It’s embarrassing the way Nico’s face crumples into a pitying look. Like he doesn’t believe you, like he thinks you’re grasping at straws to salvage something. Maybe you are because it does feel stupid. How would your nonna be able to get ahold of this email? And who would put her in danger in favor of protecting that gravesite?

But it feels right. At least you think it does.

“Baby,” he sighs softly, “this could’ve come from anywhere. It could just be something to throw us off even. I don’t- I don’t know how your grandma would even know what’s going on.”

He’s right. You know he’s right. The thought is almost impossible. She was sick, really sick. Even if she’s capable of travel now, you don’t know how she’d be able to get away from your parents for all of this. You don’t even know if she knows how to send an email if you’re being honest. Still, it’s disappointing to hear, makes you deflate pathetically and you have to swallow hard to get rid of the lump in your throat.

Alex hands your phone back, watching the side of your face intently as you stare at Nico’s shoes. He sighs again, squeezing your biceps as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m sorry baby. Maybe it’s her but we don’t know enough so maybe we should just ignore it for now. Focus on the bugging system and all.”

Numbly, you nod. Focus on the plan, on what you have now. That’s the protocol but as you tuck your phone away, you can’t shake it. You know that message is real, that’s it’s not some joke or distraction. It was done too hastily, too informal. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it sounds like Alex or Jack wrote it. It’s filled with the genuine concern of someone trying to help.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. Nico pulls back, eyebrows high on his forehead as he stares blankly at you. “It’s real. I know it is. The message is too rushed and- I don’t know but I know that whoever it is they’re actually trying to help.”

To his credit, Nico doesn’t shoot down the idea even if he’s not entirely convinced. You’ve always had good intuition though, have known to trust your gut. It’s what gave away Rino and Lena in Switzerland. It’s what got you Johnny and Alex. Nico knows that. Maybe that’s why he’s willing to entertain the idea.

“Okay baby,” he shushes, “if you really think so we’ll figure it out, yeah?” He waits for you to nod, for the tension to leave your shoulders before continuing. “We’ll focus on your nonna then, listen to see if she mentions Mateo or her wedding at all. Anything that might connect to the email.”

Grateful, you nod. Then- “or the businesses,” you add, looking to Johnny and Alex. “This email is only accessible to people under contracts with us. If she mentions any of the businesses or clients that could be how she got it.”

It’s a long shot. People of her age aren’t very tech savvy but it’s all you can think of. She’s smart enough to know that if she had to get ahold of you away from your parents, an email could work. And she’d have no shame in asking someone for help, you know that. Maybe she picked up on what the Devils horns on the windows mean. Maybe she went to one of them looking for you.

You ignore the nagging voice reminding you that anyone who stumbles in looking for you or Nico gets reported directly to him.

You have to believe it’s her because there’s no other options.

“We’ll be thorough,” Johnny promises. “Can even listen in with us if you want.”

“Yeah,” Alex pipes up, “you can show me how to do the audio stuff instead of Johnny.”

Letting out a breath of relief, you give him a thankful smile. Alex preens under it, cheeks going red when you press a motherly kiss to his cheek. Before any of them can break away to leave, Nico catches your jaw, makes you look at him.

“I’m trusting you on this,” he says carefully, head tilted in that way that means business, that he’s not at all playing around with this. “I know you’ve got some kind of sixth sense for this but with everything that’s coming, I have to be extra careful, okay?”

Intently, you nod, the action cut short by his grip on your chin.

“M’gonna call in a couple back-ups. Just reinforcements in case we miss something here.”

It’s not a surprise to you. You’ve been at home with him all week, have helped him sort through things in the home office. Including files of potential Devs and prospects. It is a shock to the others though, Timo especially who has never seen Nico call in a prospect before. Not since Luke and he only did that because it was Luke and Jack.

“What? Who?” Your best friend gasps. “And don’t say any of Luca’s friends or whatever from home because I don’t trust those dickheads any further than I could throw them-“

“It’s not them,” Nico interrupts, running a hand through his hair. He releases your jaw, knuckling softly at the curve of your chin, all sweet and tender before looking to Timo. “I would never use Luca’s guys. I’ve got a couple rookies in Utica that look pretty good.”

“Utica?” Timo balks, “you’re bringing up one of them?”

Nico clears his throat. “No, I’m bringing up a couple of them.” He doesn’t expand further than that and no one asks him too. Even if they want to poke at him, beg him for more information. Utica isn’t far from here. He can have the call ups here tomorrow if he wanted. They can all wait.

“Are you sure?” You ask him though, because you already know who he’s been looking at. You didn’t study them as intently, but you read over the files with him, memorized their names and specialities. “They’re still training. Are they ready for this?”

He doesn’t flinch. “They’re going to have to be because we need them.”

You let him tuck you into his side, a protective arm around your shoulder and when the boys all part, Moose breaks from the circle he was sniffing around you all to join at your side. Moving back towards the cars, pace quicker now that you’ve all been thrown by the email and the call-ups, you send a mental prayer out to whoever is listening because S. Nemec and S. Casey have no idea what they’re about to be called into.

[snowstormarts]

Hi! Can you please write a headcanon for Teddy from date everything with a shy s/o b, like shy s/o doesn't have real friends except for Teddy the teddy bear as her imaginary friend. Please make it a platonic relationship as FRIENDSHIP PLEASE.

As someone who loves plushies (I have like 30+ in my room alone) the second I saw Teddy I knew I had to write for him someday, so now the time has come. Some Platonic Teddy & Reader headcanons coming right up! Sadly I never had an Imaginary friends so sorry if this isn't 100% correct ^^"

Likes & Reblogs are appreciated and my ask box is open for Requests, Promts & Asks

Best Friend Teddy the Teddy Bear

[Platonic!Teddy/Reader]

- You were always a shy kid, you preferred to be alone most of the time but there where times were even you wanted to socialize and make friends. So you would join in their games and talked with them, it all went well you guys had fun and would play during break times but they just never saw you as a friends. They didn't even invite you to their birthdays or grouped up with you, you were always left to the side until a teacher put you into a group who would smile and accept you but there also would always be one kid who was disappointment that you had to join their group

- It got to the point where even your parents noticed and decided to get you a teddy bear, you named him Teddy. He was and to this days still is your best friend who loves hot chocolate, tell stories/listen to story's [you would switch who tells a story that night] and was a master in the arts of fighting off monsters under your bed

- He would accompany you everywhere you went, be it to eat dinner ("don't forget to eat the veggies, I think mom said we can get extra if we do"), going outside on an adventure ("plan find a unicorn or dragon is ready to go my friend!") or even to school a few times. You kept him mostly in your bag during the school trips since you didn't want to get him dirty but after an incident with a boy in your class you decided Teddy was better safe at home ("schools too boring anyway, Teddy")

- Even as you got older you kept his stuffed self around, when you had trouble in school or your emotions were going crazy you would talk to him. He just got you and he was the perfect size to hold while you screamed into his fluffy belly or cried into his cuddly hold.

- During college you would have him sitting at your desk as encouragement, you could practically hear your imaginary friends cheers. After graduating and taking pictures you decided to get some more bows for him, even a few hats but the original bow looked the best still

- When you got the Dateviators you decided to awake Teddy first after Skylar had you run around the house. He was your first, real friend after all and you wanted to know more about him and once you awoke him he looked exactly as you thought he would look like. Big, soft, cuddly and with a smile that could warm even the coldest of hearts

- You two talked about your adventures when you were younger, playfully fighting about how he was the one who encouraged you to steal a cookie and how you were close to finding a Unicorn once, it's just that humans cant see them obviously. He also tells you how proud he is of you making it through college and starting to make new friends, even if it's only in your home right now [he will also tease you gently about crushed if you have any & if you have a partner he will give them the shovel talk, it's his duty as your bestie]

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Honestly, I feel every time the show and its creator attempt to explain away a plothole or issue it only makes things worse. The time Astruc tried to explain why Gabriel completely dropped going after all the exposed temps after Optigami.

According to him, Gabriel doesn't do the same plan twice, and when people brought up Mr. Pigeon, Astruc claimed that Gabriel came up with 72 unique plans involving that akuma... which like if he's able to come up with that many "unique" plans for mr pigeon of all things, then surely Gabriel could have come up with at least five different plans involving the exposed temps or hell attempt to rework the plans that he nearly succeeded with or the ones that only failed due to outside factors

That's one of my favorite quotes from the writers because it's just so absurd. Dude, don't try to justify it in universe! Just say, "It's an episodic kids show and we want to keep the plots interesting while also having them stand alone, so we don't repeat ideas even if the character would probably do that in the real world."

Like it or not, the show's format is a reasonable explanation for why the show works the way it does. There are times when it makes sense to prioritize story format over lore. That's especially true when it comes to episodic content as the overarching story isn't supposed to be the main draw in episodic content. It's supposed to be a bonus feature if it even exists! That's one of Miraculous' big problems as your ask shows.

Because the show keeps including these big dramatic ideas, a lot of people are here for the story first and not to have fun with the akuma of the week even though the show's format means that it's only going to be satisfying at the episodic level. The overarching plots the writers have chosen just don't work in this format which is why the fandom is dying off. People are realizing that they're never going to get a satisfying ending to this mess because the format won't allow it.

The temp hero reveal is a perfect example of this. That's too big a thing to just forget about! It's going to make people question the format in a way other almost-wins don't! Gabriel not repeating Scarlet Moth or Style Queen doesn't feel like an insane move because those akumas weren't anything all that special. They were just more epic versions of his usual akumas. On the other hand, Gabriel giving up on going after the temp heroes after one try seems insane because that's not his standard plan! It's something new with much higher stakes so it makes no sense for him to give up so easily. He keeps trying to get the ladybug and the black cat, why wouldn't he keep trying to use the temp heroes? That makes no sense for his character!

The reason he stops is because the show's format isn't suited to it. It's much harder to write standalone episodes that deal with the temp hero issue. It's too serialized and too complex. That's why it was dropped like it was your standard one-off akuma even though it's not your standard one-off akuma. It's also why Gabriel learning about Marichat was dropped and why the teachers forgot about Lila's lying disease and why the class collectively gained amnesia about Lila being Ladybug's bff when Alya learned Ladybug's identity. All of these things were introduced to make individual episodes epic, not because the writers could actually tell the kind of story that owned these epic moments.

All of this is why I'd actually agree that Gabriel "not repeating plans" is a genuine flaw even though it's an inherent part of how an episodic formula show works. Not repeating plans makes perfect sense for the show's format, but it doesn't make sense for the stakes and plot beats the show included. If the show hadn't chosen the plots it did, then I'd call this a nitpick. Because the show chose more serious plots, it's a flaw. The fix is to either change the show's format or to stop having plot points that require serialization. I don't think the show is going to do either of those things any time soon.

As a quick final note, sometime the best response to a criticism is to just own that the criticism is fair, but that addressing it would completely destroy the show's structure, so the person needs to either accept the flaw or watch a different show. If it weren't for Miraculous' chosen plot beats, then that would be my response to this criticism. I'm only going hard on this one because the show set itself up to fail. This is why you can't just throw cool shit into your story if you want to tell a good story. You have to think this stuff through, but Miraculous' writers don't seem interested in doing that.

[pomegranate-fawn]

Weekly Update: ?!

Hiiiiii. Not a lot happened this week but I’m slowly becoming more emotionally stable so that’s like awesome! I was worried I’d only get worse and I am by no means in a great place, but just doing my best is all that I can. And I’m managing to keep my head above water so I should be a bit kinder to myself!

This is your only sneak peak at my super awesome and totally original story, Dear Nightingale. I left my bedroom to make some tea and when I returned I saw my cat sitting at my tablet like she was the one writing! I was really endeared by this and had to get a photo! I am on chapter 11 of this silly story and I’ve written over 36k words so far…It’s not even halfway done. I’m structuring it in books so this is just book one then I’ll move onto book two. I guess the reason I’m a bit shy about sharing it isn’t even the fact that I was inspired by Black Butler, it’s more so that in the past I knew a lot of people who claimed to be my friends and then would legit just take my OCS and stories from me. I’m not talking like oh I made a egl oc and then they did, it was like I made an egl oc named Chloe who had blue hair and a pet crow and then one of my friends would just draw her and be like “guys look at my new egl oc named Chole, she has blue hair and a pet crow”. And I wasn’t a great artist so often times I’d get harassment despite me being the original creator and it pushed me to give up on art, even now I’m still fearful that someone cooler or more popular than me will see my ideas and take them and I’ll somehow be called the copycat. But I promiseeeee I’ll try sharing my original works more!!!

I stated last week that I may stop my playthrough of Crimson Flower and I did. When I first got FE3H I was playing the game with two ex friends, one of them insisted to do Black Eagles, the other swooped in and declared herself the ultimate Blue Lions fan (she’s not she literally doesn’t even get Dimitri but whatever) and I was left with Claude. These two people were always so weird about claiming things as theirs and only theirs, it’s so strange looking back on it cause like even at my most defensive I’ve never been that way. Anyways jokes on them cause I ended up loving Claude and more over, Verdant Wind with my heart. I’m replaying it then I plan to do Crimson Flower then finally Azure Moon. A fire emblem compliment sandwich as I call it. I’m sorry I’m just not the biggest Edelgard fan but I may revoke that opinion after playing Crimson flower! But for now I want something I’m familiar with. SPEAKING OF FAMILIAR!

So I do plan to make a video (maybe just a dedicated post) to my mugs but I wanted to share one of my prized possessions! So I rlly love Rilakkuma and his little friend Korilakkuma. But finding merch of them I like it a bit tricky. While I love cute things I’m not a big fan of the “make something pink now it’s cute!” aesthetic that a lot of Sanrio and San-X characters usually have in merch. If a design is cute then it’s cute! It was hard to find a mug that wasn’t just that vibe until I found this. This mug wasn’t sold but was rather part of a lottery done at Lawson, a convince store in Japan. The lottery was held in 2011 and offered a few different merch offerings. Finding these mugs in good condition and for cheap was not easy. Listen unless a mug is really special I’m not paying a lot for it, like would I love to have the offical Funtom company tea cup and saucer? Oh absolutely. Am I paying over 200 for it from a scalper on eBay? No, not even a consideration. But I managed to snag both the Rilakkuma and Korilakkuma mugs for 20 bucks! Considering their age, quality, and relatively rare production, I consider it a good deal. Fun fact, just like how Korilakkuma is a little bit smaller than Rilakkuma in official art and merch, the Korilakkuma mug is a bit smaller than the Rilakkuma mug, I nearly sobbed at that!

This week I watched The Last Unicorn since I had only seen the first ten minutes one time in a doctor’s office. I don’t really know what to say about it. It’s such a strange film, I really loved it but it was just…like I said, it’s hard to articulate my feelings. It felt like a dream, not a fever dream but rather a dream that brings you joy and yet when it’s over, you wake up in a cold sweat, your heart isn’t racing but you still feel like you lost something as your dream slowly fades from you. It’s given me some ideas for my current writing which makes me happy. Now going onto a different topic, I wanted to talk briefly about fanfiction.

I studied English literature and got my B.A. in it and a minor in Queer studies. I believe fanfiction is important and is literature, but with that being said I think it’s limiting. I find that so many people just write fanfiction not because they like to but because they’re afraid to branch out and attempt to tell their own story. It’s bad in the fire emblem and twst fandoms, where people just write fanfiction and completely misinterpret a character to the point where they’re bastardized or repetitive. I think more people need to not only read literature outside of fanfiction but also just write what they want. It’s scary to write and not know if anyone will like it let alone read it, when writing for fandom you have a built in audience and it can provide a bit of a safety net, but sometimes it’s best to just branch out! Idk just my thoughts…I think so many people are deeply creative and I love seeing their oc’s so it makes me sad whenever someone who tries to do oc art eventually stops and either stops posting all together or only draws fanart…anyways music and video time!

I need to inject this song into my veins I need all of the Fullmetal alchemist cd’s so badly I may die!!! I love fma and fmab and the music is a big reason! It’s always so perfect, like I don’t know any other word for the ost other than perfect! I wish FMA wasn’t forgotten about except for when people wanna bring up female mangaka, I think it’s incredible that one of my favorite and first animes was made by a woman but FMA is so much more than a manga made by a woman. It’s a story about tragedy, war, violence, humanity, it’s beautiful. Though pls start with FMA if you plan to watch then watch fmab, just trust me…

I still start my morning with music videos and I also play them when I’m doing my daily yoga, it makes me feel like I’m at a fancy yoga studio and not in the front room of my house! I wanted to highlight a video from Duran Duran’s golden era! When I came out as lesbian to my mother (rather when I came out AGAIN to her at 20) she told me to watch this music video. I think this was her way of being like “I support lesbians” and recently she even told me she wants me to be the best lesbian to ever exist so even though she can still be weird with my sexuality she tried to find a way to connect with me. But I wanted to highlight this music video cause Duran Duran made a whole music video using ai not too long ago. It broke my heart when I saw it, I was already sad when my fav new wave band, Tears for Fears, used ai for an album cover, but seeing Duran Duran do a whole music video in ai was so upsetting! They haven’t done one since in AI like why did they make a single bad ai music video before returning to decent non ai music videos?! I’ll never know…

Now…I will not spoil Karma, I am not cruel. But if anyone wants to talk about it in dm’s or the comment section I’d love to! This is both a song recommendation and my video of the week! Alien stage is now over with Karma, the story that Vivinos and Qmeng wove was beautiful, heartbreaking, and hopeful. I could have not asked for a better ending for alien stage. If you haven’t checked it out yet, now is the best time to do so as the story is over. Karma was everything I could have ever wanted from alien stage and though it is a bit sad to see it end, I wouldn’t ask for any other ending.

[emioliravioli]

oh how i love my google doc ramblings <3

hm. this band au is getting very large very quickly...

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Sed Proditionem || chapter 8 (finale)

Decem Faciunt Collegium

The Battle of Grunwald takes place. Apart from their enemies, Henry and the rest of the pack have to battle their own ghosts and find a path into the future.

{read it below or here on AO3}

(very short) tag list: @shmuel-ben-sarah-kcd2, @bad-system

☆

PREVIEW

What did the size of the grave matter? There had been thousands lowered into the ground on both sides.

He raised his eyes to the sky that was grey and clouded to­day. A swift wind was blowing from the north, carrying with it the ocean's water and cold. It moved the leaves of the trees, the tufts of grass that had not been trampled, carried a small group of young starlings that floated above his head, cherishing their freedom. Somewhere to his right, a bird chirped loudly and urgently, a kestrel perhaps, but apart from the wind and the birds, it was crushingly silent.

☆

If it's meant to be then it will be I forgive it all as it comes back to me.

☆

The tent reeked of death, when all it should have harboured was the smell of healing and life. Resurrection. Brought about by her own hands, like she was the Lord Jesus Christ, lifting Lazarus from his grave. Or like the Holy Father himself, brea­thing life back into the incarnate Son. Had it reeked like this back in the tomb, Katherine wondered, when the women had come with their spices to tend to Christ's body? What else would they have brought the oils for? But it must have been easier to bear, clearly, since the grave had been opened, the stone had been rolled to the side, and all that had been left of the rotting body of God's son had been strips of linen.

She looked down at the linen in her own hands, heavy and hot from all the blood it had soaked up, and then, with clouded vision as if through a veil, she looked to the body below. Her throat felt sore from all the pleading, and yet the man had not listened. Had not managed to hold still, to bring his body to rest, and so she had tried in vain to tie the fabric to the stump of his trembling and twitching leg, and when he had finally stopped moving, she had breathed out a hoarse “At last,” and had tried to continue her treatment, because that was what she was here for after all, was it not, until Czesław had placed his firm hand on her shoulder and told her with his old, but vigo­rous voice: “It's over, child. You cannot help him anymore.”

