#ill figure out the details later wheezes

[umbrascelerata]

@dicyde || starter call. (accepting.)

    ❛ LORD Kamui ! Sorry for intruding like this but if you happen to see Joker, don’t tell him you saw me. So with that being said, do you mind if I hide out here for a bit ? He’s so scary when he’s mad ! ❜ There was probably sarcasm laced in her tone.

[littlefreya]

Penny Dreadful

Summary: Sherlock is cold, troubled and upset, his mind is fixed on cracking an unsolved murder. It’s the worst time to disturb him. But his hot-blooded little succubus wants to drag him into sin.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (First-person POV)

Word count: 2.5K

Warning: 18+, smut, teasing, bratty behaviour, ass-smacking with a cane, slight cane play, primal play, unprotected rough sex, biting, slight size kink, MaleDom, drug use. Lots of curly hair descriptions.

A/N: Not canon to books Sherlock, obviously, but seeing the photos and teaser Henry as Sherlock just sets up the vibe. So I had to. Many thanks to my beta @agniavateira​ !! Sorry for the ugly cover art :D.

Title: Penny Dreadful

Sherlock’s study was a bleak, musky chamber deprived of heat, notwithstanding the many candles that burnt at every corner. Perhaps it was the pristine heaps of snow that piled on the ledge of the window, or maybe it was his sullen mood that gave the room a sense of icy wilderness. 

Fumes rose from his mouth, vaping into the air. The tawny light kissed his thick mane of luscious, chocolate curls while he stood at the fore of his desk and leered at some parchments that troubled his brilliant mind for whatever reason. 

Fist seizing the golden tip of his cane, his thumb stroked the engravings that embellished the metal. Cases that he couldn’t crack often left him frustrated to the point of madness. Those wicked, sly obsessions made him even more irresistible.  

My nails bit into the wooden doorframe. Consumed by yearning, a blaze licked up my soul with its monstrous tongue. I often wondered how something so pure as love could be dangerous, to which Sherlock would reply, 

“Love is the greatest villain of them all.”

Unlike him, I didn’t care for evil. 

The detective unclipped the small chain he kept fastened to his vest and opened the silver locket, gathering a wisp of white powder on the tip of his pinky finger and pressed it to his nostrils. A small grunt escaped him, his eyes turning glassy. The “fairy dust” tended to sharpen his perception and elevate his stamina.  

I dropped to my knees at his sight, crawling on the floor. The black silks of my dress made a brushing noise as it dragged on the Persian carpet; my breasts peeked as my corset shifted with every move. Sherlock often said we must imagine ourselves as animals once we let desire play our strings. 

Accepting my inner wildness, tonight I was a cougar stalking her prey. 

By nature, his senses were sharp as blades, though the substance that streamed through his veins made a more heightened grip of the reality that surrounded him. He noticed and yet ignored me, letting his hot-blooded harlot crave for his attention.

If I was to be the feline predator, Sherlock was the hunter who pursued me for sport. An unfair game, yet nevertheless my favourite. 

Bathing in my own little fountain of mischief, I allowed my fingers to sneak toward his cane, brushing up and down the mahogany in slow, languid motion. My slender digits licked along the shaft and my bosom followed, pressing against the hardwood. I dragged myself up slightly to glimpse at my master from below: my Sherlock, always a sight for a famished girl; a colossus, intimidating, and breathtaking. Like a moth to a flame, I inched closer dazed by the light, wanting to bask in its radiance. 

The muscle in his cheek tensed, thick brows furrowing. A little squared wrinkle appeared above the bridge of his nose as he brushed through his dark locks with agitation.

“What ills that glorious mind of yours?” I hummed, playful fingertips climbing further up at the length of his cane.

“Something I can’t grasp,” he spat, not giving me the time of day. But I knew he noticed every detail of my wanton behaviour, it was evident by the way his breath swiftly became heavier. Sherlock might have solved crimes by profession, but all women were natural detectives; evolution granted us with a definite survival instinct, learning to read men between the shadows.  

“You can possess me,” I offered, fingers scraping over his thumb as it pressed onto the cane’s golden tip. My voice dropped to a whisper while my hand left the cane in favour of his thigh. The muscle flexed and twitched under my sinful touch, the fabric of his breeches stretched as his cock grew with its natural need to fulfil the wet, convulsing void in me.

“You’re distracting me,” he warned, voice low and stern. His lashes hardly even fluttered to my direction. 

Every delicate little hair stood up at the sound of alarm yet instead, I inhaled the soot of peril, allowing my hand to travel further and meet his hungry girth. It rose to my touch with gratitude, flinching even harder at the clutch of my claws. The flavour of desire was honey and salt on the tip of my tongue.

The low animalistic vibration of his voice wavered through his solid form. I felt it shudder all the way down to his swelling cock. A cautious man, Sherlock was measured and forbearing to a point that made me wonder if he even liked women at all before we fell into the vicious pit of decadence and violent delights. 

It was the contrary that was true: Sherlock loved women very much, his desires were simply… of a certain quality. 

His groin was warm and firm against my cheek. The crystalline-blue glare finally graced me with a sight so brooding my bones clattered.  

“Later, I need to work.” By the drop of his voice, I knew there won’t be a third warning. 

“Later, Later…” I taunted, rolling my chin over his aching need. “All work and no play…”

The gasp that pushed out of my lungs nearly whisked the candles off as Sherlock hauled me up by his hand and bent me over the desk.  

“Should I teach you how to respect my time?” He snarled, throwing the skirts of my dress over my head like a cape of the midnight sky. Stars collapsed under my skin at the sensation of his touch exploring the curve of my bare ass. Talons ruptured the tiny blood vessels, squeezing with the affirmation of his ownership. 

“No undergarments?” Sherlock growled dangerously while his thumb brushed over my silken entrance, toying with the rich elixir and smearing it further down my anticipating petals. I answered with a deep moan, stretching on this desk with a succumbing plea. 

“You came here aimed at disturbing me while I work.”

Settling onto the surface of the desk, I reached forth one arm lazily and chuckled. “You are a great detective, I… oh!” 

Something cold and solid caressed my dripping lips, driving between them in slow, calculated strokes. Throwing my head over my shoulder, I noticed Sherlock holding his cane against my sacred cove, staring at it as if I was yet another piece of evidence to be explored. The golden arched-tip pushed-slightly between my petals and entered just enough to make me hiss. For a mere second I wondered if he was going to fuck me using nothing but his cane.

“Look away; this is going to hurt.” 

I hardly had time to protest when the first smack hit the pillow of my cheek. A wheeze of disgrace shot from my throat, husky and embarrassing, but not as degrading as the sting the metal left at my burning backside.

“Bad girl,” Sherlock ticked his tongue and lifted the cane midway in the air, a flare of noxious desire bursting in his pale-blue orbs. This time I turned away and shut my eyes, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turned dead-white. If only it did anything to dull the pain, the sting was even more prominent, shooting all the way up to my spine where it coiled and forced a strident yip from my clamped lips. 

Yet the throb in my cunt was unmissable.

Sherlock knew very well that the hurt allied with pleasure, enhancing it even, like his powdery magic dust. 

Another smack and my nails scratched at the wood. Like a sinner nun indulging her own beating, I rode the waves of pain as they broke onto shores abundant with pleasure. There were hidden cracks in our public figure, the place where I burnt and Sherlock ascended as we pried our claws into mortal deadly sins. My senses rose to conflict with every smack and Sherlock took joy in every involuntary squirm of my body. 

Tongue pressed between his lips, he hummed as he admired his handiwork, painting my ass in obscene hues of violence. “Had enough? Or want to see which will break first, the rod or your arrogance?” Sherlock chided and pinched my sore cheek to further increase the pain. 

Embers whispered beneath my flesh, my legs jolted from the intense beating and by god, the trickle of my juices rolling down the back of my thighs made even a sultry woman such as myself drown in white shame.

Sherlock’s breath was a heavy guttural waft. His cane dropped to the floor and I heard the sound of metal clicking as he fumbled with his belt. I would be damned if I let him fuck me from behind. To have those eyes look away as he entered me was a vice I wouldn’t stand. 

“No!” I yelled, bracing on my wobbly elbows as much as I could and turned to face him. 

Sherlock’s glare widened, a chill of ice blew through his eyes and his pupils dilated like a crazed feline. “You’re saying no to me?”

“Yes!” I heaved and reached my hands to cradle his skull, pushing myself against the hardness of his body and forcing my lips on his. My kiss was feral, bruising the plush skin on and around his mouth, nibbling and biting until we tasted iron on our tongues. It was not long before I was shoved against the wall, our mouths still united, sharing one breath.

Or rather stealing it from one another.

We were pleasingly unequal. Sherlock was all iron and stone; a bulky, tall man who could tear me apart with his bare hands. I was a little lush thing, so tender, so easily bruised. Despite his power, the desire to claim the tiny wet hole between my legs was unquenchable, reducing him to a savage thing that spoke in raw inarticulate sounds.

He tore his mouth from mine and swept me up from the ground, hiking the skirts of my dress urgently to expose what he coveted the most. I felt the supple velvety texture of his hardness grind against my thigh, smearing the pearly drops of his arousal onto my skin. We both moaned at the sensation and moved to the rhythm dictated by our most primal instincts.  

“You want my cock?” He growled and gnawed his teeth at my neck, biting deep enough to break through the skin. I whined in pain, my voice rising a pitch as I writhed against him to ignite the smallest of frictions and serve the demon of desire in me. 

“Fuck me!” I begged, sliding my fingers through the mass of soft curls and tugging them with need.

Answering my plea, Sherlock speared into my unruly cunt, brutally spreading me open like he would tear the petals from a flower. I yipped into his luscious hair, my nails tearing into his nape as his intrusion claimed everything my body had to offer. I always found it odd how my flesh would resist and beg for him at the same time, my succulent canal fighting to push him by instinct yet he only further rutted into me. He reached his hands to my sore ass to squeeze my cheeks apart.

“Such a tight little harlot,” he groaned, engulfed by my garden of mysteries. Moaning so loudly, our duet reverberated through the corridors of the house. His lashes fluttered with ecstasy as he pulled back only to force me down on his imposing cock, attempting to rip through my denial. Or it was to tame me as I clenched around his girth, accepting and resisting him at the same time. I was nothing but a vessel for him to fill, and he did so with a fiery passion, glaring straight to my eyes while thrusting deep and hard into me.  

Books fell from the shelves nearby as we battled against the wall, my legs sliding up and down his waist, spreading helplessly in the air until my boots pressed into his arse. One of his hands reached for my corset, tugging on the ludicrous outfit to expose my breast. Ravenous, he licked his bloodstained lips, giving me a stare that made my cunt clutch him harder before he sank his fangs to pierce cavities in my tit.

“No!!!” I cried out and gasped as he thrust deeper to punish me for my protest. His heavy cock hit a spot so deep inside me that tears instantly emerged and fell down my cheeks, the pang bringing through a spasm of odd relief. 

Blood and saliva smeared along my cleavage as he dragged his lips further, licking and then kissing every patch he bruised. I moaned breathlessly, throwing my head back against the wall as his nimble fingers surveyed my neck, laying small threats to show me how easy he could simply suspend my very basic need. 

But my survival instincts already flew out the window the moment he penetrated me.

His lips hovered above mine as he fucked deep into my body, our cries creating an obscure symphony as he continuously slammed into my hilt, harder and more urgent with every plunge. The tears that fell down my cheeks were tainted with the conflicting aphrodisiac that pain brought through. In that instant I was whole, gratified by the friction created of the collision of our wet organs.

“Do it!” I gasped and nodded through glossy stares, swallowing hard to gesture what he already knew. With a swift snap of his hands, his fingers were bruising on my neck and he slammed into me at a furious pace, giving no care for my broken screams. 

Euphoria tore through my soul, crashing like hot waves of eternal fire. I came apart around his thick rod crying for God and Satan at once. Sherlock never slowed down, not even as he felt the tightening of my ring around him. It only made him fuck me harder, burying his face at my collarbone, chasing his own rapture at a punishing speed, grunting like a beast. Finally, he shuddered and pumped me full of his thick, silky milk. The muscles of his behind flexed and he ground his hot load into my warm cavern, making sure I received every drop. My hands reached to squeeze his taut ass as my legs clutched him still, wanting to keep him inside me. 

As if he had any intentions of leaving as he moaned and spasmed inside me. 

Smoke filled the room as few of the candles died; the scent of ash and the musk of our sex seeped through our noses while we remained entwined, shaking in each other’s grasp. Breathless and damp with sweat, Sherlock lifted his face from my neck and glanced at me looking so vulnerable, almost appearing lost. I moved my trembling hands back to his face, my thumbs caressing his sharp cheeks. 

“I know I am harsh…” he murmured, his eyes digging into my heart with nothing but a gaze of despair, “but please don’t ever leave me.”

My face fell at the sound of his words, my lips parting with awe. My detective could solve the most outrageous crimes, and yet he couldn’t realise I was shackled to him for all eternity.  

[nuclearnerves]

INCOMING VAMPIRE AU THOUGHTS

Don't mind me I'm finally getting the ideas I had on this shit out so I can actually go forward with developing it as an AU. It's my usual mixup of fps protags, Gordon Guy and John, but I'm starting with Gordon as the Vampire and Guy as the Vampire Hunter.

absolute beast of a wall of text under the cut

What If Being A Vampire Literally Sucks All The Time Forever like chronic pain sucks. like THAT level of sucks. Like Here's what I was thinking of. Being a vampire isn't just "being alive forever but you need to drink human blood" It's like Oh man I have some lore you look at vampires and their main thing is that they're blood suckers right so lets start with a corpse dead body. cadaver. no longer with us. just some rotting meat. The brain needs oxygen as fuel. The blood supplies the oxygen through blood. The blood is pumped through the heart. The blood is made by your bone marrow. You die. Your heart stops beating Blood stops pumping Brain no longer has oxygen to think marrow stops making blood thats standard! Now, becoming undead, as a vampire, is a little more complicated. The long and short of it is: your body is FIGHTING ACTIVELY to be alive against all odds and wins every time (immortality), but it hurts the whole way

I have the gist of it. It's like. Your heart stops. By all means, you should be dead. but the magic kicks in, and you're still thinking. Your brain is still sending signals to your muscles to move. But using what oxygen to move? whats burning in you? You don't know but you know it's just enough to get to your next meal. So you ferociously eat something, and then find you can't swallow. You can't make saliva. You barely have the energy to chew, and once you DO get something in your stomach, it immediately comes back up. Why can't you feel your pulse? What's going on? You're out of options so you figure you might as well just lie down and die. You're too tired to keep going anyway. So you do, you lie down, and you close your eyes, and you quietly hope that death is as peaceful as sleep. You realize you've actually been moving around without breathing, which makes sense because you can barely flex your diaphragm for more than a shaky wheeze. How are you thinking with such little oxygen? But as you fade from consciousness, you can feel something in you, and it's so upset, it's crying, it's filled with grief, and you instantly can tell it's your skeleton. It's your bones. You're distraught down to your marrow. You're dying. You're dying! Your heart stopped and you have no more blood! You need blood! You need blood to move! To breathe! To think! You try to breath deep again for the voices in your bones, trying to comfort them, to sooth them with the repetitive motion in your lungs, trying to fill yourself with anything but grief, but they keep wailing. We make the blood, our creation, our child, what we put all of our work into is gone! gone! gone! We need it back! Anything! All of it! Find it! Bring it back to us! We're hungry! WE'RE HUNGRY!

and once you find yourself too exhausted to listen, to think, how badly you wish just to die already to cease hearing this wailing, you find your body moving without you. And it's hungry and it's searching and it's crawling on all fours and it misses its beautiful red life that made it feel so full before and it needs it back, and the next thing you know you're desperately grabbing anything with blood in it and shoving it in your mouth in a desperate attempt to sooth this cry for life, you don't want to die, you don't want to die, you worked so hard to keep up this body and craft it and LIVE with it and you're not going to go, and even when you try, even when you try to lay down and die, your body refuses, it takes the reigns, and it keeps up the work itself with or without your help. And it's not until your stomach is full and your teeth are stained and you feel a pulsating burning in your bones that you snap back awake, completely conscious, just fine. You're lucid, you don't feel any more pain. Everything around you is dead and drained and messy and your heart still isn't beating. but you can breathe now and holy shit you guess you literally need to kill to survive and the less you eat and the more you starve yourself the worse it gets when your body finally decides to take recourse.

my idea was like. "the vampires curse is actually stored in the bones, thats why the teeth get so sharp and also theres a connection between blood and bones with the creation via bone marrow" its literally like i was sitting there thinking "no no no, whats it like to be a vampire. what neurosis would you develop. How would you panic? What are common mistakes beginner vampires make" which, by the way, gordon is a beginner vampire

so now you gotta factor, what blood lasts for how long? how long can you go between meals? not only that, but what creatures satisfy the urge? How long can you go avoiding human blood? Does it work like drugs where you develop a resistance to the high, or is it like food where it will keep you moving until you eat again? How the fuck are you gonna get your hands on blood? Can you just eat raw meat? Does that count? and thats where im at lol

OKAY now. now thoughts on beginning scenes of vampire au

So my idea was this Doomguy is a vampire hunter independent and one of his buds says that some freak scared and almost attacked his daughter when she got too close to his old abandoned laboratory up the hill and hes like “he might be… you know… a problem. if you needed a lead” and guys like yeah i fuckin hate the undead ill kill this dude so he busts into old lab space and sees so many dead animals its actually mostly Bones and pelt that hes seeing piles of feathers etc so hes like yeah this is all telltale signs of vampire uhhh hes introduced to gordon SOMEHOW im not totally sure of the details but the working idea i have is guy falls into a trap gordon devised that restrains him suspended in wire or something and gordon like. limps/stumbles into the room and this dude looks haggard he’s breathing heavy, his cheeks are hollow, he’s bug-eyed and shaking while looking at this massive wall of meat in his trap and he bares a bunch of hideous teeth and grits them and looks like hes really struggling with somethin... Like if these dudes don't know each other then Gordon might give in and try to drain Guy, and Guy would absolutely do anything in his power to turn this new vampire into ash, im thinking the inclusion if g-man as a coven leader can fix both issues.

i like the idea of guy falling into gordons trap and gordon thinking about what to do with him before gman shows up and whisks gordon away for a “meeting” while complimenting him on his good work catching the most feared vampire hunter in the country and gman just leaving guy suspended in wires that he has to fight his way out of. Instant situation defuser.

Guy ends up needing to take care of other monsters before going back to Gordon, and he DOES plan to go back to gordon, because no vampire is a good one, especially not one associated with the fucking head of a coven, but next time he sees Gordon, Gordon helps him out of a scrape by attacking and draining a combine who was going to take Guy out or something and escaping before Guy can catch him, or otherwise seeing Gordon do something good with his insane undead powers and like, the third time he meets up with him is when they can actually talk, and Gordons fuckin SO haggard, he’s not even fighting back and he’s even going as far as to say “just make sure theres nothing of me left when you’re done, I don’t want anyone else getting hurt”

Side Note: Guy has a bunch of scarring on his body from dealing with vampires, cops, ghosts, werewolves, anything violent that kills people. I'm playing with the inkling of an idea that he has Divine Blood in him, so that any time something undead bites him or tries to drink his blood, it burns. We'll see.

Side Note 2: now i really like the idea of the combine actually being an organized faction of vampire hunters that are WICKED crooked and exploit people for all their worth in exchange for their “safety” when they kill a vampire They’re essentially loansharks and Guy fucking hates them and hates the name theyve given to vampire hunting

Side Note 3: You've probably noticed that I haven't said anything about John yet! He's in this too. His species is a surprise but I need to get to him later I have an idea for where he came from (Cortana too)

I still need a good reason for Guy to not instantly kill this vampire, if not it's just gonna be "Gordon Freeman escapes the countrys best vampire hunter like a seventh time" every time they meet and they end up being rivals. And it gives Guy enough time to look past the whole "undead monster" thing and start looking at the "Oh this dude figured out how to fight his ridiculous craving for blood in a way more humane than most and is actually staying out of peoples way and keeping to himself. Guess he's not that big of a threat but I still need to keep an eye on him in case he loses it. Turns out he's got a family (Probably Alyx, Eli, Issac and Barney) who's been lookin for him and cares about him as well, don't wanna hurt them". I like the idea of them ending up needing to team up to take out undead together.

And that's what I got so far!!!

[youtuberswithalex]

Keep It Hidden

Summary:  Virgil caught his least favorite illness of them all (if one could have such a thing)—the stomach flu. The last thing he wants is for the others to find out. (Pre-Accepting Anxiety)

A/N: This is the sickfic that I wrote for an anon last week that got WAY out of hand and ended up as a five-page fic-- I hope you enjoy!!

Warnings: detailed depiction of vomiting, sickness, mentioned Unsympathetic Dark Sides, cursing

Word count: 1,878

---

Virgil had known this day would come eventually, but now that it was actually here, it sucked.

Getting sick was far from a rare occurrence for him. When Thomas got a little too nervous, or got jumpscared one too many times in a day, Virgil’s immune system would go to shit and he’d be left as some sort of feverish mess. He’d had what felt like every type of illness under the sun over the years—colds, flus, sinus infections, ear infections, chicken pox, and so, so many more.

