purist-thunderwrath

[convexicalcrow]

things that probably only make sense to me: cam accounts as the ba (eternal soul) of their players, who journey with them through the afterlife and bc they can fly and observe, see things very differently, but are still a part of their player. one does not exist without the other.

[idrellegames]

To the Sea, to the Sky

This is a little gift I wrote for @sunshinemage, featuring Oya and Aeran. Happy holidays, Rory! 💙💛

Aeran sits on a rock, bare feet scraping idly against the sand.

It has been half an hour or so since they picked their way down the hills from the little cottage to the coast. Oya woke early and all but pushed him out of bed, eager to catch the sunrise. Though they have been here for a week, today is the first opportunity they’ve had to explore. Still sore from the incident with a harpies a month ago, he was happy to sit and take in the view. He insisted that Oya not wait for him—how could he not? The delight in their eyes when they slid down the grassy knolls to the sands below was too endearing to ignore.

The ocean calls to them.

He lets out a long breath. Forcing his aching body to move, he rises to his feet and picks his way across the beach. Oya went straight to the water and headed east, leaving a trail of footprints in the flattened wet sand.

It doesn’t take long to catch up. Oya wanders across the beach at a steady pace, sandals carried in one hand. Their trousers are rolled up to their knees, the hems damp with water. They’ve left their turquoise tunic untucked and now it flutters about them, tugged by the breeze, and their hair is faded against the blue-grey light of the early morning. To an outside observer, they are simply one of the hundreds of villagers who wander their hometown’s coast. There is no hint of the warrior, no trace of the Wayfarer—not buried or hidden, but released. Here, they can set aside their weapons and alassar. Here, they can relinquish the burden of their order’s history and simply be.

A deep ache pangs in his heart at the thought. It’s a good ache, bittersweet yet hopeful. Though there are a thousand things he would have done differently, he cannot change the past. He may have a multitude of regrets, but turning a blind eye to them is not the same as acceptance. But regardless, there is hope for the future. Oya is a reminder of that.

Aeran blinks, shielding his face with a hand as he stares up the beach. Oya has come to a stop and waded further out into the water. They dig their feet into the white sand with childlike joy, shaking with quiet laughter a wave crashes against the shore, spraying them with mist as foamy water surges across the beach. It pools around their legs and retreats back to where it came.

Oya tilts their head and closes their eyes, the wind ruffling their hair. They’ve turned instinctively towards the south—to the strait and the mountains beyond it, and Tol Covere beyond that. Compared to Covera, Vordue is a small pastoral island, its villages isolated and slow-paced and simple. It was the reason they suggested coming here after fleeing Velantis. Even so, he knows their home calls to them. So close, yet so far.

If they wish to return they have not said, and he does not know how to ask. But perhaps he does understand the calling, the magnetic pull towards the place of one’s birth. Though he has sworn never to set foot in Tyridia again, there is a part of him that yearns for it.

“Find anything interesting?” he calls.

Oya turns, a small smile tugging at their lips. A private smile. “No,” they call back, pushing hair off their forehead. Their crest glimmers in the first rays of the dawning sun. “I certainly hope not to.”

He chuckles, hearing the unspoken between them. There’s been too many ‘interesting’ things happening of late, huh. Could use a break from them. Uninteresting things only from now on.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Aeran makes his way over to them. The coast is lined with the white-barked driftwood that calls this beach their final home. Waves beat down, the rush pulsing in his ears, and he tries not to flinch as salty water rushes over his bare feet. He is not fond of the sea—the cold and the brine unearths memories better left untouched—but Oya is. Through them he can see the peace and comfort it offers. A promise of freedom. A promise of tomorrow.

Oya crouches as he approaches, investigating something at their feet. They place it in their palm, staring intently at it as another wave surges up and around them. A stone, one of many softened and shaped by the sea and deposited here by the tides. It is different from the others, flat and round, its surface an off-white swirled with emerald green.

“Have you seen the cats?” they ask, falling easily into Artanisian. They’ve been favouring it more and more since they left Velantis, something shared just between the two of them. Out here on the rural Coveran coast it might as well be a private language.  

Aeran shakes his head. Their little cottage has attracted a number of strays since their arrival. Though he’s seen a few different ones at this point, it’s always the same three gathered on the porch, content to bathe in the sun. On their first night here, the white one crawled into Oya’s lap and fell asleep, purring happily. The cats scampered off when they clattered out the door, darting into the tall grasses. He’s spotted their paw prints up and down the trail to the beach, but hasn’t seen any sign of them since.

“No,” he replies. “But I’m sure they’ll be at the house when we get back.”

Their brows draw together, forming a worried crease. They flip the stone over in their hand, inspecting the patterns. “Do you think so?”

“They might not like me much—”

Oya snorts, struggling to keep their laughter contained, and glances pointedly at the scratches on his arms.

“—but they’ve taken a shine to you. They’ll be back.”  

They nod. “Is it too much to give them names? Perhaps we should name them.”

“I’m game to start a list if you are.”

“Good. The longer the list, the better.”   

“Why’s that? Keeping options open?”

Oya rises to their feet and loops a lock of hair behind their ear. “The white one will have kittens soon.”

He blinks. He hadn’t noticed.

They laugh and nudge him gently with an elbow. “We should return soon. The day is ahead of us.”

Aeran places an arm around their shoulders and draws them into him. “I could stay a little longer,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of their head.

Though he cannot see their face, he can sense their smile. The way they radiate a quiet happiness makes his heart ache with a deep affection he cannot put into words. There’s a steadiness to them that he has always admired. They have kept him grounded throughout everything—even in those years spent apart, long before their reunion in Karth. It is difficult some days to know the difference between what is real and what is not, but they are a reminder.

Oya doesn’t answer. Instead, they fold the stone into their palm and lean into him, wrapping an arm around his waist. Steady eyes fixate to the far sea, watching as sunlight creeps over the horizon. The last stars twinkle in the depths of morning’s blush, Apokarys’ silver-violet trail glimmering faintly below. It’s unusually warm for storm season this year, no hint of the oncoming winter in the air.

“I’m glad we came,” Oya says finally, their voice no more than a gentle hum on the wind.

He nods. “Me, too.”