Senseless. Treating the dead and the dying. Senseless. Ban­daging wounds, stitching cuts, splinting fractures, relieving the pain, only to send them back out to the battleground. Senseless. Fighting a war for a king who had been nothing but a name and a story to most of them just weeks ago, to protect his family's land against foreign foes, so that his own men could later roam the country, plunder and kill. Jagiełło, von Jungingen, Sigis­mund, Wenceslas, empty words filled by the force of their com­mand and the blind actions of their followers. Senseless, sense­less.

“Dry your tears, woman,” Master Hildebrand said in a harsh voice, and when Katherine wiped her eyes with her forearm, she could feel the wetness. Sweat from the exhaustion perhaps, or had she truly started crying? She had not noticed. And what difference did her tears make anyway? The soldier on the plank bed did not move, did not breathe. “Now help me carry him outside. We do not have enough space in here to house the living and the dead.”

She followed his orders, because at least that gave her some sense of meaning. Threw the linen aside, into a bucket that was already filled with more cloth, more blood. The girl Jolenta would carry it outside later, to clean them properly as she boiled them in a cauldron over the fireplace. She was a brave young woman, Jolenta, barely grown, her face still that of a child, living in a small village in southern Poland right on the border to Silesia, in a house filled with chickens and younger siblings who she cared for. The youngest brother Jolenta had helped to deliver herself, had ripped his little wrinkled body out of her mother's lifeless womb. An exchange, a life for a life, and it had left its mark on Jolenta's expression. Or perhaps she had always looked like this, Katherine thought, had always looked at the world out of her slightly tilted, grey and always saddened eyes, because even before having her mother die right in front of her, she had always known about the senseless­ness of it all.

Katherine grabbed the arms of the soldier to lift him up. Li­thuanian colours on his chest, a stag on a blue field jumping a fence, with a golden cross pointed at its head. Carrying its faith high or being stabbed by it? Katherine could not tell. His head fell to the side as they lifted the man up. She could not have told from his face that was so distorted by pain, but there were signs of age on his neck, traces of a life long lived. A father perhaps, with a family at home. Or a lonely soul for whom no­body would cry a single tear. Fed into the battle by Grand Duke Vytautas himself, out there on the right flank of the formation, just where Kubyenka was. Had Kubyenka seen him lose his leg, had he raised his sword against the enemy in a vain at­tempt to protect a dying man's life? Or had the soldier seen Kubyenka fall long before he had been struck down himself?

The noise. A chain of wooded hills blocked her view of the battleground and of King Jagiełło up there with his own ban­ner, Janosh and Štěpán at his side, but Katherine did not need to see, could hear them as soon as she left the safety of the tent. The shrieking metal and the commanding shouts and the des­perate screams of horses and men. Over the past hour or longer she had set foot outside countless times, and yet it still made her stop for a moment to listen. To the cacophony of pain and death, to the thousands of voices mingling into one roaring wa­terfall, and she would try to pick apart all the different drops, to listen for their voices, to find his. Sometimes she would tell herself that she had heard him among the masses, and then her chest would lift in a sigh of relief, until her wits got the better of her again and reminded her that it was impossible. Sense­less. She would not know. Not unless the next man dragged to this tent by his horse or by his own feet or, motionless like a sack of grain, by his comrades was him.

“Move, woman,” Hildebrand snarled, and Katherine realised that she had once again stopped to listen. “Our idling is as deathly a weapon as their swords.”

And when we don't idle, Katherine thought, when we hurry to patch them up, staunch their bleed, release them back into this noise, this waterfall of suffering, have we not then killed them too?

She kept the thoughts to herself and nodded. Lifted the sol­dier's body onto a cart and took a deep breath of exhaustion. Jolenta threw her long, golden braid back and looked at her si­lently with those grey, sad eyes of hers. She would clean and cover him now, so that the priest Racimir could give the last rites for him and the others, speak a final prayer. Katherine went over to the trough, washed her hands clean off blood, and looked up to the hills and the trees and the patches of empty field that showed her no more than scorched earth and grass. Something in the noise seemed to have changed, had become quieter. She could even have heard the song of the birds, had they felt like singing on such a grim day. The silence made the hair on her arms stand up, and she washed her hands again, and more vigorously than before.

“Katherine!” Czesław's kind voice behind her. The young surgeon of the Krakow court was a strong contrast to the old Hildebrand, who served as King Jagiełło's very own medicine man, but she had come to value both of them for their brave­ness and their fortitude.

“Yes?”

“Help me with the saw.”

The young man inside the tent moaned in pain and fear. A battle axe had hit him right above his elbow, the cut running so deep that there was no need in trying to save the arm, and they could only stop the bleeding for so long. When they had sewed off the first limb earlier today, Katherine had asked Czesław if there was truly nothing else they could do, but the surgeon had only shaken his head. “Sometimes the most merciful thing is ending it.” But ending what?

Katherine was just about to go inside, when the sounds changed once again. For the briefest moment, the air became almost deafeningly heavy with nothingness. No screams and no shouts, no clattering metal, even the insects were holding their breath. Then it fell upon them like the sudden detonation of a thunderbolt. Hooves. That was the first thing Katherine no­ticed. Hundreds and thousands of hooves. Making the ground up on the hill rise as if dry earth and sand were rising from the ground, the riders themselves draped in a cloud of dust that reached from one end of the hill chain to the other. Shouting. Not Polish or Czech, Katherine could not understand their words, but she understood the universal language that they all spoke, that of pain and fear. And of death. Men and horses crying out alike, metal and dull leather and flesh hitting the wood of the trees, hitting the ground.

Katherine took a step to the side and watched. There was no­thing else she could do. Like being overrun by the towering, overwhelming clouds of a storm, and all she could do was stand, stare and marvel, at something so massive being so alive.

Then they broke through the rows of trees. Tatars on their small, shaggy horses, their long dark hair and beards flowing under pointed nasal helmets. Heavier armoured Lithuanians right behind them, without any banners to be seen, either lost in the chaos of the battle, or fallen long ago. And then somewhere up on the hill, in one of the empty spaces between gnarly oak trees, Katherine saw the Teutonic flag flying high, only for the shortest while before it disappeared again in the forest. Toge­ther with the German cavalry. So many of them that the ground below her feet started to tremble.

“Katherine!” Czesław's voice again, but this time he was so close to her that she winced, and then he had already grabbed her arm and pulled her back behind the tent so fiercely she lost her balance and fell. The very next moment, the army rushed past them as if a dam had broken. The Tatar Golden Horde, the Lithuanians. So close to where Katherine and Czesław were crouching on the ground, that she could hear the breath of their horses, feel the heat of their bodies, so much stronger still than that of the relentless sun, smell the fur and the leather, the sweat and the blood. Wood splintered as they rode across crates and racks in their way. Headless. The formation broken, the troops fallen into pure chaos. Where was their khan, where was Grand Duke Vytautas? Katherine dug her fingertips into the dry ground, without caring about earth and stone cracking her nails, ripping her skin. Where was Kubyenka?

The soldier in the medical tent behind her had started to cry like a child. Czesław's eyes were widened, the masses of sol­diers dashing past them reflecting in their light blue colour. Jolenta had fallen to her knees, her hands clasped in prayer. Fa­cing the hills and the trees, from which the last riders of the Lithuanian troops were fleeing, followed closely by the Order's banner bearer and the rest of the German men, crossbows nocked, swords raised high, some glowing ice-white, some red as blood.

You need to live, Kat, she heard Jan's voice in her head, and a single, hot tear ran from the corner of her eye and down her cheek, as hot as molten iron. Promise me that.

* * *

Kubyenka grabbed the reins just a little bit tighter and farted loudly. Enjoying life's pleasures one last time before the battle began, who knew whether there would still be a chance for this later. Or perhaps he would go down with a fart and a generous, wet shit. Not unusual for a dying man, and at least he would leave his enemies something to delight in.

Waiting and sitting and farting and waiting some more. He looked over to the other side of that little dried-up riverbed down in the valley, and squinted his eyes. Midday had come, and the sun burned down heavy from the left, making the armour of their enemies' lines reflect as if they tried to blind them. He was thankful for the kettle hat. Žižka and Henry had insisted on wearing full plate armour, but fuck it, in a heat like this he might as well have more luck fighting naked altogether. That the Germans had waited out here on the field unprotected for a good two hours would even give them a small advantage perhaps. But then again, many of the men on the other side weren't all too heavily armoured either, and while they tried to arrange their troops into these funny looking wedges like the better equipped Order knights left of them did, they did not exactly show much competence at it. Mercenaries then. Had they lost their minds?

Kubyenka stood up on his saddle as well as he could, pee­ring over to the left, where the German ranks reached far across the horizon. From the banners he could make out and the shi­ning metal reflecting the sunlight, it seemed as if many more knights were positioned on their centre and right flank too. Sending only their weakest troops against battle-experienced Vytautas then, and against the bloody Golden Horde. Ridicu­lous. Or particularly cunning.

The Tatar soldier next to him furrowed his brow, and mumbled something that Kubyenka understood shit of, but he nodded and grinned anyway. He let his eyes slide past the man to Vytautas's banner, could only catch the sight of the Duke's helmet, with all the men surrounding him, but it seemed like his gaze was fixed on other side fully. Waiting. Sitting and waiting and sweltering and …

Vytautas raised his head just slightly, his horse pranced back a few steps under his sudden movement. Kubyenka spun around and saw them. Cannons. The Order's left wing raised their cannons. The first few rows in that weird-looking wedge were equipped with small hand-held ones, and then they led their horses to the side a bit and revealed proper cannons. Finger of God kind of shit.

The Tatar warrior next to him cursed, so much Kubyenka could understand. He wanted to curse too, but the words were not leaving his lips. He wanted to pray, but realised that there was not a single full prayer he knew by heart. Instead he farted again. And then he spat out to the ground, and the Tatar spat too, and they looked at each other and nodded. Time to die.

A shout on the other side, then the cannons were pointed at their targets. The sun was burning. The air smelled of sweat and ash and fear. Vytautas waited. For what, damn it? If they didn't attack now, they might lose their only chance to do so. Another shout on the other side, clear enough for Kubyenka to hear and understand. “Feuer!”

The men behind the fucking Godfingers ignited the fuse. Waiting. And still no command from Vytautas. “Ave Maria,” Kubyenka said, cursing at himself for not having paid more at­tention to the priests' unintelligible words. “Just fucking help us, God damn it.”

And then the fire had finally reached the gunpowder. Ku­byenka could not see it because he was too far away to spot the tiny fuses, but he recognised it on the faces of the Order's men. In their confusion. Their panic.

Vytautas yelled something, and then further in the front, the Golden Horde's khan yelled something back, and then the Tatar warriors around Kubyenka yelled too, and suddenly their ranks came to life. Forward. Kubyenka did not need to understand to know what he had to do. Ride down fast into the valley, dash into their rows, attack swiftly, retreat, reform, attack again. Use this moment of confusion, this fucking gift from God. Ha! So Godwin was right, that bastard! God did not care about that stupid Roman language, a quick prayer in one's own tongue could do wonders too!

The Order's men had barely raised their swords and lances properly, when the Horde was already tearing through their ranks. Kubyenka tucked his own cannon under his armpit and fired it blindly. Someone screamed, someone fell, perhaps the one who had screamed, he could not see him, and he had al­ready stowed the weapon back into his saddle back, taken the crossbow instead. Aiming, shooting. Right through some Ger­man's left eye. More arrows flew past his head, and he lowered his body to the neck of his horse, just as some rope with a noose at its end was flung over him, winding itself around a Teutonic mercenary's throat and pulling him off his horse. He fell to the soggy ground down here in the valley, was dragged through the mud a few paces, spilling out gurgling sounds and flapping his legs and arms like a rooster, until his battle was stopped by a horse's hoof fertilising the ground with the insides of his head.

A loud shout from where khan Jelal al-Din was riding, then the Horde turned, and Kubyenka did the same. Retreating back up to the hill, recovering. A bolt hit his saddle, right where the cannon was stored, and it bounced off the metal. “Feuer!” someone screamed once again, and this time it were their hand-held cannons that were fired, and their sounds tore through the air, rang in his ears, a dozen shots perhaps, not more. The cry of a horse and it crashed to the ground, burying its rider under­neath its body. There was no time to stop, only for Kubyenka to avert his gaze.

Up on the hill, Vytautas still stood with his Lithuanian ban­ners and waited. His sword raised to the Heavens like a torch, waiting, waiting, and then he swirled it through the air, and khan Jelal al-Din shouted again, and the Horde turned. Back down to the Order's troops that were struggling to keep their formation up, especially on the far right side, and so the Tatars changed their direction just the tiniest bit and attacked that weak spot. More arrows shot, more ropes being flung. Kubyen­ka hit a man's throat, then another one's thigh, then a lance was armed at his horse's head, but he could pull the reins tightly and dodge it in the very last moment. “Feuer!” was shouted, and yet another cannon volley was released, this time right around them, and while the noise and the stench and the smoke were enough to disorient him for a while, Kubyenka could tell that it was only the smallest fraction of their firearms that actually worked. A sharp pain in his left shoulder, and at first he was convinced one of the few shots had hit him, but then he rea­lised that it was a whole cannon that one of the Germans had thrown in frustration. He dared to laugh, despite the pain. Ave Maria, blessed be thy name, you are the greatest wench of all!

The Golden Horde turned once more, but this time the Order was better prepared already, and blocked off their way. Metal screeched, Tatars and Germans fell. Kubyenka pressed his bo­dy to the neck of his horse again, and did not stop. Not until he had left the fighting behind him, had rushed up the hill, where his eyes found Vytautas's sword, and it circled, and Kubyenka pulled on the reins.

When he stormed down this time, the ground he rode over was covered in blood and bodies. Kubyenka did not look. Did not want to see how many of them were dead already and how many he killed just now as he ran them into the ground. The rows of the Germans had cleared drastically too, but more banners had lined up behind them, and new orders were yelled, and suddenly they were swamped from all sides.

A sword aimed for his head, and Kubyenka pressed his thighs firmly into his horse's flanks and turned around with his crossbow raised, aiming, shooting. The bolt missed, and the young soldier on his horse in front of him grinned madly. Hea­vy armour, the colours of the Teutonic knights themselves on his coat, but only a page it seemed. His narrow sapphire eyes glinted when he raised his sword again, flinging it around wildly.

Kubyenka tossed his crossbow to the side and drew his own sword. The lad wanted a proper battle? Fine, he could have it. He parried a hit at his head, another one at his arm, then he reached out and aimed for the lad's throat. The knight was quick to block and strike back, but it was clear that he had ne­ver proven his skills in the ruthlessness of a battle. He fought with the blade of honour and the feigned armour of valour because that was what he believed was expected of him, and Kubyenka wanted to laugh in his face. This is a battlefield, boy. Out here you'll either win like a bastard or take your honour with you to the grave.

Just as Kubyenka aimed for the page's horse, another young soldier came rushing in, a lay knight or mercenary judging by the armour he wore, and he had either heard Kubyenka's thoughts or understood the meaning of battle better than the first one, because he attacked without any warning, and at such a low angle that Kubyenka had no chance of blocking it with from his position. The sword hit his lower back, cut through the leather, through skin and flesh too much likely, but Kubyenka did not feel it. He only reached out, took hold of the second boy's shoulder, and pulled him closer. The German tried to shield his face with his free arm, and Kubyenka pommelled against his vambrace, again and again and again, until the steel was so dented one could have eaten soup from it.

The Teutonic page swung his sword again, and Kubyenka had to let go off his victim to block off the attack. He could hear the second lad scream in pain, as he removed his arm pro­tection with shaking fingers, rolling up his sleeve and exposing his broken bone with the scar-covered skin around it already bruising.

Kubyenka did not waste any time, lunged out and added another scar. One that would last forever. Then he ended the boy's suffering quickly by stabbing the end of his sword through his screaming mouth. The boy fell to the side, his foot got caught in his stirrups, the horse shied, reared up. The page only managed to widen his sapphire eyes before a hoof hit his jaw, breaking it with a disgusting sound, and then he fell back too, landed flat on the ground, choking on his own blood.

His coughs went silent. All the noise around Kubyenka went silent, drowned out by the rushing in his ears, no heat on his skin, only tingling in his head, as if someone had screwed it open for death-eating maggots to crawl in, and his vision got black as night. His hand was shaking when he reached back to feel for the cut on his lower back, just where the chest plate ended and the fabric of his hose began. Wet and hot. Ah shit. He could have really needed some booze now.

No, Kubyenka reminded himself, shaking his head. The boy would not have liked that. “Just a tiny celebratory drink after the battle,” he had pleaded earlier this morning, just after the first mass, but that fucker had been adamant. “We will cele­brate with kolachs, that should be more than enough. And hey, Kubyenka, look at me. We will celebrate, understood?”

Look at me.

He blinked a few times, turned his face right, south. Heat on his skin, bright sunlight in his eyes. The smell of horse and blood and shit. At least not his own. Now, that would have been embarrassing.

The noise of the battle came back to him from afar, as if a rain cloud was getting nearer, the drops falling onto the land in the distance and creeping closer with every passing moment. There was the standard of Saint George on the horizon, the Czech mercenaries, Žižka and Henry and Capon would be among them, still fighting, sill holding out, they had to. In front of him, up on the hill, Vytautas was gone. No, Kubyenka rea­lised slowly, he had joined them, had manoeuvred his men down into the valley, was fighting right by their side, they were so many now, more than enough to stand a fair chance.

Ah, to hell with it all!

He grabbed his sword tighter. Looked for his crossbow, but it was lying on the ground, half buried by the Teutonic page, and Kubyenka knew that there was no point in jumping down to get it, not if he didn't fancy to snap in two right in the middle as soon as his feet touched the earth. But there was a bow on the German's horse, and the animal was standing still enough for him to ride over and take it, and some arrows too, and then he turned around and rushed back into battle with a loud, motivating yell.

His motivation lasted perhaps for an hour or so, and ended with Vytautas calling out over the heads of his soldiers. In Li­thuanian and Tatar and Polish and Rus or whatever else these devils of men were speaking. Only one single word. Retreat.

It's a trick, Kubyenka thought. He had heard that the Duke had used this tactic before, that it was common practice among the Golden Horde. Fein retreat and come back all the stronger, like they had done this whole time. Only that now he seemed to actually mean it, or perhaps only his men believed so, but what difference did it make? Chaos arose. Some stormed off into all directions, until Vytautas shouted something again, this time in the tongue only they spoke, and then they all went east, up the hill and back to their camp, and Kubyenka followed them because what else could he do when he did not understand shit? The Tatars dashed past everyone else on their short, nimble horses, arrows flew past his head, left and right, and he leaned forward once more, as far as the wound allowed it, and held tight to the rim of that bloody kettle hat.

Up the hill, with the Order on their arse, into the lines of trees, shady, slippery, veined with roots. Horses fell, riders screamed, breaking like twigs, dying. More arrows, but they got stuck in the trees he came by. Down the hill to where the land cleared again. Where their camp was positioned, where Katherine was positioned, treating the wounded. And where then?

Katherine.

Kubyenka stopped his horse once he had reached the first rows of tents, looked around himself. Where was that fucking flag, the crowned eagle, the red cloth? Soldiers rushed past him, some only barely clinging to their horses. He ignored them. Forward. Left. The flag, the eagle, he had found it, had to get closer, closer, while the hordes of riders were still running past him. One Lithuanian man had to come to a full halt as Kubyenka blocked his way, cursed at him, and Kubyenka only waved back, shouting “Help me!” in Polish, and hoping the man would understand. He did. At least he followed.