His normal routine was to lay on the couch and watch cartoons until whatever bug he had this time passed. He’d cover his head with blankets whenever Remus ran by, screaming about butts, and he’d hiss at Deceit until he got the message that he wanted to be alone. And with the other guy, he’d…

Well. Virgil didn’t want to think about what he’d had to do to get him away.

It wasn’t a fun system, but it got him better way faster than if he stayed cooped up in his bedroom, for some reason. He liked to think it had something to do with the cartoons, or maybe just being away from the germs that got him sick in the first place.

And then the Dark Sides kicked him out, and he got stuck with the Light Sides that despised him, and he’d caught his least favorite illness of them all (if one could have such a thing)—the stomach flu.

And it sucked.

For the last six hours, Virgil had been curled up on the bathroom floor, throwing up what felt like everything he’d ever eaten in the last three years until there was nothing but bile. Every gag and retch at this point felt like someone was trying for force a rock up his esophagus. Between cycles, he would lay down and press his throbbing head against the cool tiles below, but it never lasted long before being sideways took its toll on his stomach and he was retching over the toilet again.

The only thing he could be grateful for was that it had started in the early hours of the morning. The last thing he wanted was for the Lights to see him like this. But he knew his luck was running out, and he needed to get back to his room before—

“Anxiety!” Bam, bam, bam! “Hurry up in there! I need to make myself beautiful for the day!”

Virgil choked back a groan, pushing himself off the floor as he glared at the door. “It’s a bathroom, Princey, not a miracle store,” he snapped.

He heard Roman gasp. “How dare you! I got a full ten hours of beauty sleep last night; I just need to touch myself up!”

His eyes fluttered shut at the mention of sleep, but he did his best to stay awake enough to make his voice sound normal. “Have you tried 24?”

Another noise of offense sailed through the door, followed by footsteps storming away. As soon as Virgil heard them going down the stairs, he moved as quickly as he could handle to get up and clean the bathroom. He then rushed down the hall to get to his bedroom, shutting the door just as Patton was coming up.

Legs trembling, Virgil slid down the door and breathed as evenly as he could.

Knock, knock. “Anxiety?”

This time, he didn’t hold his groan. “What?”

“Breakfast is almost ready!” Patton said. “I made some eggs, and Logan’s making his special waffles! You do not want to miss out on this!”

Just the thought of food made him wish he’d never left the bathroom. He squeezed his stomach. “I’m not hungry. Eat without me.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure? You shouldn’t skip meals like this, kiddo…”

“Positive.” Virgil’s stomach twisted again, and he swallowed thickly, panic welling up inside him “Leave me alone.”

“But Anxiety—”

“Go away!”

A moment passed, and then Patton let out a breath. “Okay,” he softly said. “Just… Please come down for lunch, at least?”

“I’m not making any promises,” Virgil grunted. He carefully pushed himself to his feet, and as footsteps slowly disappeared down the hall, he slowly lowered himself back into bed.

Bundling himself up in as many blankets as he could, Virgil shut his eyes and forced himself to try to get some sleep.

---

He was awoken a few hours later by another knock on the door. “Anxiety?”

Virgil sat straight up, looking towards the source of the sound as his brain struggled to differentiate reality and his fever dream. “Whu… Huh?”

“Patton has asked me to notify you that lunch is ready,” Logan stated. “He was very adamant that you attend, and I can’t say I feel much different. Skipping meals, especially breakfast, is extremely unhealthy.”

Scrubbing at his eyes, Virgil let out a moan. “I’ll be down in a minute…,” he muttered.

“Excellent. I will see you momentarily.”

“Mm-hm…”

Virgil hardly heard the footsteps walk away as he leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. It was so nice and warm here in bed… So easy to fall back asleep…

---

The next time he woke up, it was to a sharp twist in his stomach.

His eyes shot open to see a dim room and an orange sky; he remembered with a start what he’d last been doing, and would have let out a curse had he not been breathing heavily, trying to force the nausea away as soon as he could. He balled up his fist and held it in front of his trembling mouth. He did not want to be sick again.

His body, however, seemed to have other plans.

Virgil shuffled out of bed and towards the door as fast as he could. He wrapped a loose arm around his stomach as soon as he was on his feet. Knowing the others were probably around, he did his best to be silent opening his door.

Another door opened down the hall. Virgil looked over in time to make eye contact with Roman as he stepped into the hall.

They glared.

“Well, it looks like someone was projecting this morning,” Roman sneered.

Virgil huffed out a shaky breath before stumbling towards the bathroom. “Shut up, Princey,” he wheezed.

“Oh, so you can dish it out, but you can’t take it, huh?”

He shut the door and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet.

“Real mature, Sir Ector de Morbid!”

Virgil retched.

The first heave took out any bile remaining in his stomach from that morning, and then all he could do was dry heave until his body decided to stop. His abs ached like there was no tomorrow; his lungs burned as he struggled to get air between cycles. Snot and tears dribbled down his face and landed in the water below.

“Uh… Patton?” Roman’s voice yelled from outside.

An agonizing minute or two later, the door burst open, and a gasp echoed between the tiled walls.

“Oh, Anxiety…!”

One hand rested between his shoulder blades while another slipped into his hair, each rubbing soothing circles. Virgil tried to shake them off, but with his head still in the toilet, found it very hard to do so.

(Not that he really wanted to, anyway—it was… strangely comforting.)

When his stomach finally gave him the chance to breathe, Virgil slumped against the seat and panted. His head spun like the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair, and his eyelids felt as heavy as the ride itself. It would be so easy to just… take a little nap…

The hands removed themselves from his body, and Virgil had to choke back a whine. They weren’t gone for long, though; a second later, they rested on his shoulders and sat him up before carefully settling him back against the tub.

He cracked his eyes open to watch as Patton rested a hand on his forehead. Behind him, Logan was filling a paper cup with water at the sink. Roman hovered in the hall just outside the door.

“I didn’t…” Virgil tried to swallow. “Di’n mean to miss lunch,” he breathed.

“Shh, it’s okay, Anxiety,” Patton whispered. “You’re running a bit of a fever… Why didn’t you tell us you weren’t feeling well?”

Virgil whined. “Didn’t wanna.”

Logan crouched and held out the water. “Drink this. You need to stay hydrated.”

Virgil tried to take it, but his hands were trembling so much that he nearly dropped it as soon as he had to support its weight; Logan and Patton were quick to catch it and help guide it to his lips, where he practically began to pour it down his throat.

“Easy, easy…”

They pulled back after a moment, and Virgil drooped, leaning his head against the wall. He let out a moan and wrapped his arms around his stomach. Patton placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed little circles with his thumb before looking at Logan.

“What do you think it is?” he asked.

Logan inspected Virgil’s face with a frown. “Well, it appears his symptoms include vomiting, nausea, stomach cramps, and a fever, so I suspect it’s—”

“Stomach flu,” Virgil mumbled.

“Viral gastroenteritis, yes.”

Roman leaned against the doorway. “Were you ill this morning?”

Virgil shut his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Is that why you were taking so long in the bathroom?”

“Uh-huh.”

Patton looked at him. “When did this start up, kiddo?”

He swallowed thickly, then let out a whimper when a cramp rolled through his stomach again. “Woke up at like… 1:30…?”

“Oh, Anxiety…” Patton pressed his hand to his cheek and frowned. “Why don’t we set you up on the couch for tonight? I know you don’t like staying outside your room for too long, but I really want to keep an eye on you until you’re feeling better. We can watch whatever you want, if you’re up for it.”

Virgil opened his eyes to look at Patton; the father figure offered a gentle smile, despite his brow still being furrowed. His eyes flicked to Logan, who had a similar concerned gaze, and then to Roman, who refused to look his way. A pit settled in his stomach as he looked back to Patton.

“Is it gonna bother anyone if I’m out there…?” he whispered.

Patton shook his head. “No, honey. It’s okay. You’re allowed to be in the living room, sick or not. Okay?”

Tears threatened to form in Virgil’s eyes, but he forced them back. He sniffled and wiped at his nose.

“…Can we watch Billy and Mandy?”

-----

A few minutes later, Virgil lay on the couch, head in Patton’s lap, washrag on his forehead, and a blanket wrapped tight around his shivering body. A garbage can sat just in front of him, and the Grimm Adventures of Billy and Mandy played on the TV. Logan and Roman sat on the other side of the couch.

Patton was running his fingers through Virgil’s sweaty hair. Virgil tried to keep watching the show, but his eyes kept fluttering shut. Eventually, Patton leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Go to sleep, Anxiety,” he whispered. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He was too tired to say no.

[wordsmithie]

@your-girl-is-lovely thank you for tagging me in the fanfic wip tag! i don’t really have a writing community on here, so instead of doing the tag properly i’m going to post a snippet of a wip that i think you’ll be interested in. 😁

this is the rose x dj wolfman au that’s been rolling around in my head. it’s going to be a gothic-steampunk hybrid. in this scene, rose has traveled to talbot manor in the hopes of enlisting the services of mr. monserrate rafael lawrence talbot (aka dj haha) to help with finding a cure for her sick sister. she finds the gate locked, so decides to climb it. fyi this is still very unpolished. sticking this under a read more, hope it works on mobile. 🤞🏾

Most of the stonework was hidden beneath a tangle of vines. They might be enough to hold her up. She gave one of the curling stems a tug. They might be enough to hold her up if she climbed fast. She slipped her bag off her shoulder. It would only add to the weight, and she could come back for it later. She tried out a few different possibilities for a foothold, before lifting herself up with a grunt. The vines were scratchy against her hands, and she tried not to imagine any of the insects that might have been crawling between them. She had reached a particularly unpromising looking spot where they didn’t seem to be any stems strong enough to hold onto, when a gruff question startled her.

“Who in t-t-the hell are you?”

Rose let out a cry, her hold slipping. She dropped to the ground, landing on her back. The good thing was that she hadn’t climbed that far so the fall wasn’t too great. The bad thing was that it still bloody hurt. She lay on her back, waiting for the air to make its way back to her lungs.

“Did you hear me? How did you g-g-get here?”

The grey clouds that hung over her eye line were blocked out by an irritated looking face.

“Scraggly” was the word that came to Rose’s mind when she saw the face. The face looked tired. It had dark circles under the eyes, and a jaw invaded by stubble. And even upside down, Rose could see the small scars on one of the cheekbones.

“I’m…I’m Rose.” It was still hard for her to breathe. She climbed to her feet. “Rose Tico.”

The scraggly face belonged to a scraggly figure. The man was wearing a dark, worn coat. He had the air of someone who had been through trials. Rose wondered if he was the manor groundskeeper.

“Wonderful,” he rasped, his expression flat. “T-T-That tells me absolutely nothing.”

“I’m - I’m Rose Tico,” she said again, taking quick steps forward and holding her hand out. “I’ve come to see Mr. Talbot.”

The man simply stared at her and then at her outstretched hand before looking back up at her. “You want to see Talbot?”

Rose frowned, dropping her hand. The rudeness of the man! “Uh, yes. I was hoping to have an audience with him.”

At that, the man laughed, a wheezing sort of crackle that left Rose feeling like she was the unsuspecting subject of the joke. “An audience with him, eh?”

Rose’s frown only grew. “Yes, I heard he was back in town.”

The man shook his head, his mouth crooked in a smile so smug that it irked her. “Oh? Where d-d-did you hear that?”

“I - well, it’s all over town. In the society papers. Everyone knows.”

“They do, huh?” The man sniffed and looked away, rubbing his nose with his knuckles. He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, but then he turned back, ire pooling in his eyes. “You never said how you g-g-got here.”

“Ah, the gondola,” Rose said, gesturing vaguely behind him.

“It’s out of order.”

It was increible, Rose thought, just how much the man managed to convey despite being so dead-eyed. For instance, she could tell that he thought her a simpleton.

“Not anymore.”

A frown accompanied his dead eyes.

“I - I fixed it.”

“You fixed it.”

“Yes?”

The man’s eyes narrowed.

Rose felt the urge to insist that she had, in fact, fixed the thing but held herself back. She didn’t have to prove herself to this stranger.

The man seemed to sense her resentment and his lips twitched, a smile hiding in them.

“It isn’t easy to fix,” he said.

“Well, I’m an electro-mechanic.” She shrugged. It was almost true. She had completed her studies and her apprenticeship after all. Any further details about her as-yet-undeveloped career weren’t necessary to this man.

His eyes narrowed some more, and she could see him assessing her. She held back the outrage and defiance that was unfurling slowly in her stomach. After all, all he saw was someone still fresh out of university, looking as if they lacked all work experience.

“Right.” His drawl implied that he didn’t believe her. “And what is it you need t-t-to have an audience with Mr. Talbot for?”

Rose could almost marvel at the fact that someone she had met mere moments ago had the capacity to spark so much irritation. Almost.

“I really would prefer to discuss it with him.”

The man let out a huff of laughter and had the audacity to roll his eyes, neither of which did anything to dampen Rose’s ire.

“I’m sure you would prefer it,” he said, eyes sliding back to meet her. “But Mr. T-T-Talbot expects all visitors to go through me. So if you wouldn’t mind -” he held out an arm with a mocking graciousness, dipping his head - “Miss Tic, was it?”

“Tico,” she ground out. Blast this man. He was proving to much more of an obstacle than the imposing gates had been. She supposed that Mr. Talbot must pay him well. Though if he did, the man clearly did not spend any of his salary on personal grooming. “Very well. I have - I come seeking Mr. Talbot’s assistance.” Now that she was here and forced to articulate her need she found that she didn’t quite know how.

“His assistance?”

“Yes. Well, his knowledge. His scientific input. My sister is - she works in the Llanwelly mines, or rather she worked in them. And she has been in a weakened state the past few months. None of the doctors know what the matter is, and nothing seem to hel-”

“And why do you s-s-suppose Mr. Talbot would know any better?”

Rose blinked.

“He has one of the keenest scientific minds in Llanwelly! Everyone knows that.”

“They do, do they?” His blank stare turned ironic.

“Well, yes, he has -” Rose stopped. The man clearly resented his employer, and nothing that she could ever say at this moment would change that. “Well, that is, I was hoping to seek Mr. Talbot’s advice.”

“And, what?” the man rasped, eyes flat. “You th-th-thought he would help you out of the kindness of his heart? That he’s some b-b-benevolent benefactor? You can’t possibly be as naive as you look.”

Rose’s mouth tightened.

“I have no such delusions, I assure you. I am willing to recompense Mr. Talbot for his efforts.”

The man’s eyes stayed on Rose, a small frown forming between his brows.

“It won’t be cheap.”

“I - I can appreciate that.”

“Can you? It will d-d-demand more of my time. I’ll need to learn the details of your sister’s illness - the state of her health before the illness, all of those details - before I can even begin to decode the problem.”

Rose knew she was gaping in what Me would say was a most un-ladylike fashion.

“And then of course who knows how long it might take to solve the problem. That is -” he turned to look at Rose from under his heavy brows - “if there even is a solution.”

“I - you - you’re Mr - you’re not -”

The man - Mr. Talbot? - sighed, looking away.

“Yes, I’m Talbot. Monseratte Rafael Lawrence Talbot, second son of Talbot Senior, and -” his words slowed to a scornful, staccato cadence, “heir - to - Talbot - Manor. Or whatever’s left of it,” he added, sucking on his teeth.

His head swivelled back to her. “You can close your mouth now,” he said, waving his hand at her, before turning around and making his way down the path that curved along the side of the property.

Rose snapped her mouth shut and made to follow him, then, remembering her bag, ran back, looped it over her shoulder, and turned around to run after him again.

“Right, so you’re - you’re Mr. Talbot,” she panted, as she tried to keep up with his strides.

He grunted. “You won’t have t-t-to get your hearing checked, I see.”

“Alright, alright,” Rose acceded. “Yes. Well, would you - would you be able to help?”

“That d-d-depends, Miss Tic, on what you’re offering.”

“Tico. I can - offer - three hundred pounds now,” Rose said between huffs. Trotting after him with her bag hitting her leg was proving difficult. “And another three hundred pounds later.”

He stopped, swerving on his feet with a suddenness that had Rose almost careening into him.

He gazed at her with his flat eyes. “Th-th-that’s not nearly enough.”

“That’s…,” Rose inhaled, “not enough?”

He shook his head, his mouth screwing up apologetically. Though Rose had the distinct impression that he wasn’t apologetic at all.

“Right, well…,”  Rose frowned, thinking, eyes dropping from his face to his   throat, to the faded buttons on his jacket - “well, I could…try and get some more, I suppose.” Her family’s savings might have grown a bit in the time it would take for Mr. Talbot to complete his work.

“My services would require a th-th-thousand pounds.”

Rose’s eyes jumped to his face.

“A thousand pounds?” Somehow her voice did not squeak.

He nodded, his eyes on her.

Ever since Paige had gotten sick that small, glowing spark - hope - had stubbornly lodged itself in Rose’s chest. With each doctor’s visit, with each pronouncement of failure, it had faltered, flickered at first, but then it had always burned again in Rose with a vengeance.

Now, looking into the steady, dark eyes of this man - eyes, which seemed to offer steadiness only because emptiness tinged them - who so carelessly made demands that couldn’t even begin to imagine meeting, Rose felt that hope slowly fade away.

She breathed through her mouth, trying to ensure she would have control over her voice before she spoke.

“Th-Th-There is another option.” His rough, staccato words cut through Rose’s thoughts.

She blinked up at him.

“In addition to your three hundred pounds, I would be willing to accept your services.”

Rose frowned, and then, as realisation dawned on her, her jaw dropped.

“My - ?!”

The man scoffed, his flat expression disappearing for once to make way for exasperation.

“S-S-Spare me the scandalised virtue. I have no interest in schoolroom chits.”

Rose slowly closed her mouth again, still rendered speechless as her mind tried to grapple with offense after offense. She had left the schoolroom after all. For quite some time now.

“You c-c-claimed that you’re an electro-mechanic?” He inclined his head in question, though it felt most certainly like a challenge.

Rose lifted her chin, ignoring the flush of heat that still clung to her face. “I am.”

“Mm,” he grunted, nodding, his eyes running down the length of her, stopping for a moment at her waist where her toolbelt hung.

The assessment made her want to growl at him. Lord, all her polite manners were going to be in tatters.

“If th-th-that’s the case, I could use someone like you in the manor.”

“What do you mean?”

He scratched at the back of his head. “It’s been in disuse for some time. N-n-no doubt all of the foot-droids will need some attention. And then of course there’s the household equipment. Would your skills be up to the task?” He watched her out of the side of his eyes, his head tilted to one side. His eyes were narrow, sharp like the tip of a dagger, curving to dangerous points.

“If I say yes, how long would I be in service?”

He shrugged, mouth curving down, his eyes suddenly looking a lot less dangerous.

“That all d-d-depends, of course, on how long my work will take.”

Rose nodded, absent-minded. She had known that would be the answer.

“Fine. Yes. I accept.”

He stared at her for several moments longer before inhaling. “Alright, then.” He turned on his feet and started down the path again without sparing Rose another glance. This time she didn’t run to keep up. She still wasn’t entirely certain of what it was that she’d agreed to. And she wasn’t certain that she wouldn’t regret it.

She looked up to see that he’d stopped by a small gate set deep into the stone wall. Overhanging vines spilled insistently over it making it easy to miss. She heard the lock click, and he shoved the door open with a grunt. He stepped back, turning to her with an outstretched, chivalrous arm. She ignored it and the resulting chuckle from him, and stepped over the weed-ridden threshold.

[kindofcashton]

𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕕  •  chapter 9  (Calum Hood AU)

HANGOVERS WERE SUCH a bitch.  Not only was my head pounding like a jackhammer, my body felt physically ill.  I could barely move when I woke up the next morning, not to mention the night before took a while to even remember.  I pieced together flashes until a succinct timeline began to form.  I remembered fruity drinks and loud music and a scratchy beard and a dark-haired boy that I kept pushing away whenever he reached out to help me.  As soon as I remembered Calum practically peeling the stranger off of me, my stomach twisted into knots.  It was humiliating, and my reaction to him didn’t help my case.  I didn’t necessarily regret having fun with a random guy in a club, but it wasn’t my finest hour for sure.  And though I was beyond irritated that Calum thought he had to save me, he deserved more of a thanks than I gave him.

But would I admit this to him in the light of a new day?  Absolutely not.

I couldn’t stay in my room forever, and I didn’t want to give Calum any suspicion that last night meant something or had rattled me more than it did.  My head was hurting way too much to study the details and figure out if Calum had any ulterior motives.  Besides, so what if he did?  I didn’t like Calum and he didn’t like me.

When I stumbled into the kitchen, surely looking like a zombie fresh out of a grave, Luke gave me a sympathetic smile.  

“Morning, sunshine,” he joked lightly as I grabbed a box of cereal and collapsed in the chair next to him.  His blue eyes were kind as he took in my awful appearance.  “Fun night?”

“You could say that,” I grumbled, blindly reaching into the box as I ate the cereal dry.  It was sugary and vaguely reminiscent of cardboard, but since I was hungover it tasted like the best damn food I’d ever had.

