#i've been working with fairytales a lot recently. if you couldn't tell

[thebiscuitlabryinth]

(ep8 spoilers ahead!)

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a king who honoured Truth.

He was as gentle as a lamb, as pure as driven snow, as warm as sunlight, and his citizens revered him for these qualities. His Truth was his kindness and his hope, and he was said to be able to heal a Cookie of all their woes and pain with a single touch, so blessed by the heavens he was.

Unfortunately, his Truth was no armour, and eventually it became a blade that turned against him. His soft heart failed to protect his kingdom when disaster fell like a fog over it, thick with malice, and those citizens who once revered him came to despise those very same traits they once praised.

The king of Truth, as gentle as a coward, as pure as a martyr, as warm as the remnants of his burning kingdom. The king, dismayed by his Truth failing him, had little idea of what to do as his citizens abandoned him, one by one until only he remained.

One day, a wise scholar happened upon the shell of that kingdom and, curious to know its story, he went to visit the king. The king, still at a loss for what to do and hoping the scholar may impart some of his knowledge, freely shared the tale of the kingdom's downfall with a deep sorrow in his voice.

The wise scholar, taking pity on the king, stepped up to the weary silhouette curled in that old throne and said, "Is it not obvious? You should let go of your Truth."

"My Truth?" The king murmured, disbelieving. "I certainly must have misheard you. I have dedicated my life to Truth. I cannot possibly part with it."

"Whyever not? Look at where Truth has lead your life – to complete ruins, hasn't it?" The wise scholar explained, oh so patiently. "It has paid your dedication back with anguish and despair. Why should you live like that? Deceit would be far more merciful to you, and it would surely soothe your poor heart, if you'd let it."

The wise scholar had offered this morsel of Knowledge out of the goodness of his heart, and for a blissful moment, the king considered it. Sadly, the king could not see it as the act of goodwill that it was, too blinded by his own petty pride, restrained by his years of stubborn devotion to the false idol of 'Truth'.

"No, what you have said is a lie meant to mislead me. I can tell, because Deceit drips from your tongue like poison." The king foolishly declares, his face hardening with misplaced determination. "This must be a test sent to me from the Witches, to test my strength, and I will not fail so easi––"

—No, that's not quite right. Let's try again.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a great hero.

This great hero was benevolent, noble and self-righteous, known as a friend and ally to all, but he harboured a dark secret. His Soul Jam, the source of all of his awe-inspiring power, was not wholly his.

Indeed, it had once belonged to an illustrious sorceror, a manifestation of his very soul. But this sorceror had suffered a great injustice under the hands of the fickleminded Witches, and his Soul Jam had been torn asunder. While he had clung fiercely to one half, the other had slipped out of his grasp and fell into the hands of our great hero, the unwitting thief.

Of course, the sorceror came to confront the hero, to claim back what was rightfully his and reunite with the full extent of his power. But the hero was unwilling to give it up, and after much consideration, the sorceror decided to be gracious. He allowed the hero to keep his half of the Soul Jam, granted that he never stray from the sorceror's side.

For a blissful moment, it seemed like this compromise would work well for the both of them. One day, however, the hero approached the sorceror, fidgeting with his long sleeves.

"My Soul Jam calls for yours," The hero admits, soft and careful, "and so too does my soul. Even though I am by your side, it is not enough."

The sorceror smiled, flashing teeth, pleased by the admittance because it proved his emerging hypothesis correct. That the other half of the Soul Jam could not have landed in anyone else's hands but the hero's, for they were meant for each other.

"Then come closer." The sorceror goads, reaching for the hero. "Unite our two halves and become one with me, as it should be."

The hero does, pressing into the sorceror's arms, pushing the softened middles of their Soul Jams together until they begin to merge, light melting into the dark of the sorceror's tight embrace. Truth into the comfort of Deceit.

For a blissful moment, they are together and whole and one.

Then pain bursts through the sorceror's back and he screeches as the hero pushes and stumbles out of his twitching arms. The sorceror's wide, blurry eyes catch on the icy glint of a dagger in the hero's hand, sticky with jam.