They exhale a breath. The waves crash against the shore, water rushing about them, higher this time. The tide is coming in. They hold out their hand and pause, waiting for the next surge. As the water pulls around them, they drop the stone back into the ocean, relinquishing it to the waves.

With one final look to the horizon, Oya wraps their arms around his neck, their smile as bright as the rising sun, and pulls him into a kiss. He falls into it, boundless joy thrumming in his heart, and holds them close. They remain there for some time, lost in each other, the ocean sparkling in dawn’s light.

Hand-in-hand, they head back up the coast to their cottage.

To home.

[jedi-hawkins]

Orders

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: In-canon violence, brief injury description, single mention of needles.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Bryn's first mission with Squad 99 takes an unexpected turn.

The disposal whirs as Tech tosses in the packages from breakfast. He returns to the galley where the holotable is bathing his brothers and the General in it's blue glow.

"The forest around us is pretty dense. We'll have good cover for the two klick hike in, but the outpost itself is pretty exposed." Bryn says, gesturing to the map in front of them.

"Then why are we here at dawn." Crosshair sneers. "I thought this was supposed to be a stealth mission."

Tech pushes his goggles up his nose and quickly presses a few buttons on his data pad. "Yes, but it seems the guard is about to rotate. It would make sense for us to take advantage of the momentary discoordination of their forces."

"Wouldn't it be easier to just blast our way in?"

"Again. This is supposed to be a stealth operation, Wrecker." Hunter chides.

"There's another reason." Bryn continues. "The sun will be rising in the west, which means the video and thermal surveillance on the back side of the base will be partially blown out by the morning light. Hunter, you'll lead Wrecker and Tech through the rear entrance. You'll have to ascend three floors and then it'll be smooth sailing to the databanks. Download everything to the datarods, then you're out." Bryn says, pointing to the holomap. "Crosshair, I want you up on this ridge to the South. You'll have cover but still get a good line of sight. Call out every movement to us, it's on you to keep your brothers out of the guards' way."

Tech sits down next to Wrecker, hand on his chin. "Forgive me, General, but you seem to have forgotten your own position."

Bryn smiles, "Two steps ahead of me, Tech. While you all are sneaking around the back, I'll be on the east side of the base, knocking on their front door. There's no tactical droid onsite, so these clankers will be working on protocol alone. If they think they're under a frontal assault, they won't even notice you."

Hunter looks at his new General in surprise. "That's your plan? Use yourself as bait?"

Bryn shrugs. "Why not? I have before. If everything goes according to plan, Hunter, you, Wrecker and Tech will get out smoothly and back to the Marauder before they detect you. Feel free to snag any toys along the way, weapons, explosives, even a protocol droid. Crosshair will stay in position and keep eyes on me at the frontside of the post. You'll pick Crosshair up from his position, then you'll pick me up at a rendezvous, here." She says, pointing at the holomap

"There's no plan like that in the GAR tactics database." Tech says, scrolling through his datapad.

"It will be one of our plans, then. Trust me, it will work." Bryn insists.

Hunter shakes his head. "I still don't like the idea of you being all alone on the frontside."

"I won't be alone." Bryn says, "Crosshair will be watching my back, won't you?"

The sniper's eyes widen just a hair. "Uh, yes sir."

"Wrecker. Any objections?" Bryn asks, startling the large clone.

"Uh, no one's really cared about our opinion before, General."

"Well I do. Unfortunately this is where I get serious. If any of you have a bad feeling about any part of this plan, or have an idea you think might work better, now is the time to divulge. Out there, there won't be any time for debate." Bryn says, crossing her arms. "Out there, I outrank everyone here, my word is what goes. I know this is our first mission together and I don't have your trust yet, but that might also work in favor of the greater good. If I tell you to move, you move. If I say the plan is changing, the plan is changing. If I tell you to evac out and leave me behind, then that's what I expect you to do. The data we're stealing will give us a major leg up on our efforts in this sector and may shorten the campaign by months. I am giving you all the liberty to infiltrate as you wish, but if you deviate from the skeleton plan without notifying me, or keep something to yourself, then that poses a risk to the mission and even more so, the lives of this squad."

The squad all nod, glancing at each other in excitement.

"Good." Bryn says, flipping the holotable switch. "Let's move out."

She leads the way down the Marauder's ramp and off into the dense underbrush.

As the team is hiking, Bryn presses a button on the side of her headset and a comms channel crackles to life in each clone's helmet.

"Open comms, do you copy?" Bryn says

"Havoc One, I copy, General." Hunter answers, jerking his head to lead Tech and Wrecker off to the west.

"Havoc three, can hear ya loud and clear!" Wrecker weighs in.

Bryn glances over her shoulder at the sniper in dark armor jogging along behind her.

Tech's line opens next. "Havoc two, comms are functioning, sir."

A cool voice comes over the channel last. "Havoc four. Affirmative."

Bryn waves her hand to signal Crosshair to split off and continues through the brush alone. "Are we clear on what happens if the plan goes south?" She asks.

"Affirmative. I provide cover for Tech as he finishes downloading all he can." Hunter replies.

"I secure our way out." Wrecker adds.

"I return to the Marauder and prep for evac." Crosshair says, his voice less sour.

Bryn gives her squad a nod of approval. "Correct. I'll split off and mislead as many droids as I can before doubling back and meeting you all at the Marauder."

"I'll circle back too and give you cover once I get Tech out." Hunter adds.

"That's not in the mission detail, Sergeant." Bryn says sharply, the warmth in her voice has faded, now it's strong and stern. "The data is more important and I need you to make sure it stays secured. Commander Cody is stationed in this sector a few planets over. You'll contact him and he'll send an evac for me if necessary."

Hunter can be heard sighing over the comms, but before he can raise another argument Crosshair's comm goes live.

"Orders are orders, Hunter." His voice is slightly rumbly from his position flat on his stomach. "The General knows what she's doing."

Bryn smirks as she crouches down into her post at the east of the base. "Havoc Prime, in position. Report."

"Havoc Two in position."

"Havoc Three in position."

"Havoc Four in position"

Hunter grumbles. "Havoc One in position."

Bryn unhooks her lightsabers from her belt, moving her fingers over the switches. "Crosshair, hold off on giving me cover fire. Stay locked on your brothers and keep your position secure for as long as possible."

"Roger that."

Bryn shoots out from the dense brush, lighting her sabers and quickly slicing two patrol droids before they even notice her.