Hannah was sprawled across Ashton on the living room couch, and she gave me a half-hearted wave.  He was rubbing her shoulders and she looked half-dead too.  I bet her hangover was just as bad as mine.

“Why do we drink?” she groaned, rubbing her temples.  Ashton laughed and toyed with her hair, but she swatted at him.  “I’m serious, I always forget how much being hungover sucks.”

I took a big handful of cereal.  “Because being drunk is fun.”  It was true; I don’t think I’d ever laughed as much in one day as I did last night.  Sure, being drunk made me slightly stupid and naive, but at least I was blissfully ignorant.

“You would call what happened fun?”

My guard flew up as soon as Calum walked in.  His tone was sharp and accusing, and I grit my teeth.  I hadn’t told Hannah exactly what happened with the blonde guy; when she’d asked if I ever found him, I said I did and that he was a half-decent kisser.  I left out the part where he nearly took all my clothes off in a crowded club and Calum came in to save me.

My skin prickled as he sat in the chair diagonal to me, eyebrows raised in expectation.

I chewed slowly on the cereal, tentatively asking, “What?”

“You’re eating my cereal.”

Blinking in surprise, I glanced at the box.  It was the stupid frosted stuff he ate every damn day, and I had my hand buried in it.  Flushing a deep red, I handed him the box and swallowed the half-chewed lump of cereal in my mouth, choking slightly as it went down the wrong pipe.

“Sorry,” I wheezed, avoiding his gaze as per usual.  I had no idea what he thought of last night, and I wasn’t about to find out in front of all our friends.  They began to clear out one by one though, as Luke and Michael left for work and Ashton attempted to disconnect from Hannah who held on to him like a child.

“You’re girlfriend is dying and you’re just gonna leave?” she cried, dramatically throwing a hand across her forehead.  Ashton rolled his eyes and moved her legs off his lap.

“You’re not dying babe, you’re hungover.  And you have Calum and Scarlett to take care of you.”

Hannah pouted.  “Scarlett’s hungover too, so that leaves Calum alone to take care of both of us.”

“I don’t need Calum to take care of me,” I muttered, not even fully aware that I said the words out loud.  Fortunately I said it too quiet for Hannah or Ashton to hear, but Calum visibly tensed in front of me.

“Oh, really?” he fired back, jabbing his spoon roughly into the bowl of cereal before him. 

Leaning back with my arms folded, I forced my face to remain neutral.  “Really.  I don’t need someone coddling me, I can deal with things myself.”

This made him look up, and piercing brown eyes trapped my green ones.  He looked almost angry.  “And what exactly are you dealing with?”  His question left me floored, and I couldn’t help the surprised gasp that left my lips.  But then I straightened in the chair, controlling my shock.

“What are you talking about?”

He leaned closer so his words only reached my ears.  “I don’t believe this bullshit about being on a break from school.  We all know Hannah lied, so how do we know you aren’t lying too?”

“We should be respecting my damn privacy, because it’s none of your business.”  Panic bells were sounding in my brain.  I thought no one questioned my half-assed explanation for leaving school, but clearly one person saw right through the bullshit.

Calum exhaled through his nose.  “Whatever it is you’re trying to hide from just became my damn business last night when I had to save you from yourself.”

“I’m not hiding anything!” I hissed.  “And you don’t have to save me from myself, like I said I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” he whispered, and we had both leaned forward to the point where we were only inches away from each other.  “You were drowning your sorrows in cheap cocktails and gross guys.  People who are fine don’t do that.”

My chest was rising and failing erratically, my heart pounding just as hard as the migraine in my head.  “You don’t know anything about me, Calum.”  

The intensity in his expression had me by the throat, and I couldn’t have looked away even if I wanted to.  From such a close proximity I saw the way his jaw was set, how his brows were low with concentration.  I also noticed the two small moles on his cheek, and how his hair had the gentlest of curls.  I wondered what he was noticing about me.

Finally, painstakingly, he replied, “You’re right.  I don’t have a clue.”  And then he leaned back, breaking the brief connection we’d had and leaving me with a wall of cold air between us.

“What are you guys bickering about now?” Hannah called distractedly from the living room as she flipped through channels.  Ashton had left and the three of us were alone.  Calum shrugged his shoulders, still watching me even after our conversation had been forced closed.

“Nothing important, apparently.”  

With that, he stood up from the table and left me alone.  I thought he’d disappear in his room, or even leave in his car.  But instead he went over in the living room with Hannah, and the two of them started watching some show they both liked.  I didn’t have work today, which meant I had nowhere to go and no reason to leave.  I thought I’d do something with Hannah, but with Calum suddenly very interested in spending time with her I couldn’t just steal her away.

I remembered what she said about being friends with Calum before anyone else.  The way they laughed and joked together about whatever they were watching made me wonder how she was so close to someone that was so cold.  But Calum and Hannah had some sort of understanding; they squabbled all the time, but were never mad at one another.  They could go from criticizing one another to laughing about it a second later.  I almost wanted to beg Hannah to tell me all of his secrets.  What made him tick?  Why was he so closed off to new people?  Was there something about me he didn’t like?

I almost felt like I was invading something private, and so I stood up to go back to my room.  But then Hannah waved me over.  “Come watch, this episode is so funny.”

Glancing at Calum, who was very pointedly looking at the TV, I slowly made my way over.  The only place for me to sit was next to Calum, as Hannah had stretched out on one side of the L shaped sofa.  He had his long legs resting on the coffee table, looking nonchalant and comfortable.  I tried to mimic my position to be just as carefree, but as I sat on a crooked leg I felt stiff and awkward.  Why did he have such an effect on me?  I couldn’t even sit properly in his presence, for god’s sake.  Sighing, I shifted uncomfortably, and I felt his eyes on me for a brief second.  But as quick as they came, they left.

For the rest of the day, we were an unlikely trio.  We’d binged nearly a whole season of a TV show, and then got so collectively sick of it we had to do something else.  Hannah said she wanted to make “something exotic” for dinner, so we spent the afternoon combing the cupboards for the proper ingredients.  The most exotic thing we could think of making was a box of pasta with miscellaneous vegetables in the fridge.

Cooking together was actually sort of fun, and I was reminded of making that damned grilled cheese with Calum.  A few times we locked eyes, and I was sure he was thinking of that afternoon as well.  Having Hannah with us diffused a lot of tension, and a few times we even shared a laugh.  The intensity of this morning had evaporated as the three of us worked on our concoction.

“Add garlic powder.  No dish with garlic powder could possibly be boring,” I suggested to Hannah as she went through all of the seasonings.  

Calum snorted.  “I always thought cilantro was the secret key ingredient.”  I smiled, stirring the tomato sauce as it bubbled in the small pot.

“You’re burning the mushrooms,” he warned me, and I let out an oh shit as I realized that the crackling sound in the background was my mushrooms turning to black.  I frantically scraped at the pan, hoping I could salvage them.  Calum came over to lower the stove-top temperature, and examined the wreckage.

“I think they’re done for,” he announced, and I sighed, hands on my hips as I rolled my lips into my mouth.  A smile played across his face as he dumped the burnt remains into the garbage.  “It’s alright, mushrooms are shit anyways.”

“Hey,” I protested.  “I like mushrooms.”

He chuckled, resting the pan in the sink to be scrubbed off.  “Duly noted.”

By the time dinner was almost ready the other guys had returned home.  Michael immediately said he could smell our burnt food from the driveway, and Luke questioned if what we were making was even edible.  Hannah angrily yelled at them and went on and on about how the three of us had spent all day kindly making them a meal and that they better shut up and eat it.

“I love when you get angry,” Ashton complimented as he gave her cheek a kiss.  Hannah waved him off.

“Can’t kiss now babe, I’m working,”  She was wiping down the plates and preparing them as if this was a cooking competition, while Calum and I leaned against the counter snacking on slightly burnt homemade croutons.

“You know, these don’t suck,” I said, referring to Calum’s handiwork with the croutons.  He’d chopped some nearly stale bread and seasoned them with a bunch of things, and seemed fairly proud when they’d come out of the oven.

“Thank you,” he accepted graciously, a note of sarcasm in his voice.  “I wish I could say the same about your mushrooms.”  I elbowed him with a small chuckle, popping one last crouton in my mouth before leaning forward and joining the others at the table.

Hannah presented everyone with a plate of our pasta, which sort of looked like a lump of penne drenched in sauce with a bunch of nondescript vegetables.  I took a seat next to Michael, and Calum took the one on my other side.  

Luke poked his fork at a fairly limp looking piece of broccoli.  “Yum,” he said with a wince.

Michael coughed slightly.  “You guys love you some garlic, huh?”

My jaw dropped.  “What, is it too much?  I swear I only sprinkled the stuff.”  Calum chuckled beside me.

“I told you cilantro was the better option.”  I was about to come up with a witty comeback, but then my phone went off in the living room.  I quickly went over and scooped it off the coffee table, thinking nothing of it as I answered.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Scarlett Mercer?”  I recognized the sound of the woman at the bank.  I’d spoken to her quite frequently in the recent weeks, since dealing with my parents’ accounts and what little savings I had required the expertise of an accountant.

I gripped the phone, lowering my voice so the others couldn’t hear.  “This is her.  Is anything the matter?”

“You received a bill in the mail recently, yes?”

Biting my lip, I responded, “Yes, from school.”

“And have you received the one regarding the pipes?”

My brow furrowed.  “Pipes?  What pipes?”

“At your parents’ house.  A pipe burst in the basement and now there’s no water in the taps.”

I huffed, confused at everything she was saying.  “I-I put the house on the market, it’s supposed to be sold to someone else.  It’s supposed to be someone else’s problem.”

“Well, unfortunately it hasn’t been closed on yet, so you are still the one responsible for fixing any damages.  No one would want to buy a house without working pipes.”

I didn’t appreciate the smart remark at the end of her explanation.  I was already worrying about paying off school and did not need another useless expense.  I hadn’t even thought of my old house in weeks, I thought someone had already bought it or it was being handled by someone else.

“Um,” I stalled, pressing my fingertips to my forehead as I fought to concentrate on her words.  The others were laughing and chatting enthusiastically in the kitchen, sending a stab of remorse into my chest.  “I-is there anything left in any of the accounts that I could use to pay for this?  It’s just, I’m at a new job and I can’t--”

“There’s nothing else to tap into, unfortunately.  The last amount went to finishing off hospital bill payments.”

“Right,” I said, panic bubbling up in my throat.  “I...how much time do I have?  It’s just, I have to figure out...some things before I can pay.”  Yeah, figure out where the hell I’m gonna get the money.

“It’s not a pressing issue, but the sooner the better would be preferable.”

I wanted to throttle this woman.  Which was it, not a pressing issue or the sooner the better?  I sighed, pacing across the floor to quell some of my nerves.

“Okay.  I will...call you, when I figure this out.  I’ll call as soon as I can.”  I didn’t wait to hear her reply, as I ended the call and dropped my phone onto the couch.  My head was spinning as I returned to the table, suddenly sick to my stomach at the sight of my half-eaten food.

“Everything okay?” Ashton asked, stealing a crouton from Hannah’s salad.  I nodded, not even really paying attention.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  I ignored the way Calum’s hand stilled by his glass of water, obviously hearing my bullshitted answer and remembering how I’d said the same thing this morning.

I pushed the food around my plate until everyone else was done, and didn’t hesitate before fleeing to my room to be alone.  I knew Hannah wanted me to relax about schoolwork, but for some reason hearing from the bank just made me desperate to dive into studying.  It was a coping mechanism that definitely didn’t hurt anyone, just made me a little crazy and overworked.  But now more than ever I wanted to reconnect with school, and what better way than to learn about the fascinating field of psychology?

Only I couldn’t study if I couldn’t find my textbook.  I tore my room apart looking for the damn thing, finding only my notebook and a different textbook from my physics class.

“Where is it?” I murmured, pushing a hand through my hair as I left my room to check downstairs.  I thought everyone had gone to sleep, but when I heard someone in the kitchen it made me jump.  Calum was doing the dishes, alone and illuminated by only one light in the ceiling.

“What’s up?” he asked upon seeing my stricken expression.  I shook my head at his loaded tone and looked around the kitchen for the book.

“I can’t find my psych textbook, and I really need to study right now.”  I was well aware of how crazy I sounded, considering it was late and Calum knew I was bullshitting.

He didn’t say anything, just dried off his hands with a towel and left to go upstairs.  I rolled my eyes, wondering how I’d pissed him off this time.  Exhausted and defeated, I fell onto the couch and stared at the blank TV screen.  A day that had seemed to be going alright ended shitty, as things always seemed to end with me.  I didn’t think I’d ever catch a break, and knew that whenever I got comfortable something would come along to fuck it up.

“Forgot I had this.”  Calum’s voice broke through my thoughts and I looked up as he entered the living room, handing me the very textbook I’d lost.  I was so stunned it took me a second to actually take it from him, and once I did he casually stuck his hands in his jogger pockets.  “I was bored out of my mind the other day and thought I’d give it a go.”

I frowned, flipping through the freshly dog-eared pages.  “You felt like reading a psychology textbook for fun?”  I closed the cover and held the book on my lap.  Calum fell onto the sofa next to me, shrugging.

“It was fairly interesting, although I disagreed with a lot of theories.  That Adler guy has inferiority complexes all wrong.”

My eyebrows shot up, not quite believing what I was hearing.  “So you read it, but you also remembered a specific theorist and his ideas?”

Calum shrugged again.  “Like I said, light reading.”

I narrowed my eyes, looking back down at the textbook.  “You’re a lot smarter than you let on, huh?” I voiced aloud.  Calum didn’t appear particularly book smart, and I wondered if he was ashamed of it or wanted to keep it secret.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, and I frowned at his unsatisfactory answer.

“No, you should be proud of it.  Being smart is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Who ever said I was ashamed?”  His voice was freezing, and for a second I was worried I’d pissed him off.  But there was a glint in his brown eyes, and I shoved him lightly.

“Alright, wise guy.  If you’re so unashamed then why don’t you help me study?  Quiz me on anything.”  I leaned my head back against the couch cushion, eyes closed as I giggled.  Calum took the textbook from me, and opened to a random page to begin asking me questions.

I had my eyes shut most of the time to concentrate, but somehow I still knew he was smiling.

[admiralty-xfd]

In the scene in Brand X, Mulder is sitting in the back with brain scans and a file in front of him 2wks post surgery. He is also clearly typing something on the computer. What if he’s typing something very important? What if it was for Scully to find at later date, and what would he have written?

Thanks for this ask, and also thanks for the Season 7 alien brain disease receipts, Mon! You have a eagle eye and I love you for it.

It feels good to be back at work again. His fingers fly across the keys as he transcribes Scully’s field notes. Mindless, monotonous. He wishes he didn’t have to think about anything else.

But he does have something to think about, something he’s been thinking about for some time: the fact that, ever so surely, since he’d been operated on by the cancer man his brain has been slowly dying. As if tiny lights are going out inside his head one by one, and he is powerless to keep them alight.

His breath escapes in ragged wheezes, still affected by the beetle larvae, and he stares at the insides of his own brain. He requested the scans his last day in North Carolina, after Scully had gone home. 

This is the moment his death sentence becomes real, in laser sharp detail glaring out at him from the surface of a light box. These scans cannot hide what is happening to him. 

It feels illicit doing this in the office, in Scully’s space, no less, but he’s nothing if not a masochist. They only started sleeping together a couple weeks ago and he’s been in a hospital bed most of that time, rather than in hers. Every day that passes feels like such a waste. 

He wants to tell her but he doesn’t. She’d only worry, she’d only spend every second of every day trying to cure that which cannot be cured. He knows this as surely as he knows he’d feel the same, because he has felt it. He did feel the same when she told him of her own illness. The similarities are striking.

I refuse to believe that. 

I don’t accept that. 

His own words echo in his ears as he remembers vividly his own denial, his own determination to save her. 

His own failure when he knew he couldn’t.

He doesn’t wish that upon her. He can’t bring himself to bequeath her this burden. There are no doctors of this earth that can help him, not even Scully.

After he’s gone he wants her to know the things he cannot say to her. But even now, he isn’t certain what those things are.

He’s stopped typing without realizing it, deep in thought. He rips a piece of paper off a nearby scratch pad and stares at the blank page. Limitless potential, the type he and Scully no longer have. It’s a cruel irony.

Dear Dana, he writes. 

No, that doesn’t sound right. It isn’t enough. He crosses it out. 

Dearest Dana,

Is it wrong, too, somehow? She’s the dearest person in the world to him and if he’s too chicken shit to tell her with his mouth she should know it somehow, someday.

But it still isn’t right. Not like this. It doesn’t feel like him. He strikes through the sentiment and it hurts as he does. He begins the letter the only way he’s used to.

 Scully,

 ...and then his mind goes completely blank. As if the deadly alien disease inside it is robbing him of reason and will, as well as his memories. What does he want her to know? That he’s dying? She won’t need a note to know that when one day, very soon, they spend the night making love and he doesn’t wake up the next morning. Just the thought makes him ill.

He opts for honesty.

Scully,

I don’t know where to start. I

He pauses, because how does one begin a letter like this?

I love you, is what he wants to say. If you find this after I’m gone, just know that I loved you. 

Why are the words so hard to write? It’s as if putting pen to paper, committing those three words to history makes this all real. And it will make it even harder for her to move on from him when the inevitable occurs. 

So much has been taken away from her since she met him all those years ago. Now he will be removing himself from her life as well. 

He pictures her smile, her eyes. He imagines the various curves of her body he’s seen so few times as he presses his fingers into her flesh, hearing her cry out his name, knowing every time might be the last time. 

He isn’t ready to do this, not yet.

He folds up the note and puts it in his pocket. He’ll finish it as soon as he figures out what the hell he’s going to say to her.

Recalibrating, he turns back to the work, back to the job at hand. In a few minutes she’ll show up and will never notice the scans, never think twice that they might be his, that there might be something wrong. He will feel guilty when he wraps himself around her in his bed tonight and thinks of what to tell her, what to say, how to say it, when to say it.

There has to be an end, Scully, he thinks. 

It’s the right thing to say. But she moves against him and sighs contentedly. She’s happy, and when she’s happy, he is, too. 

Soon he’ll have to break her heart, shatter it into a million pieces. 

But not tonight.

tagging @gaycrouton @baronessblixen @peacenik0 @suitablyaggrieved @today-in-fic @its-flicked-switch @fragilevixenfic @rationalcashew @agent-starbuck @storybycorey @rosethornhill @slippinmickeys 

[xadoheandterra]

Series: The Burning of Solheim Title: The Path Untrodden Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII Characters: Prompto Argentum, Ignis Scientia, Cor Leonis, Gladiolus Amicitia, Noctis Lucis Caelum, Gilgamesh, Monica Tags: 10 years older!Prompto, Cor does not do flirting, Uncomfortable!Cor, Gilgamesh is 2000 years out of date and game, Monica is Mom, Poor Cor Day Summary:  Solheim was the height of civilization long enough that their ruins were ruins over 2000 years ago, and still had the power to function in the time of the King of Light. They should’ve realized something was very wrong the minute Prompto remarked on the lights being on, and yet no one was home.

Car rides were cramped. With four people who stood at or over six feet in height obviously car rides would be cramped. They’d spent days just figuring out how to situate one another so that the damn things could pass by without the need for too frequent breaks in the countryside as the hours of driving past them by, but some things just couldn’t be helped. Gilgamesh, at seven feet, could only have Prompto on his lap for so long before his legs ached. It didn’t help that Noctis utterly refused to settle in the passenger seat up front, and so Gladio in all of his six-foot six glory had to cram himself behind Ignis’ long legs.

Needless to say the normally three hour drive from Ravatogh to Caem would take the six that Cor claimed only because the number of breaks needed and not because, as Cid would claim, the boys wanted to stop and fish at every damned fishing hole they could find. While Cor felt certain that the boys, or rather Noctis in particular, would like to spend each stop fishing Cor knew them to be a bit more efficient than that.

“We should take a photo here,” Prompto murmured as he looked out over the railing of the road where they stopped. His arms were crossed over the metal as he stared out over the trees of the Leirity Seaside. From next to him Gilgamesh snorted.

Cor tried to ignore the conversation and stretch his back against the railing instead. He felt a faint pop and he knew it shouldn’t feel as good as it did, but damn if it didn’t ease some sort of tension somewhere. Then it started to hurt and with a wince Cor pulled away—he was getting old and the reminder made a small part of himself curl up and want to cry; the small, angry and utterly uncaring of his own life part of himself that he worked hard to bury with little success after he foolishly took on Gilgamesh.

“If it shall keep—” Gilgamesh started to say before Cor interrupted.

“Five more minutes,” Cor called to the group, and he missed a good chunk of what Gilgamesh said next.

“—from their assault upon my thighs,” Gilgamesh finished. Cor only blinked before Prompto turned from the railing, eyes wide and brows up, lips pulled apart in shock, before everything narrowed into utter outrage.

“I do not have a bony ass!” Prompto shrieked.

Gladiolus snorted.