The sorceror heaves as his hand scrambles to his own back, finding an open wound weeping thick jam that seeps through his clothes. He starts to taste it, sour on the back of his tongue. Sure enough, the hero had stabbed him in the back with a blade he had hidden in his long sleeves.

The hero stares down at him passively, unremorseful. The sorceror's back burns with gouging pain, and his chest burns with boiling rage, coming up through his teeth in a mighty growl. Jam leaks through his clenched fingers as he curls into himself, his Soul Jam crying in the hollow of his throat, calling for its traitorous other half, ringing, ringing, ringing, RINGING. "YOU--"

—NO! No, no, no, that's not right either, absolutely not. Let's take it from the top, one more time.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a humble shepard.

The shepard was sweet and languid as honey, content in spending his days tending to his vulnerable flock. He had no interest in the world at large, though he welcomed any travellers that passed through with friendliness, making peace in his little meadow.

One day, another shepard, hooded and pale, arrived at the meadow with a single sheep trailing sadly at his heels. He asked for a place to stay for the night, as he had recently lost the rest of the flock to a wolf and, in his grief, took to wandering the lands as a nomad.

The shepard, sweet as he was, agreed. He led the hooded shepard to his flock, where the hooded shepard settled his sheep in for the night. Then, he led the hooded shepard to his little cottage, where the hooded shepard settled himself in for the night, right beside the shepard in his small wooden bed.

Little did the shepard know, the hooded shepard laying beside him was, in reality, a wolfherd. Little did the shepard know, the sheep he had allowed to rest in the comfort of his poor flock was, in reality, a wolf bundled in sheep's wool, trained to behave mildly in the presence of Cookies.

When morning came, the shepard was horrified to find that his flock, which he had dutifully nutured since young, had been eaten whole. The wolfherd's wolf, smeared in red with its woolen disguise hanging off it in sticky clumps, trotted up to its master lazily as the shepard helplessly fell to his knees.

For a blissful moment, there was just the shepard's sobs as his world crumbled around him, ready to be remade.

Then, the wolfherd came up to the miserable shepard and lunged.

He pinned the teary shepard to the damp grass, bathing him in lamb blood as the wolfherd bared his fangs and dug his claws into dough, shedding a disguise of his own.

A thin throat gave way under the wolfherd's teeth, and he discoverd that the shepard really was as sweet as honey, all the way through, as jam spilled into his mouth. He made cracks as the shepard weakly tried to struggle, tearing into his dough in reprimand, in retribution. The shepard deserved it.

He dug into his chest with his wet teeth, pulling out his jammy heart, his pulsing Soul Jam, his writhing soul. He savoured it as he swallowed it whole, as the shepard went obediently still beneath him, because he deserves it, this is his, he is his, and the shepard deserves it too. He deserves it, he DESERVES it, HE DESERVES IT--

—HE DOES, he does, but not quite like that. No, no, something's still off. Maybe a change of angle is needed. A change of perspective.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a liar.

He was beautiful, magnificent in his dark robes and rough around the edges in a captivating way. He watched the world from the top of a spire, looking down on Cookiekind from above with dozens of golden eyes, turning his back on Truth.

The liar was not alone. At his side, and he at his, was the beast that strung the world in shimmering strings, playing the universe like a grand orchestra to seranade his companion. Their power did not just blend harmoniously; it was a singular one, feeding into an endless cycle between the two of them, driven by the thrum of their Soul Jam.

For a blissful forever, they stood together, casting the veil of Deceit over the world, dampening the blistering light of Truth until it coalesced into the shadow of Deceit, becoming what it always should have been. The two of them were unstoppable, bowing to nothing and nobody, rising above it all. They were unstoppable, they could have been, they would have been unstoppable-- IF--

—IF THOSE GNATS HADN'T– IF HE HADN'T–

(Stupid, traitorous, weak fool!)

—No, no, enough, enough, enough. This still isn't getting anywhere. How about this?

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a saint of Truth.

He was blindingly bright, too bright, and he could drive the shadow monsters away with a single swipe of his staff, so radiant was he. And yet, for all his shining power, he was also a complete idiot, driven by his soft, squishy heart.

