#i will now retreat into my cave to for once not nap in this heat | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ghost-writing · 4 years ago

Text

Fee+Bear 2/?? - Home (Henry Cavill fanfic)

This is a re-post from my other blog… I’ve decided to post my writing on a separate page, it’ll be easier to access like that.

I’ve edited this a little, but there might still be some spelling mistakes & grammatical errors. (English is not my 1st language!) So, if you see something that irks you, please tell me! :)

Word count: almost 1.8k

Warnings: brief mentions of sex, AND SOPPY SUGARY FLUFF.

This is a prequel of this, but there might be some inconsistencies in the Fee+Bear stories, as it’s more a collection of one-shots, so be warned!

The sun is shining outside London. For once, the weather is great, even if a bit cold. But after spending most of the day in the garden playing with the kids and the dogs, Sofia decides to retreat to her office, because the script for episode 6 is not gonna check itself. And it needs to be sent to twins John and Paul, the writers and showrunners, for their own corrections, with still enough time left to print the final version for the whole cast and crew.

There are a lot of people depending on her now: she’s not just the star, but also one of the executive producers of her new show. A show that she’s abandoned a lot for, that she’s invested a lot in. She was working hard for it before, and is working even harder now that the lock-down is finally over, to make up for lost time.

Work is a lot on its own, but she also wants to be there for Gigi and Noah. Carmen and Elena had moved to London with her, and she owed them a huge debt for that. Their presence allowed her to dedicate herself to rehearsing and filming during the week, but she insisted on staying at home on the weekends as much as possible. Her schedule was so full, she was sure no man would have wanted to be included in that constant chaos, but Henry was not any man. He worked hard too, but came to spent most of his free time with her and her kids, instead of partying or doing whatever he used to do before they got together. She had sworn not to rush back into a relationship so quickly after her divorce, but he changed her mind easily. From the moment he met the kids, blissful, happy moments were the norm in their home when he was around.

But right now, she has to work just a little to be able to enjoy the rest of the 4-day weekend they had managed to squeeze into their extra tight work schedule. (Just one more proof that Henry was committed to their relationship.) And the quicker she gets it done, the sooner she’ll be free of it. She knows that, but she’d pushed it to later several times already.

The room is cool, which Sofia welcomes after the overheating she endured in the garden. Even in shorts and a top, the intense playing made her blood boil. But maybe that was because Henry took of his t-shirt at some point… Of course, the cat had followed her, trying to escape the ruckus Kal, Kit and the humans made (the big one being the loudest), bothering his fifth nap of the day. Sirius knows that in here, he’ll find peace and quiet, and maybe some belly rubs.

Sofia grabs the small stack of paper that’s been sitting on her desk for almost two days now, a purple pen (her designated colour for corrections, the twins using blue and green), her phone and headphones, and goes to lay on the sofa, the huge Maine Coon in tow. As soon as she settles, her head resting on a big cushion at one end, facing the door, and her bare legs and feet on the other end, Sirius looks for the best spot: her belly isn’t large enough for him to curl up in a ball on, and there’s not enough space for his large fluffy body between her and the back of the couch.

Sofia lets out a slightly annoyed sigh. “Can’t you decide already?” The black feline lifts his majestic head and looks at her right in the eyes with those enormous green marbles of his, as if to argue that this is the most important part of his routine. She melts, as usual. “Alright, baby.” She lifts him up, kisses his forehead and pets him gently, long enough for him to purr for a moment, and places him on the armrest, above her feet. She knows that in ten minutes tops, he’ll get down from there to get closer to her, demanding attention, but at least, she’ll cool down before having to deal with him. She puts the headset on, turns on some heavy rock music, like she always does when she needs to concentrate, and begins to read.

She’s about halfway through her task, and Sirius has moved spot three times, when Henry’s head peaks through the door.

“What?”, she says, taking the headphones off.

“Can I come in? I have to make a phone call.”

“Sure!” She smiles at him. “And you also need to hide from my adorable but exhausting kids, don’t you?” She winks.

He sighs deeply. “I do love them, but they. never. stop.” After removing Sirius with the utmost care and putting him gently on the ground, he sits next to her. The tiger looks at him with disdain, making Henry recoil a bit, before searching for another position of power.

“It’s all your fault, Cavill!” She brings her legs closer to her upper body to give more room to the big man. “Don’t be so goddamn nice to them, and they’ll play with each other, instead of always asking you to entertain them!”

“I tried, but I can’t say no to them! Gigi always makes that sad puppy face, and I cave… Every time!”

“Superman defeated by a pouting 6 year old… Batman’s got nothing on my girl”, she mocks. “Ok, make your call and let me finish this, please! When I’ll be done, I can teach you how to fight off the Evil Curly Dragon and her sidekick, Deadly Birdie.” She puts the headphones back on, not waiting for her boyfriend to groan at her.

Henry calls a friend or one of his brothers, presumably. She turned the music down to a more acceptable level, and she can hear him laugh. She can’t help but peak out from behind the sheets of paper every now and then: he smiles, he frowns, he makes gestures with his hands, fully immersed in his conversation. She forces herself to concentrate on her work.

Minutes pass, she’s getting close to the end of the script. Sirius is now resting on top of the sofa’s back, close to her, his legs lazily dangling on each side. His butt is turned towards his rival for Sofia’s affection, showing his disapproval.