“I don’t!” Prompto insisted, firmly, and he crossed his arms over his chest and ground his teeth together. Cor wanted to sigh.

For a moment there was silence, then Gilgamesh smiled. It was a soft sort of thing that made Cor feel a little weird all things considered—he felt nauseated, and briefly wondered if that omelet didn’t agree with him. Then Gilgamesh opened his mouth to speak and Cor viciously buried the nausea under his need to be alert. He could be sick later when the King wasn’t in danger and they didn’t have an itinerary.

“I stand corrected of my ill-gotten assumption,” Gilgamesh demurred, and he ducked his head a little as he did so. The trails of the scarf that Gilgamesh wrapped around his head like a hood shifted with the movement a little. “Your posterior is far more akin to that of a flattened cake.”

Gladiolus snorted again, and promptly buried his face into his hands like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Cor couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“A pancake,” Cor said. His tone was dry, short, but edged with a sort of faintness that only Cid or Weskham would detect if they listened. “You mean a pancake.”

Gilgamesh blinked and turned his gaze onto Cor who felt a flush rise along his neck and found himself in need to viciously squash down the nauseous feeling again.

“What is a…pancake?” Gilgamesh questioned.

Cor thought he heard Gladiolus say something that sounded vaguely like ‘oh my six,’ though muffled through his hands. He did see the way Ignis gripped Gladiolus’ shoulder tightly, eyes wide behind his glasses. He didn’t miss the way Noctis nearly doubled over with his own snort, or the way Prompto carefully edged from Gilgamesh to grasp the young monarch by the shoulder with the beginning of a smile curled at his lip.

“It’s—ah,” Cor floundered for half-a-second before he squared himself up and didn’t buckle under the seven foot behemoth of a man’s curious stare. “It’s a fluffy cake-like breakfast food fried in a pan, often accompanied by sweet toppings, sugar, and syrup.”

Gilgamesh eyed him, then smiled and said, “Ah. I shall have to try this pancake, then. Though I doubt Silver’s posterior shall taste ever as sweet.”

“GIL!” Prompto shrieked, and Cor watched as the royal retinue and King lost it. Ignis barely contained his wheezed snort, and Noctis on the floor outright cackling. Prompto even seemed amused by the words despite his reddening face and outraged look, and out of them Gladiolus seemed unamused. He kept his face in the palms of his hands and muttered more words and Cor felt himself in kinship.

Then a second later Cor turned red when Gilgamesh shifted closer and said, tone deeper and softer, “Although I shall believe that yours might make a wonderful, sweet, and meaty breakfast treat. I would not mind it ridden upon my thighs so.” Cor stared as Gilgamesh’s lips curled up, and he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from how they parted. “Might I propose a trade, then? To have you upon my lap for the rest of this daunting trip? Why it would be positively a pleasure if you were to agree.”

Cor stiffened; this man was wicked and he stumbled backward as he felt his stomach up in his throat.

Gilgamesh eyed him, then backed down with an uttered, “Ah, a check of rain then?” in some bastardized parody of a common colloquial phrase that had Prompto fall over into a fit of amusement.

Quickly the Immortal straightened himself up, lips pressed together into a scowl, and strode back toward the car with a barked out, “Five minutes are up!”

“Thank Bahamut,” Gladiolus mumbled.

Noctis stretched his back as he climbed out of the Regalia at the edge of Cape Caem. The cramped car ride had left plenty to be desired, but at least the journey had finally ended after six hours of inescapable travel later. Noctis wondered if Cindy was anywhere on the property still or if she returned to Hammerhead to continue to run the business there. Cid obviously remained, and really Cid deserved the rest that the lighthouse offered—if Noctis ignored the fact that Cid essentially just fixed up his father’s old royal vessel.

“Cid’ll be waiting at the dock,” Cor said as the last of the car doors slammed shut and everyone gathered in the gravel of the parking lot.

Noctis frowned lightly, uncertain if he wanted to just get right into it and gear up the vessel for the trip to Altissa or not. At the same time Noctis knew he couldn’t delay any further. Luna waited for him in Altissa to summon Leviathan and every day he delayed more put the Oracle’s own safety at risk. No doubt Ravus informed Nifflheim and Aldercapt what the Covenent’s meant, what his sister was doing—and it would only be time before they realized Leviathan was next on the list.

“And just where is this dock, anyway?” Gladio asked. His booted feet shifted on the gravel enough that Noctis glanced over to him, surprised—until Noctis remembered that none of his retainers actually visited the dock before. Out of everyone only Cor knew, and that was because Cor had been on the detail back then.

“There’s an elevator in the lighthouse,” Noctis said as he started his way up the path. Noctis tucked his hands into his pockets as he climbed, and the group fairly quickly formed up around him—at the rear Noctis could vaguely here Prompto and Gilgamesh get into some sort of soft, heated argument that threatened to bring the travel to a stop for all of a second. A glance from Noctis stopped whatever it was going on between those two, followed by a small frown, and the group continued their route up the path in relative silence.

Noctis preferred the quiet right now. It gave him time to think about the plan ahead—and he would need to have a plan ahead Noctis realized. Right now his plan mostly consisted of get to Altissa and find Luna which to be honest had been the plan since day one so that hadn’t changed. It felt weird to realize that he’d been working on the same basic plan since he first left Insomnia.

The party climbed past the house when Monica spotted them. Noctis knew it to be Monica from the way she uttered, “Cor?” in that strangled sort of way that Noctis could remember from his childhood. Noctis didn’t bother to pause in his climb up to the lighthouse except when he noticed Cor still next to him and turn with a faint bit of paleness to his cheeks.

“Monica,” Cor said, and Noctis turned to look at the second in command of the Crownsguard who stared at their group with a gaze so utterly devoid of emotion that it knocked Noctis off kilter for a second. He didn’t understand why Monica looked at them like that until he heard a slightly cut off, “Is that—” just as Cor said, “I can explain—”

Oh, Noctis thought faintly. Right. His gaze slid over to Prompto and Gilgamesh toward the back; Gilgamesh towered over everyone and had that tight grip upon Prompto’s wrist again, but unlike when they first dragged the man out of Taelpar Crag and into the wonders of how the world worked now, Gilgamesh had finally removed the majority of his armor and dressed down in a basic tunic with an attached hood that dipped low over his face and cast reddish-brown eyes into darkness.

“Cor Leonis,” Monica said, voice soft and it struck Noctis that she wasn’t looking at the party as a whole with a blank face, but rather at Cor with a blank face and the tension drained from Noctis’ shoulders. “You are Marshal of the Crownsguard, not a random field agent on a solo mission.” Cor winced. “A curtesy call for an update as to your status, or the status of those with whom you travel, is expected.”

“Monica—” Cor started, then paused, then sucked in a deep breath. “The situation changed.”

Monica eyed the group as a whole, and then turned back to Cor and gestured toward the house. “Inside.”

“Cid—”

“Is inside.”

Noctis turned and started for the house without a word, and at his back Gladio and Ignis followed after. Prompto hesitated for half-a-second before he tugged Gilgamesh to follow—only for Monica to raise a hand to forestall both from following directly after them. Noctis paused when he realized that she kept Prompto and Gilgamesh behind, even as Cor already drifted into her space and began to speak softly that they weren’t threats to Noctis’ safety.

“Uh,” Prompto glanced between them, then to Noctis. “Noct?”

Noctis frowned, took three quick steps until he was right next to Monica and Cor, who fell silent, and peered at the Crownsguard intently. “Is there a problem?”

Monica glanced to Cor, and then to Prompto and Gilgamesh, and then to Noctis and bowed her head lightly. “I apologize your highness. You may travel with whom you please, do not doubt, but without verification of—”

“Monica—” Cor started with a faint groan, but Noctis held up a hand so the Marshal quieted.

“I have with me my retinue,” Noctis said carefully, “and while yes, our newest member is for the most part a stranger—he is a stranger we have gotten to know for a few days already, and one who has come highly vetted as he can get by two of my retinue, and by Cor.” Cor winced at that statement, and when Monica arched her eyebrows at him, he shrugged an agreement to the words.

“He is not lying,” Cor said. “Ah—I met Gilgamesh when I was young?”

“Gilgamesh?” Monica questioned, voice deadpan. “The Blademaster from Taelpar Crag.”

Cor nodded. “He is.”

“The immortal who slaughtered far too many Crownsguard before you got it in your head to enter into a series of recently excavated caverns and, by the way it was told, pick a fight at the tender age of—fifteen? Sixteen? The one you nearly didn’t survive?”

Noctis snorted faintly at the way Cor seemed to shrink just a little bit downward. He could remember the man doing so few little times back in the Citadel, and always when Monica hunted him down to bring to his attention something or other that he decided to ignore. Gladio beside him canted his hip and crossed his arms in the way that meant he was enjoying the show, and Noctis didn’t doubt that Gladio had heard stories growing up about Cor, or had some sort of insight as to why Monica seemed to be his minder in situations like these.

“Your point?” Cor demanded, but Gilgamesh chose then to speak up with a slight twist of his head as he regarded Monica, and then regarded the way Cor’s shoulders seemed to knot together.

“Out of all who challenged me, young Cor Leonis near bested,” Gilgamesh uttered. “His denial of the Calling at the Gates did not come without consequence; for Life in return an arm he took.” Gilgamesh glanced to Gladio. “Only one such as he I have faced ever since, and ever shall.”

Monica looked Gilgamesh up and down, and then glanced to Prompto before she turned back to Noctis with her hands placed upon her hips. “Very well. I can concede to…the Blademaster,” the words rang a bit sour, although Gilgamesh ducked his head in acknowledgement of the title. “Given that Cor is with you, and that young Gladiolus as well, but what of his blond companion?”

Noctis frowned. “His blond—you mean Prompto?” Noctis looked at Monica like he hadn’t seen her—she knew Prompto. He she helped train him alongside Cor so that he would be considered good enough for this trip in the first place. She’d even been there when Prompto agreed to make his Oaths; how could Monica forgot all of that? Noctis glanced to Prompto, confused for a minute before he remembered—Steyliff.

“As I said,” Cor said when Monica’s entire countenance softened, especially at the way Noctis suddenly jerked his head away from her and from Prompto and stared off into the distance, “the situation changed, Monica. We will discuss it inside. Suffice to say that this is Prompto Argentum.”

For a moment no one said anything, and then Monica sighed explosively. “Alright. We’ll discuss this—all of this—inside.” Noctis turned to glance at her again, with wide eyes. “Preferably now, your majesty.”

A second, and then Noctis nodded. This time unimpeded the group as a whole made their way inside. Monica took the lead with a comment about informing Dustin, and getting the children out of the way which led to Gladio’s sigh of relief. They could address the events without Iris or Talcott getting underfoot, and Iris would get underfoot at the least, Noctis knew. Hell, she probably had a few choice words for Gladio after all; Noctis hadn’t missed the way that Iris refused to send her older brother messages, or how it upset Gladio.

[thefinalyeehaw]

Ballad of Dell Jennings (Rdr2 fanfic) Prologue pt. 2

Part 2: Dell Jennings, Horse thief

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Horse thievery became Dell’s main staple. She had a natural talent for horses, the broncos were calmer and trusting in the presence of the young girl. Because of this ability, Dell becomes an expert in luring even the most headstrong horses from the hitching posts of local saloons without alerting the riders or patrons of the crime. Then afterward she sold the fillies to Mr. Larson, the dubious owner of the neighboring town’s stables, who never batted an eye when Dell always rode in on the horse she planned to sell him.

She knew stealing horses was the equivalent to murder, especially out in the West, where equines was a person’s livelihood. Guilt would probably eat at her if her intended targets weren’t well-to-do businessmen whose pockets could afford another pony.

The money Dell stole from her “guide” was dwindling fast, she spent a large amount when visiting the Creedstad general store, prior to the theft of Jolie, for supplies after an appointment with the sneering tailor to fit the clothes stolen from the unguarded suitcase of a male train passenger. She was in dire need for a big score and soon, her tinned ration supply receding at an alerting rate.

“Ya wanna make serious bank?” Mr. Larson asks one foggy morning, leaning against the wooden gate of the stall as Dell brushed the slightly tangled mane of a Dutch Warmblood. Sometimes Dell worked at the stables when she needed to lay low until the law of a neighboring town stop sniffing around for a horse thief to string up.

“What do you mean, sir?” She knew to be wary about any job suggestion the stable owner gave her. Mr. Larson, a hefty Midwestern man with a thinning scalp of caramel hair, steely-eyed, with a bear-like rumble of a voice, is a notorious swindler who uses down-on-their-luck schmucks to do his dirty work and then, is not afraid to finger them for the blame.

“Ya know, a gig, one that could fill up ya pockets handsomely,” Though facing away from the man, she could tell the stable owner was becoming slightly annoyed by Dell’s oblivious attitude, the man had a rigid no-bullshit policy.

“Oh! What is it then?” Dell always enjoys playing the role of a fool, everyone underestimates her cleverness because of her age and impoverished appearance. And never fail to be flabbergasted when realizing they have been hoodwinked, cursing the young thief’s name in the wind as she rides into the next town with a heavier satchel and a sly grin plastered on her face.

“I’m glad you asked, Mr. Jennings,” Mr. Larson said in a sing-song voice that made Dell suppress a cringe at the Mr. It became apparent early for Dell, many people believed she was a boy. A belief only made truer by her lanky shapeless figure that swam in dark billowing shirts, often hung off her narrow shoulders, despite it buttoned up to her sternum. The cuffs of her oil-ruined pants rested high above her ankle, the ill-fit hem was cinched tightly to her amorphous hips by a well-worn belt. And her hair, pixie-cut mop of auburn locks, often hidden underneath a tan Stetson hat, Dell stole from a drunken man asleep at the bar of the saloon she was scoping out. To everyone else, Dell looked to be a young orphaned boy, too tall and lithe for his clothes and filthy from the backroads the forgotten must survive on.

A few months earlier, she definitely had been offended by Mr. Larson’s assumption of gender, but now Dell knew it was a blessing, the young thief learn quickly it was better to be a wayward boy in the West, then a wayward girl.

“Ever heard a Hoagy Macintosh?”

Snapped out of her thoughts, Dell shook her head “No. Who’s that?”

Mr. Larson let out a heavy sigh behind her, grumbling underneath his smoky breath about clueless brats. Ignoring the miffed owner, Dell finished brushing the horse’s mare, she admires dark silky hair as the strands seemed to glow in the dim lighting of the stable. The glow of the horse’s mane reminded her of a simpler time in her past, she often forced herself to not think upon it, for it was just too painful to recall. As she returns once again to the present, Dell noticed Mr. Larson began explains further “Hoagy Macintosh is a wealthy doctor from New England, comes a long line of well-respected physicians-”

“What does this have to do with the job?” She turned to the man, irritated. He was beating around the bush, she could tell. Usually, Mr. Larson was very straightforward with his demands and bargaining, so this was unknown for Dell, it terrified her.

“If ya didn’t interrupt, brat, I would have gotten to the goddam’ point!” Mr. Larson growled, annoyance flashing on his aged face before returning to the man’s regular scowl “Long story short, he’s in town and owns me some money from a poker game a few years back.”

Now, was that so hard to say? “Okay. How does this involve me?” Dell responds, watching as another stablehand, whose name Dell could never place, slip past her to grab the reigns of Dutch Warmblood. The stable hand guided the snorting bronco around the two and outside to the fenced-in field for grazing.

When Dell glanced back at Mr. Larson, a sense of dread filled her belly as the stable owner grinned wolfly at her, showing off his missing front tooth “I want ya to steal the bastard’s horse.”

* * *

The sense of dread never left her.

Not even after she delivered the silver Turkoman to the grasp of Mr. Larson, grinning crazily like a man who lost his mind. “Thank ya for ya service, Mr. Jennings!” The man celebrated, clapping Dell in the back with a level of force that would send an unbalanced person to the ground. “...All in a day’s work, Mr. Larson” She wheezed out, her lungs heaved from nearly having the air knocked out “So where’s my payment?”.

Mr. Larson simply waved her over, telling the young thief to come back in a week and a half, claiming that once the horse is sold, she will be paid.

Irate, Dell stormed out of the stables. She wasn’t too pleased about waiting for the couple of weeks to get paid, people typically pay her once the horse is in their possession. Money was already tight of her, food was scarce back at her campsite, there was only a three-days worth of canned goods which mean she is going to go hungry before getting paid by Mr. Larson. She groaned aloud, rubbing a hand across her face, disgusted at the filth that appeared on her glove. Wishing deeply that she had the money to take a nice soak at the town’s hotel, guess she could wash up in the river, even though it was running with the melted snow from winter as the season of spring quickly approached. She grimaced at the thought of the frigid water kissing her bare skin, deciding that it was better to wait the week and a half than take her chances with hypothermia.

Dell strolled down the dirt road towards the town of Underwell, a tiny mining town known for its abundance of coal in the surrounding mountainside and its vast criminal underground. Though the town does not seem like a community of thieves, liars, and gunslingers with the freshly-painted houses, clean roads, quiet shops, and kind-looking people. But once the sun slips past the mountains, that when the low-lifes come out.

The sun hangs high in the clear blue sky, signaling noontime. Dell made her way towards the saloon, she has visited the bar to drink after the death of Jolie but got refused by an older barmaid, scolding the youth “Come back when there’s sum hair on ya chest”. Jolie, her late mare got bit by a rattlesnake while the two stroll through some tall grass, Dell tried to get the bronco to Mr. Larson get aid. The Midwestern man directed the distraught thief up to his office, distracting the youth with details of his new gramophone as a nameless stable-hand led the stumbling Turkoman behind the stable. Dell appreciates Mr. Larson turning up the gramophone in his office, muting the gunshot underneath the second-floor window.

Dell snapped out of her thoughts when she noticed a flash of white in the corner of her eye, she grinned as she caught sight of her prize from the theft. At the hitching post stood the white Arabian owned by one Hoagy Macintosh. When she went to steal the horse, she became intrigued by the powerful grace of the snow-colored stallion, deciding at the moment to steal the horse for her personal use. To swindle Mr. Larson, she decided to grab the horse next to the stallion, the silver Turkoman that is residing in his stable.

The young Arabian noticed the young thief’s arrival and announced his annoyance, stomping an impatient hoof upon the ground, stirring up puffs of dust. Dell rolled her eyes at the act, the stallion was barely out of his time of being a foal, so she knew the horse was yet to be trained.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You hate waiting, boy,” Reaching out to stroke the abrasive equine’s colorless mane, the stallion relaxed underneath the girl’s hand, leaning closer into her palm. Dell smiled softly, untangling her hand from the horse’s silky hair, she proceeded to climb onto the stallion, with much difficulty. The equine was unusually tall for an Arabian horse, at least a good hand or two taller than average. And Dell’s atypical height didn’t help her struggle with climbing on top of the horse, luckily the Arabian stay still as the girl managed to swing her leg over the stallion’s wide back, securing her boot in the other stir-up.

“Come on, boy, let’s go,” She said, pulling the stallion into a trot down the main road as they entered the outskirts of Underwell.

“Fucking asshole!” Dell cried out.

Early in the day, she returned to the Underwell stables a week-and-a-half later, to collect her payment. “I haven’t sold the horse yet,” Mr. Larson called out from his second-floor office as the young thief entered the stable. Dell blinked for a moment, then her confusion morph to anger “What? You told me that I would be paid in a week and a half. It’s been a week and a half! Where’s my money?” Her voice bounced off the wood walls of the stable, startling a few of the horses in nearby stalls. Dell knew better than to cause a public scene, but she was too livid by Mr. Larson’s deception to care.

Mr. Larson, unfazed by the youth’s outburst, clambered down the wood stairs that groaned underneath the weight of the burly man “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Jennings,” The man said, tilting his balding head down in mocking guilt, Dell fought the urge to knock out his remaining front tooth as the stable owner approached her. “Ya see, the fella I was intending to sell the Turkoman to, never showed. So I have been scrambling to find a new buyer, unfortunately, I hadn’t got much luck” Dell huffed, scrubbing her face with her hand. She was nearly out of money, despite taking on a couple of horse stealing jobs, to provide some food for herself and her new horse. But it still wasn’t enough, and now the law slowly closing in on her after a botched theft in a few towns over, she needed to leave town soon with cash in her pockets.

“How long you do need?”

“Another week.” Mr. Larson quickly added when Dell shot the owner a dumbfounded expression “An old buddy of mine coming to town, he owns land in Michigan, he’ll take the horse off my hands for the same price I gave the other fella.” Mr. Larson then stuck out a paw-like hand in front of the conflicted horse thief “Do we have a deal, Mr. Jennings?” Dell stared down at the hand as if she had never seen one before. Knowing this was probably of Mr. Larson’s scams to sell her out to the law, in order to keep the cash, and by shaking the man’s hand, she might as well sign her death certificate too. But money was scarce, she desperately needs the profits from the Turkoman sale to keep her afloat, at least until she reaches the next county.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Dell reached out and shook the meaty palm.

“You have a deal, Mr. Larson.”

[nny11writes]

Pink Lizard Thunderbolt Incident

Ahsoka was twenty, bored, and taking a bet from Hardcase when it happened.