For instead he cleaved the monster out of the shadow, held out a hand and said, "Let me be your...friend."

Friend. Friend. How ridiculous! Laughable, really, in its absolute stupidity. The saint's eyes were so soft, gentle in contrast to the harsh edge of the light, gooey like melted chocolate, like the saint was doing the monster a favour even though it was the other way around, it was SUPPOSED to be the OTHER WAY AROUND--

—NOPE, no, that's no good either. Come on, what else, what else, what else– aha!

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived an angel.

This angel was once a shepard, once a king, once a hero, once a saint before he ascended to the light of the heavens. He was beautiful and benevolent, warm as sunlight, sweet as honey, blindingly bright and infuriatingly beloved. Until he wasn't.

You see, when the angel had ascended, he had thought that he had risen from the rock bottom of the river. He had foolishly believed that he now knew everything, that he had captured the essence of Knowledge through a brief meeting of two halves of a single Soul Jam.

He hadn't realised that a new rock bottom can always be created – all you need to do is dig.

And so, the demon did, dragging the angel down from the picturesque heavens and back to him, backed by a symphony of screams.

The angel tried to reason with him, with his faulty logic. The angel tried to fight but wouldn't risk crumbling him for good. The angel tried to reach out to him, like he really, truly believed it would work.

In the end, the angel lays crumpled at the demon's feet in a heap, cheeks wet with tears but eyes tired and wild. His painful light dims into something bearable, close to snuffing out entirely, flickering weakly like a candle in the wind.

"You were right." The angel whispers, about his hope, about his kindness, about anything, about everything. "You were right. It was always going to end like this."

And when the angel looks up, it is as if he is giving all of himself to the demon. Properly, this time, no clever tricks even passing his mind. His life and soul forfeit.

There. Perfect.

Shadow Milk sighs, a heavy sound that thickens the air. He is not quite satisfied, because he cannot be, not with his dough crawling with restless viciousness, but he is satisfied enough. With the story, of course. Not with anything else.

Just thinking of that, Shadow Milk scowls, finally looking back down at his hands. He had forgotten about the little plush doll he was holding. It's a cute little replica of Pure Vanilla, small enough to fit neatly into the palms of his hands. He had been fiddling with it for no reason in particular, mostly agitated boredom.

In the midst of his storycrafting, he must have tightened his grip too hard. His claws have ripped its chest in half, stuffing bubbling out of the wound like sea foam.

He stares at it blankly for a moment, claws idly toying with the fluff. Then he narrows his eyes, growls, and twists his claws deeper into the tear.

Lonely, Pure Vanilla had said, with the absolute gall to act like he could read him perfectly. Like he could understand him.

As if! There was no way he understood him, and his new little light show only proved that. Whatever understanding Pure Vanilla thought he had was conjured by his own mind, his poor little heart's attempt to find a peaceful solution. It's like Shadow Milk had told them – in the face of the unknown, Cookies tend to fill in the gaps with whatever fits best with their existing belief system, and what they want to believe is true.

Shadow Milk huffs, finally pulling his claws out of the Pure Vanilla doll. It's a sad looking thing, droopy with the lost stuffing. He considers it for a moment, before gingerly beginning to push the stuffing back in, tuft by tuft.

There is one thing Pure Vanilla got right, though. He really is the only one with the potential to truly understand Shadow Milk. He was close to it, even, tantalisingly close before he pulled himself back out again, but he hadn't gotten there yet.

Shadow Milk knows that he hasn't. Because Shadow Milk knows what it will take to get him there, and it involves tearing him to shreds–

Shadow Milk summons old marionette strings, now mostly unused, and begins to sew up the open chest of the doll with lazy flicks of his finger. Despite the casual movement, the stitches are precise and perfect. Once he's done, the doll looks almost as good as new, but inarguably altered.

—before fixing him back up in Shadow Milk's design.

Only then would Pure Vanilla really be able to understand Shadow Milk. Only then would Shadow Milk believe it.

Shadow Milk rubs his thumb over the doll's cheek, something ugly twisting in his chest. His claws twitch, eager to tear the doll apart again, to have an outlet, but he refrains because he does have self-control and he just fixed it.