"We're under attack!" Another droid cries, turning to start firing at the charging Jedi.

Crosshair watches through his scope as his brother creep towards the back door to the compound. "Keep going, Hunter. Most of the guard has moved around front."

"Most?" Hunter repeats.

Crosshair flips his thermal sight down from his helmet and leans back to his rifle. There's two heat signatures just inside the back bay doors. "Two just inside. Then you're clear to the lift. there's two outside the data bay on the third floor."

"Roger that." Hunter says, waving for Tech and Wrecker to flank the doors. "How's the General doing?"

At Hunter's nod, Tech hits the access panel, causing the doors to slide open. The two droids turn around, but before they register the clones in front of them, Wrecker sends a blaster bolt through each of their heads.

Crosshair flips his thermal back up and glances at the front of the base. The General is holding her ground a few meters in front of the base, drawing the droids to her. Her sabers are a blur of blue and green, mostly just deflecting blaster fire.

"I'm fine, Hunter. Worry about your part of the mission." She huffs over comms, slightly winded.

"We are inside, General." Tech's voice relays. "Getting in the lift now."

"Good." Bryn responds. "Keep going. Take the lift three floors up and you should be at the databanks. Wrecker. The weapons stockpile should be on level two if it's clear enough to take a gander. Go shopping for us." She jokes.

Wrecker chuckles. "Roger that, General." He replies, his voice echoing through the comms. "I'll see what I can find."

"So far so good." Bryn grunts as she dodges some crossfire.

"We have reached the databanks." Tech says plainly. "Beginning the download now."

"Watch their backs, Crosshair." Bryn says before charging a grenade and tossing it over a couple crates, taking out a few droids.

"On it," He responds tersely.

"Download is almost complete." Tech reports.

"Fantastic." Bryn responds. "Wrecker, how's it going in the candy store?"

"Looking great, General! Found a few goodies for us!" He exclaims.

"We're done here." Hunter says. "Moving out. Wrecker, meet us at the back. Crosshair, we'll pick you up in just a bit. General, we'll see you at the rendezvous."

Bryn lights her last grenade and tosses it over her shoulder. "Copy that" she says just before it detonates.

Crosshair can hear the Marauder slowly descending behind him. He pushes himself up off the ground and turns to walk towards the ship.

"Picking up Crosshair now, General. We're on our way to the rendezvous point." Hunter says.

"Roger roger." She says, chuckling.

As soon as Crosshair hops up onto the Marauder's ramp, Tech lifts off again and circles down to the rendezvous point.

"General, we're here." Hunter reports.

This time the radios remain silent.

"General report." Hunter repeats.

Again the line is silent.

"Where is she?"Wrecker wonders out loud.

"Hmm, don't know." Hunter responds, peering out the Marauder's window. "General. What's your status?" He says again.

"Her position beacon still has her at the front of the base." Tech says, looking at his datapad.

Hunter exchanges a glance with the others, his expression grim. "We need to go back in," he says, his voice firm. He readies his weapon, preparing to disembark. "We can't leave her behind."

Hunter steps toward the ramp door, but Tech grabs his arm to stop him. "Might I remind you of the plan. Our main objective is to get these data rods back to base, we will inform Commander Cody and she'll hold out for their extraction."

Wrecker, shakes his head at his brother's comment. "What if she needs us? We're a team, we should go back." He looks to Hunter for support.

Hunter looks around at his squad and sighs. He raises his comm device one more time. "General? Do you copy?"

The line remains silent, but after what feels like hours, something crackles through.

"I copy." Bryn's voice groans over the line. "Stealth droid showed up unexpected, but I'm alive."

Hunter exhales in relief, his gaze meeting Crosshair's. "Glad to hear it, General," he says, his voice softening. "We're on our way."

"Oh no you're not." Bryn snaps back. "Get those data rods out of here and back to base. I'll-" She's cut off and more blaster fire can be heard over the comms. "I'll be fine." She pants out before the line cuts.

Hunter places his helmet on his head and takes a step down the ramp.

"And where do you think you're going?" Crosshair says.

"To go get her?" Hunter says plainly.

"You heard her." Tech interjects.

Hunter rolls his eyes under his helmet. "Yeah, and so did you. Did she sound okay? I'm not leaving her behind." He repeats.

Wrecker nods in agreement with Hunter. "He's right," he says. "We can't leave her like that."

Tech, however, shakes his head. "She gave us orders, Hunter. You heard her during the briefing." Tech's face is set, and he glances at Hunter. "If we abort now, we may fail the mission entirely."

Hunter swears under his breath. "Well, you all can stay here and debate it. I'm going to get her. If you're gone by the time we get back, we'll wait for Cody's extraction."

With that he runs down the ramp and off towards the base.

After a couple moments, Hunter's comm comes to life.

"If we get in trouble for this, I'm blaming you." Crosshair huffs, jogging alongside his brother.

"Don't you always?" Hunter replies slyly.

"I've got the halfway point." Wrecker says, sliding to a halt. "Go get her."

Crosshair follows hunter until they reach the treeline, the base visible down a small slope. Crosshair raises his rifle and peers through his scope. He can see a group of droids closing in on a figure in maroon armor. "I've got eyes on her." He says.

"Good." Hunter says, raising his own scopes. "You provide cover from here."

"Wouldn't it be better if we push together? There's still quite a few tinnies down there." Crosshair mutters.

Hunter shakes his head. "With the General preoccupied, we're first and second in command. If I don't make it out, you need to get Tech and Wrecker back to base with those data rods."

Crosshair's jaw tenses, but he lowers himself into position. "Make it quick" He mutters, adjusting his scope.

Hunter sprints towards the base. He reaches the edge of the perimeter fence, taking a quick inventory of his surroundings. There's only one way in—the main gate. It's heavily guarded by six droids standing sentinel.

"Great," he mutters under his breath. He takes aim, lining up his first shot carefully.

The first four sentinel droids fall in quick succession, the last two collapse with blaster bolts from Crosshair in the treeline and Hunter lets out a deep breath. Quickly, he sprints through the gate and into the main yard. It only takes a couple seconds for him to find Bryn in the chaos. Only one of her sabers is lit, she's fighting one-handed against two dozen droids. Hunter quickly vaults over some crates and fires a couple shots, breaking their lines. He lands next to Bryn and quickly starts fending the droids off.