Her first mistake was being in the same bar as Hardcase. Quickly followed in order by entertaining the bet, her own youthful naivete, and her desire to push limits. Well, actually, her first mistake had been bragging to him about her ability to knock back starshine’s because human alcohol was “weak ass shit”. Hardcase commiserate and had promised to find her something better, after all, clones had a higher tolerance for alcohol as well. When they’d sat at the bar Hardcase had pointed at her and said, “This one can drink irongut, blood mashes, and thinks starshine is weak. What do you have to knock her flat on her ass?”

Ahsoka had laughed, punching him good naturedly until he’d smiled evilly at her and said, “S’amatter? You scared?”

She’d told him to pay for the drink and she’d drink anything.

When it arrived, the first thing she’d noticed was the small cloud hovering above it, little electrical bolts flying between the hovering vapor and the liquid.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, “is that a pica?”

The bartender, an older purple woman with stubby tentacles swept elegantly behind her head, had grinned and winked. “Nope. That is a pink lizard thunderbolt babe. Almost twice the alcohol content. It can literally eat through a human’s stomach, but you togs are built like gastric tanks. If you can drink this shit and remember anything afterwards, I’ll pay for the damn thing myself.”

Ahsoka stared at it in wonder, a stray bolt shocking her finger as she grinned. She probably sounded more excited than she should have as she asked, “Should we have an ambulance on speed dial or anything?”

The woman shrugged, “How should I know? I’m not your mom!”

“Don’t worry, I’ve just sent Kix a message and he is your mom.” Hardcase made a motion towards it. “You gonna chicken out or what?”

The last thing Ahsoka remembers is grabbing the drink. It’s surprisingly disappointing to say she doesn’t remember what it looked like as the cloud dissipated, she had no clue how it even tasted which just seemed like a fucking shame. Then next thing she remembers is waking up violently ill in an alleyway, and bitching on about buzz droids. Later she’ll be delighted to discover that she is still alive and hadn’t had a single thing stolen from her. Much later she’ll be grateful that Hardcase didn’t record a damned thing. Much, much later she’ll have bragging rights beyond bragging rights and a pin up of herself in a thundercloud painted on a LAAT/i.

But that is later.

Hardcase, for his suspiciously reliable sounding testimony, explains that Ahsoka drank it over a twenty minute period and that after thirty minutes she only seemed regular drunk. The bartender was impressed enough to give them some complimentary nuts. About five minutes after that Ahsoka had started rambling about starships, then blasters, then bitching about how cold Ilum was and how she wished her lightsabers were a “cool” color. She had apparently never explained what that was supposed to mean.

Ahsoka had devolved quickly into tattoo designs for herself, and asked several times in a row if Rex would want one too. Despite Hardcase repeatedly saying she would need to ask the Captain. Then got a little teary eyed that Rex didn’t love her, which the bartender took the wrong way but got a kick out of Ahsoka’s hiccuping, “But he’s my best- brother- frien’- dad and I need him!”

Hardcase had assured her that Rex loved her, and that every trooper in the 501st knew she was their collective best-sister-brother-friend-Commander.

She had sniffled and asked if they’d get tattoos with her which Hardcase assured her they would.

They had both been given orders to drink two glasses of water before leaving. Apparently the bartender wanted to keep visuals on Ahsoka for another hour before they left for liability reasons and also because this was the most fun she’d had all week. Which was fair. After the first glass was chugged Ahsoka almost threw up, managed not to, and had loudly declared that was why togrutas were the best.

Hardcase had gotten up at some point to keep Kix appraised of the situation (“I told him you were fine and you were, ‘s not my fault!), it took less than a minute and he had eyes on her for all except the last fifteen seconds.

No one is really sure where she was for the next hour or so.

Ahsoka finds a receipt in her pocket for a kebab, the used end of a death stick with heavy lipstick stains in a shade she doesn’t own, and a crumpled ticket to a concert that had happened a week before. All in all it’s not useful for much except she glad she didn’t root through the trash more thoroughly. Who knows what would have been in her pockets then. She guesses that she stumbled out the back door to wander a bit, but was probably too uncoordinated to get far. Regardless, drunk Ahsoka had still turned around and homed in on Hardcase at the bar.

The first place Hardcase checked was the dancefloor, then the bathroom, then the back alley. He explained in detail how his short life flashed before his eyes and the way he’d debated if he should call in backup to find her. He’d figured she couldn’t get far and did a sweep, he never saw her. Right when he decided to, and stepped into the back alley he found her sitting half hidden by the dumpster and nearly burst into tears. Hardcase then promised to get a tattoo with her and get her food and do anything as long as she didn’t leave his side again for the night.

Ahsoka had apparently said, “Nice.” while patting his cheeks.

Mama Bartender had come out a long while later with waters for them and asked if Ahsoka was still breathing. Ahsoka had tilted her head and shrugged, which was acceptable. A while after that Hardcase had helped her up and they had tried to go back to the barracks. She had been distracted by every pet they came across and asked to touch them. Hardcase had smiled widely as he explained he was not responsible for whatever photos those civvies had taken of a drunk Jedi playing with their pets.

“That’s on the holonet and I can’t stop it.”

Fair enough, although Ahsoka did feel he shouldn’t act so smug about it.

There had apparently been a memorable stop at a bathroom as Hardcase had gone in the single stall with her to make sure she actually peed in the damned toilet and not on her leggings. Apparently someone had thought they were engaged in more sexual games and had been horrified thinking a trooper took advantage of a drunk woman. Ahsoka had laughed herself nearly sick, again allegedly on civvie camera, explaining that Hardcase was her best friend and she loved him but not like that but if he was a girl she would totally have done it. Hardcase stuttered his way again through the explanation that she was drunk and needed to pee. Ahsoka had been offended at the accusation that she was drunk, right up until she tilted and almost brained herself on the sink while bitching about the gravity repulsors acting up again. Then she’d paused before petting the mirror image of her own face and saying, “Ok ’m drunk.”

The karking Coroc’s had been called in the meantime though, and Hardcase had been laughing too much to explain what happened when the two shock troopers arrived. He must have said something though because they were not, in fact, arrested for any of the things the probably should have been arrested for.

The fact that Ahsoka had received two pings with unknown com numbers to have a drinking contest with the Guard was a good indicator that she’d impressed them for all the wrong reasons. Boot and Chide had both assured her they’d welcome her presence as a judge if nothing else because she was funny.

Hardcase just snickered, “F-funny!” in a high pitched wheeze when she asked about it.

Ahsoka had tried to sleep on a bench and Hardcase had at least redirected her back towards the barracks. They made it halfway there before Ahsoka walked unassisted into another alley, leaned over, and threw up. Feeling better she’d again insisted on sleeping, and Hardcase got her to compromise and just sit next to him. There was no way she was being allowed to sleep yet. He kept an eye on her breathing and made sure she wasn’t getting cold.

“I know my ABC’s Commander!” Hardcase said with pride.

She opted to not make the obvious joke considering he’d shepherded her drunken ass around for at least six. Which was generous considering he was the one who had gotten her plastered in the first place.

That’s where she remembers waking up feeling like shit and grateful that she had the day off.

Kix had nearly blown a fuse when they’d returned as he’d assumed Hardcase was being an idiot and had been joking about the punch packed in her drink. Ahsoka had hissed through his rant, hands covering montrals best she could and accepting the pain killers and the electrolyte mix. She got a few hours sleep in the medical bay under his watchful eye before her woke her to eat a nutrient cube and discharge her with a lifelong case of Being a Karking Dumbass. Kix was adamant that it was chronic and would only become more acute with time. Ahsoka had rolled her eyes but didn’t try to argue because...well, she had drunk the damned thing hadn’t she?

She caught another hour of sleep before Anakin had arrived, stomping and shouting and forcing her up to train in the salle with him. As it was his right as her Master to determine how Ahsoka would spend the day off from the GAR. It wasn’t productive considering she spent the whole time cursing at him and he spent the whole time laughing.

“Best core workout I’ve ever had,” Anakin would say fondly, much later down the line when telling the story to embarrass her.

Obi-Wan had arrived afterwards with an evil smile to drill her on her studies, which Ahsoka managed to only avoid by saying, “You drink one Pink Lizard and everyone becomes an asshole!”

Anakin had panicked for a hot minute while Obi-Wan had immediately sat her down. She’d been quickly forced to explain that Kix had seen her and discharged her already, no she wasn’t dying, and no they only ate through the stomach lining of humans according to the bartender.

Anakin had eventually smiled widely, far too manic for anyone’s tastes, looking between her and Obi-Wan, “We’re high tolerance drinkers! That’s our lineage tick!”

“No,” Obi-Wan tried his best to discourage the notion. “I know what you’re thinking and we should definitely not-”

“Yes!” Anakin insisted, only getting more excited, “We need to get drinks together! Now!”

“No,” Obi-Wan and Ahsoka had both insisted, but for wildly different reasons.

“But yes!” Anakin chripped far to happy and loud for anyone to enjoy as he dragged them off towards their quarters. “So what are we having, I know how to get the good stuff in here.”

“Either get me herbal tea or get me another Pink Lizard so I can die in kriffing peace!” Ahsoka snarled and tried to get her arm out from the mechno grip he’d locked her into.

Obi-Wan said, “I second the motion! Let me go Anakin!”

“Cool, I’m thinking jet juice to start then some skee’s and we’ll see how we’re feeling.” Anakin said the same way some people might imply that eating a small desert after a meal might be one step too far.

Ahsoka and Obi-Wan looked at one another in horror, mute from fear.

“How are you still alive?” She whispered staring up at her Master with new respect.

To be fair, she doesn’t actually remember anything after that either, so maybe the respect had been given a bit to quickly. Suffice it to say they, luckily, survived the night. Although perhaps “luckily” is not the right word for the day that followed.

Regardless, Ahsoka looked up at her nose art with a smile and decided that she would never, ever touch a damned pica drink again in her life. She would have also sworn off drinking with Anakin, but that was a foregone conclusion.

Now if she could just get Yoda to come to one of their “our lineage makes poor decisions” nights, she’d swear off drinking forever.

[stonestridernerd]

RIP - Winoa

Before him stood the familiar hut, its worn leather hides draping over the structure’s wooden frame. Overlooking the village below, it was a quaint yet warm place. 

Maliko took a deep breath as he looked over his former home, trying to contain the nervous buzz in his stomach. 

She was in there, waiting for him to visit. Perhaps for the final time. 

Shaking the terrible thought away, he mustered what courage he had and lifted the loose hide over the entrance. 

The single room was emptier than remembered it. Instead, of heaps of herbs and unprepared hides along the sides, the space had been cleared out. No longer was there the aura of supper, but the smoke of burning herbs. All that was left was a single mat, barricading the ground from the Elder. 

Her fur had long since grayed out, though a halo of white stood in stark contrast around her snout. Blue eyes were duller than he remembered, those sky-like irises dull around crow’s feet. Her long silver mane was loose, tangled as it sprawled against her chest. Under her blanket, her figure appeared thinner as well...

“Maliko!”

Blinking his eyes in surprise, the hunter looked back at his mother’s face. He opened his mouth as he tried to greet her, but words failed him as his eyes examined every detail of her face. 

So it was true...

“Little Wave, you look like you’ve seen a spirit.” Winoa murmured, patting the ground along her side. “Please, sit by me.”

“O-oh, of course.” Maliko bowed his head as he came to her side. As he lowered himself to the ground, setting his hand on the ground, he felt another stack on top of his. Turning to the side, he found his mother’s hand set gently atop his. 

“Is it true?”

The hunter furrowed his brow in confusion. “Is what true?���

“The rumours...they say you’re going to an Elder soon.”

“Uh...” Maliko gave a slight shrug. “Yes. They were quite insistent on it, but I, well...wanted to see you before that.”

Winoa smiled fondly at her son. “Oh?”

The hunter nodded. “The hope was that the healers had found something to help you, so you could come.”

“Oh.” The Elder bit her lip, her grip on his hand tightening ever so slightly. “I am sorry, Mali. I am so sorry...”

“There’s no need for you to apologize for your illness, Elder.”

“Elder...” Winoa lowered her voice, disappointed to hear her title now. However, the hunter didn’t seem to notice until she spoke again. “I know, but you have come a long way to earn this.”

“But-”

“No buts, Mali.” Winoa chuckled shallowly, her voice more like coughing than laughter as it continues. 

The hunter leaned closer to the ill taureness. Pressing his other hand on top of hers, he waited for her breathing to calm down to its low wheezing. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you though.” He sighs, his eyes misting up with the low confession. 

“Little Wave,” The water walker pursed her lips. “You will make a fine Elder.”

Maliko bit his lower lips, nodding slightly at his mother. 

Winoa eyed the hunter’s face, waiting for him to respond. Yet as his silence continued, she stretched her fingers out between his hands, intertwining them with his as she murmurs. “How are the stars doing?

He tilted his head to the taureness, raising an eyebrow at her question.

“I’ve been in here so long. Something about getting better...” The water walker sighed. “but I think we know better. Please, can you take me out to see the stars again?”

Maliko pursed his lips as he gave a gentle nod. The water walker smiled back as she tried lifting her arms towards him. Yet they shook against the effort, barely rising from her side. 

“It’s alright. I can carry you.” The hunter set a gentle hand on hers. 

“Little Wave, I can- oh!” Winoa exclaimed as her son suddenly hoisted her up, his arms wrapped under her legs and upper torso. 

“Sorry!” Maliko gasped, lips turning downward as he felt her weight against him. “I didn’t think you’d be this light.”

The water walker bit her lip at the comment, lowering her gaze as they left the hut. She coughed as she left the smoke-filled hut, suddenly back under the clear, cold skies. 

“Should we go back?” Maliko furrowed his brow. “We shouldn’t risk-”

“It’ll be alright, Little Wave.” The water walker coughed out, the terrible noise barely lowering. 

“How about we set you down then? We can make a fire.”

“Alright.” Winoa sighed, as he lowered her down. Settled by where they would hold campfires, she looked up to the starry skies above as she listened to him shuffle the old wood. 

After he came back, spending a few minutes setting up a decent flame. Maliko didn’t make a peep as he glanced between his mother and the wood, comparing the flickering flame to the woman in front of him. 

“Maliko.”

He blinked, startled to hear his name abruptly. Seeing his mother’s smile at the sky above, he inched closer to her. “Yes?”

“Aren’t they beautiful tonight?” She pointed to the heavens. 

“I suppose...” The hunter shrugged. 

The water walker chuckled once more. “Ah, you’ll learn to appreciate the stars. I’ve been telling you their stories for years, and the other Elders will reiterate me when I say that yes, there are.”

Maliko raised an eyebrow at his mother. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Indeed.” Winoa muttered. “One simply learns to admire the Skyfather’s work.”

“You’re not ready to be embraced by the Skyfather though, are you?”

The water walker turned to her son, about to retort when she saw his cloudy eyes. Pursing her lips, she extends a shaky hand towards him as she sighs. “I can’t deny my fate anymore, Maliko. My time is coming.”

Maliko shook his head, biting his already raw lips even further. “But you have so much left to do-”

“There’s always more to do.”

“-and to see,”

“And see.”

“And live for.” The hunter accepted her hand, circling his thumb along the side of her hand. 

“And live for.” Winoa repeated. “But the cycle continues, Maliko.”

He kept his gaze on his hooves, holding her hand tighter as he choked back a sob. “I suppose I have to ask you then, sooner than later, huh?”

“Ask me what?” Winoa tilted her head. 

“Well...” The hunter glanced to his mother out of the corner of his eyes. “At the time I become an Elder, they let you choose another name, yes?”

The water walker nodded. “Of course. It is a large step to take, but there are a few that have done it.”

“I-well...I don’t want to be Elder Bloomcaller. I was hoping that you give me your blessing to become Elder Summerdream...”

The hunter bowed his head towards the taureness, closing his eyes. Instead of words, however, he braced himself against warm streaks against his face, running down his cheeks. As they trickle down to his chin, another hand holds itself against the side of his face. Colder than his own, her finger brushes along the tip of his cheek. He opened his eyes as he held his head higher, watching the Elder’s face stare back in an expression he could only describe as a heartbroken smile. 

“I would be honoured to, Little Wave” The water walker’s own eyes began to tear up. “I would be so honoured, and proud, and happy to see you as Elder Maliko Summerdream.”

She gasped as he suddenly rushed in for a hug, holding her tightly as tears rolled onto her back. 

“I love you, Mama.” His somber voice murmured, “Thank you.”

Winoa’s chest felt tighter, though her spirit as light as air. She lowered her shin on his shoulder, leaning her head against his as he looked towards the heavens. 

They stayed together like that for what was all too quick for the hunter’s taste, as he rocked back and forth, tears streaming down on her limp body. Peering up to the stars, he murmured to the heavens above.

“May the Skyfather protect you, Mama.” 

( This is was longer than expected, but I got really excited about the idea of Winoa dying of old age and having a tender last night with Maliko. Thank you for the prompt @olivia-lovecraft! )

[terresdebrumestories]

We were always gonna be forever

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Digimon Adventure 01/02/Tri RATING: General Audiences. WORDCOUNT: 2 431 words PAIRING(S): Taiyama (brand new) CHARACTER(S): Taichi Kamiya & Yamato Ishida, with background cameos from zombies. GENRE: It seemed like the right thing to do. TRIGGER WARNING(S): - SUMMARY: Taichi seems willing to risk his life for the weirdest things. NOTE: I honestly wish I could have done a 10k + fic digging into the how-s and why-s and how much-s of this whle fic (where zombies are, really, more of an excuse than anything else) but alas, I neither have the time nor the energy, so have this instead <3

DIGIOTPWEEK 2017: [Day 1: Coffeeshop AU] [Day 2: Fantasy AU] [Day 3: Profession AU] [Day 4: Mythology AU] [Read on AO3]

“Crap!” Taichi swears once they’ve left the zombies behind them and shoved themselves into an empty alley, “we need to go back!”

He’s patting at the pockets of his ill-fitted cargo shorts, hands growing more restless each times he comes up empty handed, and Yamato’s throat constricts in apprehension.

“Did you lose you Digivice?”

There’s nothing else Yamato would ever consider going back to a compromised zone for, but for this...he’d walk in more dangerous situations than that for a Digivice, no matter whose. There’s the sentimental value, of course—that alone would be enough to make him risk a lot of things for them—but also these things haven’t even begun to lose power after sixteen years of extended use without battery change. They’re the only way they have to help their digimon partners digivolve, act as distress signal, maps and, with a little mastery of the Morse code, communication devices.

They’ve gotten Yamato and the others out of more than one delicate situation, allowed them to rescue Mr. Inoue and Mr. Kido out of a horde of corpses, and generally greatly contributed to their camp’s safety.

Sentiments aside, the Digivices are just too essential to lose.

“Who do you take me for?” Taichi hisses with a look of indignation to make a shier man cower, “Of course I didn’t lose my Digivice!”

“Then what are you making a fuss for? We’re not going back there.”

“But we’ve got to!”

Taichi’s face looks pleading, twisted with distress at the idea of leaving whatever it is behind, but Yamato refuses to be budged. There are at least fifteen corpses in this grocery store. They’re both black and brown with grime and blood as it is, breathing short and heartbeats fast after escaping by the skin of their teeth. Even assuming they survive a second run in the shop, which is a big assumption already, getting this late would mean skipping on their pharmacy run and risking being out of camp at night anyway.

There’s no way Yamato is going to let either of them go back there, especially with Weregarurumon and Greymon stuck at camp to help with the repairs.

“Taichi,” Yamato insists, hoping it’ll be the end of it, “we’re leaving.”

“No!”

They wince at the same time when Taichi’s voice echoes against the buildings on either side of them, the tone of his despair lingering against neatly parked but abandoned cars. It only takes a glance for them to move out of the alleyway, one rattling corpse already moving toward them, and Yamato doesn’t bother repressing a sigh of relief when Taichi moves away from the grocery store and toward the old commercial center their community chose as a base of operation.

They jog rather than run, keeping their strength even as they put some distance between them and danger, slipping into practiced synchronization without needing to think about it. Their hands find each other as they run, the comfort of a familiar gesture easing the knot of fear in Yamato’s guts.

Even through the end of the world, they still have each other, if nothing else.

“We really—” Taichi has to pause so he can gulp more air, sweat drawing lines in the layer of dirt and blood on his forehead before he can finish: “We need to go back. I’ve got to—”

“You’ve got to let go,” Yamato interrupt, waiting until he’s done hissing to breathe in, “I’ll knock you out and put you on my back if I have to but there’s literally nothing in the world I’d be willing to let you risk your life for!”

“But it’s for you!”

Yamato’s too stunned to reply immediately, and the long, plaintive sound of a dying animal punctuates the silence that follows, Taichi’s harsh breathing too loud between them as he tries to get it back to normal. In his chest, Yamato’s heart feels like it’s holding its breath, making itself tiny to leave Yamato’s brain enough space to process the declaration.

“What do you mean, ‘it’s for me’? What was it?”

The emotions warring over Taichi’s face are so intense it’s almost like watching a movie in stop motion: anguish, fear, crimson embarrassment flicker over his features in rapid succession, then something like intense resignation and a deep breath for courage before he says:

“It’s a ring.”