Instead, he lifts the doll up and presses a kiss to the little stitched star on its forehead. No, not a kiss. It's more like a curse, a harsh press of lips with the slightest snarl of teeth, with enough pressure to create a dent in its soft head.

Yes, this isn't the end. They have eternity, after all. The wait may be agonising, but eventually, he'll understand him. Shadow Milk will make sure of it.

The something in his chest loosens just slightly, as if relieved.

[bimbosymzs]

Fulfillment Friday: NEW YOU???

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹Fulfillment Friday🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

This week we're tapping into our fairytale selves. Are you everything you want to be, or are other's perception of you shrouding your true self.

Dance of Many Hands -Kudzanai-Violet Hwami

I've been laser-focused on the whole "new year, new me" energy. I am reconsidering my health trajectory and am attempting to take the greatest care of myself, I can. I made balance where I could find it and am accepting where I couldn't. This life is a journey full of random quests and inquiries that are meant to bring us to our highest good. I find that at this point on my journey, I am slaying another dragon and fighting off spells. Our stories feel like never-ending cycles of trauma and rebirth. There isn't really a such thing as an ending, because in every new cycle, we live for a beginning. I am still looking for my way home to myself as I am adjusting to adult life. Needless to say, I am overwhelmed.

When were in search of this new beginning it is on us to find the X that marks the spot. It is on us to balance out our woes from our wins. To grow from the lessons that upend and spin us every which way and gather ourselves. I am finding that I know exactly what I am wanting in this life, but I've realized I have no idea how I am going to get there and who I need to be to have it. So that left me wondering, am I my fairy tale self. Not like this perfect version of me and not even the every day me. Are my standards for myself standardized or our they my own?

My fairy tale self takes great care of her health, great care of relationships and is consistent in her efforts for greatness. That is a bit overwhelming isn't it. Always searching for perfection instead of focusing on everything I already am. I know I am not perfect but I do know my goals are worth it. I recently have had a lot of people say that I am asking to much of the world. That I don't deserve what I desire and you know what, maybe they're right. I have no idea what God has in store for me, but I do know the desires of my heart and that is where the truth lies.

When we read fairy tales often times they are stories that call upon us to grow and examine our empathy. To some, the premise for our greatest traditional fables is complete insanity. Yet, this is how human will works. When we want something, we will go through the darkest places and fight the biggest monsters just to have what we desire. Often times you let go of pride, stand ten toes on your standards and prepare for what comes. As I go through life I have learned every great fairytale has all the same tropes and caricatures.

The protagonist: You are the protagonist in your story. You can either be Tony Soprano or Tiana from Princess in the Frog. Either way you go about it, your desires lead your story, good or bad. You also have to remember, whoever tells your story is who decides if you are the villain or not. Think about the film Maleficent, so many women and girls know what it is like for someone you once loved to corrupt an integral piece of who you are. In Sleeping Beauty, we don't get this perspective of a violent king who sets the whole story off. Along with that, we don't always acknowledge the people in their circles and our own who will add to the narrative to further convict you. This is a reminder to stand tall because one day your story will replace theirs. We have to constantly remind ourselves we are the drivers of our story but also the only ones who can tell our true story. It is up to us to decide if we are willing to be misrepresented or go the distance and use our voices. I am using my voice!!!

The savior: I have learned in life that the savior is just anyone who loves you and wants the best for you. In my life, it is often people I would least expect to go out of their way to help me that do. I am a very sensitive person and I always felt I was all alone on my journey. As I am getting older I see all the people who had these grand impacts on me that I could only truly feel with age. it can be difficult trekking through life and making your own way. Sometimes that stranger on the street becomes a friend. I would like to PREFACE, they are only a savior if they do it out of the kindness of their own heart. You don't owe a savior anything, that is not the good guy.