Immersed in her script, Sofia suddenly realizes that Henry’s hand is resting on her legs. Her bare feet were now pushing on his meaty thigh, as she was looking for warmth, subconsciously. She always had cold feet, and Henry was hot in more than one way. He starts moving up from her feet, slowly caressing the ankle, then up the calf, lightly massaging the muscle with the pulp of his fingers. She looks at him, ready to scold him for distracting her, but he’s still talking over the phone, apparently unaware of what his hand his doing. He’s gone a bit quieter, so she can’t hear what he says.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees her looking at him. His hand leaves her briefly, gesturing for her to take off the headphones.

“Mum says hello!”

“Hello, Marianne! See you soon!”

“You heard that? Yeah, maybe in…”

She puts the headphones back on, decided on finishing her task rapidly. But his hand is back on her leg. His whole palm is rubbing her calf now, going back down to her feet.

“God, this is divine…”, she thinks. Henry is very tactile, and she always welcomes his gentle touch. Thinking of it, they had barely shared a moment alone yet this weekend, just the two of them… They arrived really late on Thursday night, exhausted, so she just snuggled in his arms as they both fell asleep rapidly. The children had been all over them from early Friday morning. Only last night did they finally make time for some intimacy, but they were still tired, so they did what they had to do, and quickly called it a night. Maybe he was attempting something now… She couldn’t deny it was slowly putting her in the mood.

Until he touches her sole with his thumb, which makes her wiggle her toes at the tickling feeling. She puts the script down harshly, slapping it on her thighs. He silently apologizes, continuing his conversation with his mother. This time, his hand stays still on her legs, not going back to his delightful ministrations. And she feels like pouting at him just like her daughter, to make him start again. No, she has to finish work first!

A few minutes later, she sighs with pride and relief, closing the script and throwing it in direction of the desk. It bumps on it and falls on the ground, the noise making Sirius flinch and almost fall from his perch. She turns to face Henry, who’s looking at her, a grin on his face.

As soon as she takes her headphones off, he queries “Finished now?”

“Almost! I just have to scan it and send it to the twins!”

“Can you do that a little later?” He places his hand on her exposed thigh, his expression speaking without the need for words.

“Why would I wait?”, she replies, as innocently as she can, while he stretches his gorgeous body above hers, one of his knees placed between her legs. She can feel the heat emanating from his broad chest, flowing down to her stomach, and lower.

“Because your legs are cold, and I have to warm you up… Should we go to your bedroom?”

He dives his nose in her neck, his stubble scratching at her skin deliciously, his lips and tongue tracing a wet trail on her veins and nerves. They’ve been together less than four months, but he very quickly found all of her weak spots. Only four months, but things got serious between them even before they actually could start. After talking to each other almost everyday over the phone for several months, it did not feel like they were rushing into anything thoughtlessly. Maybe it was time for another step forward…

“Our bedroom?”, she asks.

He lifts his head from her neck and looks at her, not talking for a moment. She feels worried that he won’t agree. But he kisses her lips, and she kisses him back, her arms grabbing his neck while he wraps her legs around his waist. She pushes him gently with one hand, breaking the deep kiss, needing a clear answer.

“To our bedroom, then!”, he says, the biggest of smiles illuminating his face.

#fanfic #henry cavill fic #henry cavill fluff #fluff #with a dash of smut #Fee+Bear

20 notes · View notes

fwehioldvs · 5 years ago

Text

Fire in his Eyes

Peking Duck/Spaghetti - Teen - No Warnings - Words: 944

Peking and Spaghetti discuss Peking's recent investigations of the cults, although along with quacking ducklings the two become distracted.

Lavender eyes glared through the smokey fog which rose from the pipe in Peking Duck’s uncurled hand. The huffing redhead sat across him at the kotatsu table, the heated blanket settled in his lap along with one of the annoying yellow chicks.

“Must you bring along these burdens to the negotiations? They are pushing aside the teacups along with blocking my view to the files.” Spaghetti gestured down to the one duckling laying on its belly, tail up, pecking down with its beak at the page.

“Surely, you don’t mind the children being around, after all don’t you work alongside the youths as well?” Peking smirked and took a drag of his pipe. Smoke twirled from his nostrils like that of a dragon’s ready to inflame its prey.

Spaghetti scoffed and carefully picked the duckling up, settling it aside. The duckling perked up and waddled over to the papers again, flopping onto his arm as he skimmed the lines of text. Spaghetti only rolled his eyes as another duckling waddled across the table and fell into his lap.

“Surely, you’re testing my patience,” Spaghetti glanced upwards towards Peking, “in more ways than one. These reports are inconsistent.”

“Are they now?” Peking only took another drag of his pipe, “well apologies, should I have transcribed them differently for your comprehension?”

“Heh. As If you can even keep a coherent thought. Your mind wanders around like your ducks.”

Peking smirked and leaned forward on the table, placing his pipe down. “Mr. Spaghetti, if you can not understand those files then you may as well guess what is in my mind.”

Spaghetti paused and whispered, “May I ask?”

“Hm?” Peking watched the red-head carefully.

“Does it quack as well?” He snickered.

Peking chuckled and leaned back, “That… You’ll have to come closer to hear.”

“Well now, I wouldn't want to offend the ducklings by moving, so I shall stay on my side.”

“Reasonable. Say, what do you make of the reports in the second file there?” Peking caved in and shifted around the table to join his ducks and Spaghetti. A single little duckling perked up and waddled onto his lap, nuzzling into his side to nap.

“Hm,” Spaghetti glanced at Peking out of the corner of his eye before refocusing on the referred page, “If I was to comprehend such, I’d say that your cult problems have appeared once again.” He flipped through the maps and obituary articles which were stapled together into organized stacks. Spaghetti observed each example of corruption down a network of recorded evidence. Cult leaders were dying one by one within weeks of the other, and were replaced with members of the same family who were radicalized with extreme loyalty. Small governments were being overtaken as their media and newspapers paralleled feeding towards the cult’s plot.