Well. You have to give it to Taichi: he neither stuttered, nor muttered.

Yamato’s brain, on the other hand….

“A what?”

“A ring,” Taichi repeats, face still redder than Koushiro’s hair but head held high, “with your crest on it. Had it custom made and everything.”

There’s Yamato’s what on the what now?

What?

“Why would you even buy me a ring?”

Taichi shrugs, like he’s fully accepted that this is the moment he dies—whether he thinks the cause will be embarrassment or Yamato is still unclear—before he gives a rueful little smile and asks:

“What do people usually buy rings for?”

Oh, okay! There’s something wrong with Yamato’s ears.

Or his brain.

Or maybe the past three months were nothing but a massive set of nightmare, and this is the part where something so weird happens that Yamato wakes up.

“Were you gonna—”

“Yes.”

“Are you—”

“You know me,” Taichi challenges, the red slowly going out of his cheeks, “you tell me if I’m serious.”

Yamato would answer that, he really would! It’s just that his brain doesn’t quite remember how to make his mouth work.

Of course Taichi wouldn’t joke around about proposing, especially not with Yamato. The guy knows what his issues are, how uptight he can be on making words match the exact and real nature of a relationship. Taichi wouldn’t just step all over that with a joke on that topic.

Somehow though, knowing that doesn’t help.

Today should have been an ordinary day, okay? Run into an abandoned store, take what they can carry to help the group survive, run back, try not to get eaten. Rinse and repeat as long as it’s necessary. Instead Yamato is stuck in place in a part of town they’ve got no business in, feeling like a certain bushy-haired someone just drop-kicked him into the Twilight Zone.

“Are you okay?”

Yamato got to the ground, somehow. He can feel the cold of it seeping into his ass, the harsh solidity of a wall with peeling paint at his back. Taichi, crouched down to put their eyes at the same level, has a hand on his shoulder, partly for comfort and partly as a way to keep himself upright.

There’s really no proper answer to that question.

Well. Yamato could go for the familiar route and swear until the static’s gone from his brain. Or, you know, just ask what the fuck is wrong with Taichi.

There’s so much vulnerability in Taichi’s eyes now, an incertitude he rarely ever unveils in front of anyone, Yamato can’t bring himself to do that. Taichi has been the most important person in his life for over sixteen years now, after all, so Yamato knows exactly how much of a gift this level of emotional openness is.

Still….

“We’re not even dating!”

Yamato’s voice pierces at his own ears, too high and strangler to be fully intelligible, but Taichi must get it because he winces, the ‘yeaaaaah, about that….’ written all over the tight tilt of his mouth. At least Yamato isn’t the only one freaking out here.

“I know, it’s stupid,” Taichi apologizes at last, hand moving away from Yamato’s shoulder, “let’s just forget it.”

“Wha—oh no you don’t!”

It’s easy to snatch Taichi’s wrist out of the air and hold it tight, a lifeline as much as a shackle destined to keep him right where he is. It’s an old dynamic between them, this tug of war between their respective brands of emotional constipation and their mutual desire to know what goes on in the other’s head.

It makes it easy to give Taichi a hard stare and warn in a low voice:

“You don’t get to drop a bomb like that and walk away! Start explaining, Yagami.”

Taichi rolls his eyes at that, but his shoulders unwind a little and, to Yamato’s relief, there’s a small smile playing at the edge of his lips.

“Remember when we had dinner with the Russian ambassador?”

“Uh, duh?”

To be fair, it’s Yamato who offered to come along. Taichi was nervous about misstepping or appearing too conciliatory or weak, and since Yamato lived in Russia for a year, he figured a little bit of a cultural bridge couldn’t hurt. It’s not like he minded people thinking he was Taichi’s boyfriend, anyway, so they marked him as a plus one.

Four hours of painfully stiff attempts at polite conversation later, Yamato was about ready to strangle Taichi right then and there if it meant getting out. Also they heard the news about the very first case of Zombie sickness that evening, but it wouldn’t be relevant until the real outbreak three months later.

Anyway. Yes, Yamato does remember.

“You were perfect,” Taichi smiles, as impervious to Yamato’s sarcasm as he ever was, “I swear I’ve heard about you being a perfectly delicious person enough times after that night to last me a lifetime. Your behavior was impeccable through and through.”

“What else was I gonna do? Tap dance on the table?”

Taichi blinks, then snorts at the remark, laughing for longer than the joke truly warrants, but it’s not like Yamato’s about to complain. It’s always been easy for him to make Taichi laugh, but it never got any less rewarding.

“There’s my favorite asshole!” Taichi wheezes after the worst of his laughter has passed, “I missed that.”

“I never stopped—”

“No, I mean...during the meal. At the embassy. Everyone was so charmed and fascinated and I kept thinking it wasn’t you. I wished you’d say something kind of offensive or start making sarcastic quips or whatever. I couldn’t wait until we went home and we’d spend an hour bitching about how ridiculous the thing was.”

The way Taichi’s expression goes from amused to wistful, eyes never leaving Yamato’s before he starts his next sentence is so fascinating, Yamato couldn’t look away even if he tried.

“It took a while before I remembered ‘home’ didn’t mean the same place for both of us.”

Yamato remembers that, too. Not the ‘home’ thing, but he remembers looking at Taichi somewhere just before dessert, hoping for comfort and finding him lost in thought instead, melancholy etched in every inch of his face as he looked down at his hands.

At least now he knows what brought that on.

His voice is more gentle than it normally would be when he asks:

“So you decided proposing was the way to go?”

“To be fair,” Taichi says with a small smile and a helpless shrug, “I did consider offering we shared a flat first, or at least asking you out.”

“Good to know you remember what normal people do.”

Yamato makes sure to squeeze at Taichi’s wrist as he says it, relieved when Taichi’s eyes drift skyward in answer.

“Yes,” he says with the obnoxious patience of one trying to explain something really simple to someone who’s being unusually slow, “I do remember. But I thought about it and I figured...we’re past dating now, aren’t we? I mean. Maybe I’m wrong but...going to restaurants and sitting there like awkward idiots while we ask each other surface-level questions? Really? You already know what I’m looking for in a relationship. I know the things you hate. I know about your messed up brain, and the things that make you cry and everything. So I just—dating’s temporary, you know? And I guess I just…I wanted us to be forever, you know?”

“We were always going to be forever, you idiot.”

Taichi’s mouth goes slack at that, and Yamato snorts as the flush returns to his friend’s cheeks, moisture shining at the corner of his eyes. Taichi wasn’t wrong, with his little speech: they do know each other better than anyone.

They’ve known each other for seventeen years, have been facing death for just as long. They know each other’s ticks and quirks, like how Taichi knows what angles to use to get Yamato to budge out of a position his stubbornness would normally keep him into, or how acutely aware Yamato is that he can leave Taichi gutted with a well-timed bout of emotional straightforwardness.

It’s just as well they care about each other too much to ever intentionally use the other’s weakness to hurt.

“I’ve known that since we first got Omegamon.”

In his more emotional moments, Yamato almost feels like he got his first inkling of it when he realized he could trust Taichi with taking care of Takeru. It wasn’t even a judgment of Taichi’s ability to care for a child, really, more of a statement of Yamato’s ability to trust anyone other than himself.

He’s learned to trust other people since, of course. At least twenty-four of them. It’s just not the same, though. Building Omegamon isn’t like in the fantasy books, where the protagonists get cut open and someone else’s heart is shoved next to their souls, but it does require the knowledge that, should this kind of things happen, it’d be okay.

Yamato would never want what he feels to bush Takeru so closely, for many reasons he couldn’t name if his life depended on it, but with Taichi...yeah. He thinks he could deal with his soul touching Taichi’s.

He’s not sure how to convey that exactly but, lucky for him, he doesn’t have to. Taichi...he’s not always the most emotionally perceptive person in the world, but he gets Yamato in a way no one else does, and they rarely ever have trouble communicating.

Being able to put what he’s feeling in a simple squeeze of his fingers and know he’s been heard is one of the many perks of that.

“So,” Taichi says after a long, pregnant but somehow comfortable silence, “not that I want to ruin the moment or anything but, with regard to what I said….”

On impulse, Yamato leans forward to plant a kiss on Taichi’s cheek, warmth curling in his belly before the words are even out of his mouth.

“I’m sure we can find someone wiling to perform some kind of ceremony.”

Technically, same sex marriages aren’t legal in Japan yet but hey, it’s the zombie apocalypse, and they’ve saved the world three times already.

The law can suck it.

[redflannelgal-blog]

Email Advertising Lesson (3 )

Email Advertising and marketing LessonI relocated into a brand-new workplace just recently and also was unpacking when I realized I was fading fast and also required a caffeine repair. Seems my Starbucks coffee maker had gotten lost with the movers. I stressed."Currently what?" I believed. I had never gone a complete afternoon without a cappucino. I knew something would occur if I didn't obtain one, and also it would possibly be the kind of thing that would create my therapist, so skipping my caffeine fix was not an alternative. I currently had two web pages of concerns we were covering. I think the unboxing would certainly have to be placed on hold.I set my Starbucks radar on full sharp as well as followed the path of laid-back organisation outfit. Certainly, 2 blocks later on I found a Starbucks on the corner. As I pulled unlock, a little gent whisked in under my arm. Which is just how I met Mr. Pibs.Mr. Pibs had been involving that particular Starbucks given that it opened. Every mid-day regarding the very same time as my present 'mind fade,' he as well required a solution. We got our coffees as well as made our means to the comfy chairs.Mr. Pibs told me he was in wholesale family pet products and also had his own manufacturing center. He began up 25 years ago with a small shop in his garage and also now rented a 200,000 square foot facility as well as used over fifty workers. We drank our coffees and also chatted about company. I asked him just how he marketed his items to prospective retail outlets."We have a subscriber-based mailing checklist," he claimed. "About 2500 high quality family pet shops throughout the United States."I was amazed! 2500 leads does not seem like much but these stores had asked to be spoken to. The stores were real, prospective buyers searching for item. "So do you keep in touch month-to-month or do you locate seasonal jobs better?" I casually asked."Month-to-month!" Mr. Pibs exclaimed in horror. "That would be $50,000 of shipping a year! No, we send our complete shade brochure on a yearly basis, costs us about $4000 in mailing fees. I draw a couple of ladies off the production line and get them licking stamps as well as packing envelopes. We've been doing our advertising like this because the 2nd year we started. Certain is fantastic that printing is a lot more affordable these days. Saves us a package!"I gagged on the foam in my cup and felt a familiar feeling come me. Before I knew it I was standing as well as swing my arms around my head in large circles."Mr.Pibs, are you outrageous?" I chewed out the top of my lungs, and started to rant, arms swing. "What advertising cavern did you simply crawl out of? Why not put your brochure online? Why not use a regular Email Advertising and marketing campaign to stay connected with the pet shops often? Are you anti-technology? Why are on earth are you sending out all that things by mail?." And after that I recognized I hardly recognized this guy and also was primarily telling him he was a buffoon. But I really did not have time to compose myself because at that really moment, when I remained in mid-sentence of my Email Advertising rant, in strolled my grandmother.Crap! I had forgotten Grammy was going to fulfill me at my brand-new office! She quickly spotted me as well as made a beeline in my direction. As she got better I discovered she had a really strange looking hat on her head. It was all bumpy as well as type of resembled a bag. I observed an acquainted looking tag: Victoria's Secret.Since when did Victoria's Secret make hats?But I did not have time to ask, I needed to make Grandmother assume we were supposed to fulfill at the Starbucks and also I likewise needed to make up fast with Mr. Pibs prior to my new good friend thought I was a lunatic.I relied on Mr.Pibs, as well as saw he was iced up, mouth hanging open in shock at my Email Advertising, arm swing, soapbox speech.Grandma ordered the uninhabited seat alongside Mr. Pibs as well as plunked herself down, scooching her behind, desperately trying to get it past the arm rests.Mr. Pibs thawed and whispered in scary, "That ladies has a pair of underclothing-- on her head."As well as certainly my Grandma did indeed have a pair of Victoria's Secret underclothing on her head, covering a mass of curlers.I wheezed."Kid," my grandmother said, "I have actually been looking all over for you!" Seeing Mr. Pibs, and also unaware he and also I had actually been having a discussion, Grandma looked a little alarmed at my tiny icy friend. No surprise; the lack of color in his face was difficult to miss out on. "Tiny guy," she said, "You look ill, is the coffee also solid for your little belly?""Grandmother," I talked gradually, turning towards Mr. Pibs. "This is my new pal, Mr. Pibs." Then: "Mr. Pibs, I excuse my Email Marketing tirade, this is my Grammy. We had a coffee date this mid-day."My grandma extended her hand in a gesture of welcome. Mr.Pibs rested still, looking at my granny's hair curler cover."Lady, why is there undergarments on your head?""Oh this?" she claimed, as she whipped off the over-stretched skivvies, discovering an array of pink and also white curling irons. "These are old and also all extended of shape from also numerous years on the rear. This set works great to maintains my curlers in place. I updated to natural cotton underwear years ago."And with that we, or instead Granny and Mr. Pibs, chuckled and chatted away the mid-day. Those two struck it off so well I found myself a little bored. Just as well, I might not obtain Mr. Pibs"advertising and marketing approach' out of my mind. Well, at garage doors service gold coast weatherford ok United States postal service would not go out of service anytime quickly with Mr. Pibs around. I rested there watching those 2 laugh it up, and also drank my head in shock at my granny's Victoria's Secret curler coverer. Mr. Pibs' advertising approach was a whole lot like those underwear. Old, unhealthy, as well as all drooped out.I met Mr. Pibs again for coffee (without the interruption of Grammy as well as her head gitch) and stated to him that any type of firm that was not active online and making use of Email Advertising could wish to retire. He concurred that his whole technique ought to be put in a rest residence. It was sort of hard clarifying all that Email Marketing things to Mr.Pibs; he was a real Email Advertising newbie.I struggled awhile with analogies and understood the photo of those droopy underwear on my Grandmother's head was a perfect area to begin. I maintained choosing the gonch style as well as Mr. Pibs gradually began to comprehend the distinction in each kind of Email Advertising method. We chatted Email Advertising and marketing strategy and how a drawer filled with a range of underclothing styles was truly the ideal alternative for overall advertising and marketing support.If you are having a challenging time discussing Email Advertising and marketing to your antique manager or your customers, feel totally free to try out some of these. They collaborated with Mr. Pibs so I make certain they will certainly work for you.Broadcast Messages are like Bands: These little numbers work excellent at introducing, "Hey consider me, look at all the things I have to provide ... right now!" You do desire to work out some restraint. Similar to you do not desire to be wearing a thong everyday, neither would certainly you send out a program message everyday.Auto-Responders are like Full Figured Women's Petty Pants: If you are not up on full-figured petty trousers, they look much more like a pair of long limited shorts. Huge figured females put on petty trousers to stop the thighs from massaging with each other. Likewise, auto-responders protect against the chafing away of your time as well as sources due to responding to the very same questions over as well as over and also over. Female's petty trousers make all figures, no matter size, resemble a million bucks.

Auto-Responders make you resemble a hero with timely valuable feedbacks despite if it is simply you running the program or an entire workplace filled with client service reps.Regularly Delivered E-Newsletters are like 100% Cotton Briefs: For routine wear you can not beat a pair of 100% cotton briefs and for consumer retention you can't beat an on a regular basis supplied e-newsletter. Every person likes a different cut of short relying on the quantity of preferred protection, as well as it's no different in the e-mail globe. Every firm has a various idea of what their routine e-zine will cover as well as what sort of promotion it will certainly give their items as well as services.Mr. Pibs and I still meet at the Starbucks as soon as a week approximately for our mid-day caffeine fix. His company has actually truly removed since he jumped on board with Email Advertising. I assume he will possibly be moving right into a bigger storehouse in the New Year just to stay up to date with orders. He also released a new item line (using email, obviously)to celebrate - Pudgy Young puppy Petty Pants.And the infamous curling iron cover? We did not understand it until later on that day however Grandma's saggy undergarments got left on the table at Starbucks in addition to a calling card I had actually whipped out throughout my Email Advertising tirade. I question who uncovered the droopy gonch? Would I ever before discover? Would certainly the originator of those skivvies end up being a future client? I'll maintain you uploaded if anything materializes.And me? My Starbucks cappuccino equipment appeared after 3 months of traveling around the western states but I still find my means down the block most afternoons. I have actually also been reworking my own normal e-mail advertising and marketing project because of my choice to attempt a reduced cut short for regular wear. Revealing even more product details is verifying to be extremely effective. My conversion price shows my customers are truly appreciating the raised exposure I'm providing my items and services.Is your marketing method a little drooped, over stretched as well as worn out? Try Email Marketing on for dimension. It comes in all kind of cuts and designs ensured to boost your lower line.

I discovered a familiar looking label: Victoria's Secret.Since when did Victoria's Secret make hats?But I did not have time to ask, I had to make Granny assume we were intended to satisfy at the Starbucks as well as I also had to make up quick with Mr. Pibs before my brand-new good friend believed I was a lunatic.I transformed to Mr.Pibs, as well as observed he was iced up, mouth hanging open in shock at my Email Advertising and marketing, arm swing, soapbox speech.Grandma got hold of the uninhabited seat next to Mr. Pibs as well as plunked herself down, scooching her behind, desperately trying to obtain it past the arm rests.Mr. Old, out of shape, as well as all sagged out.I fulfilled Mr. Pibs once more for coffee (without the disturbance of Grammy and her head gitch) as well as stated to him that any kind of firm that was not active online and making use of Email Advertising and marketing might want to retire. It was kind of difficult describing all that Email Marketing stuff to Mr.Pibs; he was a genuine Email Advertising and marketing newbie.I had a hard time for a bit with examples as well as realized the photo of those droopy underclothing on my Grandma's head was a best place to start. I maintained going with the gonch style and Mr. Pibs slowly started to comprehend the distinction in each kind of Email Marketing technique. We spoke Email Advertising and marketing technique as well as how a cabinet full of a variety of underwear designs was genuinely the ideal alternative for complete marketing support.If you are having a tough time explaining Email Advertising and marketing to your antique boss or your customers, feel free to attempt on some of these.

[garden-ghoul]

fellowship of the bloggening, part 5

“I think Frodo is going to get stabbed”

by

A KNIFE IN THE DARK

ooohohoo I wrote that blurb before I even looked to remember what the chapter title was. Fate. So we rejoin Freder... Frickerick... Fredericton... Fredegar! Mr Fredegar Bolger, who wakes and finds a thin, menacing voice at his door telling him to “Open up, in the name of Mordor!” Sorry that’s really dorky. Anyway Fredegar books it like a mile to the nearest house and lies on the floor wheezing “I don’t have it!” until people figure out someone’s after him and sound the alarm. The Nazgul leave Buckland; “Sauron will sort out the little folk later.” Holy shit.

That same night, Frodo wakes and finds Strider looking curiously alert in the corner of the room. Does he... sleep? Do Dunedain not have to sleep? Or has he trained himself to not sleep because The Enemy is constantly setting traps for him? Anyway they all get up and go check on their room (I guess they are sleeping in Strider’s room) and yep, someone has definitely been there trying to murder them. Also, their ponies are gone, and since as Strider says they can’t count on getting anything to eat between here and Rivendell (??? you’re a ranger dude, can’t you HUNT?) they need to find a horse SOMEWHERE to help them carry. I’m hoping Tom Bombadil’s fairy pony is still lurking somewhere. Waiting. just so you all know I picture it as this awful thing.

‘How much are you prepared to carry on your backs?' [asks Strider]

'As much as we must,' said Pippin with a sinking heart, but trying to show that he was tougher than he looked (or felt).

Aw Pippin. Oh, great, the ponies actually did end up following Fatty Lumpkin home, and Tom Bombadil eventually brought them back to the innkeeper, so all’s well that ends well. Meantime our heroes have to make to with a very expensive and unhappy pony sold to them by Bill Ferny, aka that guy who’s probably a spy of The Enemy. And they set off under the eyes of the entire village, since they’ve made such a spectacle of themselves what with Frodo’s vanishing act, everyone’s horses getting stolen, and the mysterious Strider joining their party. Even Bill Ferny comes to sneer at them; Sam hits him in the face with an apple. That’s our Sam!! He’s so petty, I love him. It’s a waste of a good apple, though, he says.

We veer off the road and take a shortcut through a marsh to throw off pursuers. Strider is very good at knowing where to go! He says some paranoid stuff that makes Sam anxious, blah blah, small chance of ever meeting Gandalf on Weathertop Hill, more sheltered approach, blah blah bird spies.

Pippin declared that Frodo was looking twice the hobbit that he had been.

'Very odd,' said Frodo, tightening his belt, 'considering that there is actually a good deal less of me. I hope the thinning process will not go on indefinitely, or I shall become a wraith.'

'Do not speak of such things!' said Strider quickly, and with surprising earnestness.