Bryn's eyes widen at the sight of him. Strands of hair have fallen loose from her braid, and soot from grenade charges is smeared across her face. Hunter quickly notices the sting of iron in the air and his eyes dart to the dark red stain on Bryn's side that she has her hand pressed to.

"What the hell are you doing here." She says plainly, deflecting blaster fire.

Hunter doesn't respond immediately, instead focusing on the droids surrounding them. His rifle clicks rapidly as he mows down the machines, his movements fluid and calculated. Once the immediate threat is neutralized, he finally looks at Bryn. "I told you, I didn't like the idea of you being along frontside" he says, his voice harsh. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Bryn says, trying to swat away Hunter's hands. "Just nicked me." 

Hunter keeps trying to ger Bryn to release her side, his heart is pounding in his hears. "Would you just-" He huffs. 

Bryn tries to dodge Hunter's efforts, but lets out a hiss of pain at the sudden twisting motion. Once more, Hunter wraps his hand around hers and under the sting of pain, she lets him gently pry her hand away from the wound. 

Hunter takes a knee beside her, so he can examine the wound closer. "We need to get you patched up." His eyes narrow, searching for any other injuries. "Can you walk?" He asks, concern lacing his words.

Bryn hooks her lightsaber back on her belt next to it's partner. "I'm fine. Now answer my question, what the hell do you think you're doing here?"

Hunter stands to meet her gaze, his own steady and unflinching. "I promised to protect my squad." He says firmly. He holsters his rifle and offers her his arm. "Let's go."

Bryn side steps his offered arm and begins leading the way out of the base, only a slight limp to her walk.

"You did quite a lot of damage." Hunter says, running his eyes over the carnage of droids strewn about the base yard.

"I told you I was fine." Bryn retorts.

Hunter falls into step beside her, his expression grim. "Next time, tell me you're injured before you tell us to clear out and try to take on an entire platoon alone." He says quietly. "It makes things easier." He glances around, making sure they're not followed. "Where's the stealth droid?"

His tone is calm, but there's a hint of tension in his voice. He knows better than most how dangerous those droids can be.

Bryn just shrugs him off. "He didn't last long after he showed up. Gave me a great parting gift, though." She says, jerking her head toward her side.

Hunter studies her for a moment, noting the blood staining her uniform. "We'll get you patched up at the ship." he says firmly. "And then we need to discuss your decision-making skills." He keeps his voice low.

Bryn smirks at him. "What decision-making skills? You're the one who disobeyed orders."

Bryn opens her mouth to continue teasing, but stumbles. Hunter stoops quickly to catch her, but she waves him off.

"Would you just let me help you?" Hunter says, exasperated.

She shakes her head. "I told you I'm-" She stumbles again, and this time, Hunter steps under her, wrapping his arm around her waist. unlike before, she doesn't shy away from him.

Hunter adjusts his grip, trying to distribute her weight evenly. "Crosshair is just up ahead." He says. "Did it hit anything vital?" He asks, concern seeping into his voice.

"Don't think so." She says, her eyelids fluttering. "Already gave myself a field bacta injection."

A couple more minutes and they crest the hill where Crosshair is waiting in the treeline.

"General, are you alright?" Crosshair says.

"Peachy." She responds, and Crosshair stifles a snicker.

"She got hit on her right side, said she's had field bacta, but looks like some significant blood loss." Hunter summarizes.

Crosshair nods and presses a finger to his helmet. "Tech, Wrecker, we've got her. Prep the med bay."

As they approach the Marauder, Hunter can't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him. He helps Bryn aboard, keeping a close eye on her. "You rest," he tells her, gently setting her down on the bed in the medbay. "We'll be back at base soon."

Tech brushes past Crosshair in the doorway as the Marauder lifts off the ground. "Wrecker is on the stick, you should go give him a hand. We've got this."

Crosshair gives him a curt nod and steps out.

Tech pulls out his scanner and quickly runs it over the General. He plugs his datapad into the console on the wall before turning around to slip a needle into the back of Bryn's hand. "Just some fluids and a mild sedative." He mutters. "We'll be back to base soon."

Hunter leans against the wall and lets out a deep breath as Bryn's eyes flutter closed.

Hunter watches Tech work, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He knows better than anyone how valuable Bryn is to the Republic. He's no fool, he got no sleep last night because he was going through the all files on her he could access. Her war record alone was astonishing, but even the records of her pre-war accomplishments were impressive. Losing her would have been a major blow.

When Tech finishes, he stands back and surveys his handiwork. "She will be fine," he says, his voice calm. "She'll stay under for a few hours. It'll take her a while to wake back up once we get back to base."

He glances at Hunter. "I hope you've learned your lesson about disobeying orders." He adds, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Hunter scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Like I needed reminding." He says, but there's a hint of humor in his voice.

When Bryn opens her eyes, the lighting is all wrong. It's way too bright to be the med bay on the Marauder. Blinking a couple times, her surroundings begin to register. It's a GAR base infirmary. A small noise draws her attention to her other side. It's Hunter, leaned back in a chair. The upper half of his armor is gone, his muscles firm, but relaxed under his blacks. His chin is tucked down to his chest and his arms are crossed, his legs are extended out in front of him.

One of the monitors Bryn is hooked up to beeps and Hunter's head shoots up, his eyes wide. His gaze falls on Bryn and the moment his amber eyes connect with hers, his shoulders visibly relax.

"Finally awake, are we?" Hunter says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He moves to the foot of the bed, and presses his hand to the bed, checking for Bryn's feet before sitting down. "How are you feeling?"

There's a mix of relief and concern in his voice, which she finds oddly endearing.

"Much better." Bryn responds, smiling. "Nothing a bacta drip can't fix."

Hunter leans closer to her, his eyes flitting across her face. When he notices how close he's leaning, he quickly tries to play it off like he was checking Bryn's vials on the monitors. He straightens up and crosses his arms, his eyes never leaving her. "We're back at the base. Tech said you'd be out for a while longer."

He shifts uncomfortably, clearly unsure how to proceed. "I... uh, I should probably go check on the others, let them know you're awake." He says finally, pushing himself to his feet. "Rest."

"Sergeant." Bryn calls from her bed.