They made it to the tent, just as the Order knights were lea­ving the cover of the trees, some stopping right there, lifting their bows. Katherine sat behind the tent, next to a young man whose ash-coloured apron was just as blood-sodden as Kathe­rine's dress. Another surgeon then, as he was most likely not a butcher.

“Mylady?” he greeted her, reaching down a hand, and when Katherine lifted her face, there were tears in her eyes. “The hand is just symbolic. I'm afraid that I'm a little torn right now about helping you. You'll have to get up on your own.”

She climbed up in front of him, while the surgeon took a seat behind him, and then he pointed into the tent and ordered the Lithuanian soldier to “Get the girl and the grandpa!” It was not ideal, but they would not have to endure like this for long. Only to get further into the safety of their camp. But to do what, damn it, to do what?

The troops had fled to the far end of the camp, where the clearing had forced itself into the woods like a wedge. A long, but narrow empty space, with wagons and barricades on all sides. Only a few hours ago, this had been the place where they had safely kept their horses. Now it had become their death­trap. Grand Duke Vytautas had taken off his helmet, his long hair falling over his back and his chest, and he was arguing with the Tatar khan. Both of them looked distraught, helpless. They had lost control.

Kubyenka turned. Here and there, between and above the tents that reached as far as he could see, the German banners were showing, but they had slowed down, as if they had got distracted. Looting most likely. And why not? They could take all the time they needed, because their enemies had just got themselves into a deadlock, with only one way out and one way in. Only one way in indeed.

“The wagons!” Kubyenka shouted, first in Polish, but his knowledge failed him, so he continued in Czech instead, while Katherine helped him translate. “Get a few of the wagons from the side and push them to the front end! Like a wall that we can hide behind, a castle of horse carts!”

Silence followed. Such a long silence that Kubyenka was certain either none of the men had understood or they had al­ready given up. The camp folk that had followed them into this trap looked up to him with big eyes as if Kubyenka had just spoken in the devil's tongue to them. Well, to most of them it might not have sounded all that different.

Then Vytautas spoke. Loud and clear and commanding. First in Lithuanian, then in Polish, and then in something else entire­ly. “You heard him! Build a wagon castle!”

They were done in no time. Ten wagons on each side of the wall facing sideways, four in the middle placed in such a way that they could still be rolled back and forth, with a few stones and crates placed behind their wheels just in case. Vytautas de­legated the construction, his men built it, Kubyenka provided the plan, Katherine translated his words, she had learned Polish much quicker than him, while she still tried her best to stitch and bandage his back. When they were done, they formed ranks. Lance bearers to the front, archers to the back, shield carriers between them, to form a makeshift roof for the rest to hide under. And then they waited.

Sitting and waiting and listening and fearing and waiting, but at least Kubyenka did not feel like farting anymore, that would have been a shame with a woman like Katherine so close by. Outside, the Germans were still rummaging through their camp. Every now and then one of them got close to their wagon wall, tried to climb it but saw the lances on the other side, shot an arrow over the fortification, only hitting the layer of shields. “Lasst sie,” someone said with the fierce voice of a commander. “Die sind es nicht wert, dass wir uns die Zähne an dieser Wagenburg ausbeißen. Wir gehen zurück.”

“They'll leave us be,” Kubyenka whispered, and when he turned to the side, he saw Katherine placing a hand over her mouth to muffle a sob. He took her into his arms, pulling her face to his shoulder with a hand on the back of her head. “We are safe, Kat. Yes, lass, let it all out. The battlefield is no place for honour.”

It seemed like it was a place for misjudgement though, be­cause he was wrong, once again. Their enemies were not lea­ving back to where the fighting took place. They weren't even leaving the camp. They did not make it that far.

Up on the hill to the east, out of sight for Kubyenka but as loud and clear as a church bell, an army neared. And from the lips of hundreds of soldiers poured, in Polish words, praise for their King Jagiełło.

* * *

Janosh raised his fokos against the first German he met, and, without slowing down the pace of his horse, he smashed his face to soup. It was easy to defeat Wallenrode's men, and it went quickly, so quickly that Janosh would have almost felt pity for them, had it not been their greed that cost them. Some of the Teutonic soldiers were already on their way back to the battlefield when a whole banner of Jagiełło had come flooding them from the south. They had already lost too many fighters down in the valley, were now scattered too far, and so they did not stand a chance. Most of the Germans were still inside the camp. Confident of their victory, proud and arrogant, hungry for a payment for their effort that had not been granted to them, so they simply took it on their own. Janosh broke the back of a man who had his arms and head deeply buried in a chest filled with fine clothes, and another one, who was just about to fill his pockets with Lithuanian złoty, he simply ran down with his horse.

He tried his best not to think of Boleszláv, but it was impos­sible. Confident Boleszláv, greedy Boleszláv. No one had been able to persuade him to stay and be satisfied with the life they had, not even his brothers begging him under tears. In the end, he had had it the easiest. Did not have to witness two of his younger brothers being murdered for the trouble he had started, and the youngest, the little nestling Janosh, fleeing the country, and then another country, and another, clad in the dresses of beggars and thieves. Greed. Greed leading the dagger, back then in the Ruthard's palace. A tap on his shoulder, flaxen hair around a freckled face, a wide grin, long front teeth, but he had grown into them over time. A dirty hand holding a piece of poppy cake. Eyes as bright as the sky above watching him cu­riously as he devoured it all within moments. Greedily.

Adder is dead. We need to find our own way.

Janosh raised his fokos again and slammed the pointed end so hard into a man's cheek, that he tore half his jaw off with it. The soldier sank to his knees, pressing his hands to his face, as if he could somehow hold it together, and without a useful tongue his pained dying screams was only gurgling noise.

“They are hiding in the back of the camp,” someone said, and Janosh pulled the reins tight to stop his horse and turn into the direction that was pointed at. “They have barricaded them­selves in with wagons.”

“Who has?” someone else asked. “What are their colours?”

Then a third one rode closer and lifted his axe. In between the gaps of the tents, Janosh could see how he hammered at the foremost wagon so hard the wood splintered around him as if he had hit an artery.

“Halt!” a voice from inside the fortification shouted, loud and fierce and commanding. “I am Grand Duke Vytautas,” the man said in broken Polish. “I am here with my banner. Step away and we will open the barrier.”

Janosh guided his horse closer and held his breath. Vytau­tas's men. Or whatever was left of the right flank. So many had died on the battlefield as the fighting had become more heated. He had watched it from his position on the hilltop, at Jagiełło's side. Had watched as they had turned to retreat, had looked at the flower bed of armour, broken shields, hacked flesh and blood that had just moments ago been standing there alive and fighting, and had searched for Kubyenka's padded jacket and his ugly kettle hat. It would have been easier to find the needle in the haystack. In a whole castle filled with hay.

The wagons in the middle of the barricade were pushed for­ward slowly, squeaking, and then the first people stepped out into the chaos that had once been the Lithuanian part of the camp. A few women and children and unarmoured men, cooks and sutlers and prostitutes. The two physicians and the young woman who had taken the tent at the outer part of the camp to care for the wounded. Katherine was not amongst them. Janosh took a deep, shaky breath and raised his left hand to the brooch, letting his fingers caress the golden bottony. He had had it hid­den for so long. Ever since it had cost Andr��s his life. Not greed that time, only the foolishness of children. When he had finally met Jagiełło and asked for justice, he had regretted ever hiding it. It was the only thing he still had of home, the mo­ment his father had pinned it to his heart one of the only things he remembered to this day.

And how the grass had smelled in summer. And how the em­broidered fabric of the curtains in the throne room had felt when he had used them to hide behind from his brothers. And how deep the valley had looked. Sometimes he wondered if it would still look this deep, now that he had long grown from the little boy he had been when he had last stood on the castle walls, feeling the cold wind of autumn on his face and the bur­den of his father's death in his heart, not yet able to understand that this was the end of what he knew to be home.

And then he had found a new home. On the Krakow streets, in a piece of poppy cake and a bright smile with large teeth. A brother, like the three he had lost, and then, as they had grown older, something more, something no brother could ever be. Together they had found a new home in Bohemia. In the Dry Devil, that bastard, and in that drunkard Kubyenka, and in the mercenary Jan Žižka, who knew grief perhaps as much as Ja­nosh did, and in Katherine and the ghosts she carried. Not only a home any longer. A family.

The camp followers had left their hiding place, and after them came Vytautas's Lithuanian soldiers, and at last the Grand Duke himself. Janosh felt his shoulders sink as he realised. The needle stuck into his thumb, he had squeezed the brooch so tightly, it had opened. Home. So fragile against a stolen title, against a wagon of silver coins.

The last men were leaving the fortification now, khan Jilal al-Din and his Golden Horde, and Janosh already wanted to turn his horse and scout the camp for any remaining Germans, when he saw them. A woman in an ash-grey dress, blood on her skirt, and it had rubbed off on her hands and her long, brown braid. And the limping man that she held securely by the arm­pit. He had taken off the kettle hat, was only wearing a short leather coif now, and Janosh was impressed by how confidently he could say that it was an improvement.

He put both fokos and shield down, dismounted his horse and went to them, marvelled at how their faces brightened up when they saw him, and then they wrapped their arms around each other and held tight for a long time. Breathing in all the sweat and blood that to him smelled only like summer grass and poppy cake.

“Look at you,” Kubyenka said when they finally parted again. “Not even a scratch.”

“And you?” He leaned to the side to have a look at Kubyen­ka's back. It seemed like Katherine had tried her best to hide the wound behind thick layers of bandages, but even those were starting to darken already. “Crack open like egg?”

“Ah, my shell is still holding together nicely, don't you wor­ry. Katherine here made sure of that.”

“I tried my best.” She had a tear in her eye, and Janosh felt some burning in his own too.

Then the moment of serenity turned into turmoil. Riders, but not their own. A few hundred from the sound of it, rushing along the camp and further up to the hill, where Janosh could see them between the trees, their white knightly armour, their standards, the chequered blue and white field with the black eagles on golden crosses of the Grand Master Ulrich von Jun­gingen himself. They had broken through the right flank that Vytautas's retreat had left unprotected, but none of them seemed to be paying attention to the camp. Pushing steadily south instead.

“Shit,” Kubyenka hissed. “That's what happens when you leave the fence gate open. Invites all the wolves in.”

“The King.” Janosh felt a pain in his stomach, as hot as a knife. “They go for King. And for boy.”

Just a moment later, Janosh found himself riding back to where they had left King Jagiełło behind, right on the tail of von Jungingen's troops, but not quite close enough. The Order reached the King's knoll before them. “Our man are coming back,” he heard someone yell from afar, before another man started screaming in fright: “They don't have straws, they don't have straws! It's not our men! Turn, people, turn!”

Too slow. Janosh heard the dreadful trumpets of death when von Jungingen's troop cut through the first rows of Jagiełło's retinue like a scythe through wheat. Then he had reached them too, his fokos ready. Smashing down everything that dared to get close, while his eyes were facing east. To where the battle raged down below, in the distance. To where, just a few paces away but separated by hordes of clashing knights, the red flag with the white eagle was flying high. The King's own banner had been furled to hide his position, or so it was decided before the battle, but Janosh knew that he couldn't be far. A bit to the south, if his position hadn't changed while Janosh had been down at the camp. Surrounded by his bodyguard, and with Ště­pán close by.

Janosh spurred his horse and dashed forward. Blocking when a weapon was aiming in his direction, hitting when he noticed a white coat or a black cross, and when someone came close, he struck and killed blindly, because nothing mattered now but the boy. His arm was aching from the weight of his fo­kos, his face was glowing hot from the sun and the blood that he spilled, sweat soaked his shirt, made the movements sticky and sluggish, like walking through honey. A spear hit the side of his horse. A gut-wrenching scream before it collapsed. Ja­nosh had already jumped to the ground, but then the spear got close once more. He blocked it with his shield, landed a hit on some horse's leg, then a sword scraped the plate on his left shoulder and he spun around, smashed someone's hand to pulp. His gaze darted up into the air, searched around wildly. Bright summer sky, and horse heads and peacock feathers and scarce tree tops. And the eagle.

The eagle fell. Like a shot down pheasant.

Janosh was not the only one to notice. There were shouts of fear and terror of the Polish and Lithuanian fighters around him, and cries of joy from the Order's men. “Polen ist gefal­len!” a Teutonic knight cheered, and Janosh did not need to know any German to understand his words.

He bashed the man's face in. Ran forward. The blows came raining down like arrows now, as if the Teutonic soldiers had gained new giant-like strength with the fall of the Krakow banner. He dodged a few, got hit by a few more, one sliced his calf open, cutting the straps of his shin guard too, but Janosh did not stop. Not until he had reached it.

The standard bearer was lying dead on the ground, his body covered by the red flag, his face sticking out. Eyes opened wide, lips pressed together in pain, but his teeth were still vi­sible through a hole in his cheek. Janosh bent down and ripped the staff from his fingers. Lifted his arms and raised the Polish flag up to the sun. For András murdered on the Krakow streets. For little Komar with the cake in his dirty hand. For home.

For just the briefest moment, all fighting seemed to stop as if the battle around him was suddenly nothing but a pretty tapes­try. Then a man shouted: “Der König!” and when Janosh turned right, he saw the white coat and the peacock feathers of a Teu­tonic knight fight their way through the stunned soldiers who served as Jagiełło's bodyguard. “My King, watch out!” some­one yelled, and it was the high voice of Štěpán, shaking with fear, but ready to fight, and the heavily armoured rider next to him with his cloak of red velvet and grey mink fur turned and readied his sword.

King Władysław Jagiełło did not have time to defend him­self. Another man rushed forward, pushing Štěpán aside, ma­king him stumble into his enemy's arms, and lifting a broken lance that he must have picked up somewhere. Royal secretary Zbigniew Oleśnicki stabbed the knight right in his side and knocked him off his horse. The peacock feathers disappeared between Jagiełło's recovering bodyguard. Swords were raised and brought down again, the man screamed and begged and died.

Zbigniew Oleśnicki looked as proud as a groom on his wed­ding day.

* * *

The two Rus banners fought as vigorously as men only could. Even after having witnessed what had happened to their third banner before. Completely annihilated, as if it had never exis­ted. Von Jungingen's force was like a wildfire, rolling over the land, swallowing every tree, every field, every village in its way. Strong enough even to afford separating a whole troop and sending them north, right into the now empty right flank of their formation. To go where? To Lake Lubian where their camp was situated? Or around the hills to give it to them from behind? Fucking whoresons. “They could have at least asked us first,” Godwin had joked, and that was about the only com­ment they both spoke about that matter. For anything else this was neither the time nor the place. And every worried word or thought would only distract them from the real task at hand: to strike these bastards down.

It had taken the crown's Grand Marshal Zyndram of Masko­wice some time to engage, as if he had more interested in wat­ching Vytautas's men on the right wing fight and fall than in any fighting himself, but when he finally gave the order, the valley turned into an ocean full of maelstroms. Seventeen Polish banners of more than two thousand men stood under his command, and all of them moved down in unison, like an ava­lanche set loose. The one who came to meet them down in the swamp that tore through the battlefield, was Grand Komtur Kuno von Lichtenstein, riding in the middle of his lines of just as many soldiers. White as pearls, a white cloak, a white horse in a white caparison, even his helmet was decorated with white swan feathers instead of the peacock tufts the other knights were wearing. An angelic vision that fought like the devil. Ma­noeuvring his men with the greatest skill and spurring them on to do the same. Let them then, Žižka thought. If they wanted to be devils, he would be the one to give them hellfire.

The hellfire had not even burned for half an hour or so when it died down to a pathetic little lamplight. Fatigued. Thirsty. Isolated. Somewhen in the confusion of the battle he had lost sight of Jan Sokol, and then he had separated from Godwin as well. Henry and his Lordship had moved further to the back, but he could not see them either. And what was there to be seen? Sunlight on armour that stung in his eye. Arrows in the air, swords and lances swirling around. Straw, straw? was the only question he asked himself, and at some point, not even that. His muscles hurt. His throat felt as if he had downed a whole bucket of sand. East and west, their enemy's side or theirs, it had all become the same, and the only way to tell where he was facing was by the position of the sun, but that had moved too, was standing right above him in the zenith now, and he felt like he was crushed underneath its force.

Then his horse gave in. Her knees buckled, and then she fell, and Žižka fell with her, toppling inelegantly to the ground. Ki­cking and wiggling to free his strained left ankle that had got stuck in the stirrups, and when the grip around his leg finally loosened, when he gathered the strength to crawl back a step or two, a tree collapsed right on top of him.

The tree was made of metal. The tree leaked hot onto his neck. The tree panted right into his ear, and then it coughed, and then it stopped breathing completely.

Žižka could not move. Could only stare up, to the empty sky and the blinding sun. At least his lungs were still intact, he thought, and the wet ground yielded enough that he was still able to gasp for air, but if someone else decided to die on top of him, it would not need a hammer to crush him, their weight alone would do all the work. He twitched his left fingers, the ones of his right hand did not seem to work at all, perhaps they had been broken from the way they were hit while being clasped around the handle of his mace. How inglorious, even for a bandit like him. To kick the bucket like this.

Heavy, dragged footsteps in the mud at the top of his head, and then a broadsword appeared in his sight. The tip was brought down to his throat with almost painfully slow move­ments, either because the man was just as tired as him, or he just wanted to make sure to get it right.

Just when the steel slid into the gap between his helmet and gorget, the man was shoved. Not by a weapon or hooves hitting him, but by flat hands pushing against his chest. The attacker was too quick for Žižka to see him, and when he moved away, he did so on his left side, where his dead eye complicated the view. Then he felt hands on his feet.

“Yes,” he mumbled, too weak and quiet to be heard over the roaring of the battle. “Pull me out, god damn it!”

The hands pulled. After they had opened the buckles around his lower legs, that was, and they did not pull at him, but only at his boots. Wonderful, Žižka thought bitterly. Not only fated to be entrapped for my last remaining moments under a dead man, I will also have to lie here robbed and half-naked.

A breeze on his feet as his boots were removed, then the bo­dy on top of him was shifted, but only further up his chest. The hands moved to his platelegs now. This was truly humiliating. More humiliating even than when he had had to fill Rosen­berg's cups with the weakest piss of wine. He tried to use his now freed legs to kick the robber off, and was granted a slap to his calf in return. A slap? “Stop wiggling so much, you donkey, I'm trying to help you here!”

“Godwin? What in Christ's name are you doing there?”

“Undressing you, as you might have noticed. And doing so while not giving up this perfect shield that you obtained for … Hold on!”

The hands left his legs, Godwin jumped to his feet, and now Žižka could finally see him. He looked utterly ridiculous. He wouldn't have, had he been out in a church somewhere, or in the Karolinum perhaps, because the dress he was wearing seemed to be one of his teacher's robes. But here on the battle­field, surrounded by two fully-armoured men, wielding a short sword and a broad shield, he looked as out of place as a flower on a dung pile. He had even taken off his helmet and ex­changed it for a that cap he always liked to wear. And yet, he managed to fight off one of his opponents, and keep the second one busy long enough for a Gończa fighter to stab him from the back. Divine protection, clearly. And one that was fully unde­served. No such madman should ever be granted this much luck, be it by Lady Fortune or God.

“Look, I would not exactly be opposed to the undressing part,” Žižka hissed when Godwin had kneeled down next to him again, “but this does not seem like the proper place for it.”