A team: Now, I have made poor decisions in rounding up my team. I have people that I am still rocking with who have helped me on my journey and there are those who I am still healing from. I do not think I can share much about that. I do know that when people are on your team, people are on your side, your success, happiness, shortcomings, and burdens are things they share with you. Your pain and their pain are interlinked. Your joy and their joy are interlinked. That friend who only reaches out when things are going wrong for them is not on your side, they are a client and you are not getting paid. Another big indicator of someone being on your team is when they are honest with you for your sake, not theirs. I recently had a friend who threw me a reality check, and it was a necessary one. She asked me to think before I went and Thank God I did. I've had one friend see me struggle through and not be able to process what happened to me and basically told me I needed to carry along. I, at first thought she meant well, but I understand now, she was tired of me being sad. When you can't accept your friends for where they're at, maybe you should just stay at home.

A purpose or will: This is the most important of all 4 of the fairy tale tropes. We have to know what we want to get, so we know where we want to go. This means we will have to end up in places that aren't so great for us. This means we have to wander the forest like Hansel and Gretel and come upon a witch's candy cabin. You can't beat yourself up for not knowing better but when you do make the necessary moves to never end up in that side of the forest again. Your journey might be one of finding strength, we can tough it out like Mulan or become the villain like Ursula. Life doesn't always go the way we want it to, but we have to have faith were on the right path. It is so easy to lose our way and take shortcuts, hurt others, or become bitter, I know I have. We have to trust in universal truths that the good guy always wins in the end. Do you know why, because they learned who they are as the protagonist, found people like them, and got help along the way? So, no matter where we've been and no matter where we're going we know the pain won't last long. And we will know love and have a story to tell.

That's all today folks! One last question, what do you have to change to be your fairytale self?

[eboysheartthrob]

The Reason — A Bucky Barnes Romance.

Summary: there's none, actually, I'm terrible at this so I'll just resume for you. Bucky turns up to be face-to-face with his past. Now he must deal with his feelings.

Warnings: teeth rotting fluff, smokin' hot smut, heart stabbing angst. It takes place between Civil War and Infinity war but Bucky is not a popsicle in the end. Mentions of abuse, torture and rape, so be careful and keep your mental health.

Word count: 1300+.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/OC and big brother! Steve Rogers/ OC.

A/N: thank you for the love guys! Today was my first day at college so I got really hyped and here's another one. Love and feedback are always welcomed! ❤️❄️

Chapter Two.

Steve once heard Wanda quote one of her favorite authors over her feelings towards Vision. "There seemed to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance", she read out loud for him. And that would also resume what he felt while watching Bucky with his old roommate. Only three days went by, but he loved to have her sleeping over with them. Wanda helped her shop for normal clothes the very next day, but she kept her Hydra uniform just in case of something bad happened. Bucky had been telling her everything about the 21th century since she grew up blinded to anything besides Hydra's tyranny. Nora loved everything new, she would always observe her surroundings with a curious glimmer in her eyes that made her look like a child seeing the world for the first time. And she actually was, indeed. 

Steve liked the way that after every dinner, she would play some good old songs back from the 40's because she knew that would ease Bucky in a more peaceful night of rest. By matters, it eased him too. She would push them both into the small living room to dance, one at a time,  until they were almost breathless; the slow one's was her favorites. He didn't mind waking up to her figure half-sleep-half-awake in their couch, it was funny how her hair was all up and she couldn't barely answer a simple question. She was not a morning person.

By the morning of the fourth day, he woke up a little bit later than usual and headed to the kitchen after a cold shower that helped him get more alert only to find Bucky and Nora giggling in the kitchen. She wore soft pink pajama pants and one of his big henley's because that way she could pretend she was back in the 50's, staying late in his room. Classical piano music was playing softly in his phone, a steady and intense melody as he showed her how to properly flip a pancake on the pan.

"That's it, you got the way now", he said. "Good morning, punk".

"Good morning, Cap", she mimicked, looking over her shoulder and smiling over him.

"Morning".