Hunter turns and sees she has a stern face painted across her face. "You better not make a habit of this, disobeying orders."

Her words make Hunter shift nervously. "Ah, I um-"

The corners of Bryn's mouth turn up into a smile. "Good work."

Hunter's brow furrows in confusion. "But sir, I-"

Bryn raises a gentle hand. "You got us out alive and you kept the datarods secure. That's all I can ask."

She can see his shoulders relax. "You should get some rest yourself, Sergeant." She says.

With that Hunter just gives her a nod. "Yes, sir." As he turns back to the door, a warm feeling starts fluttering in his chest and a smile threatens his lips. 

[aces-and-kings]

Turning Tides

The rest of the trip to Kugane had gone unabated. Thor had met up with Baatu and his family, retrieving Dkota and made plans to stay awhile. Plans that were ultimately cut short by an unexpected announcement from Red just two days later. He needed them in Lominsa as soon as possible.

By the time Thor returned with Dkota, Red had procured them a few of rooms at the Mizzenmast Inn. One for the girl, one for Thor and one full of bunks that held the rest of the crew, bickering about the cramped quarters when they had a perfectly good benefactor in present company. Red had insisted on keeping a low profile though, given if the lot of them drew too much attention they'd be gaol bound. Eventually everyone conceded and Red was able to see to business. He took Thor out for a drink, followed by a bit of fresh air, and then he told him the 'good' news.

Dkota's family, her Aunt and Uncle in particular, had recently returned from Meracydia. They'd been on an excursion documenting some troubles with the local wildlife and had only returned sooner on account of having had no word from their kin in a discomforting amount of time. Once they'd learned of what had transpired, the couple had set out in search of their niece. Inevitably their search found them in contact with Red who then assured them their family would be reunited with the utmost haste. It'd all been very by the books, all the right things were said and done, but by the waters that night, there was an understanding between the two men that didn't need be spoken. In the end it was all but two exchanges that marked the decision finalized. "This is no a life fur a bairn." "No. I reckon it ain't."

The next morning they took a caravan down to the Drydocks and met up with the couple, reuniting them with Dkota who, while utterly adoring of Thor, was overjoyed to see her family again. Tears had been shed all around, save for Thor who'd maintained what he felt was an appropriate composure. True to his inability to follow orders, rather than give them, Greyson had accompanied the lot and now stood at the start of the pier watching the scene unfold down wind. For once even he was void of snide remarks and simply held a solemn expression in silence. When the sails picked up and the boat finally set off, Red turned away and flagged down the wagon city bound. As he lowered his arm there was a hesitation in his step, and from beneath the brim he uttered, "And that's why I call him Lone." Greyson's steel gaze shifted from the outlaw making way towards their ride back, to the big brute facing the rising sun with a hand held high as he watched the boat draw closer to the horizon. It dawned on him then that whatever their differences, there was a undeniable link between the lot. A common denominator that held the unlikely crew together when nothing else but profit ever could. Loss. As the sea carried one man's past away, it brought one girl toe to toe with her future. Dkota, a child who had been through more than any ought ever have to, was smiling brightly in the embrace of her family. A family forever grateful to an unknown soldier in the far-east, and the unlikely guardian that'd seen their home made whole.

[dukeofdogs]

Eltibald

Chest: “The day will come when the Black Sun will rise and darkness will cover the earth. And she that was, and is not, shall come from the East on a scarlet beast, and sixty women with golden crowns shall go before her, and shall fill the valleys of the rivers with blood. Their cruelty shall be without measure, and their wickedness shall be unrivaled. And the crying and wailing of the dying will be carried around the world until the darkest hour comes, the hour of the destruction of everything that lives, thoughts and feels. And afterthat a new dawn will come, red as the blood of an animal and just as hot, and in deathly silence the one who came out of the abyss will ascend to the throne, and on her forehead a whorish name is written - Lilit.” - Master Eltibald, Black Sun Prophecy

Scroll 1:  Eltibald touched his temples with his fingertips and closed his eyelids. He could feel the rhythmic pulsation of blood under his thin skin that was as dry as parchment. The interrogation lasted unexpectedly long and did not bring any results, and the weeping moans of Princess Bernika gave him a headache. The logs in the hearth had long since turned to ash, which caused a severe chill in the highest chamber of the tower. The servants had been ordered to stay away, but after all, Eltibald was a wizard. With just the wave of his hand the fire would burn again. But Eltibald was also very, very tired. Worse still, he was beginning to have doubts.

Scroll 2:  Princess Bernika, like all the girls selected for the research, was born shortly after the solar eclipse. She was a plump, sluggish, and spoiled brat who could not be made happy with any number of satin coats, cream puffs or piebald ponies. Her princely parents had two more daughters, so they were relieved by the news about the Curse of the Black Sun, which supposedly affected their firstborn, and eagerly handed over Bernika to Eltibald. In particular, recently the girl surpassed herself: the embroidery teacher even complained that the Princess, scolded for her lack of enthusiasm, stuck a needle under the teacher’s fingernail. According to the Council of Wizards, such behavior was inevitable proof of mutation and required final intervention for the sake of the lesser evil. According to Eltibald, it would be enough to beat the girl’s butt with a wet rod and see if it swells evenly.

Scroll 3:  How many months has he already spent knocking on the gates of all the castles, palaces and manors? How many girls has he forced to confess their pathetic offenses amidst screams and tears? And how many of them have proved to be really worthwhile from a scientific point of view? The Council of Wizards ignored Eltibald’s requests to return to his books and to further explore bobolak legends,  from which, he believed, he would be able to learn more about the Curse of the Black Sun than from the subsequent more or less fruitful dissections and vivisections of allegedly affected noblewomen. And though he shuddered to abandon his commitment, he was beginning to understand that he was wasting his time.

Scroll 4:  Eltibald reluctantly opened his eyes and gazed out the window at the snow-dusted Talgarian landscape. The view from the tower was not disturbed by a single plume of smoke from the human settlement. Not single gallows. Not a single rotten signpost. The wizard shifted his weary gaze to Bernika’s twisted face. He did not see in her fear or hatred, only the mindless resistance of an animal being led to slaughter. If he had noticed at least a spark of cunning in the cow’s eyes of the princess - he would have hesitated. Eltibald rose from his seat and left the chamber, locking the door behind him. In a slow pace, he walked down the steps on his way out of the prison, clutching the iron key in his clenched fist. When he got outside, he opened his hand. His hand was empty.