Godwin paid his objections as little mind as if the words had just been the breeze in the air. “I will lift this man off you now. And then I will immediately take those legs off, while you will get rid of your chestplate, understood?”

“Why should I …?”

“Just trust me, Jan!”

Žižka shook his head. Apparently it meant a sign of approval for Godwin, because the next moment, he started shoving and tugging the body on top of Žižka, and together they finally managed to heave the corpse away. Then Godwin's hands were back on his legs to remove the protection there, and without asking any more questions, Žižka took off the chestplate as fast as he could, helped by Godwin and by the outrageous advan­tage that their position on the ground seemed to give them. Then Godwin ripped the hauberk off him, and Žižka undid the buckles of his helmet, and threw that thing right into the face of the nearest man he saw.

He was pulled to his feet, and dragged along. Not far, just a few steps. Right into the deep mud that the dried-up river had left behind.

“What is your fucking plan, Godwin?”

“That,” Godwin pointed past him, and Žižka turned, follo­wing the gesture's path, “is my plan.”

Right next to them, with his hands and knees stuck in the morass, crouched the soldier whose sword had been pointed at Žižka's throat just moments ago. His armour and cloak up to his waist were wet and soiled from mud. He cursed, tore an arm free, then his left leg, wanted to get up, but his right foot sank down even further, and so he fell back forward, cursing even louder.

In a few paces around him, the ground was clear of anyone else. A bit further down, the valley was shallower and covered with stones, and whoever wanted to cross to either side was using that passage to do so. But no one dared to get close to the trap that the swamp formed. No one on a horse at least, or in full heavy armour.

“Push them in, make them fall,” Godwin stepped forward and raised his sword, bringing it up into Žižka's sight, that the blade sparkled in the sunlight, “slit their throats.”

Žižka laughed. In disbelief, and honestly impressed. “Did Kosovo teach you that?”

“No. That fella over there did.”

That fella over there was a grey-haired man with a pointed chin on a chestnut horse who Žižka first mistook for a common standard bearer, until he had a closer look. The armour of a knight. The posture and expression of someone who watched and waited for the right moment. A wolf amongst sheep, only that he was clad in the same fur as the sheep were.

“The Chełmno banner, isn't it?”

Žižka regarded the flag with the red and white waves and the black cross on top that the knight was holding, and nodded slowly. “But that's not the important part. What is that sewed onto his chest, Godwin? Tell me if my one eye is deceiving me.”

“A lizard.”

“Ah. I was right then.”

“Is he part of the Eydechsenbund? I believed those nobles stood against the Teutonic Order. Why have they still recruited them?”

“Forced alliance. Or a feigned one. We'll see.” As if the knight had heard or felt that they were talking about him, he turned his face, and his wolf eyes found Žižka's. He nodded, and Žižka brought his fist to his chest. It was just a brief mo­ment shared before the knight set himself into motion again, moving over the stone crossing into the Polish-Lithuanian side, followed by a few dozen of men with similar embroidery on their coats. Then, as if a window had been opened, the storm of the battle raged anew.

It was almost fun now, barefoot in the mud, with his mace in hand and Godwin by his side. And it was nothing but ridiculous how easy their enemies fell. Some of them stumbled into their boggy grave on their own, lured in by the easy target that the two men, one in his undershirt, one in a teacher's robe, seemed to pose. Others came running or riding over because they saw Žižka and Godwin standing here and expected it to be a safe passage, only realising their mistake when it was too late. Ma­ny more Žižka and Godwin shoved and pulled into the swamp with their own hands.

In the end, the method did not matter. What mattered was that they faltered and tumbled as soon as they stepped onto the wet and sticky ground. That their weapons slipped from their grasp when they brought their hands up in an attempt to catch their own fall. That Žižka and Godwin could run over to them fleet of foot, almost as if they were floating, and that an occa­sional “devil's work” and “witchcraft” was whispered as they approached their enemies to slowly colour the ground crimson.

They played this game for a while longer, until something over on the hill, where Jagiełło and his reserve must have been positioned, changed. “The Krakow banner has fallen!” some­one shouted, and then all eyes turned east to look for the sign of defeat, the sign that the Polish King had been killed or taken prisoner. The sign was there, or rather the lack thereof. Not for long, however, then the flag was once again raised high.

Not everyone had the patience to wait. “Vorwärts!” was yelled into the silence, and then the Grand Master Ulrich von Jungingen brought his banners forward, storming up the hills like a thunderstorm.

To Žižka's right, the lizard knight raised his left hand with the sword high into the air, then he brought the Chełmno ban­ner down. Ulrich von Jungingen had already rushed off too far, he did not see them yield, or how the whole lizard union turned their backs to him and fled off the battlefield, did not know that a hundred or so fighters of his had betrayed him. He would on­ly realise when it was too late. Or, if they were lucky, Žižka thought, he would never get the chance to find it out.

“After them!” a familiar voice shouted, and when Žižka faced its direction, he saw a blue cornflower flare up between all the people around him, and the distinctive longsword that the lance-bearer behind him carried at his side, both making their way to the hill, to pursue von Jungingen and his troops. Somewhere close by, a knight in white armour lifted his head and shielded his eyes against the sun with a black-gloved hand, before he turned his horse around to follow them.

* * *

“After them!” Hans shouted, and Henry did not need to think twice about it. If the Krakow banner had truly fallen, that meant that the King was, if not dead yet, at least surrounded by enemies, and then the same could be said for Janosh and Štěpán. And the pack was family. To fight for, no matter what, to die for if needed.

The turmoil that had followed the news helped them to ad­vance faster, and so they had just made it to the foot of the hill, when they saw the eagle on his red field fly high once more. Von Jungingen did not care, did not even slow his horse, neither did any of his men. Henry and Hans went after them as far as they could, before they were stopped by Teutonic fighters stepping in their way.

They were all here now. The three Order leaders, Jungingen and Lichtenstein and Wallenrode, facing thousands of Polish soldiers, and was that Janosh over there holding the Krakow standard? No, he was imagining it clearly, confused by all the chaos around him. Knights and pages and mercenaries alike, most on horseback, some by foot, encircling them, and Henry turned his horse so that his back was facing Hans's, and then they fought. Hans rammed his cornflower shield into some­one's face, sending him disoriented over to Henry who brought him down with a stab of his lance, and then Henry bent down far to aim for the legs of a knight's horse so that it reared up, giving Hans the perfect opportunity to lift his nocked crossbow with just one hand and shoot the man down. Back to back they fought, in perfect unison, lance and shield, crossbow and axe, using everything that they had managed to store in their belts and saddlebags and making every blow count. It made Henry's heart burn with reignited passion, felt like a dance to him, the dance that they had never been allowed to share, but after the battle they would, and then he would find another ribbon, and he would make that damned vow again, but this time sober enough to remember.

Shouting on the other hillside that reached down to their camps, and when Henry looked over, he saw the Grand Duke Vytautas come riding in, followed by hundreds of Lithuanians and Tatars. They had not fallen then. They had used their time away from the battlefield to regroup, and to now come back stronger than before, and fuck it, if they had survived, then Ku­byenka might as well have too!

“They are backing down!” Hans pressed out between two pants, freeing his right foot from the stirrup and bringing it forward to give a German's shield hand a good kick. “Lichten­stein has taken his banner down. They are retreating.”

“But Jungingen is not,” Henry said, slamming his lance's hilt into the face of a man who had come riding up behind him, breaking his nasal bone with a vile sound. “Doesn't look like he even thinks about yielding. No, he will fight until death.”

Ulrich von Jungingen was now surrounded by so many men that every part of his body was hidden from Henry's view. Even the Grand Master's own men had left him, but he still kept on fighting. It was futile, but he did not seem to care, and Henry found himself stopping for a moment to listen. To the sounds of swords hitting steel armour and soft flesh. To the panting and the grunts of pain. No screams. Ulrich von Jugingen did not scream, nor did he cry or beg. He only fought. And then it was over.

No one had to say it out loud, and no one dared to. But they all knew without having to hear or see it, like one would know in their heart that a staggering thing had happened, that a new time was about to begin. Or that one was about to end. The Grand Master was dead. Many of his men had fled already, and the ones who hadn't seemed to be caught by the dreadful reali­sation one after the other, as they began to lay down their wea­pons. The movement went through the thousands of men like a massive storm blowing over a forest, and like trees being up­rooted and knocked over, they fell to their knees.

Hours of fighting. And now it had ended, just like that.

“It's over,” Hans whispered, as if he had heard Henry's thoughts.

Then another voice spoke. Deep and growling, and distorted by fury. “It's not for you, bastard. And not for your Jew brother either. Or for that pretty lovers of yours.”

Henry turned. Painfully slow, not even his horse seemed to react to the tug on the reins or the pressure of his legs, or per­haps he wasn't even tugging and pressing at all, because his bo­dy had stopped working just as his lungs had.

Erik's white armour was covered in blood. Teutonic blood or Polish blood? Henry wondered if Erik knew it himself or if he simply did not care. Even his bright eyes were coated by blood, and red tears were glittering in their corners. His right hand was wrapped around the handle of a sword, shaking. Black leather, tight, a bit too small. The touch of a ghost. “I swore to tear out your heart. And I will do that. Bit by bit.”

“What did you say about Samuel?” Henry breathed, and he could not understand from where he took the strength to speak, because inside of him it felt as if Erik had made his promise come true, as if Henry was already a dead man. Perhaps he had been for a while and had only refused to acknowledge it. With­out Istvan there to make him aware.

Erik grinned. Blood on his teeth too. His own or of someone he had killed? “I have my eyes and ears everywhere. And they have brought me stories, nice stories that sang me to sleep last night. Of little Samuel getting caught like a rat in a trap. Of the Crusaders breaking his every limb and weaving them around a cross. Was a nice boost for their morale, I heard, a sight to de­light in. The crucified Jew.”

“Does not seem to have worked well for them,” Henry re­plied and his voice was as weak as the hot summer breeze. He is lying, he told himself. Wants to rile me up, like I did to him, to destroy me before our weapons even cross. But he doesn't know. He can't.

“He might not be dead yet.” Erik's smile widened so far that it looked like it cut through his whole face as if someone had sliced his head open. “If I'm lucky he's still breathing when I'm done with you. Then I can go to him and offer him a sponge with vinegar wine.”

Next to him, Hans put down the crossbow so he could draw his sword. Henry raised a hand at him. “Don't. This is my battle.”

“And it shall be yours,” Hans responded, and then he se­cured the shield with his right hand too, so that he could put the free left hand on Henry's leg. A touch that made Henry remem­ber to breathe again, honesty in his eyes that struck down the weight on his chest. “Kill him,” Hans said, and it was no com­mand, not the permission of a Lord to his vassal, just a request. “And I will do what I should have done a long time ago. Be there for my family.” He turned his horse. Tried his best to hide the tears, but Henry could hear them in his voice. “When we return, together, we will celebrate, yes, Henry? Us three will have a toast to our victory!”

Then he rode off. To save Samuel. To save himself too, even if he might not have realised that yet. Because he did not know Erik as well as Henry did. Because he had never felt the hatred Erik and Henry had once shared. Only that Erik had got stuck in it. A water wheel in whose spokes all the rubble of loss and abandonment had gathered, but the water masses around him had not stopped flooding in, and it had broken him completely. While Henry had built himself a dam. It had taken time, years to erect it fully and the help of responsibilities and loved ones, and to this day, the dam was still leaking and crumbling now and then, the work was never done, but it stood. Right now it stood more secure than ever.

“It's just between you and me then,” Erik snarled, and the smile was still painted to his face, but it was clear that he re­gretted having let Hans go. Could not keep his word then. Or if he still wanted to, he'd at least have to dig his claws right through Henry's chest. A well-known, lilting voice in the back of his head wanted Henry to let him try.

“Surrounded by a few thousand more men, that is.”

Erik tilted his head left and right like a snake. “We can go somewhere else if that suits you more.”

“No,” Henry replied quickly. Because he would not allow Erik to lure him into a trap, he said to himself, but it was a lie. Erik wanted a fair fight, perhaps more than Henry did. But out here, Henry felt safe. In the place that had given him a sense of purpose for the first time in years. In the place that had become a grave for so many poor souls, when to him it had given him freedom. “I find this more fitting. With all the corpses around us. Will be a good reminder to you, a window into your fu­ture.”

Erik's grin did not falter still, and then he said with so much honesty that it made Henry's blood grow cold in his veins: “I am ready to die. Are you?”

He attacked Henry without any warning. A pointed and fierce blow at the level of his head, and Henry barely managed to dodge it and move his horse out of reach. A few paces for­ward, until he turned, getting on Erik's right side, his lance raised and ready. The lance would give him an advantage, of­fered him more reach, but Erik was desperate enough to make up for that.

Henry stormed forward, at the same time as Erik did. His lance was aimed directly at Erik's chest, just until the moment that they got close to each other when he lifted it just a bit. Erik was quick enough to realise the ruse and blocked it with his shield, with so much force that it almost made Henry loosen his grip. Hours of fighting had taken a toll on him, while Erik seemed to be as rested as if this was his first battle of the day, despite all the blood telling a different tale. They turned again. The sun reflected on Erik's visor that he had been careless enough to keep open. Careless or cocky. Either way it meant that this here could be over with one single hit.

Four more times they darted forward, hit and blocked, rode past the other one and turned again. Circling each other like wild beasts, and then watching for a while, lying in wait, before they rushed forward again. Over the bodies of the dead and the dying. Over hardened soil covered in dried grass and wet blood. Between others who were still fighting, trapped in the same hell as Erik and Henry were, incapable of letting it end.

A fifth time, and Henry's lance scraped the side of Erik's cheek, ripping his helmet off. He cursed silently for that fucker had not even cared to fasten it properly, he might as well have torn his whole head off otherwise. Erik still howled and raged. The sound alone made Henry's chest tingle with delight.

“How kind of you,” Henry said when he turned his horse once more, “giving me a chance to see all of your ugly visage. Cannot believe Istvan actually dared to touch that. No wonder he always wore these gloves.”

Erik bellowed like a dog when he spurred on his horse again. So furious now that his blow lacked any accuracy, ma­king it as easy for Henry to parry as if he was battling little Heinrich.

“It reminds me, though,” Henry took a deep breath before turning, to not let Erik see that he was struggling, that the taun­ting was only a provocation to wear Erik down when neither the sun nor the previous fighting had achieved that yet, “you said you had your eyes and ears everywhere. But you weren't really talking about your own eyes and ears, now, where you? Whose are it? Rosenberg's? Or have you found a new Master already? The dog needs his leash after all.”

Erik only screamed when he ran at him, his face twisted to the grimace of the monstrum of some puppetry. Henry lifted the shield. Blocked the sword, pushed it out of reach and lifted his elbow at the same time, driving it right into Erik's armpit. Kurva. Had he been any less of a boar, that hit might have dis­located Erik's shoulder completely, but this way it only made him yelp in pain and frustration.

Henry already opened his mouth for more mockery, when he turned and felt his heart stop for a moment. Erik wasn't alone anymore. There was someone standing right next to him on the ground, a man, though it was hard to tell. Splinters of glass had torn the flesh of his face apart, one had even pierced into his eye, making blood and ichor run across his cheek, and the left side of his head was crushed in so heavily, it had dug a dent into his skull. And yet, Istvan Toth was standing and smiling. “You're doing so well, dear boy,” he said, and at first, Henry was certain his words had to be directed at Erik, until he rea­lised that the one eye that was still intact was facing him. “On­ly one more taunt, and you can hack him to shreds. Another name on your list crossed out. Leaves room for more. Rosen­berg's has already been added, has it not? And perhaps the men who are killing your sweetheart and your brother this very mo­ment. The ink is still fresh, boy. Write their names down. Write them all down. Until that parchment is covered in black.”

Henry brought his left arm to his body and pressed it onto his stomach. Like Hans used to do whenever the nightmares had returned. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he breathed.

“How could I? I owe this to you.” Istvan stepped closer. He reached up for the splinter in his eye, twisted and pulled it, lau­ghing all the way until he had ripped it out and the eye with it. Then he tossed it at the feet of Henry's horse. “Freedom. You felt it, did you not, why deny it? The killing made you feel free. And it will continue to do so, one murder at a time, until some­thing magnificent is born.”

“As magnificent as him?”

Erik bared his teeth. “Who? Who are you talking to, you whoreson?”

“How easy it has been for you to abandon Capon. How re­lieved you felt when you fled to Prague. Breaking the chains of a decade-old love. Because Capon does not see you the way you truly are. So magnificent.” The grotesque image of Istvan had reached him now, and he finally stopped and lifted his hand, the right one, placing his naked skin on Henry's fingers, and Henry felt it so clearly as if he was not wearing a gauntlet, as if that creature was not only a phantasm of a tortured mind. “You do not need him. I am always there with you. And I love you, in that magnificent shape that I sculptured you into.”

“What are you waiting for?” Erik screamed at the top of his lungs.

“Kill him,” Istvan Toth whispered. “End it once and for all.”

Henry spurred his horse on. Raised the lance, missed. Erik did not. The sword cut deep into the flank of Henry's horse. It cried out dreadfully, but managed to stand upright.

“Cross out his name,” Istvan said, “you don't have a chance anyway. The stronger dog, boy. Prove to me that it's you.”

I am no dog, Henry wanted to answer, I do not need to prove myself to you. You do not own me, you did not create me. He turned his horse around. Raised his lance again.

Just before he got close, Erik changed direction, rode to Henry's left side instead. Henry was not quick enough to bring his lance over. Erik's sword dashed through the air and slid his horse's throat.

The ground shifted and Henry fell, rolling a few paces, get­ting stopped by a corpse. It cost him a few moments until he had regathered his senses. His hip burned as if someone had set it on fire. The old battle wound, Erik's gift. Get up, Henry! someone shouted in his mind. His own voice, Istvan's, Hans's? He could not even tell. Do not let him kill you here. Be the stronger dog. Fight.

It was a miracle that he managed to, but somehow Henry got to his feet, and then he drew the sword from his side. He was dizzy from the fall, but Erik was clear to see, all white and red, and when he came riding at him, he screamed loud enough for people to hear all the way down to Tannenberg. Henry brought father's sword forward and aimed at Erik's right leg, but Erik had not fallen like he had, was still quick-witted and fast enough to parry. His attacks became rapid. Storming at Henry from the back and the side, and from the front again, until Hen­ry felt like a spinning top caught in some cruel child's game.

“Stop being a coward!” Henry shouted into the empty air, as Erik had already pulled his horse around to approach him from a different angle yet again. “Get down to me! Prove to your Master that he has trained you to be the stronger dog!”

“You will die here!” Erik yelled to Henry's right, and he turned around just in time. “That will be prove enough!”

Henry aimed blindly, hit something soft. The horse screamed, hot liquid spilled onto Henry's face. The movement of air just in front of him, hooves kicking up wildly, and Henry stumbled a few steps back to get himself to safety. The horse lost its balance and fell. And everything went horridly silent.

Henry stood still for a while, in anticipation, until he finally decided to take off his helmet, wipe the blood from his face. Stretched out in front of him lay the two dead horses. From be­neath one of them, a leg in white armour stood out, together with a hand covered by a black leather glove. Erik was not mo­ving.

Emptiness. That was all Henry could feel. No happiness or relief, not even shock. Just a hole full of nothing where his heart should have been beating, because apparently Erik had kept his word in the end.

Further up on the knoll, the joined Polish and Lithuanian forces started to move. Henry did not notice until they had reached him, and then he was already forced back and pushed along by the masses. “We are going to the enemy's camp,” a Moravian mercenary said, putting his hand on Henry's shoulder and grinning right into his face. Henry did barely hear him, did not see him either. His eyes were facing up the hill into the di­rection of the horses he had left behind, of the man underneath. “It's over, lad. He, don't you hear? We've won!”