The day passed slowly and calm. Bucky didn't do the usual Steve's routine, so he would only stay at home, reading, cooking, trying to learn more thing about this century. Now, with his little friend back, he was even more content on just spending time with her. Back in the damned days, there was times he wouldn't speak, mostly after receiving the shock treatment, but sometimes he just didn't have energy for it. Now, when they weren't chatting about nothing and everything, he enjoyed the confortable silent that rulled between them once in a while,

Normally, he felt thankful for everyone around him, but there was spare seconds that more dark thoughts filled his mind, making him feel like he didn't deserve any of this, the place, the friends, his new life. But when Nora would smile at him, he could see that little girl again. Bright eyes and all grins for him, happy to have someone that didn't treat her only like an experiment. Nora has been trough so much, he knows it, she told him everything in the first night when both couldn't sleep and she thought Hydra was coming back for their pet. She was scared they might found him too and she didn't want to ruin his life as it was now. She was afraid of hurting him. Little did she know he was better than ever.

The golden light of the sun setting framed her body, she was curled up by the window sill, lost in her book. Every second, different feelings washed over her features whenever she finished a line. Bucky caught himself way to deep in his observation. Feeling his heart hammer against his chest, he suddenly forgot he had to breath and cleared his throat, turning back to his own book.

In nights that both of them couldn't sleep, they would curl up in the couch together, dim light of a lonely lamp casting shadows around them. He liked to lay his head in her lap to listen to her soft and melodic voice as she chanted the words like a storyteller from the fairytales. She always lingered at him when it was his time to do the reading, cuddled into his side with the weight of his prosthetic arm around her shoulders, she felt safe. She didn't dare to fall asleep when it was his turn to read her bedtime stories, even though her eyelids couldn't take no more. Other nights, when they didn't feel like books, she would open the window for the cold air to sneak in trough the curtains, knowing he liked the fresh breeze. And she sang. Lovely slow songs from the old times and the new ones she had learned days ago, brushing her fingers trough his hair until he fall asleep on top of her. Bucky Barnes was just a big baby, and she loved that on him. How he would aloud only her to have this intimacy when no other could do more then hug him for a split second. She liked taking care of him. She always did.

When Steve got home from his routine, he needed a moment to absorb the scene in front of him. He lingered at the door frame, silently, as he watched Bucky swirl Nora around only to pull her close again. She still didn't get used to dancing, it wasn't something she was good at really, but he made sure to make her as confortable as possible. Taking her feet above his and leading the steps. Their giggles filled the air and the low lights worked their magic, their eyes locked onto each other without missing a blink. Steve didn't want to interrupt them with the subject he have to bring up to his best friend, so he silently made his way to his room and tried to sleep.

The other day, Bucky told him Nora was at the store next to the building, doing daily groceries because she needed to get out alone once in a while to take in everything around her. She was raised amongst technology, but the only information she had was the one Hydra permited. Both the boys were by the window, watching the rush of the city while sipping coffee casually.

"You have feels for her", Steve contested, not daring to eye his friend's reaction. It wasn't a question, and Bucky noticed it.

"Is not like that, punk..."

"Is totally like that, Bucky", he turned. "The way you look at her is the same way I looked at Peggy". There was a hint of melancholy in his voice that made Bucky cringe and squeeze his mug tightly, he knew how Steve missed his girl. Both of them watched as Nora hopped her way back home with two huge bags, one in each arm. Bucky was a fairly reasonable man. Fairly. He tried keep his emotions at bay and often completely ignored them. But when it came to Nora... Well, he just couldn't. She had a big part in his life, still as a mere child, she was there for him at his worst. She had seen his worst only, and yet was good enough to like him innocently. He couldn't help the  feeling of being at home around her.

"I've talked to T'challa recently", Steve admitted.

"The cat guy?"

"The cat guy", the blonde mimicked. "He was talking about how his younger sister would love to work on you. He said she can help taking Hydra from your head. Definitely."

"At what cost?" Bucky questioned, sudden darkness falling to the brightness in his irises.

"You must stay in Wakanda for some time, for the treament. Like... therapy."

He felt the urge to accept the offer without even thinking about it. Something inside his mind screaming he would be a lot safer around Steve, Nora and others if he went to Wakanda. He wanted to accept it, but first, he needed to talk to his best girl, ask how she felt about it.

Nodding, he gave a hopeful look at his friend and turned when the door swung open. The small girl hidding behind the brown bags of groceries, almost tripping on her way to the kitchen. Bucky imediately rushed to her side to offer help and she greets him with the sweetest smile. The smiling fade away when she noticed his serious gaze downing at her. She knew him well enough to bring that together. 