He is afraid Frodo will Succumb to the Ring and become a Nazgul... He mentions the history of the old fort on Weathertop (Amon Sul) and Sam recites a fragment of a poem about Gil-galad, translated by Bilbo. Apparently in poems whenever you say ‘Mordor’ you have to then remind everyone that it is ‘where the shadows are.’ When you’re not reciting a poem, though, don’t say Mordor! (Strider urges). I don’t know what he thinks is going to happen. The bird spies weren’t paying attention until they heard the name of Mordor but now, oh boy!

An aside, with all this talk of ancient history. I’m wondering why Tolkien decided that all the ancient ancient history should have happened on another part of the world entirely, now sunk under the sea. I think it would be really neat to have, like, 6000 year old ruins/settlements. That sort of Rome feel where you’re going about your business in the city, or taking a train through the countryside, and you pass something so old it would take an archaeologist to guess what it was. And then you pop into the CVS next door or whatever for a pack of gum. Pipeweed. Whatever.

On top of the hill they find evidence of an enormous fire, and a stone that probably has G3 scratched on it in runes, indicating that Gandalf was here on October third. It kind of ruins my immersion that they have October on Middle Earth... Strider comes to the conclusion that Gandalf was attacked here and left in a great hurry. One assumes that he retaliated with fire, since it’s kind of his thing. We spot some Nazgul on the road and decide to hunker down in a cave on the hillside, since moving would only make us more vulnerable and visible. Sam tries to tell more of the lay of Gil-galad, but Strider tells him it’s not the place or time for it (???) and he should wait til they get to Rivendell (???). And so he tells a bit of the Lay of Leithian instead. Interestingly, he doesn’t sing the Lay, but chants it. I’m not sure if lays are supposed to be sung normally and he just doesn’t think much of his voice. That would be cute characterization. He’s kind of shy.

He talks a little about how Luthien was Elrond’s uhh great great grandmother (or whatever, I didn’t count) and absolutely does not mention that he is also descended from her. Frodo thinks his voice sounds rich and deep and I am inferring he also thinks Strider looks very beautiful is he is telling ancient lore that no-one else knows.

But black riders show up, and though Frodo resists he is Compelled to put on the Ring. He sees the Nazgul in great detail, and manages to take the Ring off, get out his sword, and mumble Varda’s Sindarin name as they lunge, before he faints. Good multitasking, Frodo!

FLIGHT TO THE FORD

We learn  that the Nazgul have been somewhat driven off NOT by Frodo attempting to stab the Witch King but by him muttering the name of the light Vala. Now they’re lurking. Oh Frodo has a cursed wound now though; the Nazgul are expecting it to incapacitate him completely soon. BUT Strider knows some medicine, slightly magic medicine, which he explains in endearingly complete detail.

Anyway they put Frodo on the pony (who has recovered from Ferny’s ill treatment somewhat!) and run for it. Frodo is stoic in his pain; everyone else is edgy, tired, and miserable. They make it to the bridge over the Hoarwell River, where Strider was expecting to encounter Nazgul. He finds a beryl (also known as an elf-stone, puzzlingly), and takes it as a sign that it’s safe to cross. Maybe some elves are looking out for them? Frodo asks about the ruins they are riding through (destroyed by Angmarians) and Strider tells that he learned a lot of his lore at Rivendell: “I dwelt there once, and still I return when I may.There my heart is; but it is not my fate to sit in peace, even in the fair house of Elrond.” Aw. You got some kind of a prophecy complex there, Strider? Also, even Strider gets lost sometimes, when taking extra sneaky paths to throw off pursuit. Frodo can hardly move but has to walk anyway; our heroes are off-course and nearly out of food. They’re so off-course that they come upon the trolls Bilbo fought during his adventure--I don’t think this will be very important, but it gives a nice sense of continuity, and a reminder that hobbits can go on adventures and come out all right.

Later that day they meet Glorfindel, lately of Rivendell, on the road; turns out he was the one who chased the Nazgul away from the Hoarwell bridge. Elrond has been sending out riders to look for our party. He gives Frodo his horse, for speedy getaways. Frodo, the darling, tries to say he doesn’t want to get away and leave his friends behind, but Glorfindel points out that he’s the only reason they’re in danger, and if he gets away they’ll be safer. Frodo shuts up. They almost manage to reach the ford at Bruinen before the Nazgul come upon them; Frodo rides hell for leather but some of them are lying in wait!

'The Ring! The Ring!' they cried with deadly voices; and immediately their leader urged his horse forward into the water, followed closely by two others.

'By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair,' said Frodo with a last effort, lifting up his sword, 'you shall have neither the Ring nor me!'

My boy! So the river surges up and carries off the Nazgul (all nine!) while they’re trying to cross (later we learn Elrond has total command over the river; sick). And I realize Arwen isn’t going to be in this at all. It’s weird that they turned Glorfindel into her for the movies.

HEY NOW IT’S TIME FOR BOOK 2! And the first chapter:

MANY MEETINGS

Frodo wakes in a warm comfy bed, and Gandalf is there to tell him what’s going on. Since we already know, I’m omitting most of that, except this part:

'I am glad,' said Frodo. 'For I have become very fond of Strider. Well, fond is not the right word. I mean he is dear to me; though he is strange, and grim at times. In fact, he reminds me often of you. I didn't know that any of the Big People were like that.’

HAH. He is dear to Frodo. They will learn to understand each other. And then they will tenderly hold hands. Anyway Gandalf gives some more exposition, ho hum. Frodo wakes later SO READY for feasting and stories; Sam comes in.

He ran to Frodo and took his left hand, awkwardly and shyly. He stroked it gently and then he blushed and turned hastily away.

`Hullo, Sam!' said Frodo.

`It's warm!' said Sam. `Meaning your hand, Mr. Frodo. It has felt so cold through the long nights. But glory and trumpets!'

Oh noooo that’s super gay. Sam is such a sweetheart, MOSTLY with Frodo. I get the impression he has had a crush for a very long time. Frodo and Sam find their other hobbit pals; Pippin is filled with sass and sarcasm, as usual, and they are both very glad to see Frodo alive and well. And just in time for the feast, too! We go to the feast, and hear a bunch of physical descriptions of the people sitting at the high table with Frodo (Elrond, Glorfindel, Gandalf, and Arwen). We learn, in a kind of ambient information way, that “Elladan and Elrohir were out upon errantry: for they rode often far afield with the Rangers of the North, forgetting never their mother's torment in the dens of the orcs.” Holy shit what? I don’t remember anything about Celebrian getting, uh, kidnapped and tortured?

Frodo is actually sitting next to Gloin, which is cool! He is described as a dwarf of great importance, princely, with white hair. Frodo is very curious to hear any news he can give, and Gloin is happy to get the chance to infodump to such a polite listener! What brings him here is rather grim, though--three of his friends are missing. He declines to say more; I expect we’ll learn of it during the council. After eating everyone goes to the fire/storytelling hall, where Bilbo is huddled up real small composing a song (apparently Aragorn sometimes helps him compose songs, very cute). After a while Bilbo sings the song they were coming up with (it’s about Earendil) and then gets indignant when the elves can’t tell whose parts are whose. “Sheep look different to other sheep!” they say. Rather insulting, although I’m sure elves never mean to be especially condescending.

And now, because I am very curious and haven’t totally worn myself out for the day, let’s read

THE COUNCIL OF ELROND

There are lots of weird people at the council! Representatives from several elf settlements as well as Gloin and his son Gimli, and Boromir who is simply from “the South.” The first news we hear is of what happened to Balin, Ori, and Oin--they took a party of dwarves and went to try to reclaim Moria, feeling that they were very prosperous where they were in Erebor. AND that messengers from Sauron came, asking for the friendship of the dwarves (offering rings of power), and their help catching a certain thief. They fear war on their eastern border, and that the human king nearby might yield to Sauron’s wishes; so they have come to seek advice, and to warn Bilbo.

Next Elrond tells the history of the Ring... “but since that history is elsewhere recounted, even as Elrond himself set it down in his books of lore, it is not here recalled.” A few things of interest: we used to have Minas Ithil and Minas Anor, yes--Minas Ithil was taken and became Minas Morgul, the tower of sorcery. Minas Anor became Minas Tirith (II), the tower of guard. I don’t think they mentioned that in any of the third-age supplementals. Boromir is sort of indignant at the implication that Gondor’s strength and splendor are waning; he would like everyone to know that Gondor is the chiefest bulwark against Sauron in the south, thank you very much! Also he says that his brother had a prophetic poem dream that said to go find Elrond at Imladris and seek advice. Because it was too dangerous for his brother and he wanted to protect him, Boromir came on his own, a journey of almost four months! Brother mentions in his speech: 3. Bilbo gets defensive on Aragorn’s behalf and recites his own poem (“all that is gold does not glitter...”). It’s like a really low-key rap battle. Aw and Aragorn is down on his appearance again, he says he doesn’t look much like the beautiful statues of Isildur and Elendil. Darling we’ve got to do something about that low self-esteem.

Gandalf then tells of his quest to figure out what ring Bilbo truly had. Secret library science! The most thrilling kind of quest! Aragorn puts in a bit about how he found Gollum and brought him to Mirkwood so Gandalf could question him, and the Mirkwood elves hold him... which leads us to Legolas’ reason for being here--Gollum has escaped!

‘We had not the heart to keep him ever in dungeons under the earth, where he would fall back into his old black thoughts.'

'You were less tender to me,' said Glóin with a flash of his eyes.

They kept bringing him outside to climb trees, so he could get a little exercise, that’s so good of them. BUT he was better at climbing than elves, oops. So while they were waiting for him to come down his guards were attacked by orcs, and when the battle was over he was gone! Meanwhile, Gandalf was sent for by Saruman, via their fellow wizard Radagast the Brown. He goes to Orthanc and is immediately greeted with great rudeness and contempt by Saruman.

'I looked then and saw that his robes, which had seemed white, were not so, but were woven of all colours. and if he moved they shimmered and changed hue so that the eye was bewildered.

' "I liked white better," I said.

Lmao nice Gandalf. Anyway they stick him on top of the tower, and he realizes only now that Isengard is full of wolves and orcs and nasty smoke. Really, dude? Thankfully Radagast is still sending messengers to Orthanc with news; one of them is Gwaihir the current king of eagles, who is able to bear Gandalf away. I love how extra that is, sending the king of eagles as a courier to tell someone the Nine are riding around the Shire. Gwaihir takes Gandalf to Rohan (which apparently pays a yearly tribute of horses to Mordor!), where he finds that “the lies of Saruman are already at work.” The king still tells him to take a horse, though he wants nothing to do with Gandalf; this is how Gandalf gets Shadowfax, a horse with chameleon abilities who is also very fast. Boromir very much doubts that the Rohirrim would buy their lives with horses, but Gandalf and Aragorn sort of condescendingly tell him not to be so sure. It’s interesting how Tolkien is setting up Boromir as this naive guy who thinks his kingdom is the only one helping people and that things are still going well. This in contrast to Gandalf and Aragorn, who find the current situation extremely dire.

I also want to talk about Elrond’s editorial comment on Saruman: “It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill.” Once again, even having knowledge of how Sauron works is corrupting. I’m not sure if this is a thing Sauron does by magic, or if Tolkien is suggesting that knowledge and study are inherently a corrupting force! We can see it parallels the way Sauron traditionally swayed people to his side--through crafting knowledge. But in this case he wasn’t even there to earn Saruman’s trust. Saruman was Too Wise (or really, Too Clever and Not Wise Enough). Tolkien’s bias seems to be toward those who don’t seek knowledge, and rather take action. That’s a little simplified but it’s the best I can do right now, since I’m a little fatigued from spending like 3 hours on this liveblog. We’ll be done soon.

Now we are discussing what is to be done with the Ring; Glorfindel briefly suggests giving it to Tom Bombadil, since his domain is impenetrable and the Ring has no effect on him. But he doesn’t care about it, and he’d just lose it. I love that this is a solution they considered. Elrond eventually decides that they have to either destroy it or send it to Aman--and Valinor will not have a piece of evil that belongs to Middle Earth. Boromir, naturally, wants to use it, but in the end they decide they’ll have to cast it into Mount Doom. Bilbo volunteers (we all know why) and is shot down. Frodo volunteers, and Elrond says to him,

'I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will. This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great.’

I like this image a lot.

[saxspielercaderface]

Fic: Welcome Home

This was a a short writing prompt that turned into a 6 page long fic hoooo boy.

This serves as part of a re-work of Finley’s backstory/childhood, specifically detailing part of the aftermath of Blood Runs Deep and the whole Dagannoth/Fremennik war. As a warrior/raider, Finley’s seen and been through some shit during that time, and it takes its toll on her, hard.

Once again, a huge ty to Shady for the prompt, ideas, and proofreading!

I’ll put warnings here for drug abuse, addiction/withdrawal, vomiting, implied physical abuse, suicide ideation, and general unpleasantness. Dead dove, do not eat.

No one recognized her at first when she stepped off the boat from Rellekka. Normally assured, confident strides reduced to dragging shuffles, once proud shoulders slumped forward, and bright eyes dulled, the only indication that the figure was indeed Feurhildr Lartinsdóttir was the pair of massive wolfdogs heeled at her side.

Regent Sigvald Lartinsson met her at the docks, hustling her up the coast to Miscellania Castle, where the rest of the family waited to welcome her to her new home.

They passed the massive gatehouses and worked their way through the bailey. Sigvald, never releasing his sister’s shoulder, nodded in greeting to his subjects - the artisans, farmers, even the flower girl skipping about by the blacksmith’s stall.

Soon, the massive doors of Miscellania castle loomed above them, embossed with a sprawling relief of an oak tree, a grizzly bear and a direwolf standing rampant and supporting its trunk. At Sigvald’s command, they swung open on well-kept hinges, welcoming the pair inside.

They stepped across the threshold, all regality and poise sloughing away, leaving only Sullivan Bannbreker and his sister, Finley, behind.

“Welcome home, Fin,” Sullivan said, giving Finley’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Finley, however, didn’t respond. Her gaze was distant, and not even the arrival of the rest of her siblings - minus one, she reminded herself grimly - and their subsequent dogpiling of her made any difference.

Not even Liam taking her into his arms and assuring her that this, too, shall pass seemed to sway her at all.

***

Weeks went by.

Finley remained sequestered in her room, Eir and Nanna growling whenever anyone strayed too close to the open door for comfort.

Unlike Rosta, the two wolfdogs were very much war animals, bred and trained to protect their master and neutralize all approaching threats, and they did not take kindly to any of the Bannbreker’s attempts to check on Finley’s condition.

It took days of Conor’s budding animal handling skills, Maeve’s soothing lyre playing, Breandan and Aideen’s combined ruses involving bits of yak jerky and distracting noises, and, finally, an incident involving a fox, an imported watermelon, and Liam’s old wolf-head hat to get the two wolfdogs out of the castle and allow Sullivan to enter Finley’s room at last.

Immediately, he wish he hadn’t.

What first hit him was the smell. Daggermouth blood. A putrid, poisonous stench laced with saltwater and rot, barely masked by the woody bite of alcohol and the energizing bitterness of bilstyggr holly berries.

Daggerblood swill. Dammit.

His cloak brushing the floor, he made his way across the still unembellished room, nudging stinking, empty, and broken flasks out the way with his boot.

The stark emptiness of the walls and shelves struck him, and he realized that its occupant had not brought anything from Rellekka. No mementos from the old house. No trinkets from Geilir’s place. No reminders of her service. Not even an axe to hang decoratively on the wall.

Dust hung in the air, covering everything except the bed and the chest next to it, its lid slightly ajar.

Wary, he approached the bed, poking the lump under the three fur blankets with his finger.

A low groan answered him, and he began to peel the blankets back.

“Finley?”

Another groan, this one trailing off into a hiss.

The final blanket pulled back, Sullivan stared down at the tangle of emaciated limbs and matted hair that just barely passed for his younger sister.

The stink of daggerblood swill clung overwhelmingly to her and, as he manhandled her into a sitting position against her headboard, his hands came away coated in a thin layer of what he assumed to be her expelled stomach contents.

“V’s sake, Finley…” Wiping his hands on his trousers, he knelt and brushed the hair from her sunken, red eyes and turned her head to face him. “Ye tryin’ to kill yerself or something?”

She wrenched her face from his grasp and closed a hand around a half-empty flask set beside her pillow, raising it to her lips.

Sullivan snatched it away, the deep red liquid inside sloshing out and over the blankets.

Finley backhanded him across the face with a snarl, snapping his head to the side.

He balked, but not from the pain.

More from the lack of pain, the lack of strength behind the blow.

And far more from the fact that Finley, of all people, perhaps the only Fremennik to hold reservations over slaughtering the Daggermouths, had just struck him out of anger.

“Ye BASTARD!” she spat. “That was my last one!”

Her voice was steely, grating, no longer the bright lilt he was used to, and he snagged her wrists, holding her in place as she began to spasm and scream. Fingers curled around bone - Sullivan felt as if he could’ve snapped her wrists clean in half with little more than a thought.

He had to calm her down.

“Finley, STOP!” he cried, face still stinging where she had struck him, her own sobs and wails starting to echo. “Stop, please!” She shook and shook, coughs replacing sobs, and, with a great yank, threw herself out of Sullivan’s grasp and over to the other side of the bed.

Thick retching followed, liquid splashing on stone.

He watched, his own stomach crawling as he caught sight of her ribs and spine, showing starkly through her tattooed skin.

He waited.

Soon enough, the retching gave way to painful-sounding coughing, then to feeble spitting and wheezing. With a sigh, Sullivan eased his cloak from his shoulders and draped it over Finley’s, sitting her back on the bed in the process.

He would need to have it washed later, but that was hardly a priority now.

Finley drew her legs up to her chest and pulled the cloak tighter around herself, still shivering, and the sight ate at Sullivan’s heart. To see her like that, small, starving, and shaking - it was unnerving and wrong, as if something alien had skinned her alive and taken up residence.

He had started to comb Finley’s hair back from her eyes again when a set of frantic footsteps approached.

“Sully?!?” His gaze shot toward the doorway - Teague stood there, a half-skinned fox slung over his arm. “I heard screamin’ - what’s all this about, then?!?”

“Teague! Go get some water and hare broth from the kitchen, now.” Sullivan jabbed a finger toward the hallway beyond to drive his point home, and Teague nodded.

“Aye!” With that, the doorway was empty again, and Sullivan turned back to look at Finley.

She was wiping her face on the hem of his cloak, the fur and fabric soon damp with tears and sick.

Having the cloak washed shot up several rungs on the priority ladder, but Sullivan did little but grit his teeth and shake his head.

“Ye haven’t eaten anything in weeks,” he began. It wasn’t a question - meals brought up to her room came back untouched at best, devoured by the wolfdogs at worst. From the state of the room, and her, he guessed that all she had even tried to touch was that damnable swill, which led him to an actual question. “How did ye get a hold of this infernal piss-water anyway?”

She shrugged, mumbling something about Ragnvald sneaking flasks of it in for her, and only then did Sullivan notice the makeshift bucket lift hanging out the window.

“Dammit, Fin-”

“...hurts.”

“Wha?” He barely caught her voice, quiet as it was. “What was that?”

“It hurts,” she mumbled, wiping her eyes. “Everything. Need the swill. It makes everything-” she gestured broadly to nothing in particular- “not hurt.”

“Ah.”

Sullivan worried the inside of his cheek as the term entered his mind.

Blood-sickness.

He’d seen the warriors and raiders back in Rellekka. The more worn ones, especially, who depended on daggerblood swill to keep their energy high, to numb the pain of their wounds, and to build up a resistance against the Daggermouths’ poisonous saliva. As they got older and inevitably retired, they would try to stop drinking the swill. But most who tried, couldn’t.

They would fall ill with a high fever and tremors. A single touch could have them crying out in pain. Any food they ate had a good chance of coming right back up.

It was as if their strength had been sapped from them, and the only thing that could replace it was more of the swill. A dependency.

“Is this all ye’ve been drinkin’ or eatin’ for the past month, then?” he asked. “Just to get rid of the blood-sickness? Bukalla’s balls, Finley, it’s a wonder yer not dead yet.”

“A bloody unwelcome miracle,” she coughed, refusing to look at him and white-knuckling the hems of his cloak.

Sullivan felt as if he’d been slapped in the face all over again - no, he would rather be slapped in the face all over again if it meant he didn’t have to hear Finley confess that sentiment.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, and instantly regretting the action as his hands were still soiled, he sighed, aching to get to the root of the problem.

“But it’s not just the blood-sickness, Fin. Something else’s eatin’ at ye, I can see it.”

“Aye,” she sighed, shrinking further into the cloak as if trying to disappear.

“Right, then. What is it?”

She shook her head furiously, scowling.

“Fuck on off, Sullivan! Ye wouldn’t understand, aye?”

Sullivan returned her scowl, cuffing her lightly across the shoulder.

“Language, ye great, smelly dog-walker.” He grasped her arm, gently turning her to face him again. “Look, if I don’t understand, then who might? Koschei? Thorvald? Ah...that woman you were seeing? Valka?”

Finley looked hard at him, eyes mattering at the edges, and he immediately regretted mentioning that final name.

“Right, maybe not. But if not her, then who, Finley?”

She sighed, looking away.

“Athrhan. She’d understand.”