[writesaboutdragons]

365 Promises of God

Day 295 – To You it Was Shown, that You Might Know

To you it was shown, that you might know that the LORD Himself [is] God; [there is] none other besides Him. (Deu 4:35 NKJV)

Read: Deuteronomy 4:26-40

At the end of World War II, the Allied forces debated how to ensure that Germany would never again rise to power. It was decided to divide the country up into East and West Germany, under oversight and jurisdiction of Russia on the East and the non-communist nations on the West. Moreover, the capital city, which resided in the middle of communist-controlled East Germany, was divided into East and West Berlin.

West Berlin was free. Capitalism reigned there, and through the airport people in West Berlin could go anywhere in the world. At first, people in East Berlin were free to travel back and forth, taking advantage of the markets there. But as things under communism got more difficult, citizens of East Berlin began going to West Berlin and staying. From there, they could seek asylum, emigrate somewhere else where life would hopefully be easier. The problem got so bad that East Berlin began building a wall to keep East Berliners in. As the wall started going up, people began fleeing East Berlin by the thousands. Armed guards were posted and construction continued, completely surrounding West Berlin, not to keep those in West Berlin from escaping, but to keep anyone in East Germany from getting into West Berlin. Passport checkpoints were established, tank traps were put into place, and mats of steel needles called ‘Stalin’s Grass’ carpeted a kill zone between two concentric walls.

Guard turrets and floodlights were installed, and it became virtually impossible to cross, from late 1961 to Nov 9,1989. Pressure from the free world to remove the wall combined with internal changes in Russia under the administration of Chairman Gorbachev, led to several ‘fake’ announcements in East Germany that there would be free crossings. On one such radio program on Nov 9, 1989, the announcer failed to notify the crossing guards. Harald Jaeger, the officer in charge of the Bornholmer Straße checkpoint, tried to contact his superiors for direction when a crowd of thousands gathered on either side of that checkpoint, demanding to be allowed to cross.

Unsure of what to do, and insulted thoroughly by the junior officer on the other end of the line, Jaegar opened the gates and allowed citizens of both sides to cross unhindered and unchallenged. As thousands poured out to greet family they hadn’t seen in decades, tears streamed down faces. People began tearing at the hated gates and walls, beating on them with hammers, and before the sun dawned the gates on both sides of the checkpoint were destroyed, along with a significant portion of the surrounding walls.

By the end of the following day, the order which was NOT officially given was handed out de facto, and all gates opened up, allowing traffic both ways. While citizens had made some slight progress on demolishing the walls, the GDP issued orders and deconstruction crews were commissioned, with jackhammers and bulldozers, in June of the following year, and was completed by the end of that year.

When word got out that fateful night of Nov 9, that the gates were open and people could cross, many citizens in East Berlin refused to believe it. “It’s a trick, daughter,” one grandmother said. “Don’t believe it. They only want to kill you if you dare to try.” The grandmother pled with her daughter not to attempt to cross, and even refused to believe when her daughter returned, unharmed, after crossing the kill zone. “You are confused, dear. They would never have allowed it. Such a thing could never be.” This grandmother refused to believe, until her daughter escorted her within sight of the gate, and she could see for herself throngs of people crossing to West Berlin, being greeted by cheering crowds handing out roses and champagne. The torn gates, the shattered walls, the families embracing after decades with tears streaming down their faces, were all it took to persuade her grandmother that the unthinkable had happened, and she would finally be able to cross without fear.

When Israel was about to enter the Promised Land, Moses addressed them, as recorded in the book of Deuteronomy. Their fathers had refused to enter it, and for that, they had been destroyed in the wilderness over the course of forty years. These children had seen fire on the mountain, smoke and a tempest, and had heard the very voice of God Almighty speaking through the fire, declaring the covenant he made with them. Moses declares here that it was shown to them, that might know that Jehovah is the only true God, and that the gods of those they were about to face were powerless. That such an impossible thing had surely happened. These children had BEEN in Egypt, in slavery. They had seen the hard bondage of their parents. They had seen the miraculous plagues that had delivered them. They had crossed through the Red Sea between walls of water. They had tasted the manna from heaven. They had seen the water from the rock, the fiery serpents, the miles of dead quail, and watched their parents die for their unbelief.

Dear Christian, there wasn’t anything particularly special about the children of Israel. They were people like you and me, with doubts and failings, but with the courage to follow where they could see. God Almighty is looking down through millennia to your heart, and calling you to believe, to trust, and to follow, as he did to them so very long ago. We’ve been shown in Holy Scripture what God has done. God is calling us to follow, based on the light He has shown us. Will you?

Prayer:

Oh, Lord God, your word has shown so many great and precious promises to me this year. Where you lead, I will follow, today. Amen

[houseildanan]

Neverdark War Chronicle draft - Encounter at Vol'jin Point

The first most of us encountered it—the first most of us could trace a first encounter—came that night at Vol’jin Point.  The SOS came unexpectedly, so quiet at first that if I hadn’t been in the infirmary at our old post in Val’sharah, working on Zelrus Lightbinder’s hand, I might not have heard anything at all.  The transmission was buried beneath static at first, only became more recognizable upon repeat.  Even then, at the time we had a ranger in our number—Halaris Redspear—that usually used code on the comms, owing to an old injury, so more than a few wondered if it was him.

It wasn’t, of course—he was in the barracks at the time—but we didn’t know who it could be calling for help.

Looking back now, I know it was a trap laid carefully for us.  It was a bid to end the threat we represented before we had any idea what it was we faced.

Before any of us who were there at the end realized what we were meant to do.

Up until then, up until that transmission, it had just been another normal day at Dawn’s Reach.

It’s always been Dawn’s Reach, too, no matter where we landed.  I suppose I never thought about that piece before setting down to write this in fits and starts.  Even today, I sit at a desk at Dawn’s Reach—this one, likely the last, in the Everlight, south of Dawnglory Manor and the township, west of the shore, east of the Reprieve with its chapel, settled deep in her forests.  We’ve already rebuilt twice here.  I hope we never have to again.

Of course, we did the same in Val’sharah, before we moved on.

But I digress.