Peking picked up a different folder, “Ah, trouble seems to love following me around and stalking at my window.”

“And you willingly leave the blinds open for those peering eyes.” Spaghetti scoffed, flipping through more documents that showcased the man’s carelessness. Recorded sightings and confirmed death counts of Peking Duck cluttered the charts and datasheets for each town. Investigations and copies of warrants for Peking’s arrest were in their own binder.

Nonetheless, Peking didn’t take offense, “I have no secrets to hide, I record each event publically.” He had a sense of pride, seemingly edging into the redhead's own. From the noble’s lowered eyebrow he knew that his tone had struck a nerve.

“In a book that your assistant guards closely.” He quickly murmured, “how public is it when she is safeguarding it for only your eyes.”

“Well it at least leaves her mind free, unlike passing it along as word of mouth. Perhaps your assistant would be more relaxed if you were truly a nobleman like I am more behaved to be.” Peking could count the veins popping on Spaghetti’s forehead.

“Tsk. An assistant she is not.” Spaghetti carefully scooted aside another duckling attempting to nestle next to him. If ducklings could frown, it would have. But since the duckling couldn’t frown, it poked Spaghetti’s forearm instead and reclaimed its spot.

“Nor is Yuixyang.” Peking smirked and took another huff of his pipe, “Although, she is not one who knows what lives in my... void.”

“Nor does my partner.” The ducklings all tackled into Spaghetti as he helplessly tried to keep them calm, “Only a like mind would dare to understand the hoard of disgust I carry with me. What I do tell her, I keep encased in code. Words can not describe the sins of this world.”

“We seem to… Understand this together don’t we?” Peking patted a duckling’s head, “the sins of humans. The sins we commit, to restore justice. No, I know exactly how twisted you are in there.”

“Just what are you getting at?” He sneered as Peking Duck drew closer.

“Need I speak?” Peking’s breath blew like a soft breeze against his lips. The food soul leaned towards Spaghetti’s glaring face which grew a tad bit softer as Peking cupped his cheek, “Need I explain to you, what we’re both thinking?”

“...No.” Spaghetti looked into the flames of Peking’s irises, an unknown flame blazed tame inside. The fire grew closer until he closed his eyelids, shielding from the intense stare as that heat then shifted down on his lips. Like racing across hot coals, he felt no heat as Peking retreated from his space. When he opened his eyes the room appeared warmer as if his lavender irises had turned a hue of crimson from the fires inside the other. No, Peking Duck nor Spaghetti needed to say another word.

#food fantasy #ff peking duck #ff spaghetti

4 notes · View notes

captivesrp · 7 years ago

Photo

The darkness spreads around him, suffocating and heavy. He knows he is not alone but the silence is so complete that his own heartbeat is the loudest sound. He remains absolutely still. He does not know whether this other being is an enemy or friend. He waits for what seems like an eternity and slowly, beyond the noise of his own heart, he begins to hear the heartbeats of the other creature. Yes, heartbeats---the hunter is certain he can only pick up the essence of one living being, but there are definitely at least two separate heartbeats. He knows that the being is aware of his presence, yet it has chosen to remain still and silent. Both he and it are breathing lightly, without a sound, but he can feel the presence of the creature expand and contract with its breathing. He senses that it is roughly two spears’-lengths away and large . . .

How did he even get here, the hunter wonders as he tries to piece together what led up to this point. He remembers a longbow---he could not aim it properly . . . A brace, strapped to his arm . . . He remembers a knot, too tight---it would not come loose.

But why was he here? The creature lets out a soundless rumble. The hunter’s bones quiver. He needs to figure this out. Think!

He remembers fighting to remain positive---for a friend . . . a tent, dejection . . . a calm voice, sun on the rippling sea---a solution. The hunter recalls sunset and sunrise. He remembers authority, a wall: “No.” . . . questions about the stars, a colourful robe. Then . . . darkness. Why or how he got into his present situation is beyond him.

The being rumbles again. The hunter decides that the time for caution is over. He opens his mouth to speak. “Can you speak to me?” the hunter asks, with a voice breaking from lack of use. He clears his throat. “I mean you no harm. I really do not know why I am here.”

There is silence from the creature. Its breathing and heartbeats, unchanged.

The hunter takes a step towards the presence, but a more intense rumble rises from the being. He retreats slowly, thinking: proximity is an issue . . . Why? Okay, focus. What next?

* * *

Murchadh is very attentive as he watches the brigand guards circling the captives’ tent complex. There has been extra alertness around camp ever since Archora disappeared. About her disappearance, the brigands have been tight-lipped. Not even Tyree would answer his questions. Did Archora run away, or was she just . . . removed . . . because of her injury? Murchadh does not like this last thought, but it is a possibility. He can no longer trust any of the brigands. His guard is up, but for his efforts to gain their trust he has to pretend it is not.

Though Murchadh can tell that his tent-mate’s disappearance is weighing heavily on Ffrewgí, he and Wyddryr are doing very well. Murchadh is very glad that they have been able to achieve so much. It is good to have peers that are equal to him. He likes that better than being the one who knows it all.

He has been loving his lessons as they continue to become more and more advanced. Both Asgell and Fuldryn have much more experience than him and he has been glad of their tutelage. Over the last few days a sense of urgency has leeched into their lessons. Murchadh suspects that their time of training is coming to a close. Murchadh is hoping that they will be ready to do what they need to do---whether it is completing their trained-for task or ditching the brigands. Or both.