It took all of Sullivan’s strength not to roll his eyes and scoff.

I don’t think she’d understand anything that you’re feeling, Finley, he thought, just barely keeping the words to himself - she’d need to hear them eventually, but not now. That beast couldn’t understand anything but her own twisted definition of suffering. That, and her need to carve everything she didn’t like apart, bit by bit.

“How?” he settled for asking, crossing his arms.

“She fought. She was there - she saw what I saw, saw everyone...torn up.” Finley shivered violently, eyes glazing over before she buried her head in her hands, tugging at her hair. “The blood, the bones, everything. Gods-” she dry-heaved- “I just want all that out of my head, aye?”  

“And how would Athrhan help that, then? By bashing yer skull in like she always threatened to do?!?”

“AYE, MAYBE!” Finley snapped, tearing out a chunk of hair and tossing it aside.

Feeling his teeth grinding together, Sullivan released Finley’s arm, an ugly and perhaps misplaced sense of relief prickling the back of his mind.

Well then it’s bloody well good that she’s not around to do that anymore.

He glanced to the mess that was Finley’s right shoulder, just barely covered by her mane of hair. The gaping axe wound there was beginning to scar over - soon, it would just be a reminder of another Athrhan-related ‘accident.’ One of perhaps hundreds.

Sighing, he fished for the right words.

“Look. Finley. I know you miss Ma and...Athrhan.” He spat the latter name, wanting nothing better than to never speak it again. “I do too.” A half-truth. “And, yer right. I don’t fully understand what yer going through right now. So, help me to understand. If that’ll help ye get past all-” he waved a hand at the flask-littered room- “this, I want to understand, aye?”

She didn’t answer besides a nod of the head and a resigned sigh, but Sullivan could tell the words had sunk in.

Satisfied, he stood, yanked the bucket from the window, and began filling it with discarded flasks. It did nothing to rectify the lingering stench in the room, but at least the floor was clean. Carefully setting the now full bucket just outside the room, he approached the bedside chest, cracking the lid.

Ah, there they are, he thought, smiling slightly as he looked over the contents. Finley had brought things from Rellekka. She had just hidden them away.

One by one, he took each object from the chest, showing them wordlessly to Finley before placing them around the room.

A pair of worn dolls from her early years, one a warrior, the other a Daggermouth.

A hat, knit by their mother.

A bone hair comb, whittled by their father.

A drinking horn, made from the hollowed out claw of a Daggermouth - Thorvald and Koschei owned very similar ones.

Several intricately-carved runestones in a woven bowl, from her time with the Moon Clan.

A pair of mitten and sock linings, felted from Rosta’s shed fur.

Rosta’s old collar, damaged heavily by salt and chewed in half.

A sheath-knife, it’s antler handle carved with the likeness of a moose - the only thing of Geilir’s she kept.

A necklace, the charm a piece of driftwood carved in the shape of a fishhook and inlaid with protection runes. A gift from Valka, when times between her and Finley were better.

Her waraxe and shortsword, both blunted from years of use.

A strange staff that smelled of cinnamon, humming with magic.

After everything had been placed, the room seemed a bit brighter, a bit more welcoming. More of a part of home than a prison to waste away in.

The smallest of steps forward, but a step forward all the same.

“Right.” He pulled the now empty chest closer to the bed and took a seat on the lid. “So. Are ye wantin’ to talk about what’s eatin’ ye and help me understand it all?”

Finley sighed, a low, rattling, defeated sound.

“Seein’ all that. Everything. The war, fightin’ in it. Everyone bloody and torn apart. I still see it all.” She buried herself deeper in the cloak. “All the time. Every night. Every day. Can’t sleep. Can’t talk to anyone, can’t bloody think sometimes. I’m scared, I’m hurting, I’m...I’m alone.”

It was a while before Sullivan could even pull together a response, his mouth flapping open and closed uselessly in the interim. Eventually, however, he managed to say something semi-coherent, squeezing Finley’s shoulder.

“Look, ye might feel alone now, but I don’t know what else to say other than...yer not? Yer home, Fin. You’re safe. And we’re all here for ye, aye?”

And that bloody beast can’t hurt ye any more, he added mentally.

Finley just nodded, sniffling slightly, and the two sat in silence.

***

Teague returned sometime later with a mug of water and a bowl of warm broth.

“Should I bring the others up?” he asked, handing the mug and bowl to Sullivan. “They’re fussin’ over this quite a bit, especially Da.”

Sullivan shook his head.

“No. Not now. The last thing she needs is to be overwhelmed, aye? Tell them they can come up one at a time later on.”

“Right.”

With that, Sullivan returned to Finley’s bedside. It was an arduous process, getting the water and broth into Finley and not all over the bed, but she kept it down well enough, drifting off into a fretful sleep once both the mug and bowl were empty.

Another small step forward.

Two down, perhaps a thousand more to go, and none of them easy.

Weaning her off the swill would no doubt be harder than a stroll through Waterbirth’s cave system.

Convincing her that Athrhan’s absence would do her good in the long run would be harder still.

And he wasn’t particularly looking forward to that.

***

“Fin, are ye done in there?” Sullivan called, knocking hard on the door.

“Aye, give me a minute - bleedin’ trousers won’t stay up.”

A few curses and exasperated sighs later, and the door cracked open to reveal Finley - bathed, combed, and finally clothed.

“A dress might’ve worked better, ye know,” he said, watching her fumble with the belt tied around the loose-fitting tunic she wore. The thing was a sack on her now - made to fit a much broader and healthier Finley. “At least ye wouldn’t have to worry about yer trousers fallin’ down.”

She shrugged, tying off the belt.

“‘M cold.” She shuffled back to her bed and proceeded to bury herself back under the heap of - now washed - blankets. Sullivan followed her into the room, glad that it no longer stunk of swill and vomit, and took a seat on the trunk once again.

“How was breakfast?” he asked. She dry-heaved, making him flinch.

“Came back up,” she mumbled, tugging at her collar. “Just like dinner.”

“Ah.” Frowning, he ran a hand through his hair.

Progress was slow, if even existent - every step forward seemed to be followed by two steps back, and Sullivan would be lying if he said he wasn’t constantly frustrated by the whole mess.

Yet, he still kept hold of some hope. Especially today, what with the rest of the family finally allowed to visit her.

One by one, they all crowded in, expressions ranging from concern to fear. The tension was palpable - Sullivan wrung his hands, jaw clenched, waiting to see what would happen.

The only one to approach the bed was Liam, who sat on the edge of the bed, took Finley’s hand in his, and drew her into a careful hug.

“Hi, Da,” she choked, burying her face in his shoulder.

“Welcome back, Finley,” he said, starting to sob into her hair. “Welcome home.”

The tension dissipated, Sullivan releasing his held breath and allowing himself a small smile.

Finley’s road to recovery would be long, hard, and painful. Perhaps impossible. Yet, one step forward would become two, then three, then four.  

And now, at least, she had eight more pairs of feet to help her along.

[merlinsmushrooms]

Imprisonment

This is technically a work in progress (first draft), but I really wanted to get the reasoning as to why Greylock is still mentioned on my blog out as quickly as possible. I will be revising this and editing it to post on a03 later, but for now here’s the rough draft. Word-count: 3,207 Rating: T

It had taken over a week for Merlin to return his frantic letters in regards to the Order of the Wand. At first, he worried that perhaps the other sorcerers had succeeded in both taking over their kingdoms, but also in thwarting the resistance that they faced from those still loyal to the crown. When the news finally came that all of the tyrants had been defeated, Cedric felt a sort of neutrality that troubled him more than the news itself. The others obviously had their reasons for wanting power, but there was one individual in particular that confused him now that he had time to reflect on the whole ordeal.

Greylock.

The jester wizard had seemed so proud of his position as the royal sorcerer of Rudistan; a country known for its wealth, grandeur, and glamor. Why he had turned against Magnus was a mystery. While the king was pompous and arrogant, he had done nothing but speak highly of his right-hand man, and it was rare that a king made so many public appearances with his sorcerer by his side. What ill could he have harbored towards Magnus beside annoyance? Greylock had never seemed like a truly malicious man even going back as far as their school days. A prankster, yes. A bit of a bully at times? Yes. But a man capable of treason? He was still in disbelief. The second person to have ever considered him a friend couldn’t truly be that bad, could he?

He had to know. He absolutely had to speak with him at least one more time.

Luckily, it seemed that Magnus had spared his sorcerer’s life. It was unlikely to be pity but rather an attachment that led to the life sentence that his friend had received. It seemed like a much crueler fate to toss somebody into a cell and have them rot for the rest of their years, but it was as things were. These were the consequences of their actions, and if it weren’t for the Princess’s kindness, he too would be locked up in a similar fate— or worse. Executed.

Roland had made arrangements to travel to Rudistan to discuss the events that had just transpired. The king was hesitant at first to allow him to come along, but the princess had argued that he would benefit from seeing just what would have happened to him if he hadn’t stepped down when he did. Despite his liege's accusations that he could likely be scheming to break one of his allies out of confinement, Sofia once again managed to quell the king’s anxiety by offering to observe him over the entirety of the trip. His hesitation was apparent, but eventually, he would surrender and agree to her conditions. Bless that child. It seemed she understood his strife quite well and even seemed delighted when he mentioned the prospect of another friend— even if said friend could have easily been lying.

It was after a long and dreadfully awkward dinner that the two of them were allowed to take their leave for their visitation. Magnus had gloated that Cedric was a good man for choosing the right side - the details as to why he had failed to take over his kingdom were left out of every conversation - and seemed more than welcome to allow him to see what happened to traitors. The crooked smile on the monarch’s face was obnoxiously grating, but it wasn’t anything he could dwell on. No matter how arrogant that fool was, he was king, and nothing would change that it seemed— except for perhaps time.

They were escorted by one of the palace guards down what felt like an infinite flight of stairs. The first thing that he could note upon entering the damp and dimly lit halls of the dungeon was that the cells were uncannily empty. Even Enchancia, a kingdom renowned for its lack of criminals, housed a couple of crooks in their cells at most times. Rudistan was indeed a safe country as well, but there was something off about the sight. Perhaps the prisoners had been moved elsewhere due to them housing a sorcerer? It was likely they didn’t wish to take any chances on an escape attempt.

“He’s in the cell at the end of the hall to the left.” the guard would state firmly as he glanced down upon Sofia curiously. Cedric figured he was off-put by somebody so young accompanying him on such a dreary mission, but it couldn’t be helped. It had already been explained that she was the one who would oversee the meeting, and the guard would remain at his typical post once he had escorted the two. As Sofia thanked the soldier for his assistance, he would turn and make his way back towards the stairs. He was relieved simply because privacy was a welcome notion for something that could be so intimate.

Hesitation grasped him as he turned down the hallway, but the princess would grasp his hand and urge him forwards, smiling weakly at him. It seemed that she too was nervous, but her courage helped him regain his composure.

As they approached the cell that the guard stated the sorcerer was housed in, Cedric peered inside with curious intent. It was so dark, but he could make out the shape of his friend in the corner, bunched up on some sort of makeshift bed made of hay. It was hard to tell if he was asleep or not so he would call out to him with a gentle yet apprehensive voice.

“Greylock?”

The rattling of chains could be heard as the body in the cage shifted slightly, but the other sorcerer would not respond.

“Greylock, please. I need to talk to you.”

Again, the rattling of chains, but this time accompanied by a shrill wheezing. Greylock would shift once more, slowly turning over to face the two of them, but in the dark, it was so hard to make out any sort of expression the other could be making.

Annoyed by both the other’s silence and his inability to make out any sort of detail, Cedric would reach into his sleeves to procure his wand, the tip illuminating lightly as he smacked it a few times against his palm. Reaching it between the bars, he would recoil instantly, shocked at the drastic measures that Magnus had gone to in order to ensure that Greylock had no means of escaping.

Not only were his ankles shackled in the usual protocol, but his neck had a large iron brace around it as well. All the chains were disturbingly short, and it became apparent immediately that the sorcerer was indeed in copious amounts of pain. Nobody would manage well with something so heavy clamped down upon their throat, and it was a wonder that was even able to move with such a weight upon him. This was no mercy— this was a punishment worse than death, and it was obvious considering Magnus’s narcissistic nature that this was intentional.

Ignoring the hostile glare that the other shot towards him, Cedric would place his wand between the bars of the cell and immediately cast a spell to free him from the braces. It was the least he could do, even if temporary, to repay the other’s kindness in the past.

He would give Greylock a moment to recoup. Gasping for air, he would slowly rise to his feet, wobbling as he steadied himself using the walls for balance. Cedric’s stomach twisted as he watched, but he felt slightly relieved as the other sorcerer began to make his way slowly towards the bars, grasping them as he seemed to struggle to keep himself standing. The anger that he had just harbored in his expression was still there but also dashed with a hint of confusion. They would exchange a silent stare for what could have been an eternity before the weakened sorcerer would finally speak, his eyes dropping to examine the princess standing beside him.

“...you betrayed us.”

That was the first thing he’d have to say to him? It was at least understandable.

“YOU BETRAYED US.”

His anger was unsettling enough for Sofia to step back, hiding behind Cedric’s robe as she glanced up at him for reassurance. Everything was going to be okay, and he would nod at her to try to ease her nerves. There was nothing that Greylock could do in his weakened state, nor was there anything he could do while on the other side of the bars. If there was one thing that the princess had taught him, it was that those in pain needed time to sort out their thoughts. Greylock’s anger was entirely warranted and he would allow him to seethe for as long as was needed. They had the entire evening.

After another bout of silence, Cedric would attempt once more to speak with him using a tone mimicking that of the princess’s calm.

“Greylock, if I betrayed you, would I not be here to see you once more?”

Greylock’s breathing grew deeper and his gaze was averted, but in due time he would speak once more.

“...what do you want?”

“I wanted to see if you were okay.”

A huff escaped the other man as he once again glared.

“I am more than okay. I’m having a most wonderful time ruling this dungeon.”

“I don’t think now’s the time for jokes You’re obviously not. What they’ve done to you is…”

He couldn’t find the words. In the eyes of those he had betrayed, Greylock certainly deserved this hell. Seeing the broken skin along where the braces had rubbed against the other’s flesh, Cedric would cringe knowing that had he gone after anybody but Roland he’d most likely have shared the same fate. His sentence was akin to that of a petty criminal looking back on it, and for the first time, he realized that Roland had been easy on him. Such thoughts were to be saved for another time, however, and Cedric would get himself back to the topic at hand.

“Greylock, I need to ask you something important.”

No answer, but he would press.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Go with Grimtrix. Join the order. Actually take over Rudistan.”

“You were at that meeting, Cedric. We sorcerers don’t deserve to be pets. We deserve to be the ones in power because we are the ones with power.

“That’s not exactly what I meant. You seemed so eager, but when you visited Enchancia you seemed happy to work for Magnus. It seemed odd that you were just as enthusiastic as I about taking over your kingdom.”

“Who would be happy working for Magnus?! The only person that brute has ever cared about is himself. You would never understand, Cedric. Roland at least seems to have some shred of concern for you.”

Roland? Caring about him? If only Greylock knew the torment the royal family had put him through all those years, but there was a truth in that even Roland couldn’t be compared to Magnus. Perhaps similar cruelty had been inflicted upon Greylock once he had graduated from a student into the royal sorcerer that he had become. It would be understandable why he turned so quickly if that were the case. Still, he pondered just how bad things might have been.

“And did people not care about you here? Magnus may be an idiot, but surely the others...”

“Saw me as nothing more than a token for their own entertainment.”

“But you were always…”

“The jester? The class clown? I loved every second of that life before Magnus began to take credit for all my work. It was never my parties or my shows, it was his. Everything was his to claim. The moment I was forced to serve him was the moment I vowed if I ever had the chance to usurp him, I would. ”

“Mister Greylock…”

The Princess finally spoke out for the first time since this confrontation began. The look of dismay on her face seemed to indicate that she felt some sort of empathy towards the wizard; the same sort of empathy she had graced him with when he had belted his heart out just the week prior. Stepping forwards, she would reach out for him, but the mage would flinch and step away, trembling as he stared at her with a mortified expression. He was scared, but of what?

“Greylock, I know how you feel. I truly do.”

“I know. That’s why I agreed with Grimtrix to invite you.”

Agape, Cedric would freeze at the statement. They had agreed to invite him? Was there some sort of disagreeance with the others, or did they not know? None of them seemed remotely surprised when he had shown up as the last attendee, so surely there must have been some discussion prior.  Obviously, there was considering his status as the worst royal sorcerer his kingdom ever had, but to think that both Greylock and Grimtrix had vouched for him? It was a bittersweet sentiment that he could barely stomach. Had two others cared about him enough to have him be a part of their dastardly plans?  

“You were my friend, Cedric. I just... can’t believe you’d do this to us.”

While he technically had no part in the other’s failure, he couldn’t help but feel remorse about his situation. Greylock had truly considered him a friend? It was obvious that was no longer the case, but a fleeting thought of what might have been if he had noticed the sincerity sooner washed over him, and he felt himself reaching down to gently grasp Sofia’s shoulder to comfort himself. He couldn’t deal with this confliction. Not now. Not with this kind of suffering on his hands.

The conversation halted once more, the two of them exchanging awkward glances back and forth once more. While this wasn’t the hardest conversation he had ever had - that went to him admitting everything to Roland upon his own apprehension - it felt harder to form the words for some reason. A rant that came from the heart couldn’t compare to whatever this mess was, and as he chewed on his bottom lip to urge his nerves, he couldn’t help but notice once more how much his former friend was trembling.

“...are you okay?” he’d ask once more, Sofia’s head cocking at him curiously. Normally he would expect a smile from her due to his display of concern, but there was no place for smiles here.

“...I already answered that.”

“You’re shaking. Have you eaten?”

“Not since they threw me in here.”

The princess would interject before he had the chance to display his own concern.

“That’s horrible! Aren’t they supposed to at least give you some bread?”

Greylock’s bitter expression grew somber as the child spoke, and he would lean himself up against the bars as he proceeded to slide down them to sit beside the two of them with his back turned. It seemed like what little strength he had remaining was sapped, and he had no reason to continue whatever act it was he was trying to put forth. It would take a moment, but with a pained sob, he would finally admit the severity of his situation.

“They won’t, child.”

It was then the reality of it all hit him. Greylock had been condemned to death in secret. A horrific plot on Magnus’s part and one that disgusted even him. This was precisely why they had attempted to take over their kingdoms. Fate was horribly cruel and ironic.

“Mr.Cedric, we have to help him!  He’ll die if we leave him here!”

The concerned child would finally place her hand upon the prisoner’s shoulder, looking up towards Cedric with a look of horror that filled him with even more dread. He had to speak the truth— no matter how painful it was.

“There’s nothing we can do to help him.”

“Please! You can let him out! Get him out of here! He obviously regrets what he’s done!”

It could be true. No man who didn’t regret his actions would cry in the face of others as Greylock did. He was guilty, but of a crime that came from desperation. If he were in his place he would yearn for somebody to let him free, but he had sworn that he would do nothing of the sort. If he released him, his neck would be the next on the chopping block. No mercy would be given. Two acts of treason were unforgivable. Yet, he wanted to more than anything. If he truly did see him as a friend and regret his actions, there would be no harm in letting him flee and go into hiding.

It was as his thoughts began to shift into this internal debate that Greylock would state an obvious truth.

“I’d have nowhere to go.”

“Nonsense!” the princess would exclaim, “You could come to Enchancia. I’m sure Mr.Cedric knows of a place you could hide! That is if you promise to never do anything bad again.”

Of course, she would place the burden of responsibility on him, but it was true. He did know of a place he could stash the delinquent in until the inevitable hunt for him ceased. How long that would take was a mystery considering the severity of his crime, but it was unlikely that any search for him in Enchancia would last more than a few weeks. Perhaps it was a plan that could work, and if the cards were played correctly, he could attempt to start a new life somewhere in one of the villages— or even become some sort of woodland hermit. It had been quite some time since Enchancia had one of their own.

Shaking his head at the funny thought amidst what was supposed to be something serious, Cedric would sigh deeply as he contemplated it all.

“Please, Mr.Cedric. I’ll say he wasn’t here when you got down here!”

Between Greylock’s anguish and Sofia’s pleading he couldn’t take it anymore. With a single swift motion, Cedric would drop his wand into Greylock’s cell and brace himself for his own words.

“You are to meet me at the Dunwiddie fountain at midnight on the fifth. I will escort you personally to your hideaway. If you do not show...”

He couldn’t finish the statement. If Greylock didn’t meet him at the arranged time it would either be because he was caught during his escape, or he had lied about everything now just to garner pity. Both were terrible outcomes, but for once he would need to remain optimistic for her sake and his own sanity. The deed had already been done, and Greylock had grabbed Cedric’s wand without a word. Perhaps he was speechless, but it wasn’t anything that mattered anymore. What mattered was just one thing.

“Run.”

And with that, Cedric would turn heel with Sofia following right behind him, and the two of them would proceed to race their way back up the stairs to call for the guard. Hopefully what little strength his friend had remaining was enough to get him somewhere relatively safe quickly, or else he could easily lose his second friend forever.