“No,” Henry whispered. “No, I haven't.”

* * *

It was a simple thing, to escape the battleground once the news about Ulrich von Jungingen's death were spreading. Using the moment of surprise, of uncertainty to rush past allies and foes alike, making his way south until he had left the outer rows of soldiers, and then turning west, riding quickly along all the noise and chaos to where he saw the Teutonic camp on the op­posite chain of hills.

Henry was stronger than Erik, Hans told himself. Henry was more sane at least, and he had more reasons to fight for. And Henry needed him. Not up there on the battlefield, but with his brother.

There was no one trying to stop him when he rode along the battlefield. Everyone was busy with last desperate attempts at a hopeless fight, or with yielding, or with trying for their own es­cape. Only when he had already reached the Order's camp, did someone step in his way. Two knights emerging from the barri­cades that he was just about to enter. One had a long, hay-coloured beard that parted around his mouth like a fork, the other's pointed chin was clean-shaven, and his bright eyes were flaring up like those of a wolf.

“Wer bist du?” the one with the fork-beard said in German.

“Ignatius,” Hans replied. “Ich bin …” He tried frantically to recall all the German aventiures he had ever read, but it seemed like the word for mercenary had never appeared in it, or if it had, he had not paid it enough mind.

The two men exchanged long and weighted looks. Then the one with the wolf eyes scratched his chest, right below the em­broidered symbol of a lizard, and then he stretched out his hand and pointed at Hans's shield. They whispered something to each other. Did not sound like German, but perhaps the noise from down in the valley hindered his hearing.

The one with the fork-beard nodded. “Go inside,” he said to Hans, in Czech. “Ulrich's tent is further up the hill. There is a nice little chest below his bed, hehe.”

“Thank you,” Hans replied in slow astonishment. He had al­ready guided his horse past the two men, when he stopped once more, looking back to them. They had made it to their own hor­ses that they had left outside the camp, getting ready to mount up and leave. Hans would not stop them. A foe shared was a friend found, or something. Though that did not mean that their animosity would stop at the Teutonic knights. Hans grabbed the sword a little tighter when he raised his voice to ask them. “Look. I'm not here for looting, you know? I've come for a friend of mine, for my … for my brother.” He swallowed. Felt like he was melting to a puddle under the sun that had already been unbearable before. “Samuel. He's a Jew. We sent him to infiltrate the camp last night.”

The one with the fork-beard narrowed his eyes, and Hans was certain that he was about to reevaluate his previous deci­sion, when he was interrupted by the other one's laugh. “Hans,” the one with the wolf eyes said, and Hans shook his head in confusion. “Not Samuel. Yes, he came here. Caused trouble. Oh, such trouble.”

“Is he … Is he alive?”

The man swung his leg over his saddle and gestured to his friend to follow him. “Prisoners are far in back, blue tent, two torches in front. But only prisoners, is not for dead. If you're lucky, will not be empty.”

With that they rode off, and Hans hurried to make his way into the camp, his throat now painfully dry from fear. If you're lucky, the man had said, as if this was only a game. As if Hans had not promised Henry to bring his brother back to him, alive enough so they could celebrate. As if Hans did not remember all too well the feeling of being lulled to sleep by Sam's voice months back in the gorge, of how his chest, heavy with worry, had lifted more and more as they had shared their grief, their reluctance to trust, and now here Hans was, risking it all for this madman. Audentes, he told himself over and over again, be brave, and luck will reward you. Just this once.

The camp was anything but empty, other than Hans had hoped, but most of the people here did not even grant him a single glance, either because they were merely uninvolved civi­lians or because they had already caught wind of von Jungin­gen's demise and did their best to prepare for a hasty flight. The ones who did regard Hans, did not seem to feel suspicious about him, and that was not surprising. To them, he was no­thing but a mercenary with a cornflower crest that they did not recognise from their enemy's side, and with blood on his sword and armour. For all they knew and cared, he could just as well have been one of them. As long as he did not open his mouth and had his literary German fail him once more. But he would do his best to keep it quiet.

He led his horse through the camp in a slow trot, examining his surroundings closely. Tents upon tents, with one or the other cooking site or crafting bench in between, and they stretched out to the horizon that he felt like a little insect trapped in a meadow of flowers. A blue tent, in the far back, the lizard knight had said. He had already come by dozens of blue tents at this point, and what fucking end did he mean? The one to the north, to the west? Good God, finding Sam here would be ei­ther the work of sheer, unmerited luck or of some divine inter­vention. Even more so to find him alive.

Hans chose the left way that wound up the hill like a snake, ending by a large wooden tower with a cross banner hanging from its front. The smell of something burned hung in the air, of food but also of something foul, as if a whole dunghill had been set on fire. Or human flesh, Hans thought grimly. They have built a stake and burned him alive. He shook his head. No. One of their scouts would have noticed. And if Erik was truly well enough informed to know that Sam had been cap­tured, he would have certainly known that too.

A cooking site to his left, and on the other side, the barking of dogs. Hunting dogs perhaps, and hungry ones at that, jud­ging by their growls and grunts. No animals Hans was particu­larly fond of, but he still found himself feeling pity for them. Abandoned, with their owners perhaps never to return. And would the Polish King have any use for trained, German curs? He would much rather let them starve to death. Or be merciful and end their misery by ordering them to be slaughtered quick­ly.

He rode up the hill to the bulky tower and past it on its right. There wasn't much way left ahead of him until he had reached the far end of the encampment, at least on this side. And from what he could tell, there was a blue tent right in front of him, with two torches burning next to its closed entrance, despite the summer sun standing high above the earth. A smile flit across his face, that he swallowed down quickly. Too early to cele­brate. Please be there. Please be alive.

Hans dismounted his horse in front of the tent and gave a silent nod to a man kneeling nearby and watching him with pale eyes in a face that sun and weather had long turned into copper-coloured leather. The man turned away from him unim­pressed, continued rummaging through a chest. He did not seem to care enough about Hans getting close to the prisoners' tent, if it indeed was the right one, but how would he react if Hans got back out with the very man by his side who had infil­trated the camp just the night before? Perhaps he was lucky, and they had left some ropes or chains that he could drag Sam behind with. I'm just bringing him somewhere else, he would say. Or They might have won, but I can still make them suffer. What was suffer in German? Sakra. Sam would have to help him out. Now that would be a sight to behold, the prisoner prompting his capturer the words with which he himself got taunted.

Well, if the man became too curious, Hans could also kill him. That was always a suitable solution, though none he would like to resort to if it could be avoided.

He lowered his sword and opened the entrance to the tent. Empty. No Sam, and no other prisoner either, only traces of feet scraping the trampled ground and a few shackles tossed carelessly to the side. The disappointment wrapped itself around his throat like an iron gauntlet. It must be the wrong tent, he thought foolishly, looking at the shackles. Or Erik had been wrong all along, had only lied to get under Henry's skin, and Sam had never been caught, had escaped and made it back to the Polish side, had just not managed to find them in all the chaos. Or he had been freed already. Because the Teutons had no use for him, or by Mirtl perhaps, who knew, maybe Sam had not been mistaken about her and they could actually count on her.

All fully plausible, wasn't it? And yet, the words of the li­zard knight echoed through his mind like the Trosky bells, in his broken Czech and with that wolfish grin in his voice. Only for prisoners. Is not for dead.

Hans turned his back to the tent and returned to his horse. For a short moment he considered asking the man with the lea­ther face if he had noticed anything, but Hans did not know how to explain it without the man smelling his lies, not even in Czech, and so he just got up on his horse and took a look around. He could try other tents, but there were so many of them. Or go back to that burned stench. Search the ashes for remains. For a rosary, or whatever it was that Sam used to pray. Hans did not even know. Because, without even realising in his hopeless fight to cling to his power, Hanush had been right all along. Hans was no Lord, no ruler. He had failed them. And in this very moment, Henry was out there alone on the battlefield fighting Erik to the death, or perhaps he was already lying slain on the ground, in the middle of all the other corpses, and then Hans had failed him too.

He rode down the hill again following the stench, because it was the only thing he could do. The pyre they had built and burned down was positioned a bit off the main road and with only the tents of craftsmen around it, as apparently no knight had wanted to sleep close to it. Shit. It smelled of shit. And there were bones in the ashes, but not human ones, they were much smaller, of hares perhaps and fowls, and of fish. Refuse, nothing more. No man had been burned here. And hanged? He craned his neck, looked out over the rows of tents further down the hill, but there were no gallows to be seen. Not inside the camp, at least.

Hans turned back around and led his horse back to the en­trance of the fortification. The dogs barked and howled. “Poor things,” he said, and looked over to the enclosure that had been built for them, half from iron like a cage, half bounded by a wagon, and far too small for the five of them. “Once I found him, I might come back to …”

The words got stuck in his throat as if drowned by thick ho­ney. Not five dogs, but four. Four giant mastiffs, hungry and thirsty from the heat, their tongues hanging out, drool dripping from their slack lips, heavy iron chains around their necks binding them to the fence and only barely so it seemed. And a man. Crouching on the ground with his back pressed against the wagon, fully stripped, his skin burned by the sun, beaten and bruised, and with a similar chain around his neck too.

“God's bones!”

Sam lifted his head. Blood coated the full right side of his face, stemming from a wound on his temple, it seemed, but it must have long dried. His bright eyes still looked dazed. Dazed and utterly terrified.

“Wait. Wait, I … Christ, I got you.” Hans got off the horse and ran back. To the pile of ash, sticking his fingers in and dig­ging for bones, pieces of meat or innards, anything that these dogs could be interested in. The smell was nauseating, but he barely noticed it. Only rushed back with everything he had found, bringing it over to the fence. The mastiffs turned and barked at him. One was pitch-black, just like Matej's had been. Teeth in his flesh, the certainty that he would die here, down by the Sasau, where no one would come to help him, die all alone. The heat of Sam's body close to his, his words like a lullaby. He did not die. And he was not alone.

“Here. Take this, you beasts.” He placed the remains close to the fence but outside of it, and the dogs reached out their paws and pressed their snouts against the iron, trying desperately to fill their hungry stomachs. It would not be enough to satisfy them, and as soon as they had devoured it, they would turn their attention back to Sam and him. Not to idle then. He had climbed the wagon in no time, looking for the place where the shackles were secured and found it. Henry would have known how to unlock this. Sam would have too, but even he needed a pick for that, and it wasn't as if the Lord of Leipa just ran around with one all the time. So, the old-fashioned way. He took the shield off his back and crushed the chains with the mighty force of Hedwig's cornflower. Two times, three times, four times. It broke. Then he climbed down the other side and wrapped his arms around Sam's chest.

Sam winced under the touch, but Hans chose to ignore it. “This is not the time for false shame, you hear me? And it's not like you're the first naked man I've seen, far from it.”

“Hans …”

“You can thank me later, alright, just get up to your feet, you ox, I cannot do all the work on my own!”

Behind him, the black dog had gulped down his piece of meat under loud, disgusting grunts and slurps, and was starting to bark again. Even hungrier than before, it seemed.

Hans heaved Sam up on the wagon, and jumped after him. Then they sank down and sat for a short moment and breathed. Sweat had gathered in his eyes, and Hans wiped it away with his sleeve. Sweat from exhaustion and heat, but even more so from a fear that he had almost forgotten for the shortest while. “Who treats their dogs like this? They are starving!”

“All the better.” Sam let his head sink back against the side of the wagon, squeezed his eyes shut and screwed up his face in pain. “They wanted to hang me with them. The Jewish way.”

“What does that mean?”

The grimace turned into a grin, but it looked just as strained. “Let's just say it had not been the noose that would have killed me.”

Hans nodded, as if he could understand and fought back the fury building in his chest, by turning his attention elsewhere. Bit by bit he took off his armour, and then the clothes under­neath. “Here,” he said, throwing Sam the padded jacket and his hose. “And don't even think about declining it.”

“I wouldn't.” Hans kept his gaze averted until he was sure that Sam had at least put the hose on, and when he turned back to him, he saw a crooked smile on his face. “For a man who has spent the last hours fighting, your braies are looking extra­ordinarily clean.”

Hans huffed out a laugh. “Believe me, if something had made me shit myself, it would have been these creatures here. And now, let us go. The battle is over. We won, you know? I finally want to celebrate that. With some good wine, perhaps. Not for you though. You heard what Žižka told us.”

“I don't need wine to celebrate. I only need fire.”

“Fire? Fine, wait here, I will get it for you.”

Sam was swaying a bit as he walked over to the tower, with the torch in his hand that Hans had brought him from the pri­soners' tent, but he tried his best to hide his pain, and Hans did not ask about it. He only watched in silence. Watched as Sam looked up to the menacing, white banner with the black cross above his head, watched as he took a deep breath, lifted his arm, watched as he threw the torch through the air. Watched the cloth be set on fire, the flames licking up from the ground, hi­gher and higher, until they kissed the cross and devoured that too. Watched the fabric curl in on itself under the heat, crumble to ash, float down like the leaves of a tree in autumn. The sight felt blasphemous almost, but Hans decided that he could not be bothered. Sam deserved this. They both did.

And then Hans heard the noise behind him, turned and watched something else entirely. An army. A retreating one, but an army still. Waving the very banner that Sam had just burned down, together with the one of Great Komtur Lichtenstein, and as they got closer to the entrance of the camp, Hans could see that their faces were torn by anger and fear and desperation.

* * *

When Mirtl heard the Teutonic army approach, she was certain that luck had finally left her for good. Not that it hadn't turned its back on her and shat in her face before already. But after all the frustration of the past hours, this was truly the last blow fly on the horse turd.

After the second mass, when she had finally left the others as she should have done long before, her way had first led to the village of Grünfeld. Most of the houses stood empty, at least for the time that the battle would be fought, and so no one had cared when she had made her way up to someone's yard, sat down on a bench there and waited. With her eyes and ears focused on the action inside the nearby camp, until she had been certain that all the German soldiers had left for the battle­ground.

Only then had she gone there. Had got past the two guards at the entrance with a smile and a kiss, it was easy for her. Had managed to take a few steps through the rows of their tents. He must be alive, she had thought. If he hadn't escaped yet, he was certainly still here. The torturing and painful killing of a spy was too fun of an activity to waste it on pre-battle nervousness. No, they would have only seen to it after they won, to reward themselves for the exertion. Because that was how men worked. She had heard it plenty from the men that had come to see her. And she had felt it herself. Václav had saved the bea­tings for later too. For when he came back home from the mar­ket, reeking of kettle and beer, exhausted from his work, hung­ry for lust and blood.

Mirtl had made it to the first turn of the path perhaps, when she had been stopped by a woman. Or a girl, rather. Two long, brown braids on her back, the soft, round face of a Madonna, and a body that seemed too slim and fragile for the bulging, round belly that her poppy-red dress had long failed at being able to hide. “Help me with the water,” the girl had said, and Mirtl had heard enough from the German babbling of drunk men splayed out on her bed to understand her well enough. “I want to wash the children's clothes.”

You're just a child yourself, Mirtl wanted to reply, and Can't you see that I'm busy?, but there was no one else around who could have helped the girl with the heavy buckets she had ga­thered from a trough, and what excuse could she have given to absolve her of her womanly tasks in this camp, and so she just nodded and went with the girl, keeping the curses to herself.

And then she had been stuck. Stuck in a part of the camp that was full with nothing but children and four dozen women, some of them wives of the German soldiers, others being there to fulfil more practical tasks. The women talked. All at the same time and way too quickly for Mirtl to follow along, and all she could tell was when they laughed over a jest she could not understand, or shared their sorrows with each other to which Mirtl could not offer any condolences. So she just kneeled silently on the ground, scrubbing and wringing the clothes, and spent the time pondering.

She should not be here. She should not be here at all. Not at this camp, not in Poland. Should she have ever even been in Kolín? She could not tell anymore. She had tried to make her­self believe that she had not been given a choice. Heinrich von Rosenberg was too powerful of a man for someone to free themselves from his grasp once they had angered him. And an­gering was too weak of a word for what she had done. The failed ambush in the alleyway, killing four of his men. And then Samuel had given her a chance and spared her life, so she had taken the chance. That was what she had tried to tell her­self for a while. A lie. Six years working in the Nový Venátky had taught her well, to lie to others and to herself. The ambush had failed, yes, and it had cost Rosenberg's men their lives, but she had only been a pawn in that. It had been Erik's plan all along, he was the one who had wanted to wring Henry's neck, while Rosenberg was only interested in Jan Žižka. And she had played her part well, the failure of the ambush had not been on her.

What had been on her though had been to give in to Samuel when they had fought in the Nový Venátky. To spare his life and risk her own in return. And for what? For some niceties? Because he had asked questions that went beyond his mission, had shown interest? How pathetic.

The battle had raged on, the chess pieces were moved from one side to the other and then down into the valley and up to the hill. The sun had crawled across the horizon, had got hotter still, however that was even possible. Her fingers had become soft and wrinkled from all the soap water, and Mirtl had looked over to the rest of the camp, to the tower with the Crusaders' banner, and realised why she was truly here. She owed it to Sa­muel. Owed it to him for having shown her a way out. Not out of the brothel, but out of the hell Václav had put her in, that she had never truly escaped, not even after he had beaten himself into such a rage on her that he had simply dropped down to the floor, perishing miserably from a cramp in his heart and the spew gurgling in his throat.

The expecting girl with the braids and two older women had started singing. A lass with a prominent but not uncomely birthmark next to her left eye told the children some jests, and they laughed as if they had never heard anything funnier in their lives. Mirtl looked around herself once again and felt like a cow dragged to the butcher for slaughter. She needed to get out. And quickly. Needed to find Samuel. Owed it to him.

Something down on the battlefield changed, and Mirtl knew that it was over. The noise of the fighting became quieter. The armies were shifting. One group set itself into motion, over to their camp. The jokes stopped, the singing too, the woman with the birthmark got up to her feet, clasped her hand over her mouth. “They are coming back,” she breathed in shock. “Their banners are lowered. They have lost.”

“It's not over yet,” the girl with the braids said with the nai­vety of a child. “They can recover here and go back out to con­tinue fighting. Look how many there are left of them. Thou­sands. They still stand a chance!”

“They will be followed,” Mirtl whispered, in Czech, and she felt everyone's eyes pierce into her like arrows. She did not care. Her knees felt stiff as she finally pushed herself up, but she looked at them with all the sincerity she could muster, and repeated her words in German as well as she could. “They will be followed. They will try to hide here, but the King's men will come after them. They will tear down everything in their path.”

“We need to flee,” one of the older women said.

Mirtl looked past her to the tower and saw the Teutonic flag burning. Two men standing underneath. Samuel she recognised at once, and then she recognised Hans as well, because who else would be mad enough to stand next to Samuel under the burning banner of his enemies with nothing but a sweat-soaked shirt and his braies on? “It's too late,” Mirtl said, and it was the truth. Not for her and the women perhaps, but for Samuel and Hans, because the two of them would not have to wait for Jagiełło's troops to kill them, no, that job would be done by the hordes of Teutons once they got here.

“Then let us pray,” the girl said, “so we can prepare our­selves for dying with our brave soldiers.”

Mirtl shook her head in disbelief. “Are you mad?”

“What else should I do but pray? My husband is among them.”