Murchadh sighs. He is sitting outside his tent, staring out into the fog. This is the nineteenth evening he has watched pass from the dirt in front of his tent. It is time for him to sleep. He prays silently that the dream will leave him alone tonight. He has not been resting well recently.

* * *

This is a real nuisance, the hunter thinks in the dark silence as he feels the presence breathe. But it’s just a dream. The hunter smiles with new confidence and steps forward, ignoring the rumbles of warning until with a falling face he remembers . . .

* * *

It is hard to wake up. Another dream trapped in that darkness with the two-hearted beast . . . Murchadh sighs. When will this end? What is so important about it?

Why the hell is he worked up about a dream? It is just a dream---leave it. Magic, and magical creatures---fool's thoughts . . . right? His dreams have begun to challenge his perception of reality, their images leeching into his days.

Enough; time to focus on living. Murchadh needs to learn more about Wyddryr today---that is his goal. He needs to trust the bright-eyed boy, but Murchadh has such a strange feeling about him---about his history, about who he is and his place in the village.

It is raining today and that means a cold, damp lesson. Murchadh sighs as he sits in the entrance to his tent, watching the village grudgingly come to life. No one enjoys chores in cold autumn rain. Summer is as good as gone and a deep chill is settling in over the land. He wonders what the guides will be doing today. He hopes it will not be swampland tracking again---in this weather, it would be horrible. Murchadh sighs, rolls to his feet outside the tent, and begins to jump around to warm up. He may as well get wet now. He needs to get his blood flowing anyway; he needs to clear his head from last night’s dream. Time to enter the real world.

Anwen joins Murchadh in the rain after a few breaths. As they walk to the staging area they chat about their hopes for the day, jokingly wishing for a dry lesson in a tent. As they draw near the other children they greet them with cheerful voices, mocking the weather.

Murchadh waves goodbye to Anwen and heads off to where Asgell waits in a cloak. Ffrewgí and Wyddryr have arrived already. Ffrewgí is still downcast from losing his tent-mate, it appears. Though his body does seem to be wasting away---he had even fainted once during training---Murchadh suspects his grey pallor is more due to a broken spirit than poor diet. Murchadh wishes that he could help, but it seems impossible. Archora’s disappearance seems to have been the tipping point.

Murchadh looks over at Asgell, wonders again what happened to Archora, but decides against trying to ask again. Asgell may be kind, but when she says enough, she means it.

Wyddryr stands, impassive---almost: a slight shiver shows that the rain is affecting him as well---watching Murchadh with his bright blue eyes.

Asgell speaks cheerfully. “I have a special lesson for you boys today. I have been saving it for just such a miserable day! Follow me. I think you will all be grateful for it!”

They follow her as she sets off into the gloomy woods. Murchadh is excited, but his apprehension grows as Asgell leads them straight for the bog they had had to explore a few days ago. When they can see its hazy duns and browns ahead, Asgell veers to the left, skirting its edge. They travel for a couple bowshots, then stop by a large, stony protuberance jutting from the loamy turf.

“Here we are then, boys!” Asgell says, with so much enthusiasm that Murchadh throws her a sharp glance of surprise. Her eyes gleam in the dim forest light. “Today, I am going to have you learn how to navigate the underground.”

She leads them around the base of the rock, to a dark pit-mouth no more than a pace across. She lights a lantern and ties it to her rope before lowering it into the hole. She feeds down almost half its length before tying it off on a sharp spur just outside the pit. “Alright,” she says, “Wyddryr first. I’ll follow last. This is going to be a really interesting day!” The grin on her face is stunning and full of life.

Wyddryr wraps the rope around himself in order to rappel down, wriggles through the hole, and disappears. Murchadh is next. The mouth of the pit opens up almost immediately and Murchadh finds himself rappelling down a free-fall line, swinging in the open air.

Wyddryr is waiting at the bottom with the lantern, standing in an island of warm light. When Murchadh arrives, he finds the stone beneath his feet is dry and surprisingly warm. He draws in a stale breath and feels the heat in his lungs.

When Asgell arrives after Ffrewgí she takes the lantern and heads off into the gloom. “I found this cave system last winter---I noticed caved-in snow melted hard about its entrance. I found this right away . . .” She approaches a jutting head of stone close to the height of her shoulder. What is beyond it is in shadow until she lifts the lantern and places it on the rock’s flat surface. The lifted light grows suddenly in dartles and sparkles, bouncing and refracting through jagged crystals, clinging to the ceiling and far walls, until it lights up a sizable portion of the cavern. It is huge and beautiful. Stalactites and stalagmites cling to the ceiling and rise from the floor like teeth, glittering with cold blue and pure white crystals.

Murchadh no longer wonders at Asgell’s excitement: this is truly an amazing place.

Asgell turns and studies their awestruck faces. “Don’t get too caught up in the beauty---you’ve still got work to do today. I have hidden three items in this cave system. I’ve hidden them over the course of the last month, but, in these conditions, not much is disturbed. Find my things and we can return home.” She smiles and leans back against the rock column. “I’m going to take a nap for now. Have fun! Oh,” she says, straightening and lifting the lantern down from its seat, “this is yours.” She hands it to Wyddryr.

Murchadh looks around, bewildered. She said she had explored the entire system when she had found it last winter, so every passage should contain traces of her passing, and she had said herself that nothing much will have been disturbed since then. Even if they could distinguish the age of her tracks, the items had been hidden at different times! It seems impossible! Murchadh grins as he considers the scope of the challenge; he loves the impossible.

Murchadh heads away from the crystals, over to an intersection of tunnels. Varying tracks criscross in the fine, sand-like dust. Murchadh crouches down to inspect them, looking for any differences that could be age markers. He picks out two intersecting footprints---the shallowest of scuffs in the sand---and can tell the fresher print by how it lays atop, for lack of a better term, the other.

Wyddryr leans in above him. “There are more tracks leading this way than the other,” he says, gesturing in the direction provided to Murchadh by the fresher print.

Murchadh nods silently. A good way to start. They head off into a narrow passage, Ffrewgí following silently behind. The tracks disappear as soon as they step from the shallow sand bowl onto smooth rock, but the tunnel leads on in a single direction, so Murchadh walks on confidently.

“Are we going this way ’cause there are more tracks?” Wyddryr asks.

“They were also the newest,” Murchadh responds with a shrug. “I'm not sure about much, but I want to try out an idea and see if it works.”

“The newest doesn’t mean the most reliable, right? Asgell could have hidden all three items right away, then come in after just to lay false trails.”

“Yes, she could have, but . . .” Murchadh smiles wryly, “it’d be a cruel trick complicating an already difficult task.” He grins at Wyddryr. “It is not a guarantee, but the newer the track the better the odds that she was either hiding or checking on the objects.”

“That makes sense,” Wyddryr says. He is following Murchadh closely, almost treading on his heels. His voice is a reedy whisper: “I . . . don’t like being down here.”

Murchadh slowly turns and looks at him. Wyddryr looks like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a predator.

“It’s okay, Wyddryr---and you can share stuff about yourself without fear of being hurt, especially with me,” Murchadh says in a steady tone. The is the first time Wyddryr has revealed a vulnerability willingly to him. There is obviously a reason that Wyddryr is so scared of sharing his past and weaknesses---something to do with his whip-scarred back, Murchadh is willing to bet.

Ffrewgí chips in, “We’re not that comfortable down here either, Wyddryr. It’s okay.”

Wyddryr loosens a little.

Murchadh looks at him, concerned. “It is fine to say what unsettles you: there is no weakness in that. Only the truly strong can share fully about their uneasiness.” He stares at the small boy. “How long ago were you captured?” There are lots of questions Murchadh would like to pile on, but he does not want to prompt Wyddryr to close up again. This is a rare chance to get to know him better.

Wyddryr’s glowing eyes burn in the yellow lamplight. “I can’t—as long as you have, I guess.” Then he pauses before continuing quietly, “It’s not like you trust me, either.” His accusatory tone is clear.

“I don’t trust you because you never trusted me. You won’t tell me anything.” Wyddryr just raises an eyebrow, so Murchadh continues, “There’s just something about you, Wyddryr.”

Wyddryr remains silent.

“I would like to trust you, but I’m just not sure I can. There have been too many weird occurrences---”

Ffrewgí steps in to wisely divert Murchadh’s passion. “Hey, Murchadh, I—here are some more tracks,” he finishes lamely.

Murchadh takes a breath, but remains focused on Wyddryr. “If you want to be my friend, you need to start responding to me.” He then falls silent, having said everything he could without pressing too hard for any answers. When Wyddryr remains silent, Murchadh gives his mouth a faint twitch and turns to look at what Ffrewgí may have found.

They walk in silence, continuing down the straight passage for a few breaths, then Wyddryr speaks again. “Look, I don’t see what you’ve been seeing. I just don’t like sharing about myself.” He pauses and turns his head, sending it into shadow. Murchadh can hardly make out what he says next: he grumbles, “Especially when I’m pressed.” He turns back into the sphere of light. “I think I was the first captured. Maybe that’s the cause of the weirdness you think you see.”

Murchadh turns and looks at him. “Asgell treats you differently. Symbre, too---I’ve seen her regard you when she oversees our training.”

Wyddryr’s eyes get a little harder. “I think you’re just seeing things.”

Murchadh holds his gaze intently. He knows that Wyddryr is not telling him everything, but he makes a decision to trust him anyway. He nods, accepting the boy’s response.

Wyddryr blinks, and suddenly his blue eyes lose their edge. “Don’t . . . don’t bring your suspicions up with any of the tribespeople.”

Murchadh looks at him shrewdly. None of his theories have lost any power and he is just left with more questions, but Wyddryr turns away and walks beside Ffrewgí down the passage---he is done talking. He has trusted Murchadh enough to dialogue a bit. Now Murchadh must respect his silence. He feels like a wall has come down. Wyddryr will come forward with more about himself when he is ready.

Murchadh follows the globe of lamplight with thoughts humming about in his head.

As time passes the three boys slowly figure out how to navigate this foreign world. Soft minerals on the walls betray the slightest touch and new build-up stands out clearly from immemorial roughage. The guides find life, even down here---they track prints in fungal slime, look for signs of foreign passage in delicate mushroom beds. Even without determined signs of Asgell’s trail, the boys manage to cover a lot of ground: in an underground environment, there are only a few paths a quarry can take and the briefest hint can send a tracker in the right direction for hundreds of paces.

Murchadh has lost all track of time by the time they find the last object: a tin pot. They found the other two items mostly by chance, but had needed to really focus and combine their skills to track this one down. Wyddryr picks it up and smiles, and the group heads off back to Asgell.

* * *

The hunter groans and stops moving toward the creature. The darkness changes. He has entered a cave! This is real! He must have fallen into a pit or something! Okay---had he been alone? Was he traveling with his friends? Maybe they could lower him a rope!

“Hey!” the hunter yells. “I am down here! Throw me the rope!”

Suffocating silence rings in his ears.

The beast no longer growls, but suddenly huffs a few times, almost as if it is laughing.

No. The hunter remembers now: they had finished their day in the caves successfully. They had returned to the village, had made it to their tents late---the moon had been halfway through its movement for the night.

The hunter’s reality seems to fade around him.

* * *

The afternoon sky is almost clear of clouds and the day is getting hotter. It is a nice change from the rain yesterday, even if most of it had been avoided by spending the day underground. Murchadh’s head is still stuck in the wonders of the underground. Those caverns have done more than anything else to persuade him that magic can exist. Those caves were surely full of it.

He is thankful that Asgell had let them sleep in today. She had pointed out the pockets of moonlight from between the clouds on their way back to the village, predicting a clear following night for a lesson of star-charting under Fuldryn.

Murchadh grins up at the clear skies, excited to work on the brace. He hopes that he can remember what Anwen had shown him nights ago well enough to replicate it. First things first, he thinks, trying to focus, and sends his eyes downwards to look for Wyddryr’s tracks.

* * *

Ffrewgí and Murchadh have just picked up the brace from the fencepost where Asgell had placed it for them when Asgell arrives from the village and calls to Murchadh. He leaves Ffrewgí with the brace and walks over to her. Asgell points to two figures approaching from the camp. One of the figures is Anwen!

“Murchadh, did you plan this?” she asks, pointing to Fuldryn and Anwen as they approach.

“No, I didn’t,” says Murchadh honestly. “What is she doing here? I just assumed this wouldn’t be allowed . . .”

“You expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with this?” Asgell asks, sending Murchadh a wry smile. “You've been wanting her to help you this whole time.”

Murchadh just shakes his head. “I swear I did not even ask. You can ask Fuldryn---I had nothing to do with this.”

Asgell calls out, “Fuldryn, who’s the guest? You didn’t tell me there’d be another kid for me to watch over this evening.”

Fuldryn smiles wide. “You haven’t noticed all of Murchadh’s questions during our lessons? Rather out of character, I thought, so my curiosity was piqued and I asked him where the questions were coming from. Turns out he was asking as proxy to Anwen---who has, I see, wandered off.”

Murchadh sees that she has already joined Ffrewgí, and the two are deep in conversation over the arm brace. He may yet get a chance to really use a bow!

Asgell looks sharply at Murchadh. “So, I guess you did ask, after all?”

Fuldryn laughs, cutting in. “Not at all, Asgell---though I would have applauded it. I simply love nothing more than a willing and eager pupil."

As they walk into the field, Murchadh rejoices internally at this stroke of luck. He glances over at Anwen and Ffrewgí. The latter seems the most alive he has been since the loss of his tent-mate as the two work animatedly on the brace.

Feeling eyes on him, Murchadh shifts his gaze quickly. Wyddryr, sitting silently at the gathering place where Fuldryn and Asgell are just arriving, is watching him closely. Murchadh’s mind is suddenly filled with the questions he did not ask in the cave.

“Ffrewgí, Anwen!” Fuldryn’s voice cuts through his reverie and the group gathers around, ready to learn the secrets of the stars.

* * *

The hunter shakes himself free from his memories and realizes he is still with the beast, in the darkness. He is getting tired of standing so still, unable to move any closer . . . unable to move away, too. He still does not know where he is or how he got here, but he must survive, he must learn. He needs to fulfill his duty to the others. He made a promise to them and they are closest thing he has ever had to a tribe.

But he is so tired.

A heavy wave of exhaustion sweeps over him and he slowly sinks into the darkness, wondering what will become of him.

* * *

Murchadh groans as he wrenches himself from sleep. Another night stuck in that damned dark cavern. He does not feel rested at all. He props himself up on his elbows groggily, hoping for an easy lesson today.

Suddenly, he sits bolt upright, smiling with excitement as his brain sorts out what day it is. Today is the day he can try the brace again! Every four days, for the past sixteen days---since the guides’ first hunting lesson---the guides have been rotating under the other task leaders. Four days ago they had had their second foraging lesson. If they continue the pattern, Murchadh and the other guides should be learning under Draeg today, and Murchadh is sure that the brace will work this time. Dreams completely forgotten in his excitement, he crawls out into the light rain and starts to stretch eagerly. He needs his shoulder to be loose so he can shoot with maximum effectiveness. This is going to be a good day!

He is the first child to arrive by the waiting task leaders. He strides confidently over to Draeg and waits for Ffrewgí and Wyddryr. When they arrive, Draeg leads them wordlessly to the slaughtering field to start the day’s routine.

The day goes by quickly, and when the archery portion arrives, Murchadh can hardly contain himself as Ffrewgí straps the brace onto his arm. He eagerly takes up a bow and arrow, and . . . it works! It is clumsy and difficult to aim, but he can use it! He applies the same technical theories he uses for throwing knives to his archery, and by the end of the session he is hitting the target fairly often.

His muscles burn as he returns his bow and two arrows to the box beside Draeg. He is not used to using his right arm as he has been today---holding the bow steady and upright for so much of the lesson really taxed what muscle he has there. His muscles may be sore, but Murchadh is thrilled: he will be an archer like his father!

His father . . . Murchadh wishes he could be around to see him grow. He sobers a little as the guides reenter the encampment and head for the dinner clearing.

* * *

The hunter slowly, groggily, rises from sleep, feeling the weight of the darkness swell around him. He sighs: he is back. Too bad his dream could not last longer . . . or is he dreaming now? The lines of reality are blurring in his head. A bow and full quiver are slung over his back. He moves his arm, tucked tight against his side: he can feel where the brace was lashed, he knows it was real. His other arm brushes against the cold stone of the cave wall. It is unusually smooth.

He sighs and rises, then freezes. The creature has moved. The hunter feels as if it is lying down, hardly twenty paces from him. Its dual heartbeats thrum slowly, rhythmically.

The hunter sits down carefully, takes stock of his gear. He finds both ancestral daggers in his belt---why would his cousin relinquish them? Asgell’s throwing knives are in a rolled packet beside his daggers. He runs a hand over the horns of the bow slung over his shoulder. It is most definitely his father’s. Why does he have no memory of coming here? How did he lose his memories?

The creature huffs.

The hunter glares in its direction. “I hope you know that when I figure out what is going on I will make you pay for every second of this torture!”

The creature snorts in response.

“I am not your toy! You will show me why I am here and . . . and if you are a dream, I will control the dreamscape to get my revenge!” The hunter suspects the creature will not understand him. Saying these things is mere catharsis.

A shock suddenly runs through the hunter’s consciousness. He hears nothing, not even in his head as when his golden dream-friend talks to him, but he knows all of a sudden that the creature is telling him---without voice, or even image---to wait and to have patience. Pure information without filter.

Exhaustion overcomes the hunter and the darkness becomes sleep.

* * *

Rising up through the weight of his dreams, Murchadh struggles for alertness. It is morning. Anwen is still sleeping beside him, the night’s rain has passed, and the first wan light of day dances with shadows on the canvas of their tent. Murchadh rolls silently onto his hands and knees and crawls past Anwen, leaving the tent for the grey light outside.

They have been training for four weeks. What lies before him and his new family he does not know. He stands, watching the rising light of dawn battle an enormous storm head to the north. Whether this world is just a dream or reality, he will do his best to care for and protect his family, no matter the cost.

#murchadh #chapter six

1 note · View note

evolutionsvoid · 8 years ago

Photo

The life of a natural historian is an interesting one, but a difficult one at the same time. I am not one to say that this field is the hardest one out of them all, but I would claim it is high up there. It is true that it does not face the sheer physical exhaustion as a miner or lumber worker, or the dire threats that knights take on in battle. In the end, though, these jobs/positions are pretty much the same thing day by day. Break the rocks, collect the ore, haul the load, or in the other case, don't get stabbed. For a natural historian, though, your field completely changes every time you study a different creature. Some have gone around this by focusing their entire career on a single species, but many others prefer to look at the amazing biodiversity our lands have. So at one point you may be observing Great Mottled Caecilians in the hot, humid jungles, then suddenly climbing cold, rocky peaks to get a good vantage point on a group of trolls. Each one has its own environmental hazards and travel troubles, not even mentioning what danger the beast may present in itself. Some are thankfully docile, so worry of life and limb is quite small. Others, however, can be quite dangerous to study, and it is no surprise that natural historians often leave this world by the hands of the very thing they were researching. I thankfully have yet to be horribly mangled by my subject matter yet, and hope that the sun may continue to shine on me in such a favorable fashion. That is not saying I haven't been wounded in the line of duty, cause that would be an obvious lie. Regardless, despite the threats my line of work encounters, each species offers an exciting challenge to overcome in order to get the privilege to research them. Out of all of them, though, I would say one of the hardest species I ever had to study would be the Grand Basilisk. I have to say it is quite difficult to observe their behavior when the act of looking at the creature could be lethal. Grand Basilisks are a single species in the small family of Basilisks, gaining its name from its impressive, crimson crest and horned "crown." Grand Basilisks stick to dry land, preferably forests, savannas and grasslands. Despite living in wooded areas, they do not climb trees. Rather they prefer to hide away in caves and burrowed nests when they wish to sleep or escape the elements. They also enjoy the presence of small water bodies. Though they are a species that enjoys heat, a Grand Basilisk will be known to submerge itself in water during the hottest days of summer. It was once believed that a Grand Basilisk lacks the ability to shunt off excess heat, so they must cool themselves with water. It turns out that this behavior can be one of two things. One involves the process of shedding its skin. It appears that water aids in the process and helps get the dead layer of scales off quickly and efficiently. It probably makes a good meal for the fishes too! The other is actually a method of hunting. People thought that the super hot days of summer drove the Grand Basilisk to water, but it is actually more towards the other animals that live in the area. There are other species in these habitats that have a harder time with heat, so they seek out water. Be it for cooling or drinking, certain beasts will head towards water for relief from the sun. This is why the Grand Basilisk submerges itself in the ponds and lakes. It will hide itself in shallower parts of the pond, keeping its body down on the bottom. Its long head and neck allows it to reach its nose to the surface for air, without disturbing the water around it. When large game wanders close for a drink or bath, the Grand Basilisk will strike from below and sink its venomous fangs in. If the prey is smaller in size, the Basilisk will hang on until venom or exhaustion downs the victim. If the prey is larger, it will immediately let go and let the beast flee. Within minutes the potent venom will drop the animal, and the basilisk will leisurely follow it and dine. The hunting method of the Grand Basilisk is pretty much the same on land. They remain motionless in certain hiding spots and wait for prey to wander by. All meals are swallowed whole, and the Grand Basilisk will crawl off to a sunny spot for a nap.

Grand Basilisks are quite territorial, and claim a rather impressive chunk of land for themselves. The size of their territory is measured in miles, and in some cases, a single basilisk can stake out an entire forest for its hunting ground. Grand Basilisks live a solitary lifestyle, only joining up with other basilisks when mating season occurs or when fighting for territory. Fighting amongst each other is the most common form of socialization. Due to their large territories, overlaps often happen or a wandering basilisk is looking for a place to call home. Regardless of the reason, the two will begin to duel. First will come a show of fashion, as the two will flare their crests at one another and circle around each other with heads held high. Perhaps this is to show age and health, as older basilisks have much larger and vibrant crests than the young. Perhaps the younger opponents can see if an enemy is too experienced and healthy to risk a fight with, or if they are now old and sickly. If none flee from this showing, they will then fight. The two will strike at one another, their heads snapping back and forth as they duel. Apparently their venom does not affect other basilisks, as they survive these bites and scratches. The whole fight involves hitting the other combatant, while staying out of range of the other's strikes. Whoever gets the most bloody and bit from the match will eventually retreat, and the winner will reap the spoils. The interaction that comes from mating does not come nearly as often, as they only reproduce once every decade. When this special time occurs, things change in the basilisk's routine. In an interesting twist, the females are the ones who hunt for viable males. Leaving their territory, they will follow scent trails and markings to find males who are in the right condition for mating. Through the entire time they are tracking down males, the female will be developing unfertilized eggs within her body. When a male is tracked down, the mating ritual begins. On second thought, "ritual" may not be the right word. That kind of implies that the two play equal roles in this process, which the male does not. In fact, female Grand Basilisks seem to have a dominate behavior around males, and have been seen roughing them up and pushing them around. This reproductive process does not involve any elegant dance or showing off, which one would expect for a creature with the word "grand" in their title. Rather the females just want the males to fertilize and nurture the eggs, nothing more. While most accept this role and play it, others actually resist it. For whatever reason, some male Grand Basilisks may try to fight the female or even run! If this occurs, the female will actually rough up the male with strikes from her tail or slamming into them with her head. Female Grand Basilisks are larger than their male counterparts, so a healthy female will always beat a male any day. Eventually the male will surrender and the process will begin. Well, "process" might not even be the right word either! What happens is that the female will deposit one or two gooey eggs at the male's nesting place, and have the male fertilize them externally. After that, the female just ups and leaves! It is then up to the male to protect the eggs and young that will eventually emerge. After fertilization, the eggs will slowly grow a tougher skin around them for protection. In time, the young will hatch and the male will keep them around the nest. The young will essentially take care of themselves, but they stay close to the nest so that the presence of dad always wards off predators. Eventually they will reach the age in which the father will drive them away and they will have to find a hunting ground for themselves. The females, however, just simply head out to find another male! Female Grand Basilisks pretty much use the entire season to hunt down as many males as they can and leave them with eggs to raise. If a female finds a male that already has eggs, she will often eat them and then leave her own instead. When mating season is over, the females will return to their home territory, which sometimes can be taken by other nomadic basilisks. Often these are young males who are looking for their own territory and end up taking a female's by mistake. This is not tolerated at all by the female, and she will brutally chase off the young bachelor. You know what they say about a woman scorned! Now I know at this point, some may be wondering if I am ever going to bring up the thing that makes basilisks famous. I will, but I just wanted to cover other things first! Anyways, what many know about the basilisk family is their deadly gaze. Everyone knows how locking eyes with a basilisk is lethal, but that is not entirely true. For Grand Basilisks, yes, making eye contact with their eyes will kill you. No doubt about that. There are other basilisks, though, that do not have the lethal punch behind their gaze. They may cause pain, drowsiness, disorientation or blindness instead. We will talk about those in later sections, but I just wanted to point out that not all basilisks have the killing gaze. Interestingly enough, basilisks all seem immune to these sight effects, even when dealing with other basilisk species. Grand Basilisks indeed possess this killing power. It is all locked in their single eye that is embedded in their tongue. Most of the time, this eye is kept hidden in their jaws, as basilisks hardly rely on sight for travel and hunting. Their other senses are more than enough to function with, so the eye is rarely unfurled. When danger occurs, that is when the eye pops out. Hidden within the tip of its tongue, the eye is embedded in a bulb-like structure. Four tendril flaps cover it and protect it from debris and meals that come through the mouth. When needed, the jaw will open and the tongue will shoot out. The flaps will flare open and expose the eye, which can whip around on the flexible stalk. The eye seeks out the attacker and looks to lock its gaze with them. When the eyes make contact, the victim will fall into spasms and then die within seconds. Simple as that. Studies have been done on victims of these attacks to find out what causes such a lethal gaze. Autopsies have revealed that the brain is severely damaged by the process. Entire chunks have been found practically liquefied, and the amount of bleeding within the organ is enough to shut the entire thing down. So far the theory is that something goes from the basilisk's eye to the victim's, which than travels to the brain and causes the lethal injuries. Some kind of magic or signal causes this, but it is really difficult to find out what it is exactly. There are not many who wish to test out such a lethal weapon, or get anywhere near a Grand Basilisk. They are territorial creatures and will see anything that moves as food. If the deadly gaze wasn't bad enough, they have extremely potent venom and can move surprisingly fast. Grand Basilisks are seen as monsters and feared as such. Despite that, not many are willing to face it in battle. In fact, some villages have found that moving their entire town is easier than dealing with a Grand Basilisk. Honestly, I don't think fighting one would be that bad. Of course I never tried it, so I can't judge, but I have seen a lot of their behavior! Their lethal gaze is not used all that often, and there are ways to combat it. In fact, if I patented my special mirror hat, no one would have to worry about it again! I rigged up this hat during my time observing basilisks in the field. It involves a whole system of mirrors that allow you to see perfectly fine through a series of reflections. It would be great! Then again, it is a little bulky and fragile. I would also recommend being careful on sunny days with it. I nearly burned a hole through my face with it once. Probably could use some improvements... Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian

#basilisk #monster #creature #snake #myth #mythical beasts #art #drawing #king of snakes

8 notes · View notes