The sun was already down by the time the initial call came, making that mayday even more unusual.  Still, the static, the strangeness of it—that should likely have been our first clue.  I’ve listened to the playback half a dozen times while readying myself to write this and I don’t know how we didn’t realize it then.

But I do know.  We weren’t yet who would we would become in the months and years that followed.  We didn’t know—couldn’t.

“Lieutenant General Grom'thar reporting... mayday, mayday... blue aggression from... not... w... it... repeat, all-out assault from the north...”

Blue aggression.  In those days, it meant the Alliance.  I remember my stomach twisting, bile rising in my throat.  At heart, I was still a pacifist, still against the war, despite my position with the 194th.  I think Dra’zar knew but as long as I followed orders, did my job, it didn’t matter.  As long as I could put that on the shelf when he needed me to, then it was fine.  Feelings be damned.

Sometimes, I wonder if he appreciated my insight all the more because of it rather than in spite of it.

“Overrun... mayday, mayday... requesting re... no hope... falling all around...”

Grom’thar had a thick accent—if he wasn’t Mag’thar, then he’d spent years in Outland, among the orcs there.

It felt wrong, but I started checking the gear, the kits.  Grom’thar’s transmissions were fading in and out even as Zanrethan Sunforge reached out to Orgrimmar on Dra’zar’s orders, trying to get more details on Grom’thar and his posting, the forces under his command.  That’s where El found me.  The look on his face is one I still sometimes see in nightmares—eyes wide, gaze somehow knowing above and beyond anything we were hearing on the comms.  It was the same knowing that knotted my guts and made my heart heavy in my chest.

“We’re going to need you tonight,” he said to me.  He was already half-kitted, bow at hand, dagger in the other.  That knowing in his eyes aged him a century and more.  All I could do was nod.

“I have my oaths as a healer to uphold.  Need to check the gear.”

And then, just like that, the knowing was gone from his face.  His fingers and hands twitched, as if nerves had suddenly flooded back into where that awareness had been.  “Do you, uh...do you need any help?”

I’d turned back to him, then, reached out and grasped his shoulder.  Held a moment.

Maybe the next words had been a mistake.

“You’ve got your own gear to set, don’t you?”

He’d started to say something in response, then looked toward the windows.  I saw the shadow come across his face and he seemed to change his mind about how he was going to respond.  “Yeah.  Call me if you need me, Tyr.”

I squeezed his shoulder again and started to turn before we started to hear the screams.

It was like every communicator at Vol’jin Point had suddenly tripped.  All we could hear on the lines were screams and breaking glass, the sharp report of gunfire and shrill shriek like the ringing of ears after a shot passes too close.  Death-howls and the screams of the dying, slowly fading under the roar of wind.

And then, one last transmission, clear as the peel of cathedral bells: "Ancestors help us all."

Grom’thal.

Then there was nothing—silence.  Not a breath.  Not a scream.

Nothing.

Dra’zar gave the order a few moments later.

“194th, we depart in one hour, given that we hear back from command regarding Grom'thar and his regiment. Prepare adequately.”

We never stood a chance.

Sometimes, I still wonder if it was meant to be our garrison, not Vol’jin Point, that was hit that day.  Most of the time, though, I’m more confident that it was all a trap laid for us by the enemy we would spend the balance of the following years fighting.  Vol’jin Point was north and east of our position, close to the border with Highmountain, while our position was more central, deep within the primordial woodlands of Val’sharah.  Close enough that we were the most likely to respond to any mayday—if the transmission itself was real.

On that count, I’m still not confident at all.

The people, though—those were real.  They were real.

We would realize the horrors they went through later.

When we portaled in, no one had any reason to suspect that it was anything other than an Alliance attack—anyone other than me, anyway, and perhaps Arius.  If Dra’zar suspected any different, he gave no sign, though something tells me that when we got word that there was no response from any settlements or camps in the vicinity of Vol’jin Point, either, that something was even more deeply amiss than it seemed on the surface.

The forest around us was dense and dead silent outside of Vol’jin Point—our portal dropped us short of the fort itself, just in case.  Even at a distance, we could smell the smoke, see pillars of it rising above the trees.  There was a crackle to the air, eerie, like the whispers of power before a terrible storm, the kind that set your hair on end.

There was enough smoke to blot out the moon and stars.  Morbid as it is, the glow of the fires inside of the shattered post lit our path right to it through those primordial trees.

It smelled like a charnel house, like the pyres that burned in Northrend day and night during the height of the war there, when I was with the Argent Crusade.  I remember thinking it and feeling a chill creep down my spine.

Dra’zar sent three of ours—Alodrane Falconwalk, Syche Darkarrow-Sunforge, and Corey Dawnchild—north to flank the rest of us as we headed for the remnant post from the west.

They reported devastation.

They were the first to see the bodies as they drifted down the river that flanked the post to the north, the water running thick with debris and the dead, laden with ash and hissing with embers blown by the wind.  Beyond the river were shattered ramparts and scattered spent artillery mingled with blood and the bodies of the dead.  The watchtowers stood shattered, silent and dark against a smoke-stained sky.  And as if a mocking sentinel set over the dead, an orc’s head stood speared on a pike, sightless eyes staring off toward the road that we would approach from hours after his death.

Dora was the one who told us about the head.  Syche was the one to report no movement, no sign of life—just the dead.

Just the fires still burning in a shattered fort miles from where our own post stood.  A shattered fort that stood between a river to the north, mountains to the east—and us approaching from the west.

Dra’zar cursed and turned to Zanrethan Sunforge, who was his second in those days.  “A river to the north and mountains to the east. No foreseeable way we're walking into an ambush, aye?”

I remember Zan taking stock of the situation and shaking his head.  “Not that I can see, sir.”

I think perhaps in that moment most if not all of us knew that the situation was much more complicated and dangerous than we’d believed when we’d portaled in less than fifteen minutes earlier.  I know I did.

It was that sinking of the stomach, the souring of the throat that I felt, neither of which had anything to do with the smell of death and burning.  I knew something was wrong—I just didn’t know what.

Not yet.

Dra’zar ordered the three to rejoin us, asked Senithvia—she was one of his captains, too, in those days, leading the 194th’s spell-flingers—to give us as much invisibility as she and hers could muster.  When the others rejoined us, they were in agreement—it was all staged for the benefit of whoever found the place.  Corey was the one to identify it as too still, too quiet for a recent attack—especially with the fires still burning.