What has your husband done for you, Mirtl wanted to shout at her, than put a child in your belly and then move out to sharpen his dick on the steel skin of other men? “Your husband might already be dead. And even if he isn't, dying with him will serve neither him nor you. Nor the child.” Did she understand her broken German? Mirtl could not tell. For all she knew, the girl looked as sheepishly as she had done the whole time. She turned to the others. Someone had to understand. “Their deaths are already written. But yours are not.” She was lying, but only to them, not to herself this time. The brothel had made it so easy for her. “Let me help you save yourselves.”

“Who are you?” the old woman with the birthmark asked. “Who has sent you?”

“No one has.”

“Was it God? Are you a Saint?”

She meant it, and Mirtl had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “No Saint, far from it. Mirtl. Just Mirtl. And now come with me. You will not die here today.” But those men will, she thought bitterly. None of them will set a foot into this camp. None of them will get close to him. How many lives could one life outweigh? As many as was needed.

A wagon barricade, Mirtl thought as she led the women and children to the front entrance of the camp. Kubyenka had been yapping on and on about it over the past few days, even as Žižka had chided him for it, claimed that he lacked any tactical thinking. Mirtl disagreed. She knew not nearly enough about warfare to estimate whether one could defeat another army hi­ding in a wooden castle. But to lock yourself in, or even better, lock your enemies out? Now the idea might be of much there. And for even more than that, if her plan succeeded. If Polish men pursued the retreating Teutonic ones quick enough.

How many lives, Mirtl, how many lives?

“Here,” she said, pointing to a place about thirty or forty pa­ces away from the entrance, where the path was narrow enough so they could close the gap between the barricades on both sides in time. It was still tedious work. Half of their group were children, and of the other half many were either too old to lend a helping hand in pushing the wagons, or they were expecting, or they were expecting and a child, or expecting and old, who could really tell? The Order's troops had just marched close enough for their words to become clear, when Mirtl and a handful of the other women pushed the last wagon into place. Then she stepped back, put her hand on her trembling bosom, right where the dagger was hidden, and waited.

Fingers were placed on her back, as gently as a lover's touch, and when Mirtl turned, she saw one of the older women look at her with a kind, beautiful face and fondness in her hoo­ded eyes. “They sent you, did they not?” the woman asked, nodding into the direction of the still smouldering banner on the tower. “You belong to them.”

“They did not send me,” Mirtl replied honestly, and then she paused and swallowed before she spoke her next words, be­cause even she could not tell this time whether they were a lie or not. “But you're right. I belong to them.”

The men were loud. Loud shouting and commanding, loud clattering of iron boots as they made their way into the camp. Loud curses as they realised that their path was suddenly blocked. And then loud hammering as they beat against the barricade. Loud screams of fear when the Polish troops arrived.

The girl with the braids and the child under her heart pressed her hands to her ears, and when the fear of the men finally turned into pleading and wailing and into the certainty of death, she sank down to her knees and cried. “What have we done?” she whimpered again and again. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. What have we done?”

Mirtl did not even flinch, she just stood and listened as they died. Dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, caught be­tween the Polish army and the trap she had built. Unable to see them but imagining them perfectly. Lying on their back, wa­ving their legs and their left arm around like a fly in a cobweb, the right hand was pressed to their heart, slowly suffocating on the vomit in their throats.

How many lives?

It did not matter.

* * *

The first thing Štěpán did when he rode his horse into the Or­der's camp, was to puke his guts out. In a high and skilful arc, right onto the pretty boots of secretary Zbigniew Oleśnicki. “Apologies,” he mumbled while wiping his mouth clean, noti­cing that neither Oleśnicki nor Štěpán himself cared much about that apology.

He had seen the fighting on the knoll up close. Had wit­nessed men being sliced open, smashed into the ground and cut to pieces. But the carnage that awaited them here was nothing compared to anything he had seen before. This here did not even seem like something that was allowed to exist, in Hell perhaps, but not in a realm that was watched over by God's grace.

From the entrance of the camp to the now opened barricade of wagons that had been built a few dozen paces in front of them, bodies covered the ground like haystacks in harvest time. They had been shifted to the sides to make room for the King and his retinue as they came riding in, some of the piles were so high they towered over Štěpán's head while sitting on his horse. In this place, Štěpán noted in his mind to write down later, as he slowly trotted through this graveyard, more corpses were found than in the whole war together.

King Władysław Jagiełło rode through the camp and his ga­thered soldiers in silence and with his head held high. It was strange, Štěpán thought, letting his eyes wander across all their faces. Some of them bowed to the King and to him as one of the King's men, some of them cheered, some raised their fists or their swords, some cried, some even sang. Yet he felt no­thing like joy or pride. The fear had still wrapped its ice-cold hands around his body, made him quiver like an aspen tree, ever since the battle had shifted up to the hill a few hours ago, since Zbigniew Oleśnicki had pushed him out of the way and right into the looming mace of one of his enemies. The air was still filled with the stench of blood and rot and fire, here more than it had on the battlefield. And, apart from Janosh, Kubyen­ka, Katherine and Henry, the others were still nowhere to be found, and that hurt the most.

Štěpán raised his hand and pulled the cap back as it had slid into his eyes again. Was this what Žižka had warned him of, why he had been so persistent about Štěpán not going to battle with them? Was this feeling, this shivering, this dread down to his bones, the price a soldier had to pay for victory?

The first time King Jagiełło spoke, was when he had made his way up the hill and stopped his horse in front of a watch­tower and the charred shreds high above them that must once have been a banner. “Who did this?” he asked the soldiers stan­ding close by in a tone both of curiosity and reproach.

“We don't know, Your Majesty,” one of them hurried to say. “It was already like this when we got here.”

King Jagiełło nodded and dismounted his horse. Then he stepped closer to the banner, folded his hands and sank down to his knees. To Štěpán's far right, Grand Duke Vytautas lowered his gaze to the hands resting on the hilt of his sword, whether it was in devotion or aversion Štěpán could not tell.

He took off Žižka's cap and bowed his head too, as King Władysław Jagiełło prayed, and for the first time since they had come here, silence spread across the whole camp. The si­lence of the grave, broken by nothing but the King's words. Prayers of gratitude for their victory. Prayers of repentance for their sins. Prayers of invocation for the salvation of the souls of all who had fallen, no matter the flag they had fought under, no matter their stance or belief.

When the prayer was ended, King Jagiełło asked for a chair to be brought to him, and then he sat down under the tower and told his men to search the camp for anyone who might still be hiding here, while he gave the order to have another troop pur­sue those enemies who had already retreated west. Whoever still dared to fight should be killed without mercy, but the ones who put down their weapons and surrendered, were to be brought to him here on this hill, so the King himself could pass judgment on their fate.

Štěpán joined Kubyenka and Janosh at the eastern side of the hill, and it felt calming for the first time, familiar. All the time they had spent together in Prague, the two of them and that young, naïve boy Štěpán had been. He raised his head to the sky and marvelled at its colour. The battle had lasted almost the whole day long, and the sun had started to set. The blue that had burned in his eyes what felt like moments ago, had been wiped off the canvas and replaced by the rich colours of dark grapes and a warm fireplace. He longed for one now, despite the air still buzzing from heat. For the quietness of a chair and the flickering flames and a book on his knees. He would even take his own fireplace back at Zlenice, he thought, as surreal as the thought felt to go back home. Home. The word had a strange sound to it.

“It's over,” Kubyenka said, putting an arm around Štěpán's shoulders. “The prayer, I mean. You can put that hat back on, lad.”

“I don't know.” He kneaded the cap between his fingers, felt its leather and fur, and thought that he could even sense the smell of Žižka that it emitted, even when he had no idea what Žižka smelled like. “It doesn't feel right.”

“And why is that?”

Štěpán spun around, hitting himself right on the eye with Kubyenka's outstretched hand, but he barely took notice of it. Žižka was standing in front of him, with an unusual smile on his face and dressed in the most peculiar clothes that Štěpán had ever seen him in. A white cloak draped nonchalantly over his left shoulder, the only cover over the simple shirt he was wearing. His dark hose stiff from dried mud that reached from his knees all the way down to below the legs of his boots it seemed. And a hat on his hair that was entirely made of thick, chestnut-coloured fur, beaver perhaps, or squirrel.

“Plan on returning it to me?” Žižka asked, winking a little clumsily with his healthy eye. “There's no need for that. I found a new one already.” He turned his head left and right, as if he was so proud of his new acquisition that he needed them to admire it from all sides. “What do you think? Now, I know what they say, don't walk around in a dead man's shoes. But I might be too fond of this one to stick by that rule. Besides, it's not a shoe, I'd argue. Not primarily.”

“For winter is good, ey,” Janosh answered. “For summer, when air is hot and wet like over cooking pot? Ah, not so much. Will give you louses.”

“Look, our favourite priest made me wade barefoot through the bog, just some hours ago. So if the gnats and leeches have not proven to be a threat to me, neither will lice.”

Next to them under the tower, King Jagiełło lifted himself from his chair as yet another captive was brought to him, and he even bowed his head. The man had a long face like a horse that was made even longer by the beard that reached all the way down to his breastbone. He was proud. So proud in fact that he did not seem to think about returning the courtesy the King had granted him.

“Lord Kasimir von Stettin, if I'm not mistaken?” King Jagiełło asked. “I am delighted to see that you have survived the hardship of the battle, and honoured to call you a guest in Krakow, until your family will have redeemed the unfortunate financial damage my kingdom has suffered through your ac­tions.”

“A prisoner more likely,” Kasimir von Stettin hissed back. “And you can call that redemption by its rightful name, Your Majesty. Ransom.”

“Well,” the Grand Duke next to the King returned with a spiteful grin, “the treasury won't refill on its own.”

“So you have been with Godwin,” Kubyenka started once Lord Kasimir had been brought down the hill to a place where he would want for nothing, as the King assured him. “Where is he now?”

“Taking care of the dead,” Žižka answered, and then he took a deep breath before he turned, the smile from before wiped from his face. “What about Katherine?”

Štěpán picked the smile back up, and saw the tension lea­ving Žižka's body immediately. “Taking care of the living. I'm glad you're alive too, Žižka.”

“And I can say the same thing about you.” He lifted his hand and made Štěpán regret that he had still not put the hat back on as he used it to ruffle his hair. “Looks like I was wrong. You might be more suited for battle than your meagre build has made me believe.”

He tried to ignore the mocking words and the belittling ges­ture. “Well, you know, there wasn't exactly much for me to do out there. And the one time I actually got into any real trouble and came close to an enemy's weapon, a mace just like yours, can you imagine, that brave man here saved me. With only one hand, you should have seen it, holding the standard in the other, it was mad impressive!” Štěpán interrupted himself, as he re­membered something, then he took the dagger from his belt. It was the right thing to do, yet it made him feel uncomfortably naked and alone. “Be it as it may, I don't think I'm a warrior. I did not even use this one.”

King Jagiełło was sitting back down on his chair, drumming a steady rhythm to its armrests that reminded Štěpán of rain­drops on the roof of a tent, but he stopped briefly, lifted his hand to wave at the next group of soldiers. This time, they had not brought any captives to him, but the spoils that they had found in the camp. A whole crate of them, coins and weapons, silk cloth and books. The bystanders on the hill cheered at their discovery with roaring and the stomping of their feet.

“What is this going to be, lad?”

“I don't even know how to use it, Kubyenka.”

“You will learn it quickly, when the time comes, trust me. It's yours. Keep it.” He wrinkled his bulbous nose and gave Štěpán a nudge. “And don't ever try to return my own gifts back to me, you hear me, boy? Or I might still make my threat come true and prick out your ears.”

The soldiers carried the crate over to the sides. A new group came, neither with captives nor with crates in their hands, but with the largest barrels Štěpán believed to have seen in his whole life.

“And the others?” Žižka asked.

“We have see Henry, ey.” Janosh's eyes took on a tinge of sadness. “He need time for own.”

“Did,” Žižka opened his right eye a little bit further, “did something happen to Capon?”

“No,” Kubyenka said quickly, “at least not that we know of. The Bird left. To this camp here, to be precise, but none of us has seen him since.” His gaze wandered past Žižka to the King and the barrels that had been placed in front of him. Štěpán felt the urge to give him a slap. Or try using that bollocks dagger properly for the first time.

“Take them away,” King Jagiełło said. “There is no need for them here.”

“Your men have fought hard, my King.” Grand Duke Vytau­tas spoke as carefully as Štěpán had ever heard him speak. The battle had taken its toll, not only on the soldiers, but on the King and his cousin too, and this was not the time or place to provoke a quarrel. “Don't you think they deserve to celebrate?”

“They may celebrate, when celebration is in order. But our foes have barely fled this field. Will you be bearing the conse­quences when our returning enemy assaults and murders them in their drunken stupor?”

“Just one drink, my King, there won't be any …”

“Enough! I made my point clear, but if the temptation is too strong to follow your King's orders, it might be needed to de­stroy the object of allurement. Is there anyone here strong enough of will to do so?”

“Well, fellas,” Kubyenka stretched his arms and made his knuckles crack, before he stepped forward. “This looks like just the right task for me.”

“But don't drink it all at once!” Žižka laughed at him.

To Štěpán's surprise, Kubyenka did not drink a thing. In­stead he only took the mace from Žižka's belt, walked over to the King, bowed before him, as low as he could with the cut in his back, losing his balance and saving himself with an awk­ward hop and a foolish giggle, then he raised the mace and bat­tered the barrels to pieces. The crowd broke out in a loud, dis­sonant song of both cheering and booing. Loads of blood-red wine ran down the slope of the hill, splattered onto the gathered masses, some stretched out their tongues when the liquid hit their faces, laughed when they were able to catch a drop. The strong, acrid smell filled the air, biting into Štěpán's nose that it made him feel almost as dizzy as if he had downed it all. Perhaps that had been Kubyenka's plan all along, getting him­self passively drunk on the odour alone.

“What about Samuel?” Žižka was watching Kubyenka with a smile, but it did not quite reach his eye. “And his girl?”

Neither Štěpán nor Janosh knew an answer to that. On his chair under the burned down cross banner, King Jagiełło shook his head, hiding the faintest expression of amusement, as Ku­byenka threw his arms up and revelled in the thunderous noise of the crowd, a broad, oafish grin on his face.

From over where the soldiers with the captives and their loot were still lining up, an uproar started. The men stood too close together for Štěpán to see the squabblers, and at first he was certain that they had simply started to fight over the treasures they had found in the camp, but then the loud sound of a slap tore through all the cheers and shouts, and the crowd parted to avoid any more flying hands or feet. In the now cleared space stood a few soldiers and a group of women. Mirtl's face was almost as red from fury as the evening sky. “Do not even think of touching me again, you swine!”

The man grunted and reached for Mirtl's arms, pulling her closer.

“Genug!” Another soldier stumbled backwards, holding his bleeding nose that had cruelly been assaulted by an aptly wiel­ded elbow, and Samuel ran forward, giving the first one who still had his hands on Mirtl, a firm push. The man growled and drew his sword. People screamed and gasped for air. Then the man's bell-shaped helmet was hit by a tankard of pure, shining silver with an impressively melodic clatter.

“Don't you dare hurt him,” Hans snapped, “or I will rip your fucking head off!” His threat fell somewhat flat considering he was dressed in nothing but his braies and had just given his only weapon away by tactical throwing.

“Won't you look at that,” Žižka mumbled, before he turned back around to Štěpán and Janosh, reaching up and loosening the cloak around his shoulders. “Well, lads, looks like the fun is over. I think we might be needed there.” The cloak sank to the ground, right into a puddle of mud and wine.

“To the task?” Štěpán asked, finally breathing freely, finally laughing again.

Žižka did not reply. But he took the cap from Štěpán's grip, and placed it back onto his head like he had done the last time, and then he turned and threw himself into the turmoil.

* * *

Godwin made the sign of the cross over the carpet of freshly upturned soil that stretched as far as his eyes could see. “Re­quiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.” He tried to speak the words as clearly and sincere as he could, despite the tiredness that had eaten into every muscle, every bone of his body. “Et lux perpetua luceat eis.”

He had to speak the Amen himself. There was no one else around.

All nobles and knights that had fallen, no matter their side, had been prepared in the early morning hours, wrapped in white linen and buried with a modest ceremony on the Tannen­berg cemetery. The highest-ranking Teutonic knights had been given additional care, had been properly cleaned and clothed and wrapped in finest purple. Their bodies were to be brought north to Marienburg where the Order could see to the funeral in their own manner. Godwin had agreed to escort the bodies him­self, and the pack had declared to accompany him. He was certain that it had less to do with honouring the dead and more with getting closer to the sea of which they all had been talking about the whole night.

For the rest of the fallen soldiers, mass graves had been dug where the battle had taken place only a day before. One on the foot of Jagiełło's knoll for the Polish and Lithuanian men, and an even larger one further down in the valley for the German warriors. But what did the size of the grave matter? There had been thousands lowered into the ground on both sides.

He raised his eyes to the sky that was grey and clouded to­day. A swift wind was blowing from the north, carrying with it the ocean's water and cold. It moved the leaves of the trees, the tufts of grass that had not been trampled, carried a small group of young starlings that floated above his head, cherishing their freedom. Somewhere to his right, a bird chirped loudly and urgently, a kestrel perhaps, but apart from the wind and the birds, it was crushingly silent.

Godwin turned his head to the song of the kestrel, and saw a single figure standing alone up on the hill, right where Ja­giełło's men had fought. The skin of his lowered face was pale, of the same colour as the tunic he wore, even his dishevelled hair looked grey, but that might have just been a reflection of the clouds.

He lifted his head, when he heard Godwin approach him. “And?” was all Henry said. His expression was as blank as those of the fallen soldiers Godwin had cared for. When he had first noticed it the night before, Godwin had been certain it must have been the horrors of the battle that were still clawing at his soul, but then Henry had come to him early this morning and asked him for a favour. A futile one. Still, Godwin hadn't had the heart to refuse him.

He shook his head, and the blankness on Henry's face turned into the faintest hint of disappointment. “Erik might have worn the armour of a knight or the false name of one,” Godwin hoped that the tone of his voice sounded more encouraging than he felt, “but he was no knight. His body was most likely thrown onto a cart with dozens of others and emptied into the mass graves down there. There were thousands of fallen men here, Henry. I could not possible watch over them all.”

Henry's eyes lowered to the dark, wet earth in the valley. They looked pale too, paler than Godwin remembered them, reminded him all too much of those of that madman Erik. Not only in colour, but in the glint hiding there. It was a sight that made Godwin shiver down to the bone.

“Don't even think about it, lad.”

“About what? Do you believe I would just go down there and dig through all the dirt and the corpses?”

“It does not matter what I believe.”

“I …” He wanted to defend himself, assert that he wouldn't. The words did not leave his mouth. “If he's not here, Godwin,” Henry said instead, “if he's not truly dead, none of us will ever be save from him. He would come back, again and again like an upir, he does not, he cannot give up.”

“But you can. And you should.” He raised a hand and put it on Henry's cheek, frightened for a moment at how horribly cold he was. “Look, son, even if he somehow managed to sur­vive, you saw him falling with your own eyes. You said that he got crushed by his horse. An accident like that has severe con­sequences. His body will be battered and broken, so if he sur­vived and was still thirsting for revenge, he could not find it. Even Erik would understand that another battle would be his end. You have to let him go.”

“He was not moving,” Henry whispered. Even the kestrel's screams were louder than his voice. “His body was lying still. But how … how should I know, when I … when I wasn't …”

“When you weren't the one who killed him?”

A single tear broke free from Henry's eye, and Godwin caught it with his thumb, wiped it away.

“You should be thankful, Henry. A terrible decision was ta­ken from you. A deed that would have only darkened your soul. It's better this way. Trust me.”

Above them, the swarm of starlings crossed the sky in all forms and shapes, carried by the wind. Freedom. A thing too difficult to see when the air still reeked of death.