"Something happened?" She asks. Bucky nods and let a long sigh, a faint smile appears to ease her nerves. She felt her heart stop for a moment when he took her hands in his and started playing with her knuckles. Fingers slowly caressing her soft skin. She wanted to know what was that strange sensation in her tummy, like something was causing a havoc in her insides.

"There may be a way of getting rid of Hydra, take them out of my head", her face lit in hope and happines at his statement, but it soon washed over as he restarted to speak. "I gotta be far away for this, for a long time, maybe."

"Where?"

"Wakanda".

She nodded and stepped back, turning from him and tugging her own skirt between nervous fingers. She took a deep breath one, two, three times, and put a huge smile on her face as she turned back. 

"Anything for you to be happy", she dictated.

He was happy, yet afraid lingered there, lurking in his chest. He attatched at her words for a moment. She didn't used any word in the meanings of healing. She didn't even think he was broken at the first place. That thought made his chest heavy again, his heart started to pound intensily. How loving could she be?

Bucky catch the glimpse of what must have been a tear straming down her cheek before she whiped with the back of her hand, he instantly pushed her against him, embracing her until he could felt the sobbing and her shoulders bucking up against his arms. He tried to soothe her crying caressing long stripes across her back with his flesh hand.

"Yankee?", the mention at his old nickname made him chuckle. She didn't said his name or called him by his nickname since she came home with them.

"Yes, ledyanaya printsessa?"

"I'll miss you. Please come back this time". She said, rising her face just for him to take a glimpse at her teary eyes. With his index finger, he swiped them away and smiled fondly, pressing his chin against the top of her head.

"You won't get rid of me easily, printsessa."

[iveryafterdark]

Day 14

Part 10, S2; Bonding on the road

Last Part. Next Part.

POV. Aika

Further down the road they traveled, the path winding through the thick woods and casting heavy shade onto the path. He hadn't realized that the path to the rest of civilization lay so close to the mountain he had been raised on. It was only the first day on it and he had already seen so many people pass them, walking towards the village they had just left behind them.

Of course, a lot of these people were unsure how to feel about him. The darkness of the forest meant his glowing eyes were impossible to hide, bright and luminous, but they seemed pleased enough to speak with Terel.

The shapeshifter was a much quieter traveling companion than Kai had been but was much more useful. The only downside being that when he had asked them about the 'gold writing' as Kai had put it they did not understand what he was talking about. Further explanation had Terel reminding him that Shapeshifters have a history of hunting Gods, not working with them.

"Have you been very far from the Hunter's village?" Aika found himself asking, curiosity chaffing at him. The world was vast, huge, with massive bodies of water that he couldn't even begin to imagine. He wanted to see all of it. To reach out and grasp at the strands of the world with his mortal hands... just to prove that he could lead just as adventurous of a life as any God, mystic, or otherwise half-blood could.

"You mean recently, or ever?" Terel responded evenly, voice not enthused by the conversation but not sounding completely disinterested, either.

"Well, how long have you lived in the village for?" the shapeshifter went quiet at his question, for so long that some part of Aika started to whine that he had bored the immortal already, the silence feeling stifling and awkward on him now.

"I think the village has been there for about ten years? Time does not have the same kind of importance to me as it does your kind."

"Only ten years? What happened? I heard that leader guy came harassing our camp thirteen years ago so, surely, they've been in the area longer?"

"The last village was burned down about then. The new one happens to be closer to the mountains."

"Burned down?"

"Yes, I heard it was a dragon but... those don't actually exist so I couldn't tell you what caused it. I wasn't there at the time."

"A dragon?" Aika repeated, raising an eyebrow and chancing a glance at the shapeshifter. They didn't seem to be judging him, merely waiting for him to elaborate. Not that he could tell, unwilling to hold eye contact as he was. "I, uh, don't think I've ever heard of those?"

"You've never heard of a dragon, before?" genuine or dismissive? His brain couldn't decide, incredulous, maybe?

"Uh, no. Are they common?"

"Well, no, dragons don't exist, they're a fairytale. A myth. They do show up as monsters in a lot of hero stories, though. Have you never heard of the tale of Amar? Or of Solace?"