Something was amiss.

I suppose that’s why Dra’zar told Vigilynce Baldesion, Melania Dawnweaver, and I to weave and hold an aegis between us and Vol’jin Point for our advance on what was left of the place, then set the heavies between us and the aegis.  He must have at least suspected what my gut was already screaming.

If this wasn’t a trap, it was something worse.

“One hour,” Dra’zar murmured as we’d started our advance—he was talking to Corey, though I was certainly near enough to overhear.  “Surely they’d have pillaged the place.”

“Unless loot wasn’t their aim,” I said in response.  Maybe I shouldn’t have, but the words came anyway.

He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.  “This is a declaration of war, Grimstryke.  Any army, no matter how disciplined, will have its spoils.”

I didn’t say anything more, and his attention shifted as the others got into position.  He turned to one of youngest among us, Parr Va’loren, a young sin’dorei piecing together druid training in fits and starts.  Parr was trying to read the trees, to sense what he might be able to from the environs of the forest, and Dra’zar knew the look of it.

“Va’loren, what do you feel about us? Anything out of the ordinary, aside from the fire?”

Parr frowned.  “It hurts,” he said.  “But it’s hollow, too.”

It was not the first time nor the last time I saw that exact frown on Dra’zar’s face, but that moment caught and held in my memory.  It was only for a moment before it shifted from it and into the usual grim countenance.  “We move onward.”

And so we did.

On, toward the smell of burning bodies, toward the source of the acrid smoke that blotted out the stars and set eyes watering.  We made the gates only to be greeted b a pile of bodies set alight with violet flames—huge, seeming more than what should have been there.  All seemed to be soldiers—orcs and trolls, sin’dorei and shal’dorei, Forsaken and tauren and even goblins.  At the fore was tauren’s head speared through with an Alliance standard that fluttered on the wind, its edges only now beginning to catch from the violet flames.

It all felt so wrong.

The ground was soaked in blood, the grass matted, flattened by boot and hoof, scattered with artillery shells that we had to tread carefully to avoid.  Tension rose with each step, trepidation grew.  All of us were alert, waiting for the ambush, for the other shoe to drop.  Syche scanned the walls with arrow notched, Zan and Corey stood as living shields between those of us holding the aegis and anything ahead.

Most of the bodies weren’t whole—they were pieces held together by sinew and tattered clothing, parts piled together in some terrible pyre.  My gaze went to that pyre even as Vigilynce’s snapped to the standard.  Beyond the macabre stack, tents—densely packed, some still standing and seeming untouched while others lay collapsed or burning.

For a few seconds, there was only silence except for our breathing—Parr gagging as he pulled his collar up against the smell—and the sound of the wind and the flames.  And then, Dora: “We can’t stay here.”

But we would.  Dra’zar’s order brooked no argument, though the words were stiff—not as if he was shocked, but something else, something I knew I couldn’t name at the time but marked just the same.

“We search for survivors.”

Dora and Vigilynce both pointed out there probably weren’t any even as others moved to obey. Duty, Dra’zar said, bound us to at least making sure.  Corey pointed out that perhaps there were some that weren’t too far gone to revive.

Somehow.

Dra’zar set Vigilynce and Lindrayëda Tal’enor to watch our backs while the rest of us were to set to the task of the search.  I was about to begin myself when Parr’s voice stopped me.

“There’s nothing living here.”

I paused, turning to look back at him.  All I could see of him were whitened knuckles where he held his cloak over his mouth and nose, wide eyes, and pale face from the cheekbones up.  “Are you certain?”

There was only bleakness in his eyes—bleakness that even swallowed the fear.  I squeezed his shoulder.

Before I could move away, Dra’zar asked me to hold the shield, so I stayed where I stood as the others began to search for any sign that we were not the only things still breathing within those shattered walls.

As the silence deepened around us, slowly we heard it.

Sobbing.

It came from what must have once been the command center for Vol’jin Point, which was half reduced to rubble, the roof sundered and collapsing, supported by a single still-standing support.  Dra’zar called Zan and Corey to him, had Dora and Syche cover his back.  It was only later that I heard about the sight within, the source of the sound—Zan told me, voice breaking, eyes bleak, later, after it ended.

A hooded figure, he told me hours later, his voice choked with horror and fingers clutching at the mug of something steaming as we sat later in a shadowed kitchen, long after most of our brethren had retired to fitful dreams or drunken stupor.  There were corpses all around in a ring—human—and that figure was kneeling in the center.  Whoever it was—whoever they’d been—their shoulders were shaking, writhing.  When the general pulled back to strike, that—thing looked up. No ears, just holes.  Tendrils like spilled ink across its scalp, weeping black blood into a toothless maw.  Not a person anymore.  Something else—something other.

It would not be the last time he, or Dra’zar, or any of us would witness such a horror.

While they found that monster within the shattered command center, Vigilynce saw the trees to the south bend.

Then she saw the eyes glowing a strange and sickly gold from the trees.

Dora’s curse mingled with a gunshot.

Then the dire wolf that wasn’t emerged from the trees.  Shadows bled around it, black ichor dripped from its maw as it stalked from the south toward the gate.

Toward Vol’jin Point.

Toward us—those of us who hadn’t gone into the shattered command center with the general, those of us who weren’t yet facing the monster and its dead puppets they were met with inside.

As bedlam erupted, all I could do at first was weave that shield tighter and hold it—and pray.  Pray that this wasn’t a mistake.  Pray that we’d make it out of this alive and relatively intact.

Void bled from the command center, mingled with Light, and the sound of shouts and steel splitting bone echoed from that direction.  Outside, where I still stood, Vigilynce charged the wolf before it could get too close.

Except it was already too close.

The rangers tumbled free of the command center first, firing back the way they’d come, scrambling, cursing. Lin threw herself at the wolf, too, she and Vigilynce the only things standing between it and where Senithvia and I stood—me with the shield, Seni with the invisibility spell.

Lightning cracked across the sky, thunder booming loud enough to momentarily deafen, to shake the very ground, and a moment later, the heavens opened with a deluge of ice-cold rain.

The wolf didn’t bleed—I watched as Lin’s twin blades cut deep into is flank and only saw black, ichorous smoke billow from the wounds she’d