* * *

“Kutyafasza! Harcolj velem paraszt!”

Whatever Janosh had just screamed at his opponent, the giant, white bird did not seem to care the slightest. It only opened its beak wide and croaked disdainfully, before it shot back down like an arrow, distracting Janosh with a cunning slap with its wing into his face, grabbing the sausage and flying off. Janosh gazed after it with the sulking expression of a child whose pastry had just been stolen.

Samuel could not help but laugh as he leaned back, digging his hands into the soft, heated sand and lifting his face up to the sky. Warm and humid, and so full of salt. He was certain that after spending the evening here at the shore, all off their faces would have to be covered in a thick layer of white crust.

“They still frighten me,” Mirtl said with a shiver in her voice.

“They are just birds.”

“They are way too big. And they have absolutely no shame.”

On his other side, Hans exhaled a hissing laugh. “See, I un­derstand why that first quality would frighten you. But the se­cond one you should be all too familiar with.”

“Don't you think,” Mirtl retorted with a sharp pronunciation on every single word, “that this joke is slowly getting old?”

“You're right, it must be almost as old as you.”

“I'm not even forty!”

“Yes, and he's barely thirty.”

Samuel opened an eye, blinking against the sinking sun. The white giant birds screamed, and it sounded like a taunting cackle. Hans ducked his head between his shoulders.

“What does that have to do with it?” Samuel's voice was as dry as the sand under his palms.

“Well, I just assumed …”

“You should stop assuming when you lack the knowledge to understand.”

“He he he!” Henry interrupted, putting an arm around Hans's shoulder, as if he had to protect him from Samuel's words. “No fighting, yes? Not here, not on a day like this.”

“I was simply stating a fact.”

“And so was I,” Hans snapped back at him.

Žižka raised his one functional eyebrow and passed them a chiding glance, as he walked by, crouching down a bit away where Štěpán was sitting. Cross-legged, the parchment on one knee. He did not even seem to notice that the waves splashed over the stones on the shore every now and then, licking across the sand with their wet tongues all the way up to his feet, or perhaps he liked the feeling. He had, after all, taken his shoes off, and placed them neatly behind him on the ground. A strange boy he was, but Samuel realised that he had grown more fond of him with every passing day. “You're not writing about Janosh's fight with that seagull, are you?”

“What?” Štěpán jerked his head up, making the hunter's cap slip down into his eyes. “Oh, don't worry, this isn't for the world to read. This is just for me. I call it The few adventures in the otherwise not so adventurous life of Lord Štěpán of Tetín. It's my means to remember, you know? Until the next adven­ture, that is.”

“And that book for Oleśnicki? Is it done already?”

“No, not yet. I will complete it on our way back to Bohe­mia.”

“So we still have a chance to look at it before you have it brought to him?”

Štěpán pushed the hat back so he could squint his eyes better at Žižka. “Do you not trust me?”

“We do trust you,” Samuel interjected. “It's just that some things might not need to be written in there. Like my involve­ment in the German's ammunition becoming useless.”

“Or what happened later in their camp,” Mirtl added. “The Germans do not need to know that their brave battle survivors were actually the ones responsible for the demise of thousands of their men. These women have suffered enough.”

Her voice broke when she uttered these last words, and Sa­muel lifted a hand and placed it lightly on top of hers. “You could have saved yourself, instead of staying at the camp,” he said quietly. “You didn't owe me anything.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, shook her head and turned her dark eyes up to the evening sky. “I know. That's why I didn't do it for you. Also, you wouldn't have had to leave for that foolish night mission, you know? You didn't owe that to me.”

“Right.” He pulled his hand back, lay back down on the ground until he could bed his head on the sand and its cushions of seaweed. It had been five days now, but his limbs still felt numb and ached when he moved, and he might not be able to pay a visit to Henry and his mutt any time soon. “And I didn't do it for you either.”

He saw the questioning look that his brother gave him be­hind Capon's back, and turned his face away. This was only to concern Mirtl and him. And as of now, there was still a certain lack in defining what this this even meant.

“It was an impressive idea though,” Godwin interrupted the awkward silence, from where he stood next to Janosh and Ku­byenka close by the water. “To use the wagons as a sort of trap.”

Kubyenka crossed his arms and laughed. “I wonder where she could have got that idea from. And it's called a wagenburg. At least that's what I heard the Germans say, and I like the sound of that. And it worked, didn't it, Žižka? I was right all along!”

“It worked, yes, in either direction, I suppose.” Žižka got up to his feet with a sigh and a smile. “You were right.”

Kubyenka gave him the proudest grin.

“What about that other book, what is that called?” Hans moved his arse a little to the left, until he was side to side with Henry. “The one you're writing for Oleśnicki.”

“Cronica conflictus,” Štěpán answered, his eyes facing back down to his parchment.

Henry threw his arms up as if he wanted to give a speech to his people. “The cronica conflictus,” he blast out in the worst Latin Samuel had ever heard, “written by the not-so-adventu­rous Lord Štěpán of Tetín! Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?”

“It might, but that doesn't matter.” Štěpán seemed to try his best to make his voice sound indifferent, but it was clear that there was disappointment hiding underneath. “My name cannot appear in it. Imagine if word got around and Sir Ondřej found out about it, ha! Although I could see him just refusing to be­lieve it.”

“Or the news would finally make him croak,” Kubyenka said.

“He! That's my guardian you're talking about.”

“Apologies, my Lord, but you know the man. At some point, I believe, you have reached an age where you need to stop clin­ging so desperately to life.”

Kubyenka flinched when he was hit on the forehead by a lump of seaweed that Henry had thrown at him. “So, have you reached that point yet, Kubyenka? I heard how you moaned and grunted this morning when you hunkered down to take a shit!”

“You try taking a shit when you have almost been sliced in half! I'm lucky when all that stuff doesn't fall out in the middle.”

“Oy.” Samuel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the feeling of the sand and the smell of salt and warm stones and fishy waters, instead of that. “Not a sight I needed to ima­gine.”

“Speaking of age.” Katherine had been unusually quiet the whole day long, for a few days already, when Samuel thought about it now, and she tried to keep her voice as low as possible, but it was quiet enough out here on the shore for all of them to hear. “Could I talk to you for a moment? Just the two of us, from one woman to another?” Samuel watched Mirtl push her­self off the sand, and the wind carried some more of Kathe­rine's words over to them as they walked along the ocean, be­fore they were finally out of earshot for good. “How long has it ever been for you, you know, the time between the bleedings?”

Hans lifted himself up too and went over to a place under the shelter of a few larger rocks where they had stored their saddlebags. When he returned to the others, he was holding his cornflower shield. “You know,” he stopped in front of Štěpán and weighed it in his hands, regarding it thoughtfully from all sides, “if you ever want to live through another anonymous ad­venture, I might know a way for you to do so a little more … discrete.” He reached the shield out to Štěpán. “As Ignatius of the Cornflower, knight of Krakow. Here. Take it.”

“What? No, Hans. I cannot accept that.”

“I believe you have proven yourself more than worthy of carrying it. Besides, it doesn't come without conditions, you see? Two, to be precise. Number one.” Hans lifted the free hand up and poked his finger into the salt of the wind. “When a certain Lord of Leipa seeks you out and demands to borrow the shield and the name for a while, you will have to hand it over without any further discussion, yes? And number two. Sir Igna­tius of the Cornflower and of Krakow will have a certain duty to fulfil. Namely, to come and visit Pirkstein. As often as he can.”

“Thank you,” Štěpán whispered, and he even placed his stack of parchment down on the ground when he took the shield into his hands. “Thanks, all of you.”

“Now, that is something to drink to, is it not?” Kubyenka laughed as he kicked off his boots. “And I feel mighty thirsty. Who wants to drink with me?” And then he limped off into the ocean, jumping in pain as the stones cut into his souls, before he finally let himself fall down into the water with a loud splash.

“Not without Janosh, ey!”

“Come on, Henry.” Hans took both of Henry's hands in his and pulled him up to his feet. “I want to feel it!”

Henry shook his head, but there was a smile on his lips, a serious smile that made Samuel happy too, and he let himself be dragged along by Hans despite his protests. “Feel it all you want, Hans, but I don't know if I should …”

“We won't go far, I promise! And I'll hold your hand all the way. He, what about you, Štěpán? Come with us, you might never get another chance!”

“Oh, actually I still have some more things to … Oh Lord.” Štěpán had just turned to put the shield down on his shoes when a wave broke on the shore in front of him, sending sprays of foam into his face and fingers of water up the sand. Over Štěpán's feet and legs and arse. Over the parchment too. Re­treating back into the sea once its mischief was done, taking the few adventures in the otherwise not so adventurous life of Lord Štěpán of Tetín with it. “Oh no, oh no!”

“Ey, you do come join us?” Janosh watched curiously as Štěpán leaped past him through the water like a wild rabbit, trying to save what he could, but everytime his hands reached down into the water, the parchment seemed to slip from his grasp again.

“It's times like these,” Godwin mumbled, sinking down onto the sand next to Samuel, “when I'm questioning my decision of becoming a teacher.”

“I'm sure you're brilliant at it,” Žižka said with a fond smile. “And I cannot wait to attend one of your lessons, when I come to Prague with you.”

“You will?”

“Ah, you know, I promised it to someone.” His gaze had found Katherine now, who was standing a fair bit away on a small overhang that the waves had dug into the land, with Mirtl close by her side. She had placed a hand on Katherine's body. On her belly, to be exact. “And I am sure Jan Hus can need more than just teachers and preachers, considering all the re­sistance he's met with. I want to be a part of that. Together with you. With a friend. Because a soldier is all well and good, but having a friend, that is invaluable, is it not? Or perhaps, mul­tiple friends.” He turned and regarded Samuel with an expec­tant look. “What do you think? Prague?”

“Oh, I believe Kolín is where I am more needed.” Samuel looked out to the ocean. To the water, glittering like a field of snow-white gemstones, reaching endlessly into the vastness of the world. “I will try to educate myself further in medicine. Help my mame. And others.”

“You could study medicine properly,” Godwin said. “At the Karolinum.”

“Godwin, you know that there is no place for me there.”

“As long as I am at the Karolinum, there will also be a place for you. Wherever I go will be a place for you. And,” he turned his face to the sea, where in this very moment Janosh continued his battle with the white thieving birds, Kubyenka tried to fight them off with a fish he had somehow managed to catch with his bare hands, Štěpán floated on the water surface, frantically flailing his arms and legs around as if he was a fish himself, albeit not a particularly gifted one, all while Henry and Hans tied what looked to be ribbons made of stinking seaweed to each others wrists, “for them too, I suppose.”

Samuel shook his head and sank back down into the sand. Who knew, he could perhaps give it another thought. As long as his mame was feeling well enough. And as long as he would not have to go alone. He turned his head and watched Kathe­rine and Mirtl down at the shore, the skirts of their dresses floating in the breeze, blue like Ignatius's cornflower, red like the wine spilled under that fucking torched down banner.

“What do you think they're discussing?”

“Hm,” Samuel made with a smile, not looking at Žižka but at Katherine and Mirtl, and at the wind and the glittering ocean and the setting sun far away on the horizon, shining like a bea­con of hope. “A miracle perhaps. But not one of firedamp trapped in a tiny glass ball. Something that might have a higher chance of coming true.”

[holocene-sims]

next // previous

september 1, 2021 6:15 p.m. basil's restaurant

ten minutes ago

[ktmurphy86] i might be a few minutes late, but i'm almost there.

grant scrolls through the metric ton of messages piling up in his notifications until he reaches the very end, and with a lump in his throat, opens it to respond. or like it. or send a thumbs up like a cool cucumber.

baby steps, he tells himself. one task at a time. the responses to all the messages from family, friends, and former co-workers inquiring about his exam results will come later.

just meet your sister first and–

“you seem different.”

he nearly jumps out of his skin as kelly’s high-pitched voice supersedes his thoughts.

“hopefully in a good way,” grant replies, looking up as he slides his phone off the table and into his back pocket.

it’s been nearly a decade since their last encounter, and he’d still recognize her from a mile away.

kelly’s hair is dyed platinum blonde like always, but now it’s twice as long, and her natural brunette locks–peeking through at the root–are streaked through with shocks of silver. her ice blue eyes are just as piercing, only underlined with tiny wrinkles. she’s still thin, too, but rather rail thin; her sweater dress seems to wear her more than she wears it.

“yes, in a good way.” kelly pulls out the chair opposite him and sits down with her arms wrapped across her waist. the candle between them casts a strange yellow glow over her wiry features. “you look better, much healthier.”

“uh, thank you. you look great as well.”

she half-smiles. “it’s just hair dye and botox. i look old. i didn’t inherit the ageless ó súilleabháin genes, so i'm going grey very early like all the callahans. by the way, you weren’t waiting long, were you?”

“oh, no, no, not at all. i have my car, but i didn’t want to deal with traffic, so i took the subway, but then that also kind of took a while. i pretty much just got here.”

“okay, good.” kelly pauses for a moment, her lips pursed. “well. i thought about what i'd say to you the whole ride over here, and now it’s all gone.”

for a moment, they exchange no other words. they drown in the silence, staring into each other’s eyes and into the past.

she’s surprisingly warm, all things considered. the last time they’d been in the same room–

grant is distracted again from his thoughts, watching as a strange sadness falls across her face. she reaches up at the collar of her dress and tug at it like it’s choking her, and her eyes then drift away to stare at an indistinct point on the table between them.

“it’s weird to see you again,” she admits suddenly, her gaze still fixated far away from him, “i didn’t think you’d message me back a few months ago.”

“to be honest, i didn’t mean to. i replied by accident one night and then just decided to follow through with talking to you. and now i'm here. yeah. um, anyway, why’d you reach out to me?”

“i was on facebook a couple months ago, and one of those ‘look at what you posted this day years ago’ things came up. it was a picture aunt bridget tagged us all in. it was the whole family at one of your high school hockey games, i think your freshman year state championship game.” kelly shrugs. “i didn’t even know any of those pictures were still there. that was a real surprise, given i unfriended and blocked everyone i'm related to on there when i left home after high school.”

grant nods. “a picture of me probably very sweaty and gross with helmet hair made you want to reach out to me?”

“not quite. my kids were with me at the time. we were in an airport coming back from vacation, so they were bored and nosy. ‘is that you? who are all these people?’ i was then immediately caught in my lie; i'd been telling them their whole lives i had no family left, and their only extended family was their dad’s parents.”

“yikes. i'm sure that was awkward.”

“it was,” kelly says plainly, “my oldest kids weren’t happy with the news. they’ve been, um, a little jealous of their friends for having lots of cousins and big family events for the holidays, and it didn’t go over well when they figured out they do have a big family. besides, they rightfully did see it as a betrayal of their trust. if mom lied once, what else might mom be lying about? the tooth fairy? santa claus? the easter bunny? yes, those, too. sorry. also, if you didn’t already guess based on my new last name, i married jack, and…”

“i figured you married him. you’d already been together a really long time even when i last saw you. we all grew up together, and you guys were middle school and high school sweethearts and all.”

“he’s a good guy. as i was about to say, though, jack is very partial to you. he always liked you. he thought you were a sweet kid, and he won’t let me forget what happened between us. so, after the facebook incident, he encouraged me to contact you, if only for the kids’ sake. after living in a huge family, i don’t think it’s all that fantastic, but he has a bit of a chip on his shoulder being an only child, and he doesn’t want the kids to have no one besides his parents in their lives. don’t get me wrong; i will never ever get involved in callahan or ó súilleabháin bullshit again, but i will consider reconnecting with you and letting you meet the kids.”

grant bites into his lip as that nagging anxious lump returns to his throat. “well, why me? why bother getting involved with any of us again after everything? even if it is for your kids, what's your motivation?"

kelly outright ignores his question. “tell me what you’ve been up to for the last, what, eight years? nine years? i don’t remember how long it’s been. you're at least talking to our dad, i hear.”

"how do you know that?"

"my in-laws may not know anything else about you these days, but they've seen you with him around our hometown."

[bi-panic-at-the-disco]

I like how whenever I watch AstralSpiff or Backseat play a new Poppy Chapter it’s pretty clear what game that they devs had been playing before hand lmao,, Chapter 4 being very clearly referencing to the Resident Evil 4 underground factory insect fights with how it was framed

[arolesbianism]

It's so miserable making side characters for a story and getting attached because now not only are you obsessed with a guy that only exists in your head even if they existed out of your head they'd still be basically just in your head. Like no you guys have to trust me they're so deep and intricate no none of this stuff ever comes up you just have to believe me and like them as much as I do

[streets-in-paradise]

hello, i dont want to seem rude but are you planning on continuing your

Achilles x Mycenaean Princess!Reader Series ? cause i really love your writing but you havent added any new chapter for over 6 months...

Hi And thanks for passing by :)

I haven't abandon that story, i am working on the outline for future chapters with the first scene of the next one finished, because the word counts are getting so huge it's necesary for me to rethink everything.

Since I am very dedicated to that story and it grows with every step I give, the average chapter lenght is starting to reach the 20 K. This, on my current schedule, it's impossible to complete in short amounts of time. Precisely due to how carefull I am with it, because it's my personal favorite story out of my entire masterlist, I would rather work slow than releasing a result I am not satisfied with.

An alternative I am considering to speed up the process is closing requests for two months in order to fully dedicate to the wip of the next chapter, that i keep here on my drafts pretty much since the day after my last update. If that happens, I would of course let my readers know.

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

THE BEST OF TUCHANKA: TURIAN PLATOON

Featuring: Cmdr. Sophie Shepard, Lt. James Vega, EDI, and Lt. Tarquin Victus With: Lt. Steve Cortez and The Ninth Turian Platoon Decisions like these weigh heavy on me- when I was a General, I could pass them up the chain of command. But now? I'm all I've got. I'm beginning to understand why leaders so often seem lonely... Worst case scenarios aren't just theories- they're what you'll be dealing with five minutes from now. Mass Effect 3: Legendary Edition (2021)

[stllmnstr]

i recently started rewatching the vampire diaries and all the vampires and spookiness and world building and lore in the show somehow made me miss the sacred monsters universe. i hope writing is going well 💗💗 remember to always take your time! thank you for writing something so beautiful and memorable

AWWWWW PLEASEEEE this is so sweet I’m so honored that tvd made you think of sacred monsters 💕💕💕 Writing is a pain in the ass/my favorite thing ever/a terrible curse/a blessing as always. Thank you for being so patient with me and for taking the time to let me know you’re thinking of me and one of my stories. Lots of love to you 😚🫂

[yakny]

they are in my heart always ( ☆ ´⌓` ☆ )ブ♥

[honey-tongued-devil]

Arcane characters finding you asleep at their workplace

The devil works hard, but I work a little harder, so I’m back to writing Arcane headcanons a month before season two comes out.

Jayce:  

- Strong sense of guilt,  

- The first thing that comes to his mind is that you must have waited for him for a long time to fall asleep 

- He will make it up to you by trying to cook something for you, stopping to buy your favorite sweets before heading home, and giving you a shoulder massage the moment you sit down somewhere after you wake up.  

- The man of the Hamlet-like dilemma: he doesn’t want to wake you, but he also doesn’t want you to be uncomfortable.  

- If he has something urgent to do, he’ll try to cover your shoulders with something, even just his jacket, to keep you warm while he finishes only the essentials.  

- Once he’s free, he will very gently try to lift you from the chair, apologizing when you wake up and mumble something incoherent.  

Viktor:  

- In the early years of university, it sometimes happened that he found you in his room asleep, slumped over on a chair or bed with your shoes still on.  

- But as the years went by and the lab became his main space, that sight became a constant, repeating at least twice a week.  

- He tries to make as little noise as possible, whether with his aides, the door, or the stack of books and notebooks he needs to organize.  

- Before getting to work, he leaves the room again to bring you your favorite hot drink with a plastic lid pressed on top, so it doesn’t cool down.  

- Then, in complete silence, he works, deciding what to leave for tomorrow and what to do now, so he can finish as soon as possible without delaying too much.  

Ekko:  

- It’s hard to define what exactly a workplace is for Ekko,  

- But he often finds you at the Firelights' tree, in that room that’s supposed to be his, having likely sneaked in through the window to surprise him.  

- There are days when he comes back fairly early but stays to tell stories to the kids, and others when things go wrong, and he returns when it’s already dark, and almost everyone is asleep

- Finding you like this always makes him feel the absence of something more stable

- But he shakes his head and quickly pushes aside doubts about his ideals, stepping out of the room again and making more noise as he enters again, so you wake up, and he can pretend to be surprised in front of your open eyes.  

- By now, you know he steps out and comes back in, but it makes you smile every single time.

Vander:  

- You always sit at a table in the back of the Last Drop to wait for him, trying not to bother him, doodling, doing calculations, or planning something for the next day just to keep yourself entertained.  

- But by now, the sound of drunkards and the clinking of coins and glasses have become background noise that helps lull you into a catatonic state.  

- Vander usually notices after about an hour that you've fallen asleep; he always keeps an eye on you, but sometimes the customers cause problems.  

- He doesn’t like leaving you there, so far away, so he usually waits for a quieter moment to come over, pick you up, and bring you behind the counter, laying you down with your arms and head resting on the wooden bar.  

- He knows it’s not a big improvement, but his priority is to keep you safe.  

- When he finishes working, he closes the bar without doing the closing duties, sets his alarm for earlier than usual, and carries you to your room in his arms, covering your forehead with kisses.  

Silco:  

- The problem with Silco finding you asleep in his office is that he rarely arrives alone.  

- There’s always either Sevika or at least two other henchmen following him.  

- He sighs and sends them away, not without Sevika giving him a provocative look that means everything and nothing.  

- He hates those situations because part of him feels a strange warmth at the thought of you sneaking into his office for whatever reason, but on the other hand, he knows it negatively affects his image to be seen as a leader who tolerates certain insubordinations.  

- Because sneaking into the kingpin’s office is something that would get almost anyone else outside decapitated. But not you.  

- He huffs, pacing the room to deal with both emotions, and when he finally calms down, he approaches you, shaking you slightly to wake you up.  

- It’s certainly not the gentlest gesture on his part, but most of the time, it ends with you either going back to sleep in his bed while he works, or sitting on his lap while he flips through papers without paying them much attention.  

Jinx:  

- She can’t contain her excitement at all. When she notices your figure in her workshop, she always lets out a little happy sound that wakes you up.  

- From there, she immediately starts apologizing at least a thousand times, feeling guilty for waking you up but still too happy that you came to visit her.  

- She helps you up, talking nonstop about her day and anything that comes to mind as she leads you outside.  

- It’s not because she doesn’t want you around, but because she assumes you must be hungry as soon as you wake up, so before you're fully awake, you’ll find yourself at the Last Drop with enough food in front of you to feed her father’s entire gang of henchmen.  

- And she will absolutely feed you herself when she sees you haven’t taken a bite in too long, while stealing food here and there and continuing to talk.  

Vi:  

- For her, too, a "workplace" is a somewhat vague concept,  

- But in return, she has her secret spot, where she hides at night and tries to survive when she’s not out on the streets looking for trouble.  

- Every time she finds you there, she feels an indescribable pang in her heart.  

- She always feels like she’s neglecting the person she loves and failing to make you understand how much she cares about you.  

- She always hesitates before waking you up; sometimes she’ll even go change into clean clothes and wash the grime off her hands and face first.  

- Then she’ll wake you by sitting next to you, giving you a kiss, calling you by a silly nickname only the two of you know, and rubbing her forehead against yours before asking, with a rhetorical smile,  

- "Did you miss me?"

Caitlyn:  

- Sometimes you find yourself in the inner waiting room of the precinct, with her colleagues pointing out your body slumped in the chair and raising their eyebrows, teasing her. Other times, you simply sneak into her room, which isn’t much different from the police station anyway.  

- Every time, she sighs and gently wakes you, her pale eyes a little sad.  

- “Why didn’t you call me?” It doesn’t matter to her that you didn’t want to disturb her, because to her, you’re never a disturbance. It’s not a problem to have you around, even in public. She just feels bad that you waited instead of telling her, so she could have come much sooner.  

- She takes you away from the station without any issues, letting you continue resting against her shoulder as a Kiramman private vehicle takes you both to her home.  

- If you’re already in her room, she usually changes and lies down next to you, taking the chance to nap together, wrapped in each other's arms.  

Mel:  

- Falling asleep inside the Senate? Impossible.  

- But the keys to her office and her room are always in your pocket, and you usually bring her something to eat when you visit, though by the time you fall asleep, both the coffee and the treats are cold.  

- She’s not used to displays of affection, so she stays still for a few seconds before smiling and shaking her head.  

- She doesn’t wake you immediately, not because she doesn’t want to, but because if the sound of the door didn’t wake you, you probably need the rest. So she lets you sleep for at least 30 minutes before coming over, brushing your hair behind your ears to wake you, laughing when you lift your head with your eyes still closed.  

Sevika:  

- The first thing anyone would think is that falling asleep at the Last Drop is extremely dangerous. However, Silco’s henchmen aren’t too different from bipedal dogs by now; they know who you are, recognize your face and scent, and if they notice you’ve fallen asleep somewhere, at least three of them sit at your table to ensure your safety.  

- Sevika is always tasked with the worst imaginable jobs—tedious, long, and often dangerous—so when she finally returns, it’s usually either time to open the bar to the public or time to close it.  

- Even when she sees you, she can’t come to you right away, so she makes a face at whoever is watching over you, as if urging them to protect you better while she heads into the office.  

- Like Silco, part of her feels subconsciously softened by the idea that someone would feel the physical need to be with her so much that they’d wait, sitting until they fell asleep.  

- But on the other hand, she’s terrified that someone might see you and come after you to settle personal scores in a cowardly way.  

- When she finally comes down, she pulls you into her arms without saying a word, holding you under her large cape as she carries you away.  

[inbabylontheywept]

Reach Heaven (Through Violence)

When I was in 2nd grade, my school started a zero-tolerance policy for bullying. I want to emphasize that I started out very excited for this program. I was a small, visibly autistic child on a playground with fourth graders on it. In theory, this program might as well have been called The Rescue Babs Initiative. 

In practice, however, zero-tolerance programs almost always sink into madness. The motivations never line up right - too many incentives for cheating.

The first victim of the program was actually my friend, Sam. I was standing next to him in line when one of the fourth graders gut punched him. There was no reason for the punch, he was just small and in arm's reach. Sam got the wind knocked out of him, but he managed to gasp out the phrase stupid motherfucker right as the playground aide ran over to keep the peace. 

(Sam had an incredible vocabulary for a 2nd grader. Consequence of his dad being a recently divorced mechanic.)

Puncher got a two week suspension. That was fine. But Sam got a one week one for verbal abuse, which was beyond the pale. But that’s just what zero-tolerance is, right? No hitting became a rule everyone had to follow, and it didn't stop when someone hit us. So our options as kids were to somehow make like Jesus and ascend up to heaven… or solve things ourselves. 

We started solving things ourselves. 

I'll be honest, I think that was always the plan. A school can do a lot of things to reduce bullying, but if the goal is zero, there's only one path forward: Shoot the messenger. 

---

My part in the story was a few weeks after that. Long enough to know that the school's new unofficial policy was to suspend kids that reported problems, short enough to have no idea how to defend myself. It turned out the 4th grader that hit Sam was part of a trio, and that trio had their sights on me next. 

I asked some of my classmates what to do, and they said that the best idea was to just ignore the bullies. Refuse to give them a reaction. That was dogshit advice, but it was common enough in the early 2000s and it's not like I can fault 2nd graders for not knowing much about life. 

Anyway. I took the advice and I ignored my bullies. I ignored them when they said nasty things about my mom, and I ignored them when they bounced soccer balls off my head, and the one time I broke was when the biggest of the trio grabbed my arm hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises. We were watching a movie in the gym when he did that, and I leaned over and told him he could hold my hand if he was scared of the dark. Which worked, thank God. The grip hurt bad enough I had to excuse myself for a bit to keep my composure. 

I think a more mentally flexible kid would've changed strategies by then. Clearly, things were escalating. But it's hard for me to change my mind, so I stuck to my bad strategy, right up until the day the big kids caught me after school. I was crossing the baseball field when they got me. It was just one of those places you had to walk through to make it to the bike rack. 

The big guy, again, was the instigator. He pushed me down then stood over me, yelling for me to get back up. But I knew that if I got back up, he'd just push me down again, and for whatever reason, their Bully Code didn't allow for kicking a kid that was already down. So I stuck to the grass, and they tried a bunch of things to goad me into standing back up. Eventually, I started kicking at them while on my back, and one of them took the opportunity to grab my leg. Second bully thought that looked fun, so he grabbed my other leg. Kicking me like that was off limits, but dragging wasn't, so they just started pulling me around that way. 

They were so much taller than me that I was almost vertical during the pull so all my weight was put on my shoulders. And the fields were just made of unkind stuff. There was crushed gravel all over the place, spilled out from the divider between the big kid playground and the little kid playground, so every time they dragged me over a piece it just ripped a new gouge up my back. The ground itself was sunbaked caliche and dead crabgrass. There was a grit to it, like sand stuck to the outside of a clay pot. 

It grated all the skin off my upper back. Everything between the bottom of my neck to the bottom of my shoulder blades. I don't know at what points I went from yelling, to screaming, to just crying, but I did, and I know they seemed almost giddy every time it changed. Eventually they finished off with one loop around the baseball diamond and that hurt the worst. The dust there stuck to the snot and spit all over my face and made it into a foul mud, and the same happened in my shirt. The dust stung like salt, and the gravel in the lines tore open a few more cuts for dirt to pour in. I remember them stopping, and actually crying again I was so relieved. It was done. Thank God, it was finally done. They were done hurting me. 

They left me on my back near homebase. They'd finally got the reaction they were looking for.

It took me a few minutes after that to stagger back to my feet. I was able to wash the snot-mud off my face in the bathroom, but I couldn't bring myself to touch my back. It just felt like it was on fire. Then I made it back to the bike rack. 

That’s where my older sister, Liz, was waiting for me. She was just a grade ahead of me but it always felt bigger than that. There’s some deep weight associated with being the oldest. She could see that I was dirty and tear soaked so she asked what happened. I didn’t know how to put it in words, so I just tried lifting my shirt to show her. It made a sticky, tacky sound coming up - like the plastic coat coming off a slice of American cheese. Tchhhhk. 

I didn’t know how bad they’d got me before I heard that noise.

She looked at my back for maybe two seconds before telling me to put my shirt back down. I never actually looked at it when it was fresh, but I still had straggling scars by the time I got to highschool. Long silver-grey lines, visible mostly for the dirt still stuck in them. She looked a little sick when I turned around, but she kept it cool, which I really appreciated. I always hated crying in public, and I was half a hair from crying all over again. I don't think I'd have been able to keep it together if she'd freaked out too. 

Instead, she just asked me some questions. Who did this, how long they’d been doing it, what I’d been doing, if I’d told anyone. Some 4th graders, a month, trying to ignore them, nobody. 

She mulled those answers over. I could see her trying to chart a course forward - trying to figure out what it would take to solve this problem for good. She's always had this weird, sad, blank face that she'd make when she found a solution she didn't like. She'd make that face, then think some more, then make the face. Then think. 

Eventually, she just made the face. 

Don't tell the parents, she said. I can fix this. But only if you don’t tell them. 

I believed her. She was the most capable person I knew, and her word was gold. So I didn't tell our parents. I biked home, and every drop of sweat that rolled down my back felt like acid on my skin. I remember getting home and beelining straight to the bath, because I needed something to put the fire out. Took that as my moment to cry it out again too. First time I'd cried was from pain, but the second time was from the cruelty. Second time took longer, but the nice thing about a cold bath is that the water never runs out. I could just pop the plug out with my toes and just keep rinsing and draining and rinsing and draining until my mind was as clean and empty and stark as the tub itself. Then I could go fill that emptiness up with Calvin and Hobbes. 

It worked.

Mostly. 

---

I spent the whole next week feeling nervous anytime I was outside and Liz wasn't nearby. Some days she'd beat me to the bike racks, and I'd be relieved as hell to just go home. Other days, I'd be the first one out, and then I'd have to spend a few minutes worrying about what I'd do if the big kids showed up. But they never did. Liz always got there just a few minutes later, and I'd pretend I hadn't been planning escape routes.

Friday, I was sweating by myself when she showed up a few minutes later than normal. She unlocked her bike but she didn't move to leave. She had this big, long cable-type lock, maybe  six feet of braided steel. She folded it over in her hands so it looked like a swatter and swung it a few times in the air. Made it whistle like a falling anvil in a cartoon.

Today's baseball practice, she said. All Our Guys are on the baseball team. 

Our Guys. Odd phrasing. Also, I actually hadn't known that about them, but I nodded along anyway. She wasn't really looking at me as she talked - she was inspecting the lock.

My plan, she continued, is to wait here until baseball's done. Me and you. When it gets time I'll send you outside the bike cage.

The cage was a chain link fence, maybe six feet tall, built all around the rack. They’d lock it after school as an extra precaution against bike thieves. 

Your job, she continued, will be to hold the gate closed after they're all in. Keep em’ stuck. Think you can do that? 

She was being very frank, which helped me think clearly. I didn't think I could actually hold the gate closed if all of them ran into it at once, but I knew where a big half broken cinder block was, and I knew if I could wedge it in there, it would hold. So I told her that. 

Great, she said. Do that. 

Then I went to go get the block. She gave the cable a few more experimental swings, right as I made it around the corner. 

I'd been thinking in straight lines before that. Just meeting goals. It wasn't until that moment that I really allowed myself to know what was happening. That I allowed myself to have a choice. 

I chose to jog a little faster. I wanted revenge. 

---

I came back with the block a few minutes later, then we just talked like nothing was happening. The sun was shining, and we’d both gotten into bionicles, and it was easy to talk and be people. Normal, happy people. 

But that feeling went away when I heard the coach tweet a long whistle. Me and Liz both knew that was the signal that practice was done. I walked out and got my bric while she folded the cable in half in her hand again. Then we both waited. 

Eventually I saw the kids that drug me around the baseball diamond emerge from behind the portables. I watched them make a straight line back to the bike rack. They were laughing together, having a good time. Being normal. Like me and my sister. I realized I could let things be normal too. I saw my chance to let things go softball pitched to me, nice and easy, and I didn't even bother to swing. I didn't want normal anymore. I wanted this. I knew why my sister had that lock, and I'd thought about it, and I liked it.  

God help me, I think I needed it. 

The kids went inside the bike cage. I gave them ten paces head start, then put the cinder block under the gate. That was the signal Liz had been waiting for. 

She blitzed those boys. There were three of them, and the smallest still had two inches on her, so they probably would have kicked her ass if they ever had a moment to think. But she never gave them that moment. She picked the biggest kid, and decided he needed the first blow. I remember how much muscle she put into that swing - the cable was so heavy, and she was so small, that it kind of swung her back as she made that first half spin. Like a dog getting wagged by its own tail. 

It was a perfect connection. Flawless. She swung through her target, not at it, and the resulting slap that the cable made bouncing off the biggest kid's stomach was loud enough to echo through the cage. It brought a tear to my eye. It brought a tear to his eye too. 

The trio split after that, bouncing around the cage like fresh broke billiards. I can't describe how Liz did it, exactly, but she managed to chase the boys back together so she could hit them all more efficiently. She had a real knack for getting them right between the shoulders, so I never got to see the real perfection of her work, but she wasn't above swinging for the arms or legs if that was all she had. Those marks I could see, and they were brutal. The welts were wider and thicker than my thumb, like giant purple worms were trying to burrow out of their skin. Some even bled. I cheered on every hit. 

Liz, for her part, just had a sort of grim, single minded determination to her. She was so angry she was shaking, and so scared that tears just kept running down her face, and she was grinning all the way back to her molars, but the grin didn't get any bigger after a solid hit than a glancing one. When the kids started blubbering, she didn't change her process. I'd spent my time crying, she'd spent her time crying, of course they were getting theirs in too: That's what violence does. It brings tears. Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind. 

Eventually, one of the kids split off from the main herd and scrambled up the fence, gecko-style. Liz let him go. It was either that, or take her attention off the other two. Easy choice. 

Now, there were two kids left, the big one, and one of his smaller friends. Smaller friend did the same trick. I was worried he was gonna turn back, fight me and open the gate for his buddy, but he just fled for the hills. I remember thinking, damn, I hope they never forgive each other for this. I hope this ruins their whole friendship. I hope this festers into something awful. 

The one kid that was left really was trapped though. He wasn't built for climbing and he had no one to work as a distraction for him. Every time he started trying to make it up the fence, my sister would just twist up like a spring, then swing the cable with both hands right into his spine. The slap it made every time she did that was loud enough to hurt my ears. He never made it more than two hits like that before hopping off the fence and just trying to run around some more. He could get Liz tangled up in the bikes for a bit if he really tried, but it never bought him enough time to actually get out. She'd always find her way out of the thicket, swing the cable, and send him running again. 

Eventually, he just couldn't run anymore. He sat down, and my sister hit him a few times, telling him to stand up. He refused. He knew he was gonna get hit either way, so he might as well get hit sitting down. He put his arms up after a bit and let those take a beating too. Eventually he just started begging her to stop. So she did. 

He cried he was so relieved. I remembered how that felt: It’s done. Thank God, it’s finally done. They’re done hurting me. 

Liz told me to come in and show him my back. I took my shirt off, and I showed him a scab as large as a dinner plate. Cracked up like dry river mud. 

He looked sick. Started babbling about how he didn't know. Said he thought I was crying because I was just a kid - that he didn't know he was actually hurting me. That he'd just wanted to get a rise out of me and didn't know it would take so much. 

He didn't know he'd gone too far until it was too late. 

And suddenly, it was like looking in a mirror. 

Two snotty, welted boys, crying alone in the dirt. Backs burning like fire. Ashamed. Trapped. Realizing that they'd just done something awful, and worse, that they’d dragged the people that meant the most to them along for the ride. 

I hated him more at that moment than when he drug me over gravel. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill anything but their own brokenness reflected. Looking at him was unbearable. Like staring straight into the sun. 

I could've hit him again if I hadn't just gorged myself on violence. But I had. I was fat with it, sick and aching - anything more and I would have puked. So I just told him to get his bike and go. Please. Just go. 

He did. He staggered to his feet, and he grabbed his bike before running away like all the demons in hell were following behind. All bar two. There was a swingset nearby, and once he was fully out of sight, Liz and I walked over to it. We picked two seats next to each other and sat for a while, talking until our hands stopped shaking. Can’t remember about what. We didn’t really know how to process what had just happened. Still don’t, to be honest. 

Then we went home.

---

Thanks to @elisabethdeep-blog, @foldingfittedsheets, @amateurmasksmith, @caramel-catss @arataya, and @rozenkingdom for being my alpha readers.

And thanks @lizardho, for being my first friend, my best friend, and my childhood bodyguard. I know it took a toll on you. I'm truly sorry.