"I... no? You say that like I should." he wasn't sure why he felt embarrassed, defensive, about this.

"Well, what stories did your pack tell you when you were little?" Aika ran a hand over his face, vaguely aware of the rough stubble beginning to grow in now. Did he bring a razor?

"Valenin told a lot of hunting stories from his time before the pack... Bear told me a few of a man called Grear?... and Relis mostly just talked about the Gods. Like, corruption, and stuff." he offered, pausing in his steps when he felt Terel give him a strange look.

"You've heard of Grear?... Your pack is a much stranger group of wolves than I thought."

"Whose Amar? Why did he kill a dragon?" he already knew about Grear, or a little bit about him anyway, so he was uninterested in that topic. But, Amar, a story of a hero who slayed something called a dragon? His curiosity was peaked, if maybe a little childish in tone. Kai had been teaching him the language of the Gods, still something he wished to learn, but maybe Terel could teach him of the culture of the mortal people. Which is what he was.

"Are you wanting me to give you the summary or-?"

"whichever, this is my first outing away from my pack so-" he didn't feel like finishing the thought, it made him feel very childish. But, he supposed, that shapeshifters probably had similar thought processes to Gods in that manner. Didn't matter how old he was as a mortal, he'd always be naive in the eyes of immortals.

"So, you know next to nothing about life outside your pack." Terel finished the thought for him, the even tone the shapeshifter often used causing the teen to flinch. Embarrassment prickly at his palms.

"Well, blending in is an important part of not getting killed for your kind... and I have been living among humans for centuries, so that is something I can help with. I do not know much about the ways, or wills, of the Gods but I know a thing or two about mortals." Yes! Despite himself, and how different the individual was from the shapeshifter he knew, he still felt the need to be liked by them. Kai had felt like someone on his level, even if the annoying prophet would outlive him by an absurd amount, but Terel... felt like talking to a better. Someone cooler, stronger, more well-versed, than he was instead of resenting it that just made him want to earn the immortal's respect. Or fondness? Did he want respect or to be seen as a friend? Whichever, both options sounded good.

"You wanted to know about the Legend of Amar, specifically?" the shapeshifter continued, seeming willing enough to share what they knew.

"Or, ya'know, whatever. The world is massive, right? There are probably a lot of things I don't know." Aika tried not to sound overly excited, attempting at casual, but he wasn't sure if he was succeeding or not. Terel hummed in response, a brief glance his way causing his hair to stand on end.

"Well, I will tell you about Amar some other time. There are more useful things to know than folktales."

"Alright, can you tell me about cities? Towns? Villages? Where does this road lead?" he was eager to try to continue the conversation in some form, trying not to take it to heart when the shapeshifter laughed.

"You have a lot of questions, little wolf."

"What can I say? I'm a curious guy."

"And if I decide to tell you boring information?"

"You can try, I find it difficult to believe any information is boring."

"Hm...." taking it as a challenge, he hoped? He had meant it as one, a nudge to keep the immortal talking.

"We are on the Bane's road, originally it was built to connect different temples to the Gods but now it connects main cities. The 'Hunters Village', as you know it, is but a small village stop for travelers, mostly, and is called the Mountain's Rest." Because of the fact that it exists near the mountain's shadows.

"Why 'Bane's road'? That does not sound inviting."

"It is not meant to, those that walk this road often find themselves misfortune. Some believe the woods surrounding us are cursed, or filled with mad spirits, or mischievous nymphs, packs of rabid wolfmen, or vampires, or a cult."

"And are any of those things true?"

"Mortals scare easy at night, making great works of fiction from their fears, but I find that most stories have a small amount of truth to them."

"That doesn't answer my question." Aika responded pointedly, crossing his arms and stopping in his tracks. Terel did not follow suit, merely taking up walking ahead of him now, forcing the werewolf to pick up the pace again if he didn't want to get left behind.

"No?" he wasn't sure what this was in reference to, tilting his head to the side in question, his insides squirming as the immortal threw a glance his way. "All I am saying is that it would be wise to stick close."

Ah. Well, he could do that.