#i shall investigate further and speak with Mother Nature

[buriedpentacles]

On my walk today, I was followed by a one-eyed ginger cat.

I'm not sure how long he followed me, at least 5 minutes, but when I noticed him he paused and waited for me by the stream. I approached him slowly so not to spook him and he batted a nearby leaf. When I looked at the plant he had smacked, it was bindweed with a Pine Ladybird perched on top.

He looked at me, meowed once then hurried further up the path, jumped over the small stream and disappeared into bushes opposite.

I'm pretty certain its a message, I'm hoping to do an important meditation/ritual with Mother tonight so am hoping its a positive sign.

[writingsofwesteros]

https://www.tumblr.com/writingsofwesteros/755024789948841984/oh-nora-doesnt-take-that-we-know-our-girl?source=share

Nora entered the council chamber, dressed in a deep red gown, as Aemond pulled out a chair for her. "Daenora, what are you doing- you've no seat on this council." Their mother asked irately. Nora simply smiled unfazed, and Aegon declared, "My sister rides one of the most dangerous dragons in the realm, a threat to all others, the Cannibal. We are at war, and dragons our greatest weapons. I welcome her." "And shall we have Helaena sit the council as well?" Alicent asked, agitated, arms folded. "It is the King's prerogative to do what he deigns necessary." Nora said smoothly. "I should remind all here that my sister, Helaena is indeed the Queen, she rides Dreamfyre, and if the King saw it fit for her to be present, then that ought not be undermined." "We've much to discuss- have there been any responses from my ravens sent to Dragonstone?" Alicent asked, ignoring Daenora. "No, Your Grace." Lord Tyland said. "The Blacks have attempted an attack on our stronghold in the Crownlands, the war of ravens and diplomacy is long gone." Aemond said, and before Alicent could speak, Aegon said harshly, "The war of ravens and diplomacy was gone the minute they broke into this Keep and took the life of my boy."

"Indeed," Nora agreed. "I propose, my lords, that there ought to be an extensive investigation done into the security of the Red Keep. My nephew's unjust passing was a stark reminder of how easy it is for enemies to sneak into our walls....as well as our own shortcomings in matters of personal security." Nora saw her mother shift uncomfortably, sharing a fleeting glance with Ser Criston. "An investigation has already been done, daughter. The men who killed the boy are dead." Alicent said. "Indeed, and shall we go on as things are? We are descending further into war," Nora turned to Aegon and Aemond. "It would be most wise that we seek out the cracks in our own security, Your Grace. As we plan battle strategy and call men to fight for you, Your Grace," She placed her hand over Aegon's. "Should we not make sure those within these walls, are safe?" Aegon was silent, before he and Aemond exchanged a glance. "My sister speaks true." Aegon said. "I charge this task to my Lord Hand. Prince Aemond shall lead the investigation, with the aid of my sister." "And, we must ensure a sworn sword for our sister," Nora said to him, her violent gaze meeting his own, two dragons communicating things only they understood. "Helaena- she must be well guarded, brother." Aegon nodded in agreement. "I leave this task with you then, sister. Choose a knight who is loyal, and considerate of the Queen's gentle nature."

Alicent's face paled- the idea of Aemond; meticulous, precise Aemond leading the investigation, with Nora beside him- she gripped the armrest of her chair.

"But to think of resources-" Alicent interjected weakly. "Is there something of greater importance than the royal family's safety? After the horrors of that night, do you not wish to see those who lapsed in their duty to see punishment, and that not a hair on your daughter's head be touched?" Aegon asked her, annoyed. "Of course, but-" "Indeed- all I have left is my Jaehaera- and she too, must be kept safe. Perhaps instead of constantly trying to send ravens to Rhaenyra in fruitless attempts of appealing to the mercy she does not have, you would see that a simple investigation is hardly a dent in our resources," Aegon said harshly- he was growing more and more agitated at their mother going against him at every turn. Alicent was speechless, as Aegon said, "What's wrong, mother? Do you prefer me to be a babe-King for your to control, or to be a true King?" He slammed his fist down. "Let it be known I am as fearsome as any of them." He spoke, but it was clear to all but the brothers who was really pulling the strings, who gave Aegon this newfound sense of confidence. Nora slid her hand over his thigh, under the table, calming him and reigning him in, and Aemond knew she was, and gave her a nod of thanks. She'd help both brothers relax that night in her chambers, for sure- how both their minds turned to mush when she let them suckle at her breasts, or as she indulged them- and in turn, they sometimes did the same when they both unleashed their dragons within and fucked her senseless.

!!

[mimiatmidnight]

Is there any subjects or Archetypes you want her to tackle on podcast? Ive been enjoying it more than i expected tbh. And archewell foundation is really doing great given that it has only started a couple of years ago. Did you see that they partnered with the city of Uvalde and other non profit organization to help the community? I love this kind of local prj 😌

Archewell is doing phenomenally, I really am so proud. And yes that Uvalde project is great! I love the small-scale work they do just as much as the bigger, flashier projects.

Speaking of which, there are SO many topics they could cover on the podcast. A natural fit topic I'd love her to talk about is the beauty and fashion industry and its effects on how we relate to our bodies, our age. As a woman under one of the brightest spotlights on the planet, I imagine she has some interesting history with the topic.

I don't know if this is beyond her scope but I think the current discourse could really use a professional investigation into the history of what The Take called "The Manipulative Victim Trope." From the very current, top-of-mind story of Amber Heard, to further back examples that even include Meghan's own late mother-in-law, there is a vast space to explore on this topic and the world clearly still refuses to look. I'd love Meghan to bring this dialogue to the forefront.

Somewhat related to that could be a topic on The Other Woman. The vilification of women who have been part of a famous . . . shall we say, "love triangle," between themselves and another woman (or even between themselves and the PUBLIC, as I discussed in my Parasociality post), while somehow the man in the middle escapes scrutiny over and over and over again. And once again, certain examples both very current and somewhat historical spring to mind. Imagine if she brought on THEE Monica Lewinsky to co-host with her!

And if she REALLY wants to piss people off, she could do an episode on the weaponization of white womanhood and the trope of the English Rose 😇😇😇 (I am fairly confident she will eventually be doing a Madonna/Whore Complex episode, but this specifically would really just be *chef's kiss*)

[lucycola]

Spock being kind of betrayed by his love interest but after a bit of angst, everything falls into place and fluff is baaaack :>

Spock x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: Language, sexual situations, daddy kink if you squint

Spock is a bit of a stubborn asshole in this one. He doesn’t like being lied to and will not stop at getting the truth, especially when he knows it’s about him. Spock may be a little too personal in front of Bones, but it’s an emotional situation. 

The buzz from your monitor diffused through the air, ringing in Spock’s ears. As low as it was it still brought him to groggily open his eyes. The whole room was wrapped in a soft blue glow. He sat up, hand immediately feeling the empty spot next to him.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not exactly sure how long,” you whispered, hunched over the screen.

“T’hy’la,” he said into the glow, tone sharper than he intended.

You hurriedly flipped off the monitor.

“Spock,” you said, “I’m sorry I woke you.” You tip-toed carefully across the room and crawled back under the thermal blankets. Your boyfriend have better been thankful that you were extremely cold natured otherwise the mere temperature of his cabin would drive you out of the room.

“What were you-”

“I was finishing up some work for the lab. I dreamed of it and woke and immediately I had to do it before it slipped my mind.”

He could sense your deceit in the way your voice wavered, but it also did that when you were grieving. He moved to find your hand in the dark, but failed as you began to massage his scalp.

Were you avoiding his touch? he wondered.

“Sleep, Sa-mekh,” you gently teased him with the only word that could make his scowl at you, other than ‘papa’ itself. He did like it in bed, however, as much as he denied it.

You paused, thinking of the word critically, a surge of panic leaving your hands. He could feel it, “Tell me what ails you. Who were you talking to a moment ago?”

“Myself,” you quickly yanked your hands away. “I really am sorry for waking you.”

He didn’t bother turning to face you or to further question you. It would come out eventually at the test of his impatience or yours. Something was upsetting you-he felt the raw emotion even through the follicles of his scalp. He would take more time to ponder-more time to investigate.

“I shall return to  sleep - as should you. You should participate in your work on the alpha shift singularly as your sleep cycles will continue to be disrupted therefore lowering you work efficiency-”

“And yours?” you finished for him, half joking. “Whatever you say, Commander.”

x

“I wish everyone would stop treating us like we’re married, honestly,” you said, crossing your arms in front of Doctor McCoy.

“All I know is that I’ve got an irritated Vulcan asking me to scan you. He thinks you're hiding something from me and he’s doing whatever he can to figure it out before actually asking you. Something about not letting him touch you. I tried to tell him it was normal once a month-”

You gave him a playful swat.

“Forgive me, I jest.”

“How ridiculous,” you replied and then sighed.

“That’s a man’s pride for you. It escapes no species,” Nurse Chapel said handing you back the report.

“And as you are hiding something, I’m guessing, I suggest you go on out with it. He’ll tear the ship apart finding an answer.”

“And how I think he used to indulge in smothering me in rapid fire questions. That was before our first meld,” you said, fingering the edge of the padd not having fully looked at it yet.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t tried that yet,” McCoy said, “He’s already hunted me down once. I’m not allowed to say anything, but as a favor to me-”

“Bones-”

“Keep him out of my hair and tell him whatever it is you’re lying about-”

You turned the padd to face him and his eyes enlarged, first with shock and then with mirth. He let out a hearty laugh.

“Good luck with that one. I’d say he’s gonna turn green, but that’s normal for him.”

“Have you  talked to your mother yet, honey?” Nurse Chapel asked.

x

Why would you have spoken with your mother so late an hour? Was it purposeful because he had been sleeping? Was it an emergency? Surely you would have told Spock.

He had already extracted the call log from his comm, even though the data had been private and locked under your information. You would fuss at him later he already knew, but this little inkling in the back of his mind reminded him. That raw feeling he felt through your hands. It terrified you. You were scared of something.

You were lying to him. You had lied to him. You had not been speaking to yourself. You had been speaking to your mother. He supposed he could contact your mother, but you two had never formally been introduced and some parties might find that offensive.

You were eating less and less and sleeping with him less and less. You weren’t being as intimate as you usually were either and that was most alarming. Not because it was a requirement to Spock, but because it was a deviation of your behavior. Spock didn’t usually adopt Terran colloquialisms, but once after sucking him off in the lab in the middle of a gamma shift he called you a ‘dirty bird’. He always made you blush when using Terran phrases and slang.

Was it something he did? It seemed he was always doing something, but Spock could honestly not place something accidentally offensive or insulting he might have said. You were pretty good at pointing out when he was too candid or too critical. He was good at pointing out when you were too emotional and too...well too human.

Yet he relished in every bit of that-and so did you, or so he thought you had.

So what was it?

Spock didn’t chew on his nails, but found himself letting the edge of his thumb rest in his teeth.

A familiar warm hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Look alive, Spock,” the captain playfully chided.

“I assure you captain I am in no way deceased.”

x

You were pregnant. It was that simple. Yet, it didn’t feel simple at all. You wouldn’t hardly let Spock even touch you for fear of finding out. You were terrified of his response.

You were puking in the bathroom and had called your mother immediately. It was the second week in a row and Christine’s labs proved it.

You had a bun in your oven. You could see Spock giving you the quizzical brow at the use of the expression. You could see yourself fussing a little, telling him you knew that he knew exactly what that phrase meant and to stop acting like he didn’t.

It was true what you had said to Bones.

You two weren’t married. It was perfectly normal to have a child out of wedlock- that was, on Earth. You hadn’t even met his parents. What would they say? It would only be a fourth Vulcan. He didn’t speak fondly of his father and whenever prompted you could practically read how sour their relationship was. His father had to be fond of humans to some extent-his wife was human after all.

Would other Vulcans shame Spock? Would they shame your baby?

You heard a buzz from the comm. You got up out of bed and walked over.

“McCoy to Yeoman L/N.”

“Yes, doctor?”

“I’ve got a green-blooded devil down here demanding your presence.”

You groaned into your fist.

“You can’t make me.”

“Please.”

It was the first time you ever heard Spock say that. The tone was nearly pitiful as it was on edge.

x

“You can’t make anyone get a scan, Spock. She doesn’t even work in your division,” Bones said once you arrived.

“She has not been eating, sleeping, nor participating in the normal intimate recreations. Her behavior is off and her pallor has changed considerably,” Spock argued.

“That’s not of anyone’s business, Spock,” you said, appalled. He was being...so unlike himself. It was even weirder that it was in front of Bones. Spock would rather eat his hat than be any kind of vulnerable in front of...well anyone. 

“He’s...he’s just worried about you,” Nurse Chapel offered politely from afar.

You groaned, “I wish everyone would just stay out of it. I’m not ready for this.”

“Well you should’ve thought about that before you...uh” Bones started but immediately stopped when you shot him daggers, “Spock, why don’t you just ask her?’

“She has deceived me once before. I do not trust her again to be candid. She is either emotionally upset with a matter and does not want to tell me because it concerns me or she is ill and is emotional about such and does not want to tell me. Either way I am...most concerned.”

It seemed Spock would be eating his own hat later. You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks. Was he really this worried? 

“Spock...”

He turned to you, “I apologize for involving the doctor but I do not like it when you lie. Especially when I can be of assistance.”

You could feel water brimming at your lashes. “You’re so smart, Spock. Just so damn smart I hate it.”

You sat on the edge of one of the stretchers, tears dribbling down your face.

“Now, look what you’ve done, you ass!” Bones said angrily, “Out of my bay this instant.”

Spock ignored him and knelt down in front of you.

“I can help. And if I can’t we will find a way, ashayam.”

You looked up at him. “I am upset with something...and I am sick and it does have to do with you. Both of your guesses were right.”

You held out a hand. He assumed it was to meld, but it wasn’t so as you only placed his hand palm down on your still flat abdomen.

His eyes widened. “Y/N...”

“I know I lied about talking to my mother. I was just afraid you would find out and I wasn’t... I just don’t think we’re ready. I want to be ready, but I don’t know if you’re ready. We’re not married and I don’t want to cause trouble for you on Vulcan.”

He stared at your stomach for a long time, hand unmoving.

“I do not care what others think of me on Vulcan. I do not care what they think of my t’hy’la or my child,” he said with a tone of finality, “I only care what you think. If you are not ready I will not force you to beget my children.”

“Are you ready?” you asked.

“I do not think a parent ever truly is. My mother once spoke those words to me,” he admitted, “But it is not my say in the matter whether you choose to carry out the pregnancy. Do you wish to terminate the pregnancy?”

“No, Spock.”

He rubbed your stomach gingerly, “I am sorry for my behavior, ashayam. It was most ill-mannered of me. The mother of my child deserves better treatment.”

You placed your hand over his while it was still on your stomach, “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t lie to you.”

“Well, well,” the doctor spoke up from the awkward silence beside his nurse, “I guess we ought to pass around cigars now?”

It seemed you both had forgot that Bones and Christine were still even there, witnessing the sappy moment between you two. 

Spock repaired that easily. 

“I will not allow my t’hy’la to engage in such a habit or for those surrounding her to do so. Certainly, doctor, you do not permit such unhealthy behaviors to pregnant persons.”

You laughed and Bones rolled his eyes.

Another day on the Enterprise, you thought. Another day.

tagged: @groovyfluxie @dontgivedeath @lumar014 @pringtella @moonchildlonan @superninjapervert420 @love-wanderlust15 @ischysiaclark​@imyourspacegirlfriend @hiddlestonme @fandoms4ever97 @mywellspringoflife​ @rebelchild93 @nilalunis16​

[bevioletskies]

call it magic (when i’m next to you) [chapter three]

summary: As the long-lost grandson of the illustrious Gramarye family, Apollo already knew his life was going to change for the better and for the worse. After spending his formative years on the run, adjusting to his new place in magical high society was never going to be easy. It’s only when he finds himself locked in a metaphorical - and sometimes literal - dance with Klavier Gavin, both his potential suitor and the bane of his existence, does he realize just how complicated things are about to become.

word count: 4,267

a/n: This fic is a magical ‘verse set in the regency era, where some artistic liberties are taken with the time period to accommodate the story and the magic lore. Most of the details of how this ‘verse works is explained in the fic, but I’ve made an explainer that also includes some image links to characters’ familiars, which can be found here.

Spoiler warning for minor plot points and character relationships in Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney and other games, including Investigations and Chronicles. Fic title is from the song Magic by Coldplay.

preview:

“Speaking of the heart...has anyone caught your attention so far, darling? Perhaps someone we should arrange for you to meet in a more intimate setting?”

“Lord van Zieks and Lord Blackquill are quite terrifying, not to mention twice my size,” Apollo said darkly. “Trucy introduced me to some lesser nobles as well, though none seemed to see me as a person, merely a means to an end, the end being marrying into the Gramarye name. While I understand their motivations, I-I don’t want any part in fulfilling their desires.”

“Duly noted,” Thalassa said, lifting a hand from his shoulder so she could tenderly cup his face. “Gramarye...a blessing and a curse, isn’t it? A burden you have been free of, until now.”

“Don’t let it trouble you, Mother,” Apollo reassured her. “If you worry that bringing me home was the right decision…” He then trailed off, unable to say the words, not when Thalassa’s unwavering gaze had turned piercing. Despite her gentle nature, there was no mistaking a Gramarye’s eyes - and there was no sense in lying to them, either. Apollo cleared his throat rather ashamedly, no longer able to look at her face. “...I-I’m eternally grateful for the hospitality you’ve shown me, e-even when I’ve been impudent in return.”

“Impudent?” Thalassa’s hand returned to his shoulder, firmer now. “You’ve been thrust into a world you knew nothing about, love. Quite honestly, I think you’ve behaved quite admirably. That is to say...” She hesitated. “...aside from your...curious interaction with Lord Klavier earlier.”

“Oh.” Apollo’s cheeks flushed with further embarrassment. “You...you witnessed that, did you?”

“Of course,” Thalassa replied, chuckling softly. “It’s natural for me to take a keen interest in who my future son-in-law may be, yes? So when he approached you, I couldn’t help but anticipate the nature of your first encounter, only to watch him slink away just moments after like a scolded child. May I ask what happened?”

“What happened is that Lord Klavier is arrogant, meddlesome, and proud,” Apollo said, his tone sharper than intended. “I’ve never met a man with such an air of self-importance before; he may have had good intentions, but spoiled them immediately with his poor execution. Is he really that revered by his contemporaries with a disposition like his? Or is he so powerful as to have cast a beguiling spell over the entire country since the day he was born?”

“Goodness,” Thalassa exclaimed, stunned. “You’ve made up your mind about him, then? If he were to take interest in you…”

“I shall laugh in his face, shake his hand, and wish him the best of luck,” Apollo replied, holding his head high. “Then later, when I eventually meet my end, I will ask my maker why they condemned me to such a horrible fate.”

(read on ao3)

[tokutenshi]

Well whooooops, my dumb self couldn’t keep track of the days.

Though the Darkness Comes Upon Me part 1 “I Shall Embrace the Light”, chapter 16: “Blame”

If the past year had taught Cullen anything, it was that he was a terrible judge of character. His original irritation at not pursuing the claims against Ser Varnell further escalated to near self-loathing since reading that damn report. Mother Petrice had played a much larger part in the plot against the Qunari than he'd realized and carried on with it – albeit less brazenly – after Varnell's death. Until last night.

Cullen had failed to see her corruption, had trusted her simply because she was a mother of the Chantry, and now another mob of misguided zealots were dead. Petrice was dead. The Viscount's son, Saemus, was dead. The Chantry was stained with their blood because of a plot he could have discovered months ago if he'd only been willing to see. If he hadn't been so trusting and acted in the real, then Hawke wouldn't have had to swoop in and clean up yet another mess.

That's how she described it, too. A swoop, and a mess.

Mia's letters were providing little comfort this time, even the newest addition which he had yet to reply to failed to pull him away from the man he was now. His sister had been his biggest supporter growing up and not only encouraged his dream of being a templar, but rallied Branson and Rosalie to help him reach it. She still wrote him like he was the thirteen-year-old idealistic twerp who left Honnleath, and he tried to not let too much of his true self slip out in his responses, as few and far between as they were. He was so much not the brother she knew and he didn't have the heart to break hers by telling her as much.

“Knight-Captain?”

Cullen lifted his gaze to the doorway, not nearly as surprised as he should have been to see the source of his other lapse in judgment – Ebrisa. She was in mage robes, but wore a simple smock over them to keep clean with a wooden bucket hanging on one arm and a large, canvas bundle in the other. Her hair was pulled back, braided and looped into a secure bun at the base of her neck, a much more elaborate style than she usually sported, likely due to the extra free time she had now.

When he made no move to leave or speak, only acknowledging her with his quick visual assessment of her appearance, Ebrisa entered the yard and knelt down by the flowerbed furthest from him. She removed the bucket from her arm and rolled out the bundle of fabric, revealing her gardening tools and several sheets of burlap. Cullen made no indication that he wanted to be alone, but he hadn't started a conversation either and after the awkward way she had ended their last one, Ebrisa was hesitant to initiate.

She worked as quietly as possible, carefully digging around the base of the dying plants to reach their web of roots and shaking loose as much dirt as she could before setting the sprouted bulb on the burlap. Cullen watched her as she worked, eying the sharp spade in her hand and the gentle way she moved it through the ground, knowing it could easily slip between the gaps in his armor if she rushed him. He scrutinized her familiarity with the small pruning knife as she pressed its edge through the withered stem, exerting just enough pressure to cut the plant and not her thumb, wondering if she would use the same tender grip slashing the blade across his throat.

Anything – everything – could be a weapon, which is why tools of all kinds were so closely guarded. This one mage was the exception to that rule, approved by Meredith to not only use the sharp instruments whenever she wished, but to do so without supervision. Looking at it objectively, it was a ridiculous and dangerous liberty. What was to stop this mage from using her knife on others? From slicing her own flesh and summoning a terrible creature with blood magic?

Mages were dangerous and had to be watched.

Just like how Chantry clerics were incapable of deception and murder.

Cullen nearly snorted at the generalizations, knowing full well that neither Ebrisa nor Petrice fit them. He thought back to the first time he had caught Ebrisa break a rule and used a pair of pruning sheers simply because she had wanted to be useful and make the yards look nicer. Even then, she had shown no fear of him. Oh, she stuttered and stumbled over herself, but that had been purely for her own mistakes and she made no protest to whatever punishment she would receive. He should have punished her, but he didn't. Cullen was unsure if it was because she had been so new to the Gallows or because she genuinely seemed to be remorseful, but he'd helped her complete her task.

Ebrisa had earned Meredith's trust over the years, and it was more or less Cullen's doing. If he'd simply taken the sheers and left instead of returning with someone to supervise her, then Ebrisa would have ended her gardening endeavor before it really began and the Knight-Commander wouldn't have granted her any special treatment – possibly never even interacting with her directly. It was almost too easy to visualize – Ebrisa quietly going through her apprenticeship with no conflicts with templars and being too reserved to protest any issues with her peers. Completely disappearing into the background as just another mage and having no cause to ever leave the Circle or speak directly to Meredith. She'd still go to service in the chapel of course, but would she have been able to inspire others to do the same?

As Ebrisa moved to the other flowerbed and settled down only a few feet from where Cullen sat on the bench, he was struck with the sudden realization that he wouldn't have noticed her in the background. She'd just be a name that popped up in quarterly reports he'd struggle to associate a face to. Maybe he would remember the young girl escorted to the Gallows by Aveline with two small children or the horrified expression on her face as she hit him with a small branch, but those were in her first year. They gave a glimpse of her character, but not enough to leave a lasting impression on their own and she'd slip away into obscurity.

Maybe she'd still fall under whatever sickness had claimed Feynriel, but Meredith would not have granted her leave to the Chantry... Ebrisa likely wouldn't have even felt confident enough to ask. She'd suffer the guilt quietly, but if she never went to the Chantry, Quentin never would have known about her... Cullen couldn't help but think that – though her life would have been much different – Ebrisa may have been better off if he'd treated her like a normal mage from the beginning.

“Blaming yourself again?”

Cullen straightened and finally looked at something besides the mage. He tried to speak, but found his mouth oddly dry.

“I heard from Sister Anabel at service this morning,” Ebrisa continued softly as she gathered the iris bulbs. “Mother Petrice fooled many people – even the Grand Cleric could not see what was happening until it already came to a head. They spent every day together, worked beside each other, and Revered Mother Elthina could see the danger no more than you.” She dared a sympathetic look over her shoulder, but Cullen would not meet it.

The Grand Cleric was supposed to see the best in people and have faith in their good nature, he was supposed to know better.

“Knight-Captain, your part in this tragedy is so minute it may as well not exist.” Ebrisa turned around fully on the pave stones to better address the man. “Months ago you were investigating rumors about someone who didn't even work with Mother Petrice anymore. She was a small character reference and, by all accounts, not directly involved for some time. There was no reason to suspect her.”

Cullen leaned back on the bench, looking up at the grey sky and briefly noting it was much too dark for still being so early in the day. He had heard some of Petrice's sermons – her detest for the Qunari was evident – and he should have realized what that meant. He should have known she was hiding something. When Cullen directed his attention back to the mage, he was a little startled to see her frowning at him disapprovingly.

“Knight-Captain,” she said with a tone Cullen could only classify as scolding. “Despite whatever unrealistic standards you hold yourself to, there is only one truly omniscient individual, and He is currently absent.”

Cullen could feel the smirk trying to break free the longer he looked at the mage, so he returned his gaze to Mia's letters and hid behind the sheets before he cracked. Ebrisa just seemed to have an answer for everything, so long as it wasn't her own problem. He wondered briefly how that could be possible, how she could encourage others but deny herself the same courtesy.

She turned back to her work, taking the hint that the one-sided conversation was over, and continued to clear the soil. Cullen stole a glance at her from time to time as he pretended to read, and went back to his earlier pondering. Yes, Ebrisa's life would have been different if he had not interfered, but his own would have been, too. He would have been deprived her little pep talks, reduced to seeking comfort from only the letters his siblings sent, and he would have been robbed of the levity and warmth she so easily brought him.

Ebrisa may have been better off and spared quite a bit of hardship, but Cullen knew he was definitely in a better place now that she was in his life, despite the negative implications of that admission.

[melwritesbadly]

With Wings in All Black

After a tragic turn of events,  Kazama Kaori , AKA Hex, has her investigation swept out from under her by the #2 Pro Hero. Reluctantly she joins Hawks in the pursuit of justice. On top of trying to solve the biggest case of her career, Kaori is still a young woman struggling to find her place in the world. Life is turned upside down as her professional and personal lives start to blend.

Rating: T (subject to change)

Content Warnings: slight language, implied violence/death

________________________________________________________

Assistance Requested: Information and surveillance details urgently needed regarding reported missing persons. Suspected Vigilante involvement, or other syndicates. Please respond for additional details.

Status of current investigation: Ongoing

__________ 

A Murder of One                        

Hex adjusted the dial on the receiver on her headgear tuning in to the frequency of the microphone planted in the bar below her. She hoped the ungodly amount of paperwork she traded for the device was worth it.  The other detectives at the station simply shrugged at her evidence- or rather, her lack-thereof.

Still it didn’t change the facts.

Fact 1- Low level criminals are disappearing.

Fact 2- People are disappearing

Fact 3- No one cared- but her.

Fact 4- Takei Kenji, one of the missing, had recently been seen in the area and was seemingly ‘not himself’ as described by the anonymous tip that was forwarded to her.

Takei Kenji, age 27. Minor invulnerability quirk. Last known occupation: ‘Nightwatchman’ for a warehouse commonly used for clandestine meetings for the local riff-raff. Reported missing by his mother 3 weeks ago.

After speaking with Mrs. Takei, she pieced together Kenji’s new schedule. After tailing him a few days he truly seemed like a new man, reformed. 

His dress was proper and pristine, clean shaven and hair combed and presentable. It was a stark contrast to the photo used on the missing person flier taped to her pinboard (along with all the other missing persons). With no discernible pattern, at least not to her, about the next victim(?) or the whereabouts of any of the others, Kenji was her best, and only lead.

Tonight, she could expect him to show at one of his usual haunts.  The bar below her. Not to her personal taste, the clientele of the more stabby nature. 

Earlier that week she managed to convince the bartender to spill a few snippets of the conversations between Kenji and the other patrons.

“The Bard this, The Bard that.” griped the bartender as he dumped the trash into the alley dumpster. “It’s pissing off my regulars and they’re pissy enough as it is.” 

He should have been here an hour ago though. Hex sucked on her lower lip, displeased as she scanned the road leading to and from the bar entrance. She’d give it another half hour then try and regroup on his trail in the morning.

“Cheers to another late night.” she muttered to herself listening in to the chatter and ambiance of the dive bar. 

________

Her 30 minutes go by and she huffs before finally switching the receiver off.  She’d go by tomorrow to get the mic back.  Just as she was about to stand from her perch Hex heard the unmistakable beat of wings above her, large ones, judging by the sound. 

It reminded her of her father. Probably one of the last people she wanted to see right now. Especially since her only lead ditched her for the night.

This night sucks.

 Hex thinks to herself, finally looking up intending to see the dark wings of King Crow finally come to drag her home but instead, she sees red.

This has to be the reason Kenji never showed. The thought bounces around her head angrily as none other than the number 2 Hero in Japan descended from the nightly heavens and landed on her rooftop.

This night really sucks.

“Yo!” Hawks held up a hand in greeting neatly folding his very noticeable wings against his back, shoving the other hand into his pocket.

“Will you get down!” Hex harshly whispers, gesturing him to stoop down and out of sight.

“Jeesh, hi, hello how are you? I’m fine, thanks for asking.” he jokes casually but still squats down feet planted on the ground resting his arms on his knees. Hex shakes her head and resumes her post looking up and down the street despite her previous resignation.

“You’re Hex right?” he starts “I’m-” She cuts him off not taking her eyes off the street.

“Obviously I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are. Especially every lowlife in the area who’ve probably fled after seeing your chicken legs flailing in the wind.”

��Ooo, ah, that’s my physical appearance. That hurts you know.” Feigning  being wounded, Hawks placed a hand over his heart but still kept the jovial tone. A smart smirk inching up his cheek continuing. 

“But you’re not after ‘every lowlife’, though right? Just the one. Takei Kenji?'' 

She turned to him and tilted her head, large round eyes finally meeting his sharper, more angled ones. 

“How did you...?” she trailed off, honestly surprised. It wasn’t common knowledge on how her ‘investigation’ was going. Uncommon because, well quite frankly… no one cared. Especially other Heroes. 

“Sorry Chickadee but I got some bad news.” Hawks stood back up and crossed his arms leaning against a nearby cooling unit.

Hex rolled her eyes

“Don’t call me that. What happened?” She looked up at him.

“Well, one of my guys found your guy in… not great shape.” 

Hex cursed running a hand through the back of her head, then sighed.

“How bad?” prepping for his answer.

“Morgue bad”

“Dammit!” cursing again, pinching her brow reeling from the implications.

“Your buddies at the station said you'd might want to know as a professional courtesy” brow pinched once more, Hex felt the annoying start of a headache between them.

“Courtesy? For what...” a thought flashing through her mind and she stood eyes going wide “Don’t you dare close my case!” jabbing a finger in his direction.

 He turned his head to face her more, still calm, still leaning, still observing.

“Close it? Oh no, wouldn’t think of it Chickadee. I’m taking over the investigation.”

Hex gaped. Momentarily at a loss for words. The frustrations starting to come to a point at the back of her neck, feeling an uncomfortable bristle forming.

“What no, you can’t! Do you know how much work” gesturing wildly with her hands “How much time! The favors I had to do, the resources I scrounged for-”

“Which are no longer a problem.” He blocked one ear with a finger and shot her what would have been an award winning smile “No need to shout Hex. Obviously I want to keep you,”  He paused, throwing a wink her way  “Keep you on the investigation that is.”

Hex scoffed,her head bobbing back as she shot him an incredulous look.

“I don’t do agencies, and I’m no one's sidekick.” she threw another annoyed jab of her finger in his direction.

“Ooo touchy. Freelance then. Sound good Chickadee?” Hawks held up his hand to maybe physically shield him from her ire.

“Stop calling me that and maybe I’ll let you help”

He smiled-no smirked again pushing off of the cooling unit he was leaning on stepping towards her shrugging his shoulders.

“That doesn't sound like a mutually beneficial arrangement to me.” Hex rolled her eyes and crossed her arms haughtily with a huff.

“And how does calling me stereotyped nickname benefit you, birdbrain.” 

Hawks chuckled. He didn’t expect it to be so easy to ruffle her feathers.

This was going to be fun.

“Isn’t that how these buddy cop movies play out? One hard-ass with a secret heart of gold and their handsome, comic relief partner put aside their differences to crack the case and learn the meaning of cooperation and friendship. Roll credits”

Hex tilted her head and shot him an unamused expression, opening her mouth to speak.

“I am not a hardass-” she stopped herself holding her palm up to stop the little banter she was getting pulled into. “Can you circle back, Takei Kenji?”

“Can we circle back to this team up? After all this is my case now?” 

Hex scrunched up her nose, not pouting, she told herself, and re-crossed her arms.

“Sounds like something a hardass would say.” she snarked and he grinned again, throwing his arms up bringing them down behind his head.

“You caught me. Hawks, the hardass with a heart of gold. Guess that makes you my handsome, no wait, beautiful partner then. So how's about it Chickadee?”

“Uhg” Hex clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes again. Squaring her shoulders she placed her hands on her hips

“I want a contract. Full access and authority over any and all future developments and details about my case.” Hawks nodded but shot her a finger gun.

“Our case.”

“Whatever!” she sighed looking up at the night sky hands still on her hips. 

“The agency manager can draft up whatever you’d like tomorrow. Let’s go see what Kenji had in his pockets shall we?”

Hex nodded reaching up to her headgear. She flicked the visor portion that was pushing her hair back over her eyes. The experimental mirrored tint softening the city night lights. She switched the setting on her earpiece making sure the seal around the was snug. Hawks floated a foot above the ground looking a little bored as he waited.

 Show off

Hex activated her own quirk, the bundle of jet black feathers at the base of her hair sending a shiver down her spine causing other inky feathers to erupt from her skin. The ebony plumes forming patterned rows along her arms covering them completely. 

Letting them creep upwards to the sides of her neck but stopped them before then could go any further on her body. Just enough for her to achieve flight. She did a small jump maintaining the upward moment with a strong flap of her feather covered arms and started for the station.

Harpy Hero: Hex

Quirk: Harpy- Half human, half bird! She’s able to do most things a bird can do and then some! Most notably, she can grow enough feathers to achieve flight.

______

There is no traffic in the sky and the previously chatty #2 Hero was silent during their flight. Hex was thankful, it gave her some time, however brief, to think.

This new development was...tragic. Someone would have to tell Mrs.Takei in the morning.

It should be me...

It’s just, Kenji was small time.  So why would he turn up dead?

And more importantly...

Hex cast a look in her periphery at the Fierce Wing Hero.

How did this fall into the lap of the number 2 Hero?

______

Hawks landed first. Not bothering to tame his windswept hair but did look up to observe Hex’s descent. She wasn’t quite as fast as him, well, then again, no one was. But she was graceful and skilled as she navigated the air currents. 

Fanning her wings wide Hex slowed her movements getting ready to land. A few more well practiced flutters and she also touched back down. Before she can remove her headgear she dispels her feathers. Casting them off with a quick flick of her arms. She hardened them into slivers then ground them to sand with another flick to minimize the mess and general rudeness of not picking up after your quirk.

She adjusted her headgear and hair and blatantly ignored the cheeky claps and nods of approval from the man besides her. She strode past him and up into the station. The night reception paid her no mind but did double take when they saw Hawks’s crimson wings engulfing their foyer.

Just outside the morgue waited a man with an impressive and well manicured mustache. He wore a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders and the first few buttons open.

“This her boss?” he asked in an accent indicating that he was from Australia. 

“Hex,” she offered “And you are?”

“Duke Amazing. Pleasure.” he greeted offering his hand. She was not expecting such a strong handshake.

“Given the circumstances…” she trailed off.  “You found Takei?”

“Well, what’s left that is…” Duke gestured to the door he was waiting in front of  “They’ve finished up for now. Just waiting on the bossman for the paperwork and whatnot.” He made another gesture in the direction of a door a little ways down the corridor.

“They’ve got his belongings in there”

“Perfect, cross the t’s and dot the i’s for me Duke?” before his sidekick could answer Hawks was already starting down the corridor. Hex followed close behind. 

Duke shook his head crossing his arms.

“June’s gunna pitch a fit again Hawks”

“Op, can’t hear you, the doors closing!” gently shoving Hex in the room and hastily closed the door behind them.

“Uhg paperwork” He bemoaned and leaned against the door

“Paperwork” Hex commiserated but was already looking over the items laid out on the small table.

There wasn’t much but everything was bagged, labeled and detailed on a piece of paper next to the items.

There was a small wallet, no money, a personal ID card. An older model cell phone, unusable. Most likely damaged in whatever altercation Kenji found himself in.

“Probably a burner” Hawks shrugged “Still, I'll get someone to pull the numbers.”  He made no move to examine the items himself but instead watched Hex very carefully as she examined each one. 

She cupped her chin as she looked at the final piece of evidence, brow furrowed.

“I’ve seen this before...” she commented, turning over the small business card over front to back several times examining it. 

While it was the same shape and card stock as a business card it held no information. No address, phone number, or even a business name. All that was printed was an indigo triangle.

“What is it?” He was curious because he had no idea what the shape meant either.

“I…” she started, brows still furrowed. “I have no idea, but I know I've seen this...” 

She placed the bagged card back on the table and leaned over it rubbing her hand to the back of her neck smoothing down her feathers there. The memory of where she’d seen this particular shape eluding her.

“Maybe at his apartment?” she muttered to herself, then sighed

“I’ll have to go back over my notes.” Hex leaned up from the table and unzipped her jacket pulling out her phone and snapped a quick picture on the item.

“How about we meet back up tomorrow then. Let me give you my number.” Hawks held out his palm asking for her phone. She was just about to hand it over but thought better and pulled it back causing him to catch air.

“No social calls, no memes at 3 in the morning, no unsolicited pictures.” her tone stern

“What if they’re tasteful?” he made a grabby motion with his hands and gave his brows a waggle.

“They’re never tasteful.” she quipped back but finally relented and handed over her phone.

Hawks flipped it over in his hands and quickly typed in his information jokingly setting the name for his number “Unsolicited dick pics” with an appropriate emoji next to it. He sent himself a quick text with her phone then clicked hers off and handed it back to her.

He was extremely pleased when she didn’t double check his contact info and simply zipped the phone back into her pocket. His little joke would be a fun surprise for the morning then.

“Send me where you want to meet tomorrow” She pressed her fingers to the back of her neck again “I’m heading out. Looong night” 

Hawks moved away from the door and let her pass, parting for the night.

“Well that led to a whole lotta nothing” He mused to himself finally taking his turn to look over the offending card stock.

“It’s never an easy mess to clean up is it?” He tossed the card back on the table.

_________________________________

[andagii-writes]

Oracle Calling

Hydrate me with a Ko-Fi!

Summary

(inspired by Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series, as well as Supergiant Games’s Hades)

Miss Levinia is the master of The Oracle Winery, a quaint yet historic operation nestled in Napa Valley for the last couple centuries. Her day staff tends to the mortal patrons, but at night, the tasting room transitions into a haven for displaced demigods, Levinia their overseer and protector, "Switzerland," by some accounts. What begins as an uncharacteristically quiet evening quickly evolves into a night of revelation, when a specter from her past crosses her threshold. (7,501 words)

Cross-posted on AO3 and WordPress.com

Glossed lips pursed in a frown, and with deliberate severity in her gaze, tall, dark Miss Levinia stood, arms crossed, behind the bar of her winery’s tasting room. Only a faint hum pervaded The Oracle Winery, as though the evening had forgotten its role in Levinia’s routine, as well as an earlier camaraderie.

But rather than making herself maudlin by recalling those regulars—twin brats of Hades and their snuffling, oversized Cerberus pups—Levinia turned her attention to administrative catch-up. With no one barging in for asylum or medical attention for the half-divine, or even for a drink, she at least had the perfect amount of peace to attend to the tasting room’s inventory. Clipboard in hand, she wove between the wicker lounge chairs and glass-top tables, pen scratching notes on a log sheet. Wheat crackers and cheeses for the main bar. More bottles of riesling and moscato for the refrigerator at the secondary dessert bar. Prepare the menus for the upcoming seasons. Oh, and inventory the grocery bags the twins had left at the end of the main bar.

The twins had, for the first time, asked about the otherworldly fare they brought for her in those bags. What exactly did she brew with the stuff?

“You’d have to drink them to know,” Levinia had responded. “But you might find yourselves on an express ferry back to your lord father if you did.”

They asked no more and finished their drinks on their way out.

Without paying, yet again.

Shoulders heaving in a deep sigh, Levinia set aside her clipboard and unrolled the long receipt detailing the twins’ tab, readying herself for the weekly recalculations. Pen rocking between two fingers, she punched numbers on her phone’s calculator while her mind added more to the to-do list. Check the stock on the venom and hallucinogenic brews. Re-apply poison to the knives hidden under the bar top. Regular protective maintenance, though she avoided altercations whenever possible. After all, unlike most of Levinia’s patrons, The Oracle afforded her a boring life of stability and routine. The day staff, a rotating roster of demigods, maintained the vineyards, the cellars, and the tasting room, while Levinia oversaw the operation at night, when she donned her waistcoat and customer service smile, and presided over what the brats called their personal Switzerland.

Though she appreciated the mystique and respect, even ancient Miss Levinia saw distress in the face of constant monotony. She enjoyed her stability, yet the quiet made her reminisce, made her memory clear away the fog over her childhood, made her consider the stars outside as she once considered the stars above the ocean spray of her old home.

Home? She scoffed at herself. The Oracle was home. She’d made this place her home. Even halfway across the world in this foreign wine country, history ensconced her, in a petrified forest further up north, neat rows of grapevines at her flanks, and splendid wineries for miles in either direction, each lot boasting more history and grandeur than the last. Among the pueblo-style bungalows, stone castles, and even a mountaintop vineyard that required an airborne cable car for access, The Oracle Winery stood proud yet modest, little more than a glorified cottage.

Levinia, sighing, rolled her shoulders. With the tasting room’s mood lights dimmed to gentle amber flares, The Oracle needed a distraction as well, lest it fell into a fitful doze with her. Music, she thought, would lift the spirits of the place. She added that note—'hire nightly entertainment’—to her list, since she, unfortunately, never inherited her father’s knack for revelry.

As she started her calculations again, a breeze swept outside, disturbing the ivy leaves and grapevines to a gentle rustle. A visitor had arrived.

Levinia re-rolled the twins’ tab and nestled it against her register. Whatever came through her doors deserved her cordial welcome as thanks for the break in the evening. Tugging her waistcoat straight, she drew back and fastened the curlicue waves of her hair with golden ivy pins: mementos, Mother once claimed, of Father.

The doors opened. Levinia curled her lip in her customary slight smile. She started, “Welcome,” then choked in surprise. As she stared wide-eyed at the silhouette on her doorstep, her smile hardened into wariness.

She knew that broad shadow. She remembered that height.

‘No,’ she told herself, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. That’s not—My mind’s just playing tricks.’ Just a specter from her memories. Reminiscing had never been good for her. She sucked in a sharp breath and loosened her clenched hands. What an embarrassing mistake to make of a likely regular patron. Or an enemy. ‘Come on,’ Levinia scolded herself. ‘You’re working now.’

Even while eyeing her customer, Levinia kept her tone civil. “Welcome to The Oracle Winery,” she said again, then gestured to the bar stools. “’Tis the tasting room. Have a seat; tell me what you need.”

The man stooped to clear the threshold and said nothing as he closed the door behind him. Levinia curled her lip in slight offense, but swallowed her snap. After all, most of The Oracle’s first-time patrons kept to themselves, usually out of sharp distrust. The same probably held for this man. Curled hair sprung in stray sprigs from under his hood, some shade of dark color muddied by the amber lights. His shoulders filled out the corners of his thick jacket, zipped all the way up. Despite the suffocating choice, a strange gracefulness helped the man to navigate his long legs as he turned about, apparently investigating every possible corner of The Oracle.

Levinia lowered her hand to an alcove under her counter, brushing her fingers along the handles of her hidden knives. Why survey the space so? Looking for surveillance or a way out?  Yet, strangely, no sign of intimidation came off his height or hooded visage. No anticipation prickled in his silence. Rather, Levinia thought as she drew her hand back, a welcoming gentleness surrounded him.

Which made Levinia offer her hand instead. “Shall I take your coat?”

He shook his head, electing instead to partially unzip his jacket. After a hesitant moment, hands firmly balled in his pockets, he finally spoke. “You’re not asking who I am?”

He used a gruff tone to mask his voice, but its familiarity echoed in Levinia’s ears. She choked down the knot tangling in her chest and replied, “You can tell me if you want, but I won’t ask or tell. That goes for anyone visiting at this time.”

“Say I tell you, and you realize you’d rather throw me out. Would you do so?”

Levinia grimaced at the poorly-veiled sentiment. “I can’t break my own rules, now can I? Just don’t make any trouble for me.” She held her breath, as the man slid into one of the barstools before her. “So, what can I get you tonight?”

“Just a glass,” he sighed, shoulders relaxing. “A black, if you please.”

She considered the hooded man, his head low. “A ‘black’ wine at The Oracle,” she murmured, hands on her hips, “is considered divine fare. So don’t disrespect me. Take your hood off.”

The man flinched and threw a glance over his shoulder, the motion freeing another curling lock of dark hair from his hood. “You speak so fearlessly,” he said, a chuckle lacing his voice. “Like a goddess of protection. Or a mother. Have you become one since I last saw you?”

He had dropped his gruff tone as well, opting for a natural mellow accent, one Levinia occasionally heard in her faded recollections of Father’s bedtime stories. He used to talk about foreign lands, waters, and adventures.

“I only ask,” the man hurriedly added, likely in response to Levinia’s lips pursing into a thin line, “since there was no one back home to tell me what had happened to you.”

“And just how long ago did you visit those ruins?” While she had stopped herself from spitting, a dangerous edge sharpened her voice. “And no, I’m neither goddess or mother, heaven forbid me. All I do is make and maintain the rules of my house, so again, no trouble past those doors.”

He folded his hands over the countertop, still refusing to meet Levinia’s eye. “I remember that. Your mother had a similar rule.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Stomach roiling, Levinia covered her face and counted each long second of her breath. “Just take your damn hood off, Father.”

“I—I believe you have me mistaken.”

“Let’s not play this game. You might as well be standing before me in full regalia. Where’s your wand? Your chariot? Your attendants? What happened to excelling at disguise?”

“To protect the mortal eye, yes. But you, your mother…” He finally, sheepishly, shed his hood. The rest of his curled hair, some tied back in a half-pony, cascaded over his shoulders. “Your mother had a sharp, fearless eye. You’ve clearly inherited that.”

Levinia’s stomach, which had coiled backwards, now pitched forward, as she let the specter’s words and visage sink in. She remembered that voice. That face. She hated that she’d seen through him so quickly.

Mother called him Daeon. And he hadn’t changed, even after hundreds upon thousands of years. Levinia’s lord father Dionysus, despite his languid, unshaven features, still held traces of the young father who once cradled Levinia among the vineyards. No disguise could hide the gravitas of his divinity.

Remembrance stung in Levinia’s eyes, as she ground her palm into one. She’d prepared for everything—riots, medical emergencies, death threats, ichor hunters—but not her own father’s return. Why did this have to be her distraction for the evening?

Daeon went on, his voice wavering. “Levinia,” he said, “you’ve grown so much.”

“Time does that to a little girl,” she snapped, squaring her shoulders. “You missed Mother’s deathbed.”

“I swear to you,” he said, “Hades was to notify me as soon as she arrived at Elysium, but, nothing. I even made the journey below; I was ready to bring her back.

“But she wasn’t there. You sent her off correctly, didn’t you? An obol under the tongue?”

“Even if I hadn’t, the old attendants would have made sure of it,” Levinia spat. She laid her palms flat against the countertop and counted the seconds of her breath. In, slowly. Then out. “So let’s face the truth, shall we? You were too afraid to watch her go.”

“Not true. I knew where she was headed.”

“Then why? How hard could it have been? We lived on Olympus’s doorstep! Just a few steps outside, Father, and you could have seen Mother off yourself!”

Mother, who, after Father had disappeared that distant morning, waited upon the balcony every night and stared across the sea. She wistfully called it “The Promised Spot.” Yet that soft longing eventually hardened into bitter anger, solid until her final breaths when she begged Levinia to look after the family’s treasures.

The memories prickled into fury. Levinia stepped back from the bar top. Heaved another deep breath. Her staff called her tough, but, she reminded herself, the master of The Oracle Winery operated with far more finesse and impersonality regardless of the customer she faced. She straightened her back and cleared her throat. “Pardon me,” she said. “I’ll get you your drink.”

Taking a glass from the rack, Levinia knelt below as she guessed her father’s expression. Despairing, hopefully. Or guilty. Regretfully reminiscing. Self-pity, she told herself, she’d slap.

Above her, Daeon released a burdened sigh. “I had a theory,” he said, “that perhaps her soul had wandered elsewhere. You sent her off properly, yet she never arrived at Elysium. Never even saw Hades or Persephone to receive her decree.”

“Can’t say I care about your theories,” said Levinia, flipping a switch under her bar top. Soft amber light illuminated a cabinet below the register, as she produced a key from her pocket. “Take them to Athena or, I don’t know, Aristotle, since you’re so willing to head back down there. I’m sure Hades stashed him or some other philosopher in Elysium.”

“I’ll…consider it.” His tone deflated, yet he went on. “Your mother. Was—how angry was she?”

Levinia turned the lock on the cabinet. “She once promised to eviscerate you herself, if you came back while she was alive.” She simpered at her father’s groan and opened the glass door. Inside, mounted on its side, sat a plain, sealed amphora, a spigot retrofitted at its base. “But she never doubted your divinity.” Unpinning one of her ivy pins, Levinia felt about the patterned crest above the spigot. She turned the pin and fitted it into the crest, at the same time sliding the wine glass into place. “She never abandoned the craft you helped her master.”

“Which I see she also passed on to you.”

Holding the glass at a tilt, Levinia released the spigot. Dark red wine slipped in with hardly a bubble. “I like to think I did well by her.” She gingerly pulled the lever back, removed her hair pin from the crest, and stood, pocketing the pin as she nudged the cabinet shut. Pinky cushioned under the stem, she set the filled glass before her father. “But if she kept any secrets from me, she left them in this brew here.”

Levinia crossed her arms, as her father’s features creased with bafflement. “But why would she keep anything from you?”

Despite his confused tone, however, a strange, sharp clarity glinted in his eyes. Without realizing, her father had already, dimly, divined an answer, but needed a few moments longer to solidify his conclusion. Levinia shrugged anyway. “Experiments. Signatures. Something like that, if I had to guess. All she said was this one’s not complete ‘’til it received the blessings of Lord Dionysus.’” She gestured to the glass. “But you’ve already guessed that, right, wine being your domain? So go on. You’ve kept her waiting long enough.”

“With all of my gratitude,” Daeon replied, and picked up the glass. He tilted the wine toward the light and watched The Oracle’s amber lights flare through the deep red. His guilty remembrance softened into a fond smile as he brought the glass to his lips. He closed his eyes. “She’s created a masterpiece. I can tell already.”

Levinia rolled her eyes.

After another long moment and final deep breath, he tipped the glass back for the smallest sip.

Wonder filled his features then, his eyes practically glowing, while Levinia smirked. An old giddiness stirred in her as Daeon took another sip, longer this time. Then another. And another.

“Take your time,” she chuckled, dimly recognizing her own honest simper. Old memories stirred within her, reminding Levinia of fond memories of mother-daughter winemaking—to remind Father to come home!—until Mother had faded into a lonesome morosity some long, horrible time ago. After that and over the years, Levinia’s own love had withered into a desiccated husk of sadness, leaving her with the professional motions of winemaking, but none of the zeal.

‘Until,’ she thought, ‘now.’

“She’s mulled it well,” Daeon sighed. “There’s a bite, yet it’s kind. Soft.” He held a melancholic smile in his features. “As though she’s speaking to me. But this isn’t like her usual brews—what is that I taste? Persephone’s pomegranates?”

“As if she’d let you have the fruits of the dead. You’re tasting cherries, from what later became the Ottomans.”

“And the grapes?” Desperation strained his voice. “Did she use a blend?”

Levinia snorted. “Of only the grapes you raised. She wouldn’t agree to anything else for the private collection.” As her father put down his glass and cradled his head, Levinia swallowed the rest of her rebuke. She couldn’t berate his sincerity any longer. “I looked after what I could after you left. Still do. I’ll never be as good as you, but I did my best.” She smirked, sardonic. “Even stopped myself from burning them down, especially that ugly one with all the ivy.”

“Because Lyridice taught you to regard that one as though it was me.”

Mother had begged not only for the protection of the wine amphoras, but also, with sharp emphasis, the old grapevines in the private garden terrace. “For your father,” sighed a resigned Mother. “He’ll return to you during your long, long life. I promise.”

And now, millennia later, that promise had finally delivered.

Levinia raised a brow. “How did you figure?”

“I could never reach you through them,” Daeon reluctantly answered, “but I could still hear you. Your prayers. I heard both of you, whenever you called upon me through that grapevine.”

Levinia’s head spun, sour rage prickling again at the back of her throat. By force of habit, she had continued her one-sided conversations with the ivy-choked grapevines, increasingly so after her mother had passed. Even though passing time left her home in ruins, Levinia protected those plants with her life, taking them from the terraced gardens above the Mediterranean and across the world from new home to new home. Currently, they stood still and peaceful, enshrined in Levinia’s private garden.

And she still talked to them when she tended the garden. Through that conversation, Levinia realized, her father had found her. “I knew I should have burned that damn bush,” she hissed, every word pinched with more venom than the last. “So you really did know when Mother passed. You knew as soon as I told you and you still chose to not come home?”

“Forgive me, Levinia.” Distress mounted in Daeon’s voice. “I beg you to forgive me, but I know—I’m not—!” He sighed. “I’m not foolish either. You can’t forgive me. I heard that as well. Loud and clear.”

Levinia, remembering her wailing curses before the grapevine, bit her lip. Had her straight honesty then already done the damage she wanted? She leaned against her countertop, replying in a tight voice, “So what are you really here for? Obviously not to ask after Mother.”

“Lyridice has always been my reason—both of you have always been my reason.” Head cradled in one hand, he swirled his wine with the other. Exhaustion shadowed his features as he mockingly snorted, “Zeus advised me against coming here, ‘til I questioned him on his own children, those he left behind on this earth. He granted me some of his understanding then.” He lifted his head and met Levinia’s eye again. “Lyridice prayed that I look after you, Levinia. I’m sorry it took so long.”

“Your point?”

“I’m here to take you home with me. To Olympus.”

She stared, fighting to keep her expression of ennui while pure rage pounded harder and harder against her temple. Home? Olympus?

With Dionysus?

Her breath ran icy hot through her nose, as dumbfounded Levinia curled her fingers around the edge of the countertop. The wood groaned under her grip. Even Daeon pulled back. “So that’s it?” Her stomach lurched over and over. Her eyes, her cheeks, her ears, even her neck and throat, all burned. “This? After all these years? Do you take me for a damn child?”

“It’s for your safety—!”

“—My safety?! Where was this proposition when the pirates showed up? When they burned down our home looking for ‘divine ichor,’ answer me that!”

“I never heard—when was this?”

“Who cares when it was! They hung me—hung me, Father, do you hear me?!—draining me for my blood! Where were you then?!”

“I was looking for your mother!”

“You mean my dead mother?”

“She wasn’t—Levinia, listen to me—Lyridice’s not in the Underworld. She promised to wait for me at Elysium without drinking from Lethe, but I swear to you, she wasn’t there.”

She could have snatched up the glass on the table and smashed it into her father’s face. She could scream at the insolence, the disrespect, but she swallowed the rage scalding her throat. How had she not already vaporized or combusted? Pressing both hands to her temples, Levinia blew out a long, thin, tremulous breath. Then regarding her father with seething disappointment, she blew another breath and lowered her hands. Fists balled, she rounded the bar and stood before Dionysus.

Miss Levinia lifted one hand and pointed at the door. Her voice, icy and curt, sharpened further as she hissed through gritted teeth. “Get out.”

She snapped against his protest. “Mother was more right about you in her anger,” she pressed, “then she ever was in her love for you. You choose to smear her memory? Deflect your responsibility to her? Then I won’t listen to another second of this asinine talk, you hear me, especially in here! Get out!”

A shocked Daeon rose before her. “I never smeared or deflected—!”

“Yet you insist she’s not where she belongs?”

“Zeus forbade me from asking after Lyridice!”

“She was beneath you anyway, is that it? Leave her in peace!”

“I have been fighting, Levinia, fighting for leave this entire time—!”

“And it’s only now that Zeus is granting you this oh-so-necessary permission to see me? To look for Mother? Spit out that wine and cry me a river! Mother must have drowned herself in Lethe, just to avoid seeing you again!”

“By the Styx, child, relinquish your stubbornness for just one moment!”

“Take your patronizing and shove it, Father, because that stubbornness was all I ever had! For years, for centuries, for so goddamn long, all I ever had was that stubbornness to live! To survive!” Every nerve, every breath, every bone in Levinia’s body rattled. Yet somehow, as she regarded her father’s perturbed expression, she scoffed. Why even bother anymore? Why care so much now? Suddenly exhausted, she turned away. “So leave me to it. What’s another lost child to you or the gods, anyway?”

She tottered back behind the bar, as Daeon, shaking his head, fell back into his seat. “You were never lost to me,” he said. “Never.”

“Thanks for the nice thought,” Levinia muttered, “but you’re lying. Get out of my store.”

He lingered, however, drumming his fingers against the bar top. “Divine ichor,” he reflected. “How could anyone have figured that out about you?”

“Live just twenty years past your dead mother without looking more than a teenager, and people start wondering. And don’t try your persuasion on me. I’m of your blood.”

“But your ichor’s mixed, a far cry from that of the gods.”

Levinia rubbed her temples and squeezed her eyes shut as the dust cleared from her memories. Her mother had died, her father disappeared, and the people of that old vineyard had all passed on, leaving behind rumors of a ghost girl wandering the ruins of that once-hallowed estate. In the following lonely years, she ran pirates and treasure hunters for loops around the ruins and cackled at their bumbling expense, until they lashed her by her ankles and heated their cursed knives. “Details,” she mumbled. “Humans don’t care for them when they’re afraid of death.”

Pulling back from the counter, Levinia embraced herself, flinching as her body recalled the searing lacerations, one by one. Her breath shuddered in the icy hollow of her chest. ‘It’s all in the past,’ she told herself. ‘Just nightmares now.’

Just a nightmare. The distant memory of her mother’s voice sounded so close in Levinia’s head. But now you’re awake. And see? Mother is close to you. Father is always with you. The nightmares can’t reach you now.

“Levinia.”

She jerked back to reality—eyes wide, nose flaring, breath still shallow—to find her father offering his hand. “I thought,” Levinia snarled, albeit weakly, “I told you to leave.” Doubt and nostalgia pummeled her inside as she regarded the open palm before her. When was the last time she’d seen and held this hand?

“You spoke so many times before the vines—in joy, in anger, in sorrow—yet you never spoke of your suffering. Why?”

“Because…” Neither snark or sarcasm broke past the knot of honesty tangling in her throat. To tell, or not tell? After all, the last time she spoke to her father about her fears was the night before he disappeared. That was the last time they held hands.

What was that fear again? What had she told him? Levinia stared still at the offered hand, long fingers, knuckles somehow graceful, skin tanned by the Mediterranean sun. That same hand had given her a spoon of honey to soothe her, when she woke up screaming that night.

It was a nightmare.

Just a nightmare.

Wasn’t it?

A nightmare, of a thick black sea crashing forth from beyond an infinite horizon. Dark water coiled up her ankles and seized her wrists and throat and pitched her into the brine. The shadows flooded her nose and darkened her vision, whispered yet screamed, sang yet cried. She flailed and kicked for the surface, but the choking darkness dragged her lower and lower. Something—someone—grabbed her by the root of her soul, and she stilled, paralyzed. Ever deeper she sank, ever aware of the unending depth; she was returning somewhere, a place neither Mother or Father, a place from which her soul shrieked for escape.

She told Father this nightmare after crying against Mother.

Father left the very next morning.

“If you were listening at all after that,” Levinia finally responded, “I didn’t want to give you a reason to truly abandon me.” She laid her fingertips against her father’s. Like hers, and like she remembered, they were soft, maybe a little dry from tending the grapevines. And as she’d done so often as a child at the dinner table, she tapped her fingers against his, lightly, to escape Mother’s rebuke though she laughed eventually.

“It was never my intention—I didn’t mean to—no.” He curled their fingers together and gently gripped Levinia’s hand. “None of that matters.

“I’m sorry, Levinia.”

The apology hung thick, slowly permeating. Tears beaded in Levinia’s vision.

“I’m sorry, for leaving you so alone, so suddenly. I’m so sorry.”

She laid a hand over her eyes and turned her face askance. Biting her lip, she shook her head and swallowed in choking shudders. Miss Levinia, always stoic, never shed tears, not even for friends or close associates. Not even, she hoped, for her father.

Yet he, in silence, tightly held her hand.

“Levinia,” he then started. “As a child, you so desperately wanted to see your lord grandfather. I denied you that, but, do you remember how you tried to persuade me? The one thing you tried?”

Levinia, afraid of a habitual snap coming out instead of a question, sucked in another breath.

The one thing she tried?

The words came out before her foggy memory cleared. “I stole one of the wine amphoras,” she said. “A heavy thing of some special brew you made with Mother.” Lifting her hand, she narrowed her eyes and cocked her head, her memory’s eye following the movements of that little girl. “I… I drank some of it. And I fell asleep.”

Daeon nodded. “Then you had your nightmare. But, hear me, Levinia. It wasn’t just a nightmare.” He took her hand in both of his. “Your divinity shone when you told us about it. That wine opened your vision—your power. You had a vision with far more clarity than even some of Apollo’s oracles.”

“Talk about a stretch of the imagination.” Levinia sniffled. Still turned aside, she drew back and crossed her arms. “I’ve had no prophetic visions since then.”

“Have you had a wine blessed by your father since then?”

Her father’s smugness instilled Levinia with further disbelief. “You’re not a god associated with prophecy.”

“So let’s call it an epiphany. That you call this winery ‘The Oracle’—fate has good taste.”

Levinia wrinkled her nose. Still, the man had a right to believe whatever he pleased, so long as he provided the information she wanted. She crossed her arms. “Epiphany it is. So what did I see?”

In the ensuing silence, Daeon’s features fell again. He folded his hands together. “You’ll believe me, then?”

“I won’t guarantee it.”

“That’s fair,” he snorted. “Your unquestioning faith is certainly far more than I can ask for.” He took a deep breath. Then, despite the uncertain furrow of his brow, he began. “We took some time to decode your epiphany. We still have some disagreement about the details, but overall, we think you saw the seas of Chaos.”

That shapeless, tumultuous beginning of all? Levinia raised her brow. “What about it?”

“Them,” Daeon corrected. “They’re an entity, as well as a place. Considering what happened to you in that dream, there’s reason to believe They’re rising.”

“You’re insinuating that Chaos—which just is, and once abdicated Their supremacy—has adopted purpose and direction?”

Daeon chuckled. “And there’s the disbelief. But you’ve noticed the shift in this world, haven’t you? Humanity is slowly sliding this realm back into Chaos, as though to meet Them halfway.”

“Humans have always been a chaotic species. It’s their fate.”

“So you believe the Moirai designed the arrival of their siblings? The children of Nyx?”

“You say it like they’ve never been around.”

“Certainly, they’ve always had their governance over humanity—in dreams, in sleep, in death—but have they always been here, among the mortals? They’re becoming more and more deliberate in their duties, and the humans resist those machinations. You know what defiance of destiny invites.”

Defiance of destiny is the rejection of the gods’ order, and thus, a ticket for Chaos to emerge. The ichor hunters of Levinia’s youth demonstrated as much in their desperate resistance against death, and her network had reported even more: retribution stirring within and between countries, mass, fatal siren calls of both needles and firearms, older generations passing ill will rather than wisdom to the young. “So it was all one cohesive pattern,” Levinia muttered. “They’re goading humans to reject order.”

“Thus allowing the primordial gods even greater reign across the mortal realm. Their efforts will cloud humanity with the mists of Erebus, and so ready this world for Nyx’s sovereignty.” Daeon’s voice fell. “Once Nyx veils all in primordial night and refuses return to Tartarus, Chaos will surge forth to reclaim what They bore.”

“Unbelievable,” Levinia snorted, shaking her spinning head. “You inferred all of this from a drunken nightmare I had as a child, and you’re only now coming with a full analysis of it?”

“We had to be sure we correctly understood this particular thread of fate. Our preparations needed to be perfect.”

“And leaving lovers and demigod children behind in the meantime?”

Here, Daeon met Levinia’s eye. Guilt, and at the same time, conviction, reflected in his expression. “That was never my intention. We all had our parts to play in this matter, what with closing the gates of Olympus…”

Levinia blinked, eyes bugging out. “Come again?” she scoffed. “Zeus would have you and his family abandon this realm?”

“I’m sure,” Daeon interjected, “I’m certain, he made the decision with a heavy heart—humans have always fascinated him! Yet I hear the scale of this conflict won’t compare to the war against the Titans, or so Poseidon assures.”

Levinia pressed her fingers against her temples, her scrambled disbelief pounding a headache. Slowly, she parsed her thoughts.

One, her father sat before her at her bar. He wanted to take her home, to his home of Olympus.

Two, the children of Nyx, even Nyx herself, worked to set the humans against themselves. To invite Chaos back. And Levinia had had a dream prophesying this some long, ancient time ago.

And, according to Levinia’s up-til-then absent father, her assuredly dead mother had somehow missed the road signs and ferry to the Underworld. She never took her rightful place among the dead.

“Whew…” She lowered her hands and laid them flat on the polished bar top. Refocus, she told herself. What’s here? What’s now?

Herself, first of all. Her father and his unannounced visit. The wine between them, Mother’s “Prayer”—Ah, Levinia, I am so sorry. I’m nobody more than a winemaker’s daughter and yet I find myself wishing—though Levinia would not tell Dionysus this name.

And then The Oracle. She’d been here so long, along with others too. Others that mattered. “What about the other kids like me? You’ve all abandoned us for so long—now you have a plan?”

“We’re in disagreement there as well.” Daeon met Levinia’s sharp, accusatory glare and hurriedly added, “I will grant you protection, of course, but some would rather maintain Olympus as hallowed ground, and prepare those children for war instead. A crusade, they say, to restore order.”

Did you hear, Levinia? Your father finally has his throne among the Olympians! Apparently, bringing his mother back from Hades was the final test of his divinity. And now she’s ascended as a deity on Olympus too!

I… I wonder, if that honor could ever be extended to me?

Soft orange flares glowed in the crystal of Levinia’s neatly lined glasses. She asked, quietly, “Would you have protected Mother, were she still alive?”

“That’s why I made my way to the Underworld again.” Daeon murmured, as if their whispers could somehow reach the shade in question. “Hades was cross with me, but I had every intention of bringing Lyridice back. Only, she wasn’t in Elysium.”

Semele was beautiful—is beautiful. You see, beauty makes the difference between two mortal women. Look at me. I’ve always been cross. I’ve never been beautiful. I’ve this ugly red mark on my face that I wrapped and hid every day, yet your lord father unveiled me. Looked upon me. Embraced me and called me beautiful. I told him he’ll someday wake up from those delusions.

But now, without him? I miss him, Levinia. I miss him more every day.

I tell myself he’ll come home. Do you think the gods will forgive my vanity?

“She would have waited. You’re right about that, at least.” She waved aside Daeon’s touched, tearful look. “At least I’m still here. You’d have me head for Olympus as a refugee, then?”

Noting her father’s affirming nod, Levinia regarded the quiet winery. For sanctuary within Olympus, she’d have to give this place up. Whether this “rising” of Chaos happened tonight or within the next five hundred years, Olympus would supposedly protect her. Her father was luckily one of the kinder Olympians who reveled in celebration more than sacrifice.

But the more pragmatic gods meant to outfit their demigod children for war. With war came carnage, meaning those abandoned kids would inevitably be the first casualties. The thought soured in the back of Levinia’s throat. “Can’t you extend your protection to the rest of our kind?”

Daeon folded his shaking hands together. “It’s my word against those of older siblings and my father. Some have no kindness or wisdom, but I will continue asking them to reconsider. Demigods or not, our children shouldn’t have to suffer their parents’ whims.”

Levinia snorted. “You could say that twice and a few times more.”

“Please, Levinia.”

“I don’t think so, Father. I’m not as bitter now, but I still have a right to my anger. Rage is also part of your domain, after all.”

She smirked at her father’s exasperation, yet Levinia’s thoughts wandered again. Less fortunate kids had no divine or living parent to speak of or with. Those lost children floated about and survived, until rumor clued them into a haven nestled in the heart of some far-flung wine country. Half-disbelieving, they stumbled on, following the word of equally mistrustful kids until they fell upon the doorstep of The Oracle. Levinia gave them food, drink, a bed, a bath, no questions, and only one rule: no trouble. After a few silent days, they usually asked about their almighty parents, because surely Miss Levinia and her network would have answers, but she always gave her sobering response of, “No one knows.”

Now she knew—Chaos is coming and the gates of Olympus are closing—but then what? Absent parents never had sudden changes of heart. Even Dionysus needed a reason. So how would an answer change any of the demigods’ circumstances? If Levinia left The Oracle, where would those kids go next?

‘They’re resourceful,’ she told herself. ‘They know how to get by.’ Yet a sense of proud duty answered, that without Miss Levinia, who knew the ways of the divine children because she was one too, the kids had nowhere else to go. After all, she maintained the store’s front not only for her devotion to winemaking.

She tapped the bar top. “You’ll be returning to Olympus,” Levinia finally answered, “without me.”

“Without—wait—without?”

Levinia smiled despite the pang against her chest. “Ah, Father. Think of it like this: if I could get you to choose me over your other children, would you stay with me here among the mortals?” She noted Daeon’s alarmed, ponderous expression and waved her remark aside. “You see? Much as I would hate and appreciate my lord father’s company, either I would have to abandon this place, or you would have to stay with me in this possible war-zone.” Levinia took a dry cloth from a cabinet, wet and wrung it, and began wiping down her bar top. “I don’t think we can compromise either of our positions.”

Understanding visibly dawned in Daeon’s expression. He said nothing for a long while, only picking up his empty glass to let Levinia wipe. Then, “Tell me, Levinia,” he started, “about this place. You never spoke much about it through the grapevine.”

“Professional necessity,” Levinia replied. “I said nothing about this operation in case someone up there didn’t like the idea of a bunch of demigod children gathering in one place.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Since I realized humans believe immortality’s worth bleeding a kid dry.” She snickered at Daeon’s flinch. “I’ve had a lot of help, since I’m moving shop all around. This place is only a couple centuries old.”

“Why reveal this place to mortals as a winery?”

Levinia shrugged. “Tending to and establishing this network takes money, you know. I make good wine, and some of the kids want jobs. So I help them by keeping this place in operation throughout the day.

“Kids are smart, see. They rotate their own roster and keep me a secret. The humans believe the original owner’s long dead.”

Daeon, tracing the rim of his glass, finally smiled. “A compelling ruse. You truly do make a fantastic protection goddess.”

“Don’t joke like that,” said Levinia. “It’s just volunteer work. I only started this because I needed a place like this as a child. Figured there were others too.” She eyed her father’s glass, its bottom caked with the last drying drops of Lyridice’s “Prayer.” Then squaring her shoulders and straightening her waistcoat, Levinia folded her hands behind her back. “Well then. You have your answer, and assuming you’re telling the truth, I shouldn’t keep you. Thank you, Father, for finding me.”

To which Daeon regarded with a somber shake of his head, before he broke into a chuckle. “I see you’ve inherited that terrible habit of hers,” he said.

“Habit?”

“That dismissive tone. Lyridice was always cross, even as a young woman. I believed I could persuade her to soften her edges, but I never succeeded.” He snickered, low and fond. “I couldn’t. She was bright. Hardworking. Sensible and fearless. She eventually revealed her vulnerability to me, but I always found her snap quite charming.”

“And I’m her daughter,” Levinia snorted. “Notice, that while you confused me and pissed me off, you never persuaded me.”

“I stopped you from throwing me out.”

“Save your breath. That wasn’t your persuasion.”

“So you say, but I believe I can yet convince you to come with me.”

Levinia narrowed her eyes. “If you’re telling the truth, your father’s gates will close before you convince me to do anything, much less rely on your protection.”

“Is that a challenge? I do intend on returning to enjoy Lyridice’s masterpiece a few times more.”

“Then take the entire jug. I’m sure she’d like that.”

“Do you think it’ll lead us to her?” Eager hope made him breathless, as he leaned forward on the bar top. “She asked you to preserve this wine for a reason, something more than simply my blessing.”

Levinia raised a brow. “You’re overthinking it. She left no records or recipes, and told me nothing. So I doubt you’ll glean anything from this brew, let alone where she could be other than avoiding you in Elysium.”

“She was never a woman to back out of her promises.” Hands folded, Daeon stared, pensive, at the glass before him. “Zeus will leave the gates open to the very last minute. I’ll find Lyridice by then.”

Levinia, still wordlessly impressed by her father’s faith, shook her head.

Then a wind stirred outside, heralding the arrival of another visitor. Two, in fact, by the sounds of familiar motorcycle purrs and deep, soul-curdling barking. Levinia eyed the glass panes of her doors and watched as the twins’ silhouettes approached The Oracle. Sensing drawn blades should they recognize an Olympian at their favorite haunt, Levinia cleared her throat. “Consider yourself taken with a grain of salt,” she said, “but I’ll see what I can find on my end.”

The statement had her father beaming. “A grain is better than none,” he said. “Know that I’m proud of you, Levinia.”

She averted her eyes from Daeon’s smile as the flare of her own ears choked her smartest responses and left her grumbling, “Now I do.” While she snorted against the embarrassed tangle in her chest, her gaze darted across the tasting room. Setting her eyes back on her father then, she knew, spelled trouble for the still-restrained tears prickling across her face. “And, uh, if you could kindly see yourself out soon? You’ll—you’ll send the brats running for the hills.”

Daeon turned toward the doors, where the twins peered through the glass. “Well, that wouldn’t do,” he said, softening his voice. The doors swung open, revealing the twins already in their ready stances, hands clenched over the handles of their weapons. “I’ve truly overstayed my welcome, then?”

The brother’s black steel sword and the sister’s ebonywood flute shone orange under The Oracle’s amber lights. Lips pursed, Levinia eyed her returning customers and shook her head. “Truly,” she replied, flinching at her own cold civility. “Go on. Get out.”

Yet Daeon kept his steady grin. He rose from his seat and buried his hands in his pockets. “I hope you’ll allow me to come back, then.”

Heart leaping up her chest, and with little trace of her old bitterness, Miss Levinia returned Lord Dionysus’s radiant grin, albeit with a huff. “’Tis a promise,” she said, “and I’m personally holding you to that this time. Don’t come ‘til the store’s empty, you hear?”

“Loud and clear, my dear. Loud and clear.”

He lifted his hand in farewell, and bowing his head, passed the tensed twins on his way to the door. The door closed behind him, and like fading smoke, Father disappeared into the night. Levinia released her held breath in a deep exhale.

The twins, sheathing their weapons, slid into their stools. They leaned over the bar top, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed and shoulders tensed. Who was that man in that hideous purple hood? Did he seriously have leopard print down the sleeves and sides? That hoodie alone’s enough for an assassination request, Miss Levinia, and—friendly reminder—the twins had cleared their schedule for the evening. She knew, right, that if she ever were in trouble, she could ask them, and they’d do whatever necessary to return their favors. And their tab.

Levinia nodded, blankly rinsing her father’s glass. A part of her cursed the twins for their prickly mistrust. Another part applauded herself for avoiding an altercation between god and demigod. As she drew her sleeve across her wet eyes, she dimly registered another part of herself fading—the rage that once flared in the back of her throat, up into her head, and all through her body for centuries untold. And as she dried her father’s glass and set it next to the amphora in her sealed cabinet, a newly assured part steeled her new gamble: Mother’s prayer would again bring Father back home.

Now her business began. “You two—you’re alright,” Miss Levinia remarked, beckoning her customers to calm down. She wore her customary smile again, improved, she realized, from the new stretch of her lips and the crease of her eyes and cheeks. “I just got hold of new information for you and the other brats. New job too, personal this time.”

She set two glasses before the twins and retrieved a new bottle from the wall behind her. “I need you to find a missing shade in the Underworld. And relax; this round’s on me.

“We’re celebrating tonight.”

[possiblypeachy]

tea & schemes. (1)

―; summary: Florence Abberline was a woman bound to get herself wrapped up in trouble. Trouble came with the name 'Jacob Frye'. 

―; pairing: jacob frye x ofc

―; word count: 3.4k

―; warnings: light swearing.

―; A/N: i just think Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate is pretty neat. this is, if all goes to plan, a multi-part fic because i am obsessed at the moment (oops)!

i thought that i’d dabble in original characters for this and so forth came my lovely Florence. i do hope you all like her because she is indeed baby and i treasure her and her journey (that’s already mostly written out in my plans!)

do enjoy and please ignore any segments of terrible characterisation or inaccuracy; my writing hands are rusty.

―; part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

― ❊ �� 

“Freddy! Fredd-- shit!”

Florence Abberline was something of an abnormality when you consider the temperament of your average middle-class lady. She lacked the charm in her spoken word than some of her neighbours and tended to be far too intrigued in tasks that didn’t befit a lady of near-twenty. Though, it was hard to dislike the mousy-haired woman, what with that sweet smile of hers. She was often caught bumbling about the streets of London, doing sleuthing of her own.

She had a penchant for finding dark information about suspected criminals. Time and time again, Florence had helped her brother in making an arrest on someone unsuspecting. This was solely because she was unfathomably lucky in that field. It also helped that, despite her assumed airy-ness, she has a superb sense of one’s character.

The glint in her eyes of honey brown told that she had found something of good enough interest to share. That, and the letter that she was waving wildly in the direction of Frederick.

He, and the two others he was speaking with, turned to look at her as she stumbled over to them, wiping the dirt of Whitechapel off of the knees of her dress. “I have a--” she inhaled deeply and made a ‘hoo’ noise as she breathed out, “I have a letter here that might be of interest. It fell out of--”

“Florence!”

She paused, her face like a startled hare and her body still locked in its dress-patting position.

His mouth was drawn into a tight line. Then, he sighed and held out his hand. “It is as though,” He took the note from her and she rolled her eyes to the side, knowing that she was going to get a telling off, “you never give a few seconds to consider and filter your words.” When she finally looked back to her brother, he was pointing a finger at her, “You’ll never find a man to court you with a foul mouth like that.”

“I shall not marry a man who cannot bear to hear me curse when I desire to.”

Frederick sighed deeply, poking his tongue into his cheek for a moment, before glancing behind her. He gestured to his sister with the hand that held the letter. “I apologise for my sister; she can be so… brash.”

Finally, Florence turned to examine those behind her. A man and a woman of equal height-- give or take a small bit-- with the kind of likeness that only befitted siblings. A strange sense of fashion with regards to the lady, she thought, though perhaps she was envious of her trousers; she certainly wouldn’t have tripped earlier if she had dressed like that. Gaze flickering between them both, she observed they both had a very similar twist to their smile and the look in their eyes told of amusement.

“Well, she’s not the most peculiar character we’ve met in London so far, so you needn’t worry, Mister Abberline.” The woman mentioned, to which her companion nodded almost too enthusiastically.

Florence, having had her fill of trying to assume things about them both, held a hand out for either to shake. “I apologise for my interruption. I’m Florence Abberline-- the sergeant's sister. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance…”

As she trailed off, there came a shake of her hand and the introduction of “Evie Frye”. She couldn’t help but notice how firm Evie’s calloused grip was; it was all but too obvious that the woman wasn’t your usual ‘lady’. “This is my brother, Jacob.”

“A pleasure.” He said with the kind of sly grin that already gave her the impression that Jacob was the more lively of the pair.

They were both fighters, there was no doubt about that. Both grips were strong and, while shaking Jacob’s hand, her eyes had grazed over that strange gauntlet they both seemed to wear. Evie seemed more fluid-- gazelle-like-- even in the way she stood and balanced her weight from foot to foot. Jacob, however, was the opposite and appeared to be very content with making himself out to be a brick wall of a man. Ever intrigued, Florence began a bank of questions she would ask another time.

With introductions out of the way, Florence turned back to her brother, an eyebrow raised, gesturing toward the letter. He narrowed his eyes as he read along the last few scrawlings of ink. Clicking his tongue, he passed it back over to her and she gave him an altogether confused and offended look. “What is it?”

“It’s interesting, Florrie--”

A little hum came from behind her, alongside a “‘Florrie’: how sweet”. She heard Evie mutter something and the sound of a slap on an arm, to which Jacob chuckled out an ‘ow!’.

“-- but we can’t just make an arrest based on a scrap of paper and nothing else. We’d need to do a house investigation and we don’t have the men for that-- especially not with all these bloody Blighters.”

“Freddy! You can’t leave a man to do things like that; he’s a people-snatcher! And, he’s sweet on me.” Florence threw her hands up into the air, the curls in her hair wobbling. The woman was certainly animated; the twins had already come to that conclusion. “What happens if I’m next to be snatched? How would you explain that to mother and father, hm?”

Freddy stared over her shoulder into the distance, bottom jaw protruding in annoyance.

“‘Sergeant Stolen-Sister’-- does that have a nice ring to it, Freddy?”

While Evie stifled her laugh behind them, Jacob unashamedly chortled at Frederick’s vacant expression.

Florence huffed. “Don’t blank me when I’m asking you perfectly valid questions, Frederick Abberline!”

“You’re being ridiculous. I’m in the middle of business and you--”

“Oh, you are insufferably boring sometimes.” She folded her arms below her chest. There were a few moments of quiet in which they could all see cogs rotating in her head, her weight rested on one leg while the other bounced up and down. Chewing on her bottom lip, Florence pointed into the air as if to punctuate her next point. “If you won’t do anything about it, perhaps I will.” Honey eyes locked with her brother’s dark ones. There was a challenge somewhere in her gaze-- a blazing mischievousness that made his posture slump. Before he could say anything to object, she turned to the twins, who were highly entertained by the entire ordeal. “Meet me in the market at 2 o’clock, if either of you are so inclined to help a lady who worries for the well-being of her fellow people.”

With that, Florence was off, deciding to continue on her endeavour of wiping the dirt from the pale yellow of her dress as she went. The three of them stared after her, Frederick looking particularly defeated. Evie appeared appropriately confused and her gaze flickered between the alleyway and Freddy, who likely didn’t have the answers she would’ve liked. Jacob, however, seemed fairly amused; his lips had curled into the kind of smile that would’ve allowed a laugh had he not also been taken aback by the young woman’s nature.

He pointed in the direction that she had left and Evie gave him a side-eye. “I like her.” He grinned, earning him a deep sigh from his sister, though Evie’s own lips twitched upwards.

Florence Abberline could easily be described as a hurricane of personality.

As Freddy turned back to them, he was pinching the bridge of his nose and overall had the disposition of a man who had dealt with her for far too long. “Just…” He showed them his palm like he was warding away an incessant house cat, “... ignore my sister--”

“That’s what I tell most people too.”

Smack.

“Shut up, Jacob.”

“-- and do not indulge in her fantasies of adventure; she’ll only end up hurting herself.”

Jacob dipped his head to one side, clearly about to object, but Evie placed a firm grip on his arm and gave Frederick a reassuring smile, though her eyes screamed irritation at her brother. “Don’t worry, Mister Abberline. We--” a rather harsh glare was thrown at Jacob, “-- will not be seen at the market this afternoon. Besides, what with the work you’ve given us, among other things, we should be too busy. Isn’t that right, Jacob?”

A snide grin graced the younger’s expression. “Of course, dear sister.”

“Good.” Freddy said, nodding to himself somewhat.

Florence had been known to worry her brother to no end since moving to London. It wasn’t that she was a terrible sister, per se, it was just that she had such an overwhelming desire for her life to be… seen that it likely pained her not to be in the centre of some kind of attention or scheme. She would make a pleasant actress, he’d always thought, but Florence seemed insistent on real-life experience over anything in the theatre. Oh, how he rued.

“Well,” Jacob began, already taking a few steps away from their meeting place, “if we’re all done here I do believe I have one Homer Dalton to bring to you, Freddy--”

Frederick grimaced. “Sergeant--”

Jacob, unfazed his attempt at correction, was still walking away from the scene, a devilish smile playing at his features. “-- and, Evie, perhaps I’ll bring some fresh fruit from the market back to Greenie’s shop for us all to share later.”

If Evie could’ve rolled her eyes any harder, they would’ve popped out of their sockets. “Jacob, no--”

“I hear the pears are exquisitely tasty this time of year.” He was moving further still and had almost turned a corner.

“Jacob--”

“Don’t worry, Evie; I would never forget the red apples.” The rest of him disappeared, leaving them both with the terrible image of his grin.

They stood in silence for a few moments, both staring into the air like they wished they could evaporate into it.

Evie exhaled deeply. “I’m so sorry. My brother is such a--”

“I understand.” Freddy gave her a tired smile and brief raise of his eyebrows before toddling off down the alleyway, holding up the skirt of his dress.

Hoping that this had been a strange dream, Evie shook her head.

Much to her displeasure, nothing changed.

Perhaps she should’ve stayed in Crawley.

---

In the afternoon, the marketplace was quite the attraction. Most saw it as a place to not only collect the next few day’s groceries but also to have a good gossip. On a good day, Florence would accompany her household’s cook, a kindly older lady by the name of Lissie, to have a nice chat and treat herself to a gift or two. If Frederick was lucky, perhaps he would get a trinket when she returned home but it depended on if she deemed he had been a nice enough brother that day or not.

Today was not one of those days.

Having changed into a cooler, green dress for the afternoon-- free of marks of her clumsiness, Florence would’ve been quite content to stand near the woodworker’s stall for a good portion of the rest of the day. She’s always had an appreciation of the little wooden figurines he sold. They framed the mantlepiece in the lounge of her home and she was contemplating on filling a shelf in her bedroom with them too. The little bird sculpture she held was sweet enough. If she’d learnt anything from the nature encyclopaedias she read as a child, she believed it to be a sparrow: a bird that she found to be quite positively adorable.

A hand came to her shoulder and she tensed, juggling the figurine to keep it in her grasp. As she went to turn, a body slid in place beside hers at the stall and a familiar voice said: “It looks a bit like you.”

Her lips tugging upwards, she allowed her gaze to flicker towards Jacob, who was perusing through the other trinkets sold by the woodworker. Studying the profile of his face, she raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying I have a beak, Mister Frye?”

Though he wasn’t facing her, Florence could see that he was smiling. “Of course not, Miss Abberline.” His gaze finally met hers and he held his hand out. She placed the bird in his palm and he began to examine it. “I just think it has… pretty eyes.” Jacob had a certain glint in his eyes, as though he wanted to get some kind of rise out of her.

The young lady rolled her eyes and shook her head, though the exhale she gave sounded like a laugh, which satisfied Jacob enough. “While I am glad you trust me enough already to express your, perhaps intimate, liking for avian creatures, Mister Frye,” She began, to which he grimaced and she let out a pleased little laugh, “the man I-- we-- plan on arresting this afternoon is just over there and-- pass me back the bird--” He did so, “-- is glaring at our conversation.” Halfway through her speech, Florence had adopted a rather charming smile, looking through the stalls at a rather large man, though the way he carried himself told of a lack of confidence.

Jacob followed her gaze and, at the same time, Florence went back to looking over the trinkets on display. As soon as the man moved his sight from her and onto Jacob, he seemed a great deal more aggressive. It was an unfruitful effort to scare him away.

Jacob’s smile only seemed to infuriate him more and he went back to moving sacks of goods about to avoid the unwavering stare of the assassin. “What’s his name?” Jacob asked.

“Peter Fullmore.” She mentioned, placing the bird back down onto the stall. Jacob glanced at it, then her. “He’s the eldest son of the local butcher and his first wife recently passed—“

“— meaning he’s on the lookout for his next one.” He finished for her with enough intent in his voice that she knew that he was speaking of her.

Florence hummed uncomfortably. “Indeed. I’ve never truly been interested in him, what with his strange demeanour and grubby, grubby hands, but he appears enamoured with me.” They both stared at Peter for a few moments. During that time, the man managed to wipe his nose in a way that could make some ladies faint. Florence and Jacob shared an almost identical look of disgust, which she took as an opportunity to elaborate on her plan. ��His liking for me might make it easy for me to… make my way to his home to hunt for evidence.”

Jacob pondered for not even a few seconds before he reeled back and gave her a look. “You plan on offering yourself to him?”

“Yes, Mister Frye, but I’m not going to… do anything!” Leaning closer to him, her voice lowered, “He’s a kidnapper! Do you really think I’m idiotic enough to fuck him?”

He raised his eyebrows and a smirk graced his expression. “I suppose not, Miss Abberline, what with your strong choice of words.”

“It’s commonplace for me; perhaps you should get used to it.”

“Implying that we’re going to spend more time together, are you?”

Florence grinned, the dimple making an appearance again. “If you’re lucky, Mister Frye. Now,” She gave him a tap on the shoulder, as to move him out of the way and walk around him, “I’ll whistle if I need your help inside the house. Try to keep a policeman nearby, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“So, I’m a bodyguard?” His brows knitted together, body shifting in her direction.

“Of sorts. You look like you climb,” she gestured to his hands, which he then looked at too. Jacob ran a thumb over his palm and fingers. He supposed, with a tilt of his head, that they were quite rough, “and I don’t intend for you to just waltz into his home with me; I don’t think dear Peter is that way inclined. So, you should stay to the rooftops with that lovely gun of yours,” Jacob narrowed his eyes, now realising that Florence was far more observant than she let on, “until something bad happens upon me. Oh, and don't worry; I’ll pay you for your troubles.”

“No need. I’ll do anything you ask to keep the law in check.”

Florence looked unconvinced. “I feel as though you are simply saying that to appear more saintly.”

He smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Well,” Her face twisted in disappointment, glancing away from him, “that's no fun, is it? To think, Mister Frye, that I was going to be getting up to no good with you.” When her eyes met his again, there was a mischievous light within them and her lips tightened to suppress a smile. He shook his head and gave a quiet laugh.

He was going to have fun with her.

“Right,” Florence gave a sigh and Jacob nodded, “I’m off to work whatever magic I may have. I’ll see you in a bit, Mister Frye.”

“Stay safe, Florrie.”

Over her shoulder, she gave him a look sharp enough to stab him but the little smile she fought away made him break out into that terribly satisfied grin of his.

As soon as Peter heard the determined little clicks of her shoes, he shot upwards and gave her a dopey smile. She returned the gesture, her fingers dancing along the wood of his father’s stall. “How’s the day been, my dear?” Her voice took a rather enchanting tone and the way that her posture straightened— no doubt drawing attention to her figure— made it clear why she was well suited to become an actress.

“Oh— uh— good, I suppose. Pa has been…”

His voice trailed into the background of her thoughts-- not that that was a difficult task; poor Peter’s tone had never been particularly invigorating. Rather, as she nodded along to the conversation, honey eyes raked along him for any signs of his criminality. It was a difficult task, what with him helping his father, the butcher, often and Florence failed in finding anything. Though, the way he frequently glanced over her shoulder as though he was looking out for something was suspicious and his tendency to wring his hands together only made him look--

“Miss Abberline?”

She jolted and the absent look in her eyes drained away. To recover, she smiled and huffed out a carefully practiced laugh. “Sorry, dear. My mind has been all over the place lately.”

Peter gave her a concerned gaze, to which her lips curled in a rather feline way. “Don’t worry, Miss Abberline. I was… I was only asking what your plans are for the rest of the afternoon?”

Ah. Splendid.

“I’m entirely free for the day, Mister Fullmore. Why? Did you perhaps want to,” Florence’s voice lowered and she leant over the stall, closer to him, gaze dancing between his lips and his eyes, “occupy my evening?”

Peter coughed, blinking rapidly.

Florence straightened herself again and gave a saddened sigh, “Though, I would understand if not. You’re always so busy--”

“No!” His voice cracked and he looked surprised. If one looked closely enough, they would’ve seen her jaw clench in an attempt to stop from laughing. Florence could almost feel Jacob’s amused gaze watching them. “No, Miss Abberline; nothing would make me happier. I just--” Peter swallowed and his eyes flitted away from her for a few moments. “Meet me at the entrance of the market. I just have to finish up here then we can… be on our way to my home, perhaps?”

A smile that could rival the Devil himself graced her lips and she nodded. “That sounds lovely, my dear.”

With that, Florence made for the main street, a flame of utter delight flickering within her eyes. Adrenaline had already made its mark on her body: her hands shaking and blood rushing in her ears. So many underestimated the might of a charming lady. How foolish of them.

As she passed the fruit stall, she locked eyes with Jacob, who was rolling a red apple in his palm. He gave her a knowing grin, a sense of approval hidden beneath his gaze. Florence had to stop from giggling like a madwoman.

Oh, how devious she felt. It was delightful.

[mrneighbourlove]

Monsters: Ch 1. Where Monsters lie, Innocence Dies

Ralnor had been in his office all day. There was much work to be done. Though, occasionally, there was muffled whispering. Some of the staff thought that the second crown prince was talking to himself. Others wondered if his office was haunted by an old ghost. His spies, however, knew exactly what it was; the monster in the walls. A story floated around in the circle of Ralnor's spies, saying he sent a group to the old tunnels to find more information about a supposed creature sneaking around in the underground catacombs. When the scouts did not return, all that was found of them were dismembered body parts. Supposedly, the prince was the only one who could see or speak to this horrible fiend in the dark. Somehow, he managed to appeal to this monster's better nature... or maybe he was feeding it his enemies. Either way, the spies never dared to say a word against their master.

Miranda finally grew close enough to the spies to listen to stories they shared. A story of a monster in the walls, she didn’t think anything of it, until one day, on a return trip to the castle, she smelled something coming from a sewer grate. Investigating she came across a decayed corpse of someone wearing a Hylian emblem. What really creeped her out, was what she thought she heard a growl coming from deep in the darkened sewage tunnels. Running back to her boss, she did not have the experience yet to not speak her mind about the rumours. “My Prince. There’s something I wish to discuss with you.”

"... did I not ask you to knock before entering my office?" Ralnor did not even look up from his paperwork, continuing to write with his quill. The whispering disappeared as soon as the girl stepped foot in the room. He would have to remind Klinge yet again to discipline the kid. She had to learn there was a proper way to address a situation. "What is so urgent that you must interrupt my work, Miranda?"

“I’m sorry my lord.” Miranda gave a bow. She did her best to adjust to all of Ralnor’s rules. “I heard rumours about a monster under Hyrule. I didn’t think anything of it, but I discovered a corpse of a soldier coming from the sewage system. I think there’s a threat to the security of the people my lord. If the rumours are true, this has been going on for a while. The corpse I discovered had unique bite marks, nothing like any normal animal. I have reason to believe that this is either a very rabid creature, or something far more dangerous, like a real monster.”

"You really believe that story of a monster in the underground?" Ralnor chuckled at Miranda's words, brushing off her worries. He had to save face. No one could know about the creature in the catacombs. "Listen, if you're such a child to believe in fairy tales, then perhaps you'd be better suited to be a babysitter than a scout." The second prince glanced up from his paperwork, only once to look at Miranda. "A decomposed body may look like he has unknown bite marks due to the rats chewing on the flesh. I wouldn't be surprised if this supposed 'monster' of yours is perhaps a disposed exotic pet, like a crocodile."

"I-I'm not a child sir!" Her long ears drooped like a puppy who had been scolded. "Regardless of why or how it happened, there's a dead body of a soldier of this nation found in the sewers. I doubt he just got there for exploration’s sakes and eaten by some swamp dragon. We should investigate it further, to prevent anyone else from getting hurt!"

"My men know better than to wander around in the catacombs." Ralnor stated as he dripped wax onto a letter and then stamped it with his seal. "Whatever reason he was down there for, he obviously did not listen to me nor cared about the danger of the old traps. Those tunnels are as old as Hyrule itself and full of peril. The men know not to venture down there and I don't want you going in there either. That is final."

Miranda was about to say something, but stopped herself. Her ears continued to droop. “Yes sir...”

"Now, run along and remember to knock next time." Ralnor reminded the young girl. As she started to exit his office, he said, "And I better not hear of you in those tunnels. I want you alive and well."

“But you said nothing was down there.”

"There's nothing but traps, and I won't have you fall into one because of your insatiable curiosity."

“Ok.” Her ears shot back up and she hopped back to the Prince when she remembered her second objective for entering his office. She handed him a journal containing private dark thoughts of a tutor and bowed. “My last mission my lord. Turns out there was indeed a plot to blackmail your youngest sister.”

"I figured as much." Ralnor's hunches were almost always correct. "And you took care of the problem?"

“I don’t hurt people sir. Just ‘borrow’ all the evidence you need.”

"Very well. I'll see to it that the problem is fixed." Ralnor then instructed her. "Go train with Klinge."

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.” She bowed again and bounded off, not picking up any other presence near by.

Later on in the evening, the servants were avoiding Ralnor's office. Once more, all of the maids swore there was whispering. Perhaps his office really was haunted. After a long night finishing up work, the second prince strolled through the hallway with a book in his hand about ancient poisons.

Miranda couldn’t shake the feeling in her heart about something being terribly wrong. If Ralnor wouldn’t do anything about it, than perhaps Klinge would.

“Klinge! I have news to report!”

Klinge was in his office looking at the clock tic by. Every second going by another reminder of his life never able to end. The Dark Elf barely broke him out of his trance. “Yes Miranda?”

“I found a body in the sewers of Hyrule! I heard rumours of a monster in the underground of Hyrule, so I believe something is incredibly off about this.”

Klinge sighed softly. “So you believe any rumours about a monster now?”

“I know, I know. It’s exactly what Ralnor said, and he was incredibly shady about the subject. He didn’t care that a soldier of Hyrule was ripped apart! I know it was no crocodile.” The Dark Elf slammed her hand on the table. “I know about the rumours that come from Ralnor’s office. I also know there’s major hush-hush with the thieving society around a group that “shall not be named” in Hyrule! My gut is telling me there’s a great danger in Hyrule!”

Klinge pauses to consider it. He too had heard the rumours, but never found the evidence for it. It did make him curious though. And a body of one of his men had to be taken seriously. “Very well Miranda. At the least, we shall recover this body you found.”

Miranda’s eats shot up through her white hair in excitement at being taken seriously. “Thank you sir! I’ll take you there right away!”

Little did the two know that Ralnor had eyes and ears everywhere. There could be no trouble for the underground. What this world knew of monsters had to be limited. When Klinge and Miranda arrived to the body site, there was evidence of blood and decayed flesh... but no corpse.

Miranda was nearly distraught. “It was here!”

Klinge took note of the blood, and stain that dragged backwards into the tunnel. “I believe you.”

Picking up a piece of wood, he turned it in a makeshift torch and handed it to Miranda. “Follow me.”

He stepped into the sewer and started to investigate the blood trail.

The sewer went deep into the heart of Hyrule, yet connected to it was plenty of routes into the catacombs. It was a death maze without a map. Some of the tunnels had caved in over the years and others promised a grisly end with the remains of bones. It was an eerie feeling like the two of them were being watched. Not even rats dared to dwell in this place.

Miranda felt a chill run up her spine. This place felt old, but no longer empty. Klinge however felt nothing for this place. It was just another maze. “Interesting. Anything could be hiding in here.”

Miranda didn’t like the implication of that. Her mother always told her stories of boogeymen hiding in the dark to make her behave as a child. “But you think something is in here?”

“Catacombs this large are like a labyrinth. And labyrinths always hold something...”

Klinge walked to the walls, reading very old Hylian inscriptions.

The text on the concrete wall spoke of how the catacombs used to be a burial ground for the common wealth. The farmland was too precious to sacrifice as a graveyard, so the people were buried here to save space. It warned not to disturb the dead or trespass on their grounds. Promises of demise would greet those who did not respect the wishes of those who had already passed on into the next realm. As the two journeyed deeper into the catacombs, bones started to make up the walls....

The undead warrior glared at the signs. He knew no demise worse than the fate of his undying existence. The dead had no thoughts or messages to give. Miranda really do not like all the skulls that made up the walls. "Klinge. I don't like this place."

"If you see any Statlfos or Redead, stay close and remember your training."

"Klinge, what if we enter the Shadow Temple."

"That's near Kakariko Village. Nowhere near here."

"But-"

"Hush. Keep your ears and eyes open, and your mouth shut."

The Dark Elf did as she was told. Both continued down further and further.

The shadows moved without warning. Water dripped from the ceiling, causing a faint echo throughout the tunnels here and there. Though there were some unsettling signs. More corpses littered the tunnels like the one before, but different signs of death. One unfortunate soul was wrapped in what looked like spider webbing, drained of blood. Another had a hole the size of a melon in his chest, as if something huge had pierced him. Perhaps the grossest was a corpse that had been partly digested and then regurgitated. Bones were scattered across the floor in all directions.

It was too much for the Dark Elf, and she threw up. She could steal from men, make jokes at Bokoblins and criminals screaming for her death, and even swing a punch at some creep. That was fun. That was adventure. This was no adventure. This death all around her clashed against her more innocent viewpoint of the world. Klinge examined the bodies closely. “Take our your camera and capture the evidence. Now.”

Miranda took out her pictograph box and started to take pictures of the corpses. It only held black and white photos, but they were clear enough, the flash going off for each photo taken. Klinge could have sworn he’d seen signs of these attacks before. Did a Gohma spider lay the web? It was a monster big and terrible enough to do the kind of damage to the first two corpses, however, the third corpse didn’t fit its M.O.

The first flash from the camera revealed a tail, slinking back into darkness, fading as the light did. The second flash displayed a pair of red eyes observing from the shadows, narrowed and angry. The third flash sealed Miranda's fate as a figure emerged from the blackness too quick for the eye to see. Clawed hands snatched the elf, unseen to both Miranda and Klinge.

Miranda let out a scream as she was taken, dropping the camera. Her mind raced to her sick mother and how stupid she was for coming here.

Klinge wiped around, his mind racing at this sudden attack. “Miranda!”

Grabbing the torch he ran after her, frantic to find her. “Miranda! Hold on!!!”

As Klinge ran through the tunnels, it was like a rat trying to find its way out of an endless maze with no exit. A dark laugh echoed and taunted him from all directions. Miranda was still alive... for now. She was still screaming and perhaps now, crying too. When the commander ran into a connector, there was a small streams of light from lit torches hanging on the side of the walls. Five options of a path awaited him.... yet Miranda's dagger fell from above to the floor with a clatter, causing the undead to look upward.

A monster was hanging from the ceiling.

Those coils seemed to have no end from what little light the fire provided. The tiny elf was wrapped from neck to ankle with black scales, still moving along her skin. The expression on her face was one of shock and absolute terror. One hand emerged from the shadows and then another, placed expertly on the stones. Then the face of horror slowly crept from the darkness with a demented grin and flickering tongue. Indeed there was a monster beneath Hyrule.

"Come to slay old Bonegrinder?" The creature actually laughed, highly amused as a single claw traced over Miranda's cheek. "Or does he have two new playthings? He so does love to play, you see, chase and chase and chase until he gets them and they scream, so lovely, yes, the screams..."

Miranda’s tears would not stop falling from her face. Her mouth quivered in terror. “P-please. N-no.”

Klinge studied this thing that slivered from the darkness. It had the body of a serpent, and an upper body of a humanoid. It was indeed a monster. But so was Klinge, and the Undead would not be intimidated for the sake of Miranda.

He summoned his bow and arrow, taking aim. “Return. My apprentice. Now.”

"Oh, this your pet? Pity, pity." Bonegrinder's huge body moved freely about the columns holding up the ceiling. The monster did not even seem worried about a weapon. "Don't you know, you're supposed to keep pets on a leash? Otherwise, if it goes out into the wild, it just might get..." He flicked his tongue again, that mouth full of jagged teeth so close to Miranda's face. "Eaten."

“I am Klinge. Blade of the Gerudo. The Slayer. Identify yourself.”

Miranda gave a light scream. “No, no, no, no! Klinge, please help me. I-I want my mom.”

Klinge looked her in the eye, the first time in years he tapped his bow in worry. “Everything is going to be ok Miranda. You’ll see her soon.”

"Oooh, the undead one, the tool of the royals, the gloomy, ever depressed, hollow shell of a man who wishes nothing more than to depart from this realm... but can't." The monster chuckled darkly as Klinge kept the arrow raised and ready to fire. "Yes, yes, Bonegrinder knows all about you, he can feel your surprise. Let's see, what else does he know? Oh yes, he knows you fought with Zelda all those years ago, and... right..." His upper half twisted upside down, a lopsided callous grin on his face. "You let her kill your wife. No wonder you blame the queen, when you really should blame yourself." He shook a clawed finger at the commander. "And now, you're letting this little pet come in here? Where danger lurks around every corner? Tsk, you must not care at all what happens to her." The snake man's jaw unhinged, his mouth impossibly large. "Maybe she'll be a good snack, resting in Bonegrinder's belly until he tires of her."

Miranda screamed aloud, hollering at the top of her lungs for safety and her mother. Klinge felt his dark side rise within him. This abomination was old enough or clever enough to know about his life. Worse, it mocked him. It mocked every fibre that made Klinge what he was. The Undead warrior made a promise that he would destroy this thing. But first, he would save Miranda. This snake was close enough for Klinge’s magic to work. Hopefully she wouldn’t suffer.

In his wrath, he was completely silent. Raising a fist, he clenched it and pulled back, energy spears generating from behind the snake to pierce his tail and mouth. If the gods listened, he prayed they’d allowed him to catch Miranda safely.

The spears did indeed pierce the snake, causing him to drop Miranda. The elf was not totally unharmed, broken bones and bruises from Bonegrinder's coils squeezing her so tightly during the struggle. Though, the attack did not kill the monster. No, it merely made him... laugh? It was a maniacal laugh, one devoid of sanity. Slithering down from the ceiling, the fiend removed the spear from his mouth, a gaping hole there. Creepily, the skin started to patch itself back together, as if the wound had never been there in the first place.

"Oh, you stupid tool..." Bonegrinder's jaw locked back into place with a malicious smile. Those red eyes leered at him as his tail started to snuff out the torches. "You know that you cannot kill what is already... dead."

Klinge caught Miranda with one arm, the Dark Elf falling unconscious after being released. This thing was like him? Then let it see the light. He threw up a wall of dark fire at Bonegrinder. With great intensity, he ran off with Miranda back to the surface. He couldn’t fight with her here. So instead he would retreat.

Bonegrinder did not pursue the two intruders in the catacombs. No, the undead commander would report back to the second prince. There was no need for concern, everything would play in his favor. After all, the prince would not deny him. Ralnor was smart enough to know not to cross a monster. Licking the outside of his jaws, he murmured to himself, "Run, run, undead... run away back to your master."

Klinge promised he’d be back. Arriving at the castle, he dropped Miranda on Doctor Boveir’s operation table. “She needs a physical examination and mental care when she wakes up.”

"Good goddesses, Klinge, what happened to her?" Doctor Boveir took a look over the tiny elf's body and winced aloud. "She has multiple fractures. I'm going to call in a Dusa to help me... what happened?"

“Fix her.”

Doctor Boveir frowned and decided not to ask further questions. He first administered a light sedative to keep Miranda asleep, because she would be in a high level of discomfort after setting the bones. Once the on call Dusa arrived, the two set to work about healing the dark elf.

Klinge walked to his office. Miranda would be safe while with the doctors. Sitting at his desk he let his anger fester deep inside him. The silence made him more angry.

It was not long before Ralnor knocked on Klinge's office door. The second prince heard from his spies that the commander and the dark elf traveled down to the catacombs. He had strictly ordered for no one to be down there for any reason.

“Come in Prince.” Klinge didn’t even need to see who was behind the door to know who was coming.

Ralnor opened the door and then shut it behind him with an angry slam.

"I explicitly ordered that no one went into the catacombs, Klinge. That includes you."

“You think you have power over me?” Klinge squeezes his fists together as he held both elbows on his table. “Tell me. What was that thing I discovered.”

"I am your prince, the least I demand from you is respect! You have free reign on whatever you wish to do, who you want to kill, what you say to others, I don't stop you, but when I give an order, I have good reason for it to be followed!" Ralnor snapped harshly at the commander. "... what do you think you discovered?"

“I investigated the death of one of my men. I don’t allow my soldiers to be discarded like one of your spies Ralnor! I followed a trail to the catacombs. I found a monster by the name of Bonegrinder.” When he saw a visible reaction from Ralnor at that name, Klinge nearly exploded in anger, rising from his chair to walk around his desk and face Ralnor. “What do you know about it? Because you do know something about it. You are going to reveal what you know to me, now boy.”

"One of your men who defied my orders, defied your orders. No better than a traitor." Ralnor had grown cold and callous as he aged. It seemed like his best kept secret was now at risk of being known. Klinge and Miranda had traveled deep enough into the monster's territory to encounter him. "... thanks to you crossing into his domain, I fear now what I'll have to do to appease him." The second prince took a deep breath and tried to tame his ire. "Bonegrinder is an ancient monster from the lands of Omisha; an Anagari."

“My men? Are you speaking of a dead man, or Miranda? And what do you mean appease?”

"Whoever traveled down into those catacombs defied my orders, and thus is no longer my concern." Ralnor then snorted. "Miranda insisted on pursuing the evidence she found when I told her not to do so. She's next in line for insubordination. I'll deal with her later." The prince then explained to Klinge with a dry laugh. "Appease? Did you not see him, Klinge? Or did he move too fast for you do to so? That creature lurks in the underground catacombs and is the hidden head of crime. Anyone who displeases him is eaten. Thieves, black market items, drugs, prostitution, all of that? He rules." He frowned at the commander. "He's older than he looks too. Way older."

Klinge slapped Ralnor across the face. He was completely livid with his nephew. “Your actions disgust me Ralnor. You will not dare lay a hand on Miranda. That girl only did what she thought was the noble thing, and followed my orders to pursue it further. And now she has suffered enough for that. You have not only thrown away your honour by lying in bed with a monster, but a kingpin? What would your brother think? Your wife. Your father .... or your children.” Klinge clenched his fist, reeling in the fact he wanted to beat the life out of the prince. “You allow this thing to fester in Hyrule, to control you, to make you number 2. It seems that’s the place you feel suited to isn’t it. Now tell me, before I spill your secrets out to them all, why you allow that thing to ensnare you.”

Ralnor grunted when Klinge slapped him but stood his ground. This was nothing he had not suffered through before. The blow to the face caused his lip to bust and a trickle of blood to run down his chin.

"... because he can't be killed." Ralnor said lowly, a dark glare on his face. "And I won't risk the lives of my family for an idiot commander and dimwitted dark elf who don't realize exactly how dire this situation is." The prince would do whatever was necessary to ensure the safety of those he cared for, no matter what the price. "It's better to placate a monster than to risk it's ire. I learned that from you."

"Heheheheh..." A voice snickered from inside the walls. "Little prince, did you send this undead twig after Bonegrinder? Oh, he had fun watching the elf scream and the festered pile of flesh twitch from her cries. Won't you send more? You know old Bonegrinder so enjoys the... snacks... that dare to cross into his home."

If looks could kill, Klinge would already be in the next realm.

"... even if I say no, you're still angry." Ralnor spoke in a soft voice. "I gave orders to my men not to cross into the catacombs. You heard me doing so."

"Can't you keep your dogs on a leash? Better yet, why don't you just use dark magic to keep this tool in order?" Bonegrinder inquired, his voice coming from a different direction this time. "It would be easy, Bonegrinder could show you."

Klinge looked down at Ralnor, and the Prince felt an aura from him he never felt before. This wasn’t simple anger, or disappointment. This was something far more dark inside Klinge. “Get. Out.”

That warning could have been for either one of them.

"Hehehe, did old Bonegrinder touch a nerve, corpse?" The snake monster chuckled from inside the walls. "He will be watching you. Nothing you can hide from him."

Ralnor wiped the blood off his chin and turned on his heel. Exiting the office, the second prince walked to his bedroom to check on his wife. With a relieved sigh, he found Cass fast asleep with little Ukuri in her bassinet. It was late but sleep would not come to him, he knew this. Taking his sleeping daughter into his arms, Ralnor sat against a stack of pillows on the bed and silently kept watch.

Klinge went to the darkest reaches of his mind. This thing had festered itself too deeply in the lives of Ralnor and the family to be kept alive. It kept had insulted him too far to be allowed to live. And it claimed to be unkillable. Klinge decided that this was his final challenge. He would slay Bonegrinder. Or it would consume him. Klinge cracked his knuckles as he got to work writing out his plan. “Oh he may try.”

[rainconfettis]

Obligatory Coffee Shop AU Part 2

Welcome back to OCSAU! The long name is really funny to me for some reason.

I have a real tag list now????? ahhhhhhh thank you all who were interested enough

Tag List: @virgilswritings @creative-robot @katatles-the-fish @margarethx @icecoldparadise @angst-patton

Part 1

“But that's all one, our play is done, and we'll strive to please you every day.” Logan watched as the clown finished his song and bowed, then waited for the curtains to close. This was his first time watching Roman perform, and although he had a few issues with Twelfth Night, he was blown away by how good Roman was. Shakespeare was well-known, considered the greatest play-writer of all time, so obviously Logan was going to read a play or two. Nothing, however, compared to seeing it acted out.

Logan waited by the stage for Roman. As he leaned against the stage, he watched the people file out. Everyone seemed to have enjoyed the play, and those who didn’t were dragged along by someone who did. He suppressed a laughed as two siblings bickered over which couple was the most compatible, before their mother interrupted them to stop them from obliviously running into the older couple in front of them. A few people behind them was a group of friends, animatedly talking about their favorite scene, including one where Roman saved the actress playing Olivia when she forgot one of her lines. Logan thought it was incredible how he interrupted her stammering with ease, not missing a beat or even slipping out of character. He made the crowd laugh with his exaggerated hand motions, which Logan assumed were to distract them from Olivia trying to hide her embarrassment.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and smiled. “You did-” he turned to face Roman, but instead was face-to-face with a much shorter man. Despite the height, he had a confidence that said authority, and a smile reaching his eyes that said friend.

“You must be Logan! You're waiting for Roman right?” He paused to see Logan’s curt nod before continuing, “I'm his roommate, Patton. He's told me a lot about you.” and, like a suburban father, he lowered his glasses and gave an exaggerated wink. Logan wasn't sure whether that meant Roman actually had told him everything, or Patton was trying to flatter Logan. Either way, Logan smiled politely.

“That's reassuring. He’s interested enough to discuss me with his friends. That is how it goes, right?”

Patton laughed, and although it was rhetorical, he nodded, “Yes, Roman is very interested.”

“Roman can also tell him that himself.” Logan felt a rush of- well, something- go through him. He lifted his head to see Roman on the stage. While they were talking, he had changed out of his costume and into normal clothes, but he still had some makeup on. Although Logan wasn’t sure of all the names of makeup products, he knew it didn’t usually involve this much glitter. It didn’t detract from Roman’s natural radiance, however, so Logan didn’t mind.

As Logan was examining the way Roman’s arms and chest looked in his tighter-than-average shirt, Patton had started a conversation, and it supposedly included both Roman and him. “...down the street has those comfy seats and the good crunchy ice. But that’s just my opinion.” Patton was bouncing from foot to foot, and turned to look at him, “What do you think Logan?”

Logan, who still wasn’t sure what was going on, but could deduce what was going on, said “Yes, that sounds fine.”

Roman crouched down, placing one hand on the floor of the stage and then jumping off to be on the same level as the other two. Logan instinctively reached his arm out to catch Roman when he landed, wrapping his hand around Roman’s shoulder. Both of them froze slightly, still unused to the subtle touches, and Logan dropped his hand after a lingering moment. Patton pretended not to see, but was visibly faking it with an exaggerated looking the other way with one hand on his hip, the other fidgeting with his sweater, which at this point in the night was wrapped around his neck.

Roman fussed with a strand of hair that was currently falling into his eyes, but made a clicking sound with his mouth, “I think we should get going then. We can walk.” His eyes slid over to Logan’s, and he saw mischief in those light brown eyes, “Shall we?” he bowed, exaggerated and slow, then held out his arm, inviting Logan to take his hand. Logan rolled his eyes, but  happily obliged, and Patton bounced in front of them, on his phone and leading the way out simultaneously.

The night was beautiful. There was a soft glow surrounding the three as they traveled a couple blocks down. Logan wasn’t very well-versed in this part of the city, but Roman took it upon himself to point out every location he’s ever frequented. Logan made note of the light tone the actor used to describe the frozen yogurt shop across the street, and he made a personal note to visit the bookstore a few buildings down from the theatre. Maybe if he visited Roman after rehearsals, or something unimportant like that, he could, possibly, wait there. Read something new. Like Whitman. Or Cervantes. Not that it mattered.

Roman pulled, bringing Logan out of his mindscape. Logan reached his hand up to readjust his glasses, a habit, and looked at the eyes of the one whose hand he was holding, tilting his head slightly and opening his mouth to form a question before realizing Roman was holding the door to a restaurant open for him, and was waiting for him to go inside. Logan smiled, and murmured a quiet ‘thank you’ before walking in, refusing to let go of Roman’s hand and therefore pulling the actor in after him.

While he assumed Patton had skipped ahead to get them a table, it appeared that the energetic man wasn’t just third-wheeling. Logan watched as he scanned the room for less than three seconds, catching a glance of someone and immediately working his way over. Before moving to follow him, Logan shot a look at Roman, who wasn’t giving any indication of what was happening. He only looked resigned, and gently pushed Logan toward the table, since he was in front of Roman. Logan started moving, and as he got closer, he caught a glimpse of purple hair.

Coming up to the table, Patton was animatedly talking to a younger man. The most prominent features to Logan? The dark violet hair with black roots, the pale complexion, and the bags under his eyes that were actually darker than Logan’s own sleep deprived features. Or maybe that was eyeshadow. Upon further (and subtle) investigation, it was a mixture of bags and lightly applied eyeshadow that made his eyes seem very bright hazel. The rest of him seemed normal, a dark hoodie and black jeans.

Logan slid into the booth, pulling Roman in with him. It occurred to him then that they hadn’t stopped holding hands since the theatre, and took the opportunity of grabbing the menu to let go. Before he scanned the menu, he locked eyes with the man across from him, and politely waited until Patton stopped gushing about Roman’s play to introduce himself. He didn’t get the chance, however, as Roman interjected.

“Edgar Allen Woe, I would like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Logan. Logan, this is Patton’s friend.” Logan detected hints of pride when Roman introduced him, and it made his chest thump a little harder.

‘Edgar Allen Woe’ rolled his eyes and flipped Roman off, only stopping when Patton pushed his hand down, “I’m Virgil, actually. Fresh Prince of Nowhere likes to use nicknames regarding my more, as he would call it, ‘edgy’ appearance. Sorry you had to get stuck with him.” The words had no bite behind them, and Virgil and Logan smiled at each other.

“It’s alright, I’m sure I can learn how to deal with him, and I am well aware of the nicknames.” He glanced over to look at the subject of this conversation, who was content to be the subject, and repressed the urge to hold his hand once again.

The conversation would have continued had the waiter not come to take their orders, and when she left the conversation changed to whether breakfast food was better when at the time it should be eaten or when it shouldn’t. Patton and Logan thought it was best eaten in the morning, when it should, but Virgil and Roman, who had both just ordered breakfast foods, disagreed.

It stayed like this the whole night, light-hearted and open. Logan couldn’t believe this was his and Roman’s third date. It felt like a longer amount of time had actually passed. But, he thought, he was now meeting two of Roman’s friends, and they were much more knowledgeable about him than he was. He felt a pull, a longing, to be as close as they were. Not just with Roman, but the other two as well. Virgil was witty, and shared some similar opinions with Logan, and although Patton was completely opposite in personality, Logan admired the way he seemed to be the heart of the group.

And then there was Roman. Beautiful, outgoing, just a tad bit headstrong Roman. Logan never missed the way he would laugh, his eyes squinting and head thrown back. The way his hair continuously fell into his face, and he unconsciously combed it back with his hand every time. The way he checked on Logan to make sure he felt included in the group. Roman was someone he very much liked, and someone he wanted to continue liking.

After the dinner, Patton had Virgil drive him home. He said, and not too nonchalantly, that he wanted to give Roman and Logan some ‘alone time’. The pair wasn’t quite sure what they were supposed to do with that on the streets, on a Saturday night, with people everywhere, but they didn’t mind being alone. Roman once again took Logan’s hand, and they walked back toward the theatre where Roman’s car was. They didn’t speak, just listened to the noise around them. The people, the wind in the trees, and the cars. They were all an acceptable substitution for their own voices, in Logan’s opinion.

Roman drove Logan home. He was aware of where Logan lived from dropping him off after their second date, but he still needed Logan to guide him. Logan yawned as he stepped out of the car, checking his watch to see how late it was. It was late. He reached into his pocket to find his keys, and was vaguely aware that Roman was now out of the car, too. Pulling out his keys, he looked up and watched as Roman walked toward him, nervously. Logan smiled. He knew what the other was going to do. It’s been three dates, and each time, Roman was flustered and made excuses at the end of the night. Not that Logan minded. He believed in everything in its own time.

Apparently now was the time. Roman took hold of Logan’s hands, meeting eyes to be sure Logan didn’t mind, and leaned forward, pressing his lips softly against the other’s. Logan leaned down, tilting his head and relaxing into the feeling of Roman. Both were quite nervous, but when they broke apart, they grinned. Logan whispered, “You were amazing on stage. I didn’t tell you that yet, but you held my attention the entire time.”

Roman blushed, and scoffed a little, backing away enough to give them a little space, “You’re biased.”

“Well, that’s true.” Logan laughed, and Roman laughed with him. Logan placed his hand on Roman’s shoulder, and pulled him in for one more kiss, separating enough to whisper, “But you are insufferably attractive, so anyone would watch you when given the opportunity.” Roman sucked in a breath, and a smiled spread over his face, slowly, like he was dreaming.

They said goodnight then, and Logan made him promise to text him when he got home safe. When Logan got ready for bed, he pressed his fingers gently to his lips, and grinned. He was happier than he had been in a long time, and the reason was now texting him.

Home safe but you should be with me

Logan laughed and text back: Oh? A little confident after our first kiss, aren’t you?

R: I have an extensive collection of Disney movies that arent worth watching alone

L: Ah, so you’re using me to fill a space

R: That’s not all I’m using you for

L: That’s ominous yet flattering. However, I’m going to bed

R: Lame but understood

R: Gn xx

Logan took a deep breath, trying to calm his heart: Goodnight, love

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Portrait of Emptiness, Part 3

Magdalene’s heart pounded like a drum, for she was walking alone. In the mist-riddled streets of Crimsonport. At night.

Every sight and sound kept her on edge, almost causing her to jump out of her own skin. She strained to identify the source every time. The pitter-patter of a cat here, the dubious passerby stealing furtive glances there, and even a group of drunken men whom she feared might stop and accost her. Although none of the people whom she encountered crossing her path paid her any mind, she kept looking over her shoulder, remaining tense until they disappeared around a corner or till the thick walls of fog swallowed them whole.

Being the first time ever for her to explore the city at night, the sheer amount of people and nightlife surprised her. Still, it was not the people that frightened her—not the wayward, nor the thieves, nor the cutpurses she feared to come across. It was the creatures of the night she dreaded, hiding in the darkest corners, stalking human prey, thirsting for blood and finding it among the damned souls unlucky enough to appear in their sights at such ungodly hours.

Magdalene, a young girl, would know no more of these things than the superstitions running rampant among the people of her time and age, had she not encountered the unnatural creatures firsthand. Had she not been taught more about them by Nora Morrissey.

Nora had also taught her—at least in theory—how to trail a mark, or how to shadow a person. Most of these lessons focused on hunting prey in the wild, like the forsaken woodlands surrounding the city. Some of the lessons applied now as well, even within the monolithic walls of the dreary city.

First tack: know your prey. If you know how a beast thinks and behaves, you know how to find it more easily. If the mark is on the run, it will fall into its natural routines. Even a wild monster can fear for its life and fall into its usual ruts when in danger, retreating to places it would feel safe. Get into the mark’s mind and you shall find the mark.

In Marcel’s case, he was no beast, and Magdalene questioned how well she had gotten to know him in the weeks prior to the death of the aristocrats he was accused of having murdered. Yet she had a few things to go on—Marcel’s home, a shack in the harbor district, as well as the streets they walked together during sunny days while chatting.

Second tack: keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. Even when the mark is trying to cover its tracks, it is bound to make mistakes. These mistakes manifest themselves in clues. Broken branches in the forest, deep and unmistakable imprints in soft grounds from a misplaced step, or campfires and waste left behind.

Regarding this point, Magdalene had nothing to go on. They were in a city, after all, and she found the streets impossible to read the way Nora had described the ways to read the woodlands. But she was working on it, scouring the wide roads and alleyways alike, hoping to find a dead giveaway.

The hours Magdalene spent in search of Marcel filled her with unyielding dread. She kept imagining all the horrible things that might befall her. She suspected monsters lurking everywhere.

Yet she remained alone all this time. Her only constant companion was the sound of her boots striking the cobblestone roads at a brisk pace, turning irregular whenever she swerved to look over her shoulder or pause to investigate something odd. Clues to Marcel’s whereabouts continued to elude her.

Then, on the last road among the ones she took walks with him on, she saw a shadow in the mists that reminded her of Marcel’s silhouette. On the gaunt side, not too tall, ragged attire. She stopped and moved behind the corner of an alleyway branching from the street. The mysterious silhouette disappeared, accompanied by the creaking of a heavy iron gate.

Magdalene squinted, trying to focus her eyes in hopes of seeing if she had truly found him. Her only certainty—the figure had entered the cemetery of the Hillrise District. Her heart beat faster at the mere thought of that.

“You better stop loiterin’ around her, laddie,” said a man with disdain in his tone, speaking from her side. The corpulent man had his hands balled into fists, resting at his hips. It took Magdalene a moment to realize that he wore the clothing of gentry, as typical of the folk dwelling in Hillrise.

His eyes grew wide when their gazes met for a moment and realization set in.

“Oh, pardon, with your clothing—I thought you were some do-no-good lad, miss,” he said. Even with the nearest street lantern casting dim light on them, she could tell he turned red in the face when he asked, now with a ring of concern in his voice, “What are you doing here this late?”

Still on guard and ready to pull the knife hidden in her coat, it took Magdalene some deep breaths and moments of focus to grasp the situation. When she snuck out of her mother’s home, she had dressed up in old clothing of her father’s. Magdalene had done so out of practicality, as Nora always said that she would need to dress for function, not fashion, should she ever hunt. Only now did it dawn on her that this stranger’s misunderstanding stemmed from her attire making her look like a boy until he saw her delicate facial features. The somewhat musty smell of the clothing surfaced in her senses again and helped ground her in the here and now.

“On my way home, sir,” she replied in the volume of a mouse, while turning away from him, hoping he would not recognize her ever again. Hoping that he would not follow up on that, nor follow her on her dark path.

It took all her concentration, and her cheeks burned brightly to just walk away, contrary to her nature to talk things out when possible, though she managed to fake confidence as she strode towards the cemetery. The man she left behind snorted and followed a different path, vanishing into one of the houses.

Magdalene arrived outside the iron-barred gate to the cemetery. Eerie gargoyle statues perched on stone pedestals flanked the entrance and peered down at her. The fog had thickened, allowing her to see no further than a stone’s throw away into rows upon rows of gravestones and mausoleum entrances. The gate itself had been left ajar.

Her chin quivered until she set her jaw. She slipped through the opening between gate and fence, fearing the thought of anybody hearing its metal hinges creak the way they did when maybe-Marcel had entered. Or whoever might be lurking around here at this hour. Her mind reeled with the staggering array of possibilities. Ghouls, cryptwalkers, vampires, all such things were possible. What if Marcel was one of the ancient dead, capable of wielding sorceries? It would explain the mysterious murders, but it did not quite add up with what she knew about him, either.

The deeper she trailed into the cemetery’s confines, the more distant the city’s nightly sounds became. The thick fog and oppressive silence that enveloped Magdalene made her hold her breath and watch her every step—she strained herself to avoid making any sound at all as she crept through the graveyard in search of Marcel.

What if he noticed her first? What if this was a trap?

The questions dissipated the moment she heard a faint squeak and saw a small lantern switched on, no more than a hundred paces away, in a forest of headstones and creepy ornate monuments to the dead. As the gas-powered light grew brighter, the silhouette looked much more like Marcel. Magdalene took no time to make sure, instead choosing to duck behind a large angelic statue. The figure—her mark—descended down the steps inside a small mausoleum entrance. The light from his lantern faded as he closed the gate behind himself.

Sweat erupted from her palms, though her hands and feet turned icy cold. She shivered and re-adjusted the collar of her father’s jacket, though this summer night felt fairly mild, and her efforts to warm up would do nothing to keep the sense of cold dread from creeping into her heart. She placed her hand on the grip of the knife, feeling its outlines through the fabric of shirt and jacket. Once she ensured she still had it on her person, she inched closer to the mausoleum entrance with careful, quiet steps.

She struggled with this. With everything about this. Two parts of her clashed, underlined by her heart beating so fast that she could feel it thumping against her chest. A part of her that wanted to believe that Marcel was innocent, and a part of her that knew, deep down, that he had some connection to the dark forces of the Red Coast—or was, indeed, a monster.

Magdalene arrived in front of the mausoleum entrance. The large oaken double door loomed tall, reinforced with wrought black iron and etched symbols of graceful reapers and angels that stood watch over the deceased. The doors stood slightly ajar, just enough that she could see a glimmer of light from the depths, deep down from the bottom of a long stairwell behind the crack. A heavy padlock hung from an iron ring attached to the door’s reinforcements, unlocked, with the key missing.

Above the doors, engraved in the keystone, she read the name “Collins.” Marcel’s family name. He never did tell her about his ancestry, only about living as an orphan. Never about what happened to his blood relatives.

She could find out. She could ask him. She could enter now. Or leave and seek help. Maybe Constable Todd would help? Maybe she should alert the authorities? But would they not be lambs to the slaughter in the face of the unnatural? Then again, what could Magdalene herself, all alone, do?

She could turn back and investigate during the day. But no—Nora had once said that she would show her what Johnn had taught her about picking locks, but neither of the two adults ever got around to teaching Magdalene this particular trick. Surely, Marcel would lock the crypt doors again once he left this place.

“Kill, or be killed. When you are on the hunt, Maggie, you have to act decisively. Stop thinking. Go in for the kill before the mark can get you first. They all fight back. Cornered beasts—be they man or monster—always fight back. Act without thinking before they can,” Nora once said. The gravity of those words echoed in Magdalene’s mind now.

She pushed the door open and winced, expecting it to creak loudly like the cemetery’s front gate. These doors, however, remained silent. The dim glow of Marcel’s lantern faintly traveled up the winding steps that descended into the bowels of this mausoleum.

Whispers. It sounded like Marcel whispering.

Taking each step down the stairs with trepidation, one by one, Magdalene closed in on the source of light below. The whispers, clearer now, sounded unlike any language she knew. Alien, foreign words, guttural, clipped, and jagged. Harsh combinations of consonants unfamiliar to her ear cascaded out of his lips, though she still could not see him yet.

The whispering stopped, and so did she. After waiting a full minute before daring to breathe again, she continued on.

Certain she had made no sound whatsoever, she rounded the last stretch of the spiral down its steps and stood inside a sprawling chamber, lined with sarcophagi set into alcoves around the room. A slab of wood had been placed atop two sarcophagi at the far end of the crypt. With candles and a skull and books placed upon it, it now looked like a makeshift altar.

Marcel’s lantern stood on the floor, unattended, near what looked like splatters of blood, though they took formations too geometric and deliberate to have been shed by mere injury. Though she could not read them, she recognized them as glyphs she had seen in Nora’s journals, used in things like magickal practices or dark rituals of worship.

And beyond all of these unsettling sights, stood more portraits. They all looked like renderings of Magdalene, in different attires and situations. Surely inspired by the times she spent her days with Marcel. Though unlike the Portrait of Emptiness, these paintings were sloppier, rushed. Uglier.

Marcel was nowhere to be seen.

Magdalene held her breath as she approached the altar and the paintings set up on easels behind it. She trembled with each step, and her chest came close to exploding with the violence of her heartbeat. The paintings of herself drew her in, for they too, betrayed a brutality in their brush strokes. Clumsy lines and sludgy color compositions flowed together and revealed something about the artist.

Obsession. And hatred.

These portraits unsettled her, but not nearly as much as the sight of the tomes atop the altar she now stood before. Left open with a dozen candles shedding flickering light upon them, the pieces began to fall into place.

She swallowed, and when she reached out to flip through their thick pages, Magdalene clenched her trembling hand into a fist in an attempt to quell its quaking. It helped little, though she proceeded to inspect the ancient writings within the tomes.

Antediluvian necromancy. Not magick, not from pacts with demons, but ancient rituals. Prayers and songs to old, forgotten gods, to creatures in the void between worlds.

“No,” she whispered to herself. She knew from her research in Nora’s journals what madness overtook the poor souls reckless enough to practice these dark rites.

The first two tomes kept their secrets in a language Magdalene could not comprehend beyond the glyphs mirroring the ones in blood upon the crypt’s floors, but one of the other books was a fine little journal signed by Avery Collins, containing cleanly-written translations in the old high tongue, which Magdalene had learned from her father’s library. She understood them. She recognized what they conjured. Some part of her instinctively knew how to use them. “No, no, no.”

“Empty your heart of all desires, pour it all into works of passion, and let devotion fill that void. The Princes of Despair will hear your prayers, and bless you with miracles of death. The grass shall wilt underneath your feet wherever you wander, and your foes will succumb to pestilence and misery.” Words that Magdalene read in the tome, hearing them only in her head, until Marcel completed the rest of the final sentence. Confidence wavered in and out of his tone as the words poured out. Rehearsed, rather than sincere.

“I could not let them mar your perfection,” Marcel then added.

Magdalene felt him approaching but dared not move, dared not turn around. What should she do? Could she really kill him? What could she do?

She touched the handle of her concealed knife once more, knowing it to be there, though surprised by the feeling of her heartbeat even through all the fabric of her father’s shirt and jacket. Magdalene knew what had to be done.

“Words,” she said. Her voice trembled in harmony with her body. She pulled out the blade and turned to face him, then nearly dropped the kitchen knife when she finally saw him.

Marcel looked worse than ever before. Gaunt only began to describe his features. His visage revealed sleepless nights and days without nourishment. Blood splatters had dried upon his skin and the rags he wore. His entire hands were stained in dark colors, though Magdalene’s sinking feeling in her stomach told her that more than paint was responsible for those stains.

His otherwise lively eyes stared into hers, hollow and burnt out. Marcel was a husk of his former self, starved and more like a walking corpse.

Magdalene pressed her lips together with such force that they became thin white lines, and she mustered all her courage.

“Just words, Marcel. They mean nothing. What you created—it is a masterpiece, no matter what they say. You need not kill them, or anybody, over words,” she said while he crept closer to the beat of each word. She awkwardly held the knife out in front of her, clutching it in both hands and pointing it at his face. “Stay back, I do not want to hurt you.”

“I am so sorry, Maggie. You were not supposed to see this. Any of this. My master—my father—forbid me from ever sharing this knowledge with the world. That is why I had to take his life, too,” Marcel said. “I fear—I fear I cannot let you leave. I cannot let you live.” No uncertainty in his voice this time.

His bony arm snaked out and snatched the blade from her hands, taking her by surprise. He turned it around and closed in.

Magdalene’s eyes reddened, and she fought back the tears welling up, threatening to cloud her vision. She could not afford it now. This was the decisive moment. The time to stop thinking.

The time to act.

He lunged forward, but instead of getting out of the way, she grabbed the blade with both hands and pulled. This, coupled with his own momentum, threw him aside. He stumbled and fell over the wooden board that his pathetic altar was comprised of, crashing down onto the hard stone floor with it and knocking out the lights of the candles. The knife clattered onto the ground with a sharp, ringing sound.

The sting and ensuing pain from her palms being cut open by the sharp knife followed with a delay and finally won the battle for her eyes, causing tears to stream from them. Though she somehow expected herself to scream in agony, nothing came.

Instead, Magdalene gritted her teeth and clenched her fists till the crimson dripped from them. She sprayed the ritualistic symbols on the floor with her own lifeblood.

Sprawled and so weak from his famine and fatigue that he struggled to get back up on his feet, Marcel craned his neck to peer back up at her from the floor. The reflection of the gaslight lantern in his widening eyes was the last thing she saw before kneeling down in the prayer circles and clamping her eyes shut.

She folded her bloodied hands before her in a semblance of prayer, and prostrated herself before the powers that be. She knew not who or what would answer this desperate call, but it mattered not. She prayed for a miracle, no matter how dark it may be.

“No,” Marcel muttered in his feeble voice. He shuffled around, not closer towards her, but farther away. Then he shrieked, “No!”

Something told her to not open her eyes, for a cacophony of sinister laughter, and stone grinding upon stone, and rustling of fabric, and scraping of metal against metal, and rattling of chains, and howls of pain, and other horrendous things began to fill her mind. Then it filled the chamber, assuming a place in reality, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

She felt a presence—something not of this world. First in the back of her mind, then throughout her entire body, then in the world around her. And she dared not look. She wanted to give in to whatever shred of morbid curiosity awoke inside of her, screaming at her to glimpse the abyss she had just opened, but her sheer fear eclipsed it.

“We awaited this moment. Your awakening is now. Your destiny chosen,” spoke an unfamiliar voice in a strangely serene monotone.

Marcel screamed and panted and scurried, sounds that cut through the ghastly noises echoing through the crypt, all around Magdalene. Many presences had joined in the chamber, one darker than the other. Claws scraped over stone, not of a natural gait, but to instill dread in the hearts of its prey.

“Hunger,” said one, hissing the word in a whisper.

“Feast,” chimed in another hiss.

“N-no! I will stop you. Must stop y-you—the only way,” Marcel stammered. The metal of the knife scraped against the floor as he picked it up and his weak footsteps limped over at Magdalene, whose eyes remained tightly shut.

Only steps away from her, his panicked, labored panting transformed into a shriek, rising in pitch until it turned into a gurgle. Something shuffled before Magdalene. Something with powerful, heavy movements that thumped down onto the stone tiles like boulders, conjuring up images of legs thick as tree trunks.

The sinister laughter returned, now in front of her, laughing at Marcel, illustrating its amusement over the sounds of Marcel’s pain weaving into the gurgling sounds that escaped his punctured throat.

“Pray we return once more, seeker of the void,” whispered a feminine voice into Magdalene’s left ear. It sent shivers down the girl’s spine, and she feared that these beings would take her next.

“We accept his sacrifice,” cackled a tiny voice from a corner of the room, moving quickly.

Disgusting smacking sounds and something akin to a limb being wrenched out of its socket filled the room, just before Marcel stopped emitting sounds of hellish agony. It caused more tears to stream down Magdalene’s cheeks.

“But a child of man, yet we taste the spirit in your blood,” whispered the feminine voice. It spoke in an unidentifiable foreign accent and sounded weirdly familiar to Magdalene.

“Followed your call from beyond the veil,” said another voice.

“Our blessings—yours—until you break our laws,” said a hiss.

The scuttling, scuffling, clanking, scratching, the bouts of horrifying laughter, and the scraping, it all grew into a crescendo and then went silent. Magdalene knew better than to open her eyes. Her hands still clasped together in prayer, she trembled all over, knowing herself to be in the presence of ancient beings now.

She asked, “What laws?”

She rested her forehead against her hands and focused on the pain of the cuts in her palms.

Do not give in to the fear. Do not open your eyes. She told herself these things, yet she opened her eyes.

The crypt was empty save for the objects that had been there before, the flickering light of the gas lamp causing the shadows of the sarcophagi to dance around the room like ghosts. There was nobody there.

Nobody but Marcel’s decapitated corpse. It looked like something had torn his head off, with his head nowhere to be seen. The mystic tomes of dark rituals lay not in disarray around his destroyed altar, but now neatly arranged around Magdalene in a perfect circle, splayed out to pages littered with glyphs and writing that began to invade her thoughts.

Though the tears blurred her vision and she needed to readjust her eyes from having shut them for minutes that had felt like an eternity, Magdalene could have sworn that one of the lids on a sarcophagus just slid shut with a subtle sound of stone grinding upon stone. She shivered at the thought and decided not to investigate.

“What do I do now,” she asked into the emptiness. The emptiness that now filled her heart, and the silence of the crypt she knelt in.

No answer ever came.

The time to act had passed. The decisive moment. And Magdalene had acted.

It took her what felt like an hour to calm her nerves and bandage her hands with shreds of fabric torn from her father’s shirt, to climb out of the crypt and lock it behind her, to even just attempt to leave this dark chapter behind her. But she would never forget. Those sounds, that evil presence, Marcel’s sudden death, it all would haunt her for the rest of her life. Unsure what she had done, she only knew she had done something.

With the small stack of mystic tomes and Avery Collins’ journal under one arm, she exited the cemetery, wandering out into the foggy streets of Crimsonport, hoping to return home before dawn or before any officers might spot and stop her.

Magdalene was not herself anymore. It felt like she had been transformed. Something had irrevocably changed—both with the world and with her. It rendered her dizzy with fear, and trembling with a sense of unexplored might. She shot a glance at the reddening spot on her bandaged palm where the blood was seeping into the cloth. Then at the tomes under her other arm.

A grim realization took over. She now had the tools to act. Now, she not only knew of the unnatural things that dwelt in and around Crimsonport. Now, she held on to something that would give her the ability to deal with them—to fight them.

When she had prayed to stop Marcel at any cost, those old, deranged deities answered. She had sacrificed her desire to find a way to fight evil through her own power. She had become a vessel for something that did not belong in this world. In time, studying those tomes would yield power that she could wield against the creatures of the night. But now, she was one of them.

After sneaking back into her home through the cellar, she changed back into her night gown and silently crossed the inside of her mother’s house, hoping to return to her bedroom undetected.

She paused in the hallway, in front of the breathtaking portrait Marcel had painted of her.

The Portrait of Emptiness.

Seeing her old self, frozen in that moment, filled her with a sadness she would never be able to subdue.

That Magdalene was gone now.

—Submitted by Wratts

[gold-from-straw]

The Golden Prince - Ch2

This chapter contains quite graphic violence, so I’ve used a cut! If you want to read from the beginning, here it is on AO3!

Percy followed his prince up the last wide streets to the palace, never allowing his focus to lapse. Prince Credence glided through the vaulted corridors, his back straight, his poise perfect as always. Percy was close enough that he alone could see the sweat dampening the black curls against the graceful curve of his neck, and he had to force his gaze away.

True to his word, he walked straight to the council chambers, where his mother the Queen would be holding court. Percy noticed no flinch in his demeanour, no flicker of fear, save for the clenching of his fists, skin stretching white over his knuckles. Percy’s heart ached. He wished, not for the first time, that the young man he adored was not so kind, would think more of himself than his people. If it were so, Percy could have some chance of one day convincing him to run from this repressive land in the dead of night, flee the violence and control and travel together, under Percy’s protection. Many a night had he spent in dreams of simply wandering, like he had done in his youth, before he arrived in Salem. Those days had been carefree, but lonely, and imagining the perfection of Prince Credence by his side, bestowing those precious small smiles on him, was an indulgence to be treasured in absolute secrecy.

Credence stopped the requisite seven paces from the throne and dipped his head in a bow. Percy dropped to his knee.

“Prince Credence.” Queen Mary’s voice was ice to Percy’s spine. “For what reason do you interrupt the council in session?”

Percy’s immediate instinct was to bristle on his prince’s behalf. Credence was of age, surely it was not only his right to take part in council meetings, but his obligation. As heir it was vital that he learn statecraft. But Credence’s voice betrayed no impatience or irritation. “My queen,” he said, his voice soft and carrying to every corner of the great chamber. “Forgive my intrusion. It has come to my attention that there has been an arrest made in error, an accusation of witchcraft mistakenly made.”

There was silence. The hairs at the nape of Percy’s neck raised in warning.

“Are you questioning the wisdom of our most vital law, Prince Credence?”

Credence’s head snapped up, his first show of fear. “Not at all, your Majesty! I would never consider it.”

“And yet you speak on behalf of a witch, whose own neighbour has denounced her for unspeakable acts? Tell me, my child, do you know this woman better than those who are forced to live near her?”

He bowed his head again in supplication. “Her husband—“

She scoffed, and Percy felt the eyes of the council fall derisively on Credence’s bent neck. “Her husband. A man in the thrall of a witch? You believe his word over that of a God-fearing neighbour, a man well respected and active in the church.” She turned to one of her councillors. “Remind me, Lord Griggs, of the evidence against Temperance Bradbury.”

A thin, white haired man stood and coughed importantly. “The case against Mrs Bradbury was brought by a Mr Timothy Swann, who claimed that Mrs Bradbury had cast upon him the evil eye, and caused him to become unnaturally enamoured of her. Indeed, upon investigation, many items of a concerning nature were found in her possession, including an amulet for worshiping the moon goddess, and a poppet believed to be used in the cursing of good Christians.” He looked up and sniffed. “We are even now collecting further evidence against her from other neighbours.”

“And what about evidence on her behalf?” asked Credence, standing straight once more, his voice limned in steel. Percy felt warmth flood his every cell, fear and pride for his prince saturating him.

He stood, his chin high, face determined as he gazed into his mother’s eyes. Queen Mary stared down at him, the slightest curl to her lip. “I am concerned about your priorities, Prince Credence. I believe it is time to remind you of where your loyalties lie. Time for you to prove your devotion to our Lord God and rejection of Satan and his servants, those who would practice witchcraft.” She turned to the council, her voice rising to spread, insidious, through the hall, through the unknown channels of gossip and into the city. “Let it never be said that I show favouritism. Let it be known that I shall punish my own flesh and blood in defence of the Word of God, and that our battle against the evil of witchcraft may be waged across the lines of love and family. The witch Temperance Bradbury shall be hanged at noon on the morrow.”

“No!”

Her head snapped to Credence as he cried out, and her eyes narrowed. “And my son shall take twenty lashes with the scourge, as a reminder that our Lord Jesus suffered for our sins, and we shall suffer gladly with him.”

Percy felt the blood drain from his face. He wanted nothing more than to gather the prince up and run with him, but Credence gathered his poise and straightened his back. With his spine dead straight, he walked after the Queen, a silent procession that grew as they neared the courtyard. Percy glared at every face that joined, remembering those whose eyes gleamed with schadenfreude, and those who looked after the prince in sorrow.

His very soul ached to see his beloved prince step out into the courtyard and strip his golden coat off, revealing a back littered with scars. He nodded to the executioner, Jacob, who bowed his curly head in sorrow and respect. The queen mounted the stairs to the royal box, her voice cold and clear as she announced the execution of the blacksmith’s wife, and the punishment of the prince.

The people gathered as the news spread through the city. Jacob lifted the scourge, braided leather thongs interspersed with shards of bone, vicious and unnecessary. Percy felt ill.

“Stop,” called the queen. Her voice projected clearly without her raising it. “To prove your loyalty to queen and country, I would have your most loyal knight perform the punishment.”

Percy’s heart froze in his chest. He could not - he could never bear to hurt Credence. But the prince turned, his eyes meeting Percy’s, and he nodded. There was nothing but peace and acceptance in his expression, and Percy could not bear it.

Jacob placed the handle of the whip in Percy’s hand. “Do not hold back your strength,” he said softly, sad eyes meeting Percy’s. “It will do him no good. Trust me.”

Credence turned to face the whipping post, muscle and sinew shifting under his skin as he raised his hands over his head. Percy’s feet led him forwards, each step like lead.

“Begin,” called the queen, and Percy steeled himself. He raised the scourge, hating the feel of the leather in his hand, the sound of the bone clicking, the evil woman who would have her own son whipped in front of his people by the man who would have done anything to save him from harm. He took a breath, held back his gorge, and swung his arm.

The first lash fell across his shoulder blades, and Credence twitched, but made no sound. Percy cringed, his heart shrivelling within his chest, but he lifted the whip again. As the strikes fell, the shards of bone ripping into his skin, leaving red lines of inflammation and torn flesh, Percy gulped back his grief and rage.

By the fifth strike, the blood was flowing. By the seventh, Credence was grunting in pain. When he cried out loud on the eleventh, the bone slicing into the skin on his ribs, Percy could hold back his own sobs no longer. He whipped the leather into his beloved prince’s body, his eyes blurred with tears.

He was breathing hard, almost sobbing, by the twentieth. Credence’s knees had given out beneath him and he sagged, his head hanging low between his shoulders. Percy returned the hated scourge to Jacob, wiping his tears away discretely before turning to the prince.

Credence had gathered his strength, his legs holding him, though they trembled visibly. He gathered his silk shirt and coat, buttoning them up though the blood soaked through the fine material immediately, and turned, his poise perfect as he bowed to his mother. Thanked her for her protection of his immortal soul. Percy kept his mouth shut lest he lose the contents of his stomach.

He remained standing in the courtyard as the queen left, as the council dispersed. As the people returned, heads bowed, to their work. He stood, eyes fixed on the precious blood that marred the dust of the courtyard.

@fckimlovingit, @vacantbloodbones, @theaterclassmademegay, @soz I hope you guys don’t mind me tagging you every chapter! If you do please tell me and I’ll stop!

[ravensinflight]

Criminal World

Hard to be a player when you don’t know the game. A semi-Atomic Blonde AU from the lovely Rumbelle Secret Santa prompt by @annagingil: “secret lovers, spies in day.”  Title by Bowie, hot mess by me. Here, have some songfic like it’s 2004. I hope you enjoy.

Rated: M

Word count: 3,983

A03 Link

You never told me of your other faces

You were the widow of a wild cat

And now I know about your special kisses

And I know you know where that's at

I guess I recognize your destination

I think I see beneath your make-up

What you want is sort of separation

This is no ordinary

This is no ordinary--“Criminal World” by David Bowie

Belle grabbed handfuls of hair, twisting it with practice between her fingers. She shoved it roughly but efficiently under a short red wig, lowering the long fringed bangs over the tops of her eyes. She carded her fingers through the rest of the bob to make sure it was lying flat and even. It would be easier with a mirror, but she plans on completing her transformation in the stall of this godawful ladies’ room before glancing at the total effect on her way out.

Boots, impractical but stylish jacket, new earrings and a couple of slap bracelets complete the look. She wants a look that says “party girl” but inconspicuous, so most of her ensemble is black or navy. Everything she was previously wearing, including the flat shoes, blonde wig, professional cut dress, and stud earrings get shoved into the oversized slouch bag covered in heavy leather fringe that she wings over her shoulder like an infantry pack.

Less than five minutes after Belle entered, Lacey leaves.

She hadn’t had enough sleep but she’d had enough coffee. The coffee in this country was dismal; it was so mild she could probably brush her teeth with it, but that made it easier to imbibe large amounts without necessarily intaking food to protect her stomach. Belle enjoyed food a great deal, so it was a source of consternation that her stomach could be somewhat touchy at times. People in her line of work really shouldn’t develop quirks that get you noticed, or remembered.

Or slow you down: she was almost 20 minutes behind her self-imposed schedule. That was still within the range of allowable delay but it didn’t improve her mood. She’d needed the extra time to change hotels, or rather, have Lacey change hotels via payphones at the airport. Then of course she had to become Lacey in that dive of a ladies’ room, and at last she was ready to meet the Stationmaster.

She’d checked her bags in at left-luggage until after the meeting; depending on how competent she assessed this “Mr. Gold” to be, she might need to take further precautions with her belongings for a long-term stay.

Belle internally rolled her eyes at the name Mr. Gold. She’d asked back at Home Office what year exactly did this agent think they were living in? Regina had given her half a smile and said “You’ll have to ask Gold--he’s been Stationmaster so long he may have lost touch with reality.”

Belle reached the rendezvous site 15 minutes before Mr. Gold and 10 minutes later than she wanted to. The discotheque thrummed like a hive of bees from the outside. She found a spot in the shadows down from the entrance, leaning against it in apparent casualness while lighting a cigarette. She balanced the danger of the glare from the tip drawing notice against the suspicious nature of being noticed doing nothing at all, and added the adoption of a bored look while she slouched to clearly indicate ‘waiting for someone and not happy about it, do not approach.’

She was intently scanning the people as they entered and exited the club, but she felt more than heard that something was behind her a moment before the man began speaking.

“Ms. French?” A voice asked in accented English.

She turned her head slowly and controlled, like a snake hypnotizing prey.

“Mr. Gold?” She responded in her own accented English. Which accent she’d chosen for this engagement not quite evident from only those two words.

There was a tapping sound from the shadows behind her, as a man with a cane and a hideous hat emerged from one shadow around the corner of the building to join her shadow. Belle’s internal map told her that he’d had to come up from the river banks and detour around several warehouses to get that drop on her. Not the path she would have taken, but not wholly unexpected.

Belle knew she still looked like a bored party girl and took a slow drag from the cigarette while eyeing the man. Shortish, dressed nicely apart from the hat, cane was a bit ostentatious (necessary?), older but that was too be expected based on the briefing at Home. “You’re late,” she informed him. She’d decided to use R.P. for this assignment for regional neutrality. The reprimand sounded lovely in BBC English.

The man smiled far too widely. “No, I’m not.” Fair enough, In a flash of the headlight of a passing car, she caught sight of the glint of something in his mouth. A gold tooth? Her estimations of this agent were . . . conflicted. He read like something out of  an old spy comic with advertisements for decoder rings in the back. On the other hand, he’d almost gotten the drop on her. Almost.

“Shall we?” Mr. Gold held out his arm for her like an old-time gallant. She threw back her head and gave a drunken laugh, grabbing his arm sloppily while her legs contrived to fall in step with him and not topple her over despite the lack of direction she was apparently giving them. The wool coat covering his arm was warm and expensive feeling. He smelled like woodsmoke. Mr. Gold grinned again, and they started down the street; just a businessman on a Friday night picking up a good-time girl. They disappeared into the shadows together.

(ah, ah, ah)

What a criminal world

The boys are like baby-faced girls

What a criminal girl

She'll show you where to shoot your gun

What a typical mother's son

The only thing that she enjoys

Is a criminal world

Where the girls are like baby-faced boys

Belle lit up a cigarette while scrutinizing photographs.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that in bed,” Gold said, not looking up from the papers he was reading in the armchair next to the bed. Belle turned her head slightly to give him a languid look while she exhaled a stream of smoke nonchalantly. She sat in the middle of Gold’s ridiculously large bed, wearing only her own lingerie and his shirt. Black and white glossy photographs littered the bed around her. She’d made a good connection in befriending Merida, novice intelligence agent. Merida tended to blunder about and into things, but she took a damn fine shot.

For a moment, Gold looked up at her sternly from the armchair before his face softened in resignment and he looked back down at his papers. He wore a an honest to God smoking jacket without a trace of irony, looking like some ersatz Sherlock Holmes in the overstuffed brown leather chair.

Frankly, everything about Gold’s abode was rather “overstuffed” for Belle’s tastes, yet she found herself drawn here for their trysts more often than not. She’d made sure Lacey kept changing hotels every few weeks, starting out somewhere posh then slowly degenerating in quality, the slow decline of a woman living a little too outside her means for a little too long but who just had to keep the party going.

Belle didn’t really mind the growing inferiority of her base-camp’s amenities; her frustration was with how long this infernal investigation was taking. She should have been further along ages ago. Home needed her to run a traitor to ground, but so far she’d just been running in circles over this Godforsaken city.

“This Hatter character is all over the map,” Belle muttered, tossing photographs into rough groupings in an effort to switch up the patterns they presented.

“Character is definitely the word to describe Jefferson,” Gold said laconically.

“You really trust that guy with your import and export dealings?” Belle asked him. She made a mental note to get better control of her accent. She’d been getting slack around Gold.

Gold grinned wolfishly and she caught sight of the gold even in the low light of his cavernous bedroom. The man was a such a peacock, she thought, but not without fondness.

“I don’t trust anyone, dearie, that’s how I’m still in this game.”

The fondness vanished and she made a mental note to get better control on that as well. She stared at him in silence until the grin faded and he deigned to answer her questions.

“Jefferson might have fried most of his common sense with drugs, but his abilities to focus and execute a plan are quite keen,” Gold admitted. “Plus God knows how he gets across some of the borders he does carrying the things he does.”

Belle made a hum of agreement. “That’s one of the reasons Home Office flagged his file.”

“You know, you can hear the way you emphasize certain things, almost as though they’re titled peerage,” Gold said with amusement. “‘Home Office,’ or my favorite, ‘Stationmaster.’ It’s quite endearingly formal.”

Belle bristled at his tone, like he was describing the tricks of a favored pet.

“I don’t see why calling something by its proper name is quite so funny,” she said coldly, her movements regarding the photographs turning brisk. They’d reached that inevitable point in their interactions when it was probably time to leave.

Moving soundlessly and with ever-surprising grace, Gold left the armchair to push the photographs aside and crawl up the bed to loom above her. She met the maneuver with a cold stare and the quirk of an eyebrow. Better make this good, her look told him.

The smoking jacket belt had come loose and the burgundy silk folds of it were starting to part. Gold took no notice of it as he started to trace a fingertip along the edge of his shirt she was wearing. There was still amusement on his face, but behind it a kind of heat Belle thought boded rather well.

“Forgive an old man his small pleasures,” Gold murmured, his fingertip reaching the slight swell of her stomach and turning into a full palm caress. “When you’ve been at this game as long as I have, you start to grow complacent about the whole circus. Fresh blood is . . . invigorating.” He finished the statement by moving his palm down a few critical inches and then lowering himself enough to start gently mouthing at her neck.

Belle smiled slightly despite herself. “Old Man?” She said mockingly. He grumbled against her neck, moving his mouth down to her décolletage.

“Yes, precisely. Much too old for chasing traitors all around the world whilst trying to keep a woman like you happy.” He somehow managed to to get all that out while never letting up his gentle assault. His hand moved just there and Belle was arching into him.

“I took care of the chasing part, darling, you’ve just got to lie back and think of Home Office,” she managed around breathing that was growing more labored. He chuckled against her, a delightful shiver resulting.

“Ah, the benefits of teamwork-” he punctuated the word with a twist of his clever fingers and Belle wrapped one of her legs around his hips, pulling the smoking jacket completely open as she speared one hand into the locks of his hair and scraped her nails along his scalp. Her other hand was snaking inside the open jacket to press him more firmly against her.

He paused his oral exploration though his hand never ceased moving, if anything growing more intent with its ministrations while he watched her flushed face from atop the length of her body.

“You know a real character to look at,” he said idly. Of course Gold would talk shop while getting her off. She tightened her fingers in his hair which only provoked a Cheshire grin.

“Oh? Who might that be?” She tried to match his disinterested tone but her rapid breathing made it somewhat difficult. She decided sliding the hand inside the jacket into more interesting territory would level the playing field. Gold did so like his little games.

His own face was growing flushed as he struggled to maintain the same nonchalance as before. “Our good friend-” he grunted slightly “-Officer Rogers. A man that turns traitor to his own government to feed our agents information might decide to doublecross us if the price is right.” She gave a little hum of agreement and a particularly good squeeze of her hand. He gave up pretending to be unaffected by removing her panties with a sharp tug and blanketing her fully, hands and assorted fabric barriers being removed in the interest of getting down to business.

Belle turned her self-satisfied crowing into moans. They didn’t precisely keep points in their little tête-à-têtes and the scoring was always up for debate, but she felt certain this round had gone to her.

Belle’s decision to bed the Stationmaster was a conscious one; she found it an extremely enjoyable way to relieve the tedium that often accompanies these sort of drawn-out assignments. She also knew it was an excellent way to accelerate feelings of trust or inclinations to grant favors between an agent and a potential asset. Everyone was a potential asset, even other agents. People were either assets or problems in Belle’s experience.

Not that sleeping with Gold was much of a hardship Belle mused as they moved in increasingly frantic tandem. Man was hotter than sin. She was beginning to suspect she’d been here a bit too long; she was thinking she might even miss this once the assignment was over.

In the languid stillness that followed their coupling, Belle traced a finger down a sleeping Gold’s back in the blue-black darkness of the room. He didn’t even stir from his position, face-down on the bed in the depths of slumber. When Belle realized she’s been wondering on the likelihood of an assignment taking her near this station again anytime soon, she decided it was past time to to finish things here and go back Home.

You've got a very heavy reputation

But no one knows about your low-life

I know a way

to find a situation

And hold a candle

to your high life disguise

You caught me kneeling

at your sister's door

That was no ordinary stick-up

I'm well aware just

what you're looking for

I am no ordinary

I am no ordinary

Because of the rain that started to fall, it was hard to tell the newly forming puddles apart from the pools of blood.

Belle could feel her hair, her real hair, snaking in cold tendrils down her neck and nearly bare shoulders. It was freezing out, but she already felt numb. She spared a thought for her eye make-up, the smoky nightclub look was probably running down her face like a hideous mask that it would take ages to clean-up and hideaway, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care too much at the moment.

Officer Rogers was dead. She’s not sure who else might be as well. Merida? Jefferson? It had all gone tits up.

The Operation had failed utterly, stupidly, it was doomed before it began! Someone had betrayed them, betrayed them all, and they’d set her up, goddamn them. She was well and truly burned unless she found him, the real traitor, and hoped to god Home Office granted her clemency for this spectacular fuck-up.

She heard a noise above the hiss and patter of the rain, a steady tapping on the pavement drawing near her. Her tongue moved unconsciously to the side of her mouth and tasted blood. Gold emerged from the growing gloom, wearing his ridiculous hat and coat, gloved, the rain running off him like some kind of black duck. She tried to muster some surprise, but she’s too exhausted, on her knees on slick pavement next to a dead man with all the fight drained out of her.

“This is it, isn’t it?” She murmured, a voice more suited for Gold’s bedroom and not even sure he can hear her.

One of Gold’s hands was holding his cane, the other was holding a gun. On her. He spared a glance for Rogers’s body and then looked back at her. The part of his face she could make out was unreadable.

“Well, this is somewhat unexpected,” he said mildly. “But yes, I rather believe this is it.”

Belle gave him a belligerent look. “Really? That’s all you have to say?” Anger gave her a false sense of warmth. “Tell me, did you even wait for Home Office to give the burn notice, or will you just let them know it’s handled after the fact?”

Now that inscrutable mask he calls a face registered some confusion. “Whatever are you on about, dearie?”

“I’m finished!” She yelled at him. “We couldn’t deliver the Package to Hatter, I barely got Rogers out alive and now he’s fucking dead anyway because he lost the damn plot and tried to stab me.” She shook her head, almost involuntarily. “I planned this mission, I coordinated the players, I was the only one who could have possibly betrayed us! Home Office is going to think I’m the double agent sooner or later—why the hell else are you here?”

The son of bitch smiled. Belle made a jerking motion that would have eventually turned into an attack but he wiggled the gun in warning and the motion died along with her anger.

“Really? That’s what you think will happen? I didn’t expect so much naïveté from you, sweetheart.” He sounded pleased about the whole thing the smug bastard.

She gave him a cutting look. “That’s the only scenario that makes sense, or will to Home,” she said cooly. “They’ll assume I’m Weaver and you’ll get tea with the queen for killing a turncoat.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Gold replied. “Considering I’m Weaver.”

There was a stuttering of the world, and then it all clicked back into place. She released her next breath shakily, her eyes darting about as all the pieces game back together.

“You never left the Station.”

“Hatter.”

“Home Office was already looking at you.”

“Of course, but they weren’t looking at you. That worked quite well for me.”

“You had me bugged.”

“Several times.”

“Where?” That was probably irrelevant at this point but professional curiosity had not deserted her in her last minutes even if everything else had.

He looked a little shamefaced for the first time that evening. “In your brassieres, primarily. Just a little extra wire.”

She couldn’t help it, she started laughing. She finally started to shake with cold as well as with hysteria as the rain just kept dumping on their strange little tableau. Clever, her brain thought, as she wanted  it to reach for ‘despicable.’

She was hunched over now, staring at the slick cobblestones, enjoying that last fizzle of amusement.

“Alright, get it over with, Gold,” she said without looking up.

To his credit, he stopped playing dumb, and she heard the gun cock dramatically, much closer to her head. She closed her eyes and waited. Then she waited some more.

Finally, with some exasperation, she looked up. Foolish man probably had to gloat or a  deliver a final witticism like a bloody film villain.

His face . . . it was utterly still except his mouth which was twitching like he was trying to bite down on words that weren’t being said. His eyes were wide and anguished. She frowned at him in confusion.

“Gold?”

“ I know what I should do,” he said, almost as though he was explaining it to himself more than her. “I should kill you. I could, right now, and this whole mess would fall into place exactly like you said. And Home would be none the wiser. But the thing is . . . I don’t want to kill you.” He sighed, and to her shock put the gun away, his coat shedding water around them like a fountain. “I’m too old for this, Belle, I’ve been in this game far too long. Because I honestly thought that we were something . . . more to each other. That there was something there.” His smile was back, but it was small and self-loathing. “I know you could never love me, but I thought we were at least friends.” He spread his hands wide, the showman ending the act. “You see? Just an old fool after all.”

Belle couldn’t move. Her mind was racing but her body wouldn’t let her act. His clemency was ludicrous, the man’s an idiot. They stare at one another in silence for long moments. He gives a small shake of his head, and then drops his cane on the ground. Belle doesn’t jump although the movement shocked her. She glanced at it in confusion. Gold whipped his coat off, the same dark wool piece she’d met him in all those weeks ago, and drapes the sodden but warm fabric over her small form. She’s swallowed by it, and while it won’t exactly heat her up much, it was protecting her from the elements a bit more than the tight black sleeveless dress and torn tights she’s currently in.

The rain started to soak Gold’s suit while he picked up his cane.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try and kill me with this,” he said, gesturing with it. “I think that would be a bit pathetic, but since I also don’t plan on just handing over the gun to let you execute me, I’ll understand if things happen.”

“What?” Belle said, and slowly rose from off her knees at last.

Gold gestured impatiently. “You know who I am-what I am. The only way to clear yourself with Home Office is to take me in. Or rather, take me out, as I have no intention of being locked up.” Another wan smile. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you, I know what you can do. Let’s get this over with; you have tea with the queen to get to, after all.”

But, her brain stuttered again. She didn’t want to kill him. She does think of them as Friends. As more?

She’s screwed.

“Are they any other options?” She asked mildly, as though for the time or a cup of coffee.

He gaped a moment, then gathered himself.

“Well, there’s always running,” he replied, a menu item he’s not sure she’ll approve of but offers anyway.

She noddded. She’d assumed that would be the case.

“Alone?”

His jaw worked again. “That . . . had always been the plan.”

She stepped in closer to him. Her legs are wobbly from the cold, the kneeling, the fighting, from life. But they could still support her if she asked them to; they could still run.

He brought one gloved hand up slowly in the rain and traced some invisible line down the side of her face.

“Shall we?” She asked him, and he gave her a shaky nod.

She took hold of his whole arm, and they leaned against each other under the weight of the world. His cane tapped softly as they moved away from the alley, from the body, from their old lives. Who knows how long this will last--they may kill each other tomorrow. Or maybe they’ll kiss, and it will be one with all the layers of who and what they are stripped away and she’ll find out if there’s something there after all. Time would tell.

Tonight, together, they run.

(ah, ah, ah)

What a criminal world

The boys are like baby-faced girls

What a criminal girl

She'll show you where to shoot your gun

What a typical mother's son

The only thing that she enjoys

Is a criminal world

Where the girls are like baby-faced boys

Inspiration:

Atomic Blonde. Directed by David Leitch, performances by Charlize Theron, James McAvoy, Eddie Marsan, John Goodman, and Toby Jones, 87Eleven et al., 2017.

Johnston, Anthony & Hart, Sam. The Coldest City. Oni Press, 2012.

Lockhart, E. Genuine Fraud. Delacorte Press, 2017.

[warlockofthethirdeye]

A Vision of Arachne

This morning I was responding to a post in a group asking what everyone’s otherworldly patron was and if they worked with gods from multiple pantheons.  I responded that I have not often worked with godforms or deities.  I’ve worked with Belial in the past and I’ve at least felt the presence of Odin, but if I were to say what my patron was I would have to choose Arachne.  Arachne is associated with the webwork of fate and the collective unconscious.  It is said her venom opens the third eye and allows one to see with clarity and receive visions often.  It is also said she is a master manipulator.  I can’t confirm or deny any of these claims, but I have always felt an odd affinity with spiders, a shamanism book long ago helped me learn one of my “spirit guides” is a spider, and often when I work I see and experience a grander webwork that I travel or pluck the strings of.  In fact, whenever I find a spider where it is in danger of being killed by another I carefully capture and release it elsewhere, despite having a mild phobia of them which is kind of funny in itself when much of my work seems to involve their symbolism.  As I have observed in my life whenever a spider sets up a web somewhere I frequent such as in my car, there are challenges ahead.  If I find a spider on my person, it means that there will soon be a positive change for the better. It would only make sense if I had an affinity with Arachne.  Spiders and their symbolism have been an important part of my spiritual and magical work for a very long time and I do indeed have frequent visions like the venom of Arachne would bestow.  Perhaps there is more to this relationship that I simply cannot recall.  Regardless, a few hours after I posted my response I had forgotten it, but in a quiet moment in a room that suddenly went dark (Not for supernatural reasons, the switch is just finicky) I sensed a presence.  I relaxed and attuned myself to find a large spider approaching me in my vision.  I had a protective barrier up and the creature stopped before it reached it.  It gazed at me, and I gazed at it.  I observed that it definitely felt like a genuine presence and was not a simple imaginary vision.  Furthermore I sensed no ill intent.  It seemed… Familiar.  Was it my spirit guide from so long ago?  In any case after this it climbed on top of my barrier and secured a thick web-thread to it before crawling over and behind my barrier and leaving in that direction, leaving the thread trailing behind for me to follow later when I was ready.  This felt like a summons.  Something like this has never happened to me before.  Have I drawn too much attention to myself?  I write all this before I leave to see what it wants me to see.  The next passage will be from after the experience.  Wish me luck. _ _ _ I prepared myself carefully.  I ritualistically bathed and washed myself clean of impurities of thought and of my ego, that I may truly see without the interference of my own personality and bias.  I energized and protected myself carefully.  I meditated and drew myself into a deep trance.  I joined my conscious, unconscious, and superconscious that we may act and sense as one and fell into a state of disinterest that I may see things as they are and further cleanse me of ego and bias.  I found myself back in that place.  I left my body behind and followed the thread that was laid for me to follow.  I quickly found myself navigating an incredibly vast network of webbing on which spiders traveled.  I focused and attuned myself to find the right threads to walk until after quite some time and a couple brief run-ins with these spiders I found myself at the center of a web laid out like a floor.  I felt many eyes watching me and when I looked up to see what was above my first feeling was terror.  I could not see them clearly.  I was not meant to.  I saw eyes, many legs, fangs dripping with venom, a womanly figure.  Her presence was powerful and instilled in me a profound sense of awe despite my initial fear.  I knelt before her. She scolded me for invoking her name so casually in such a public place.  She scolded me as though I were an impetuous and impulsive child, which… Was not incorrect.  She continued to say that I constantly act without thinking.  My abilities may be similar to her gifts but I was not of her flock nor did she have any interest in me.  My associations with her were nonexistent and she urged me to think before making such lofty claims as being blessed by her or having an affinity with her.  I apologized.  I did not mean any offense.  I admitted I spoke without thinking.  She seemed satisfied and bid me to leave. I did rise and turned to leave, but hesitated.  I felt I had something to ask but was not sure if I had the right or if it would be impulsive.  She saw my hesitation and bid me to speak.  I did not know what to ask, but she sensed my desire to enhance my mental vision, a gift she could indeed bestow.  This made her laugh.  She said I already had the power to improve my vision myself with practice but then hesitated, herself.  She admitted I had power and said that one day I could make an excellent “Weaver.”  But though amused, she bid me again, firmly, to be gone.  I obeyed. I’m not sure if posting this would irritate her further, or if publicly displaying my foolishness would please her.  I will take the risk. I am not blessed by Arachne.  Arachne is not my patron.  Arachne’s gifts are not mine and it is a lie to say I have any association with her.  I have taken her name in vain.  I didn't mean to spread misinformation about how powerful I actually am or who I am tied to.  I am sorry.  But, having experienced this has certainly piqued my curiosity.  Perhaps in time I will investigate further after some more thought.  I do not wish to act on impulse.

Lesson learned: Don’t make any assumptions, especially when it comes to magick and deities.  Don’t assume any particular being has your back unless they tell you specifically that they do.  Don’t talk casually about this stuff, either.

I need to re-evaluate some things. _ _ _ Eight hours have passed.  I have re-evaluated things and made a lot of important discoveries. Being scolded in such a way forced me to take some time to ask myself a lot of hard questions and I learned a lot about myself in the process. I need to think before I act, I need to not be impulsive, and I need to have confidence in the decisions I do take the time to thoroughly think out. I shouldn’t ask myself and wonder for hours on end what is wrong and hope for some answer to fall into my lap.  I need to focus and TELL myself what to do or at least give myself suggestions and work from there. I need to listen to my own sense and reason before what anyone else tells me. I’m a really chill dude at heart.  I need to take time to relax, enjoy life, enjoy the world around me, and help others to the same instead of just sitting around all day because it is the former that I am naturally inclined to do. Life is too short to be miserable.  LAUGH. The only thing I should be afraid of is the fear and anxiety that keeps me from acting and keeps me from acting in the way that brings me true happiness in the long run. I need to ask myself before I decide to do something whether it is something that will actually bring me enjoyment or if it is just a habit (videogames) or an obligation (some social media). If I’m not satisfied with where I am in life I have to push and fight for what I want!  Nothing will come to me if I just wait for it to come to me.  I need to seek this stuff out and use my sense and reason to do so. And lastly I put too much time and effort into things that don’t make me happy and I don’t invest ENOUGH time and effort into the things that do! All of this I realized on my own after my talk with Arachne.  Do you know what that means?  The Lady of spiders and, “Manipulation” told me exactly what I needed to hear to discover all of this for myself in an open and honest way.  If she was really peeved at me wouldn’t she have done something more drastic or NOT have responded to me at all instead of scolding me like a mother scolds a child?  No.  I called out to her, intentionally or not, and she responded by giving me what I needed to figure this stuff out on my own and encourage my independence.  I wanted to be gifted with wisdom, but what I got was a kick in the pants that made me realize I already have the wisdom and I just have to dig it up! Tough love.  Lets look at what she actually said and read between the lines.  She told me to not be impulsive, really think about things, but that I already had power and did not need her gifts.  I can become stronger and wiser on my own, I should not look to anyone but myself for answers, get the f*ck out and get to work. She does not need my worship, but she has earned my respect.  If she was not my patron before I WILL honor her as my patron now.  I will make a shrine to her and it shall represent everything she helped me learn for myself.  The shrine will be a monument to the person I become and the things I learn thanks to her guidance.  And even if she never deigns to speak with me again she will know that I am incredibly grateful for the incredible insight she sparked in me.  I will not forget these lessons and I will always remember who helped me see clearly when my vision clouded the path ahead. Huh.  I guess she did bless me with her venom after all.  Just not in the way I expected.

[3staroracle-gemmanelson-blog]

A Picture Of Me

(this is a repeat posting, however our guides encouraged me to re share this in the now, because someone that needs to see it shall and I pray with a deep love in my heart that my share helps you)

Yeshua has asked me to share some of my story in short with you, so that you may see who I am in the now and where I have come from, how human I am and that as much as I have done much work and self healing there is more to be done, which is our journey isn’t it.

Yet if one person is helped by this share, it is worth it! Healing is the intention!

I was born to a woman wanting to keep her husband, at six months old it was over, so the father figure was separated right there and then, years passed and I started school and recall the day I had the download of how to read occur, I was reading the three pigs with a teacher called Mrs Marsh, I was just over five years old and the page went from blurred to clear and then I could read…

I also recall the day they took our fingerprints and were very careful about that… I’ll let you have your own thoughts on that.

So at this point I had 2 older sisters and a depressed mother, who then found herself another man and bought him into our lives, in an instance our lives changed, we were now under a dictatorship unable to freely roam our village, in fear of violence, sexual subjection, intimidation, mental abuse, this in short was to be our childhood from age 7-21…

At school I would converse with my ‘imaginary friend Violet’ and would also find I was able to track and help injured people by following the sound of their heartbeats…

Until the school said how odd I was to them of course.

We were involved within a religion that was a strict Christian religion and our step father hid behind this, my grandmother my mothers mother advised me age 15 what he had done to my older sister, she wished to protect me… I therefore spent years thereafter keeping myself awake at night, reading by moonlight, sometime there after my sister was beaten up and sent to our natural fathers because she was apparently uncontrollable after she had told the religious leaders what he had done to her…

I recall the time our step parent got chucked out of the religion for smoking rather than for all the years he was unkind to us, I had learnt about Satan within the religion, so called out abuse and hate to this being, I experienced a reptilian face that screamed without noise in my face as a warning to respect that the god/creator allowed them to exist here for good reason the scream I know was silent to take into account I was a child. (Yet lesson learnt I was to always respect any energy) what I am thankful for as regards this religion was how it taught me to speak directly with god/creator/source from my heart and how they taught me to see truth and untruths within their Bible book…

In short we held our breath at night as our step father walked about the house, we could not speak for fear of saying the wrong thing, which seemed rather frequent, this is shared to give a picture of my childhood, as this now I accept as part of my chosen life experience and the carving tool that made me who I am today, I chose to forgive yet move on not being connected to my natural mother or father and my step father spent a little while behind bars…

Our mother a lost soul, who sold her soul and ours for money really…she became a victim to his behaviour and although had many opportunities to separate or save herself and us always went trudging back.

These lessons taught me how never to be and help me lay some good boundaries that have lived with me in adulthood.

As a child, within a religious organisation that chose to protect this offender… I lost all respect for that said organisation and left when I left the family home, when a further education college counsellor and I devised a plan to get me out after a further beating for a made up reason.

So at less than 18yrs of age, never having been on a train, or to the cinema, I was told I would have to do all alone to leave for a new life in Surrey from Leicestershire England, kindly a religious member decided to take me and connect me with people who could look out for me.

The few times I did go and report the beatings to doctors they suggested that if I went to them again they would have to report it… Interesting that it came across as a threat to me, rather than them wanting to suggest they could help or protect me.

Moving forwards whilst I did the voluntary work in surrey it was protected freedom living in a nurses hostel with the grounds I worked and having contact with other religious people in that area.

As time moved on I then found other paid work caring and housekeeping for a lady in her own home and then lived as a lodger in a woman’s home whilst working in a departmental store and as I started to begin the healing process and the realisation of all that I lived through I had a break down and it all led to me returning back to that home, I recall when I called my mother and said that I didn’t want life to be how it was before, she suggested I should behave myself, which was interesting as we didn’t dare say boo to anyone.

Regardless he came and collected me and that drive back was uncomfortable, yet I will say that I had grown wiser and living back there was never as bad as it was before, so I had learnt to set boundaries, the worst he did was throw a cat that he had been beating up at me as I had asked him to please stop. I had learnt to ask if anyone needed the toilet before I showered etc…

So at around 21 & 1/2 I was now able to drive, had my own flat, had met a man that didn’t speak hardly a word of English and I was in love with the idea of being in love, so in between work I would drive endless hours back to Surrey to be with this man, this man also helped me sever the ties with the religion and yet again helped me heal whilst being protected, as time went on after being married to him, accepting his children seeing and realising we were on totally different planets and it couldn’t continue we divorced, within this marriage I had taken on four of his children proved it was possible to be a good and caring step parent, learnt another language, had early gestation and late gestation pregnancies, he had many a time attempted to be violent towards me yet the strength I took from my childhood would always reinforce that boundary, even to the extent that I could sense in another room when he was about to hit his child. Many a time throughout my life and the loss of my babies I would then find my belief system evolving always returning back to really what quantified as a spiritual belief, tarot readings, reiki level 1, reading spiritual books like the Celestine prophecies all impacted, yet as each dark corner was approached I would not know what to believe anymore and would just be, until the next awakening came.

Before I decided to leave this husband we went to court to say what had occurred to us as children and we learnt that our step father had a whole history and pattern that weaved a nasty path, so even with all of that he was given four years, yet again I was shown how organisations really protect the ‘wrong doer’…

At this time I worked with in a bank and the support through the years they gave me was awesome, showing that even when the going gets tough that support comes from the most unlikely of places.

So when I left my husband I had a good job and ended up in a woman’s only hostel, hoping that society would finally realise all I had been through and assist me, yet I was the only person in there working and paying my way, funny as the time passed the social workers saw that I had a way with ‘bullies’ and they put all the vulnerables in the wing with me.

I suppose you could say at this point I had my time of self discovery and my wicked way with the world, free and single, met a man who tried to imprison me as I had allowed him to take me to a city I didn’t know, he also aimed a gun at me and I told him he looked pathetic and if he was going to shoot me then he could do it in the back of my head… Amazingly I survived and returned, connected with a man of an old family friend and together we found a landlord who would accept me because I had a job, no deposit and a pet cat. So here was my new beginning, I had felt so happy to have this place that not having a bed etc didn’t matter, I slept on just the duvet for weeks and was so happy, I found time to write what I wished for to the universe, this included what I wished for in a partner… An old family friend of my natural mother moved in with me and she became the mother mine could never be, we had such fun there and a colleague lived at the back of me and I’d often go there for chats, all was going well. I then met through a chat site at my friends house my now husband who is all I asked for and more, bless when he first met me, I believed in nothing religious or spiritual and wanted to ensure he wanted children because time was getting on. Lol

Well within 6months we lived together, 2 months after that he asked me on one knee to be his wife, 1 & 1/2 yrs later we were booking our wedding after my delayed divorce came through, 3yrs after we met we got married.

2 years after that my 8th baby loss, led me down a dark hole of totally disrespecting myself, mind, body and soul… For I would get to 24 weeks pregnant and my body would just eject and the perfect child too small to continue would pass.

I had met a consultant who transfered us to a miscarriage clinic for further investigation, right from meeting him I knew he was an earth angel. He did tests etc and we left it at that, let’s see what happened and go from there. It was leading up to my birthday and months had passed and it wasn’t happening so I decided that I would love a dog, so family clubbed together to get me Betty, imagine this… earlier that spring all the plants were telling me how excited they were and wouldn’t let on why (literally they were so excited it was bursting from them), so I banked it after acknowledging it and I would look out for something, at this time I believed in mother earth and nothing else, because of events…. I was cuddling my puppy in my arms and was reminded of my first daughter that I had given birth to within my first marriage in the year 2000, they felt so similar, I stood in my garden and sobbed, then I became angry and told mother earth that I deserved to be a mother and to prove I could be a good mother, I affirmed that I am a good person… The joy in the heavens its what they had been waiting for, funny thing is I must have already been pregnant because two weeks later we had a positive test, that surgeon moved heaven and earth to give me the very best treatment that I deserved and now my boy is five years old.

We found out that the lady that became like a mother to me had terminal cancer and I had severe fibromyalgia, which had meant I couldn’t work and lost my job due to it almost two years after my son was born, this was to be my final no going back awakening in 2015, I assisted my dear heart adopted mother with a smoother passing using all shamanic healing within me, I had started angel card readings and developed that within a spiritual group this served to distract me from the physical manifestations of pain that was present, plants and trees were talking to me again, as were my guides and I was developing at a fast rate, our guides even fast tracked/jumped my timelines with an unforgettable experience within a meditation, (this was recognition for my efforts within life) where I met my native guide, a star being guide, a shrimplike guide that told me he was an intrinsic part of earth, I also had pleasure of meeting a counsel of many wise beings, such an honour, they even connected me to oneness and allowed me to affect all the energies, weather and more.

Leading up to my dear hearted adoptive mothers passing I knew when she was laying in her bed looking like she was asleep she was also communicating with me just like spirit would and there is no room for doubt within my mind that it was anyone else but she, the experiences I and others had leading up to her passing left no uncertainties this was to be my life, a life in service, being in the right place at the right time, taking items I knew were needed, giving messages of love, nurture, healing, activations, clearings and more.

Many people have gone and come into my life, either to teach or be taught and I’ve had many lessons for which I am truly thankful for.

Delores Cannon, Adama, Nana, Mary, Commander Ashtar, Dragons, Fae, Druids, Griffins, Hatuey(salamander)Yeshua, Hathor, Thor/Thoth, Goddess Isis, Archangel Metatron, Haylel, Haniel, Azrael, Ariel, Sophia, the seraphim collective and more continue to teach me with the connecting of consciousness, channelling, telepathy, animal communication, supporting clearing and smooth transitions at end of life, most of all I’m taught to be limitless, this is who we are, all that I do and am learning to do is possible for you if you wish.

With the help of the physical illness and Archangel Chamuel and Raphael I’m so much better at listening to myself honouring my truth and loving myself.

I am now off all western medicines, have a continuing plan to keep ensuring I improve my diet and have made good advancement on that, stopped smoking and more, always there is a journey on working upon self, we wouldn’t remain humble else, all of us are students and teachers.

Many people ask how has your belief system helped you and I answer this.

It has healed me from depression, insomnia (except upon full moons and energy downloads. Lol), fibromyalgia, diabetes, broken hearts, despair, phobias and or paranoia, self loathing, I could go on…

I am thankful for both difficult and easy experiences and have made my peace with it all and can truly give thanks and draw strength from them.

Because through it all I have love, hope, the desire to help us have a better future, to help others find their truths, to have vision and self love, with empowerment of self and to gift this to others.

I have the inner peace I always wished for and know that together we can all find this.

This is not a boasting, or a competition, or a look at me, its to share that no matter what you can overcome so much and be who you wish to be in the now, with a pure and humble heart and a readiness to be in service. Knowing you can ask for help from the ‘unseen supporters’ and receive it.

Blind faith, trust and belief has taught me much, even that without an income or access to benefits/state payouts, the universe has our back, be open to receiving in whichever way the universe wishes to provide for you.

We are in the age of mastering our life and actualising mastering the embodiment of ourselves in the flesh, hereby bringing heaven upon earth. Look within and you shall find and look beyond and you shall see, all you are meant to be xXx ❤ xXx

If you wish to contact me for any of the above services, our guides have confirmed that my journey is to be in full time service and I too desire to honour this.

I am happy to receive clothes/shoe vouchers, food vouchers or deliveries, monetary exchanges to assist with paying Bill, spiritual healing items such as quartz crystal bowls or a handpan, set at divine 432MHz to aid healing sessions… there are also some decks on my wishlist also

If you have any other ideas I am open to them.

Just message me.

Payments for services or donations are to be sent here:

paypal.me/gemcraft153

Thank you for being a part of me and thank you for allowing me to be a part of you.

xXx xXx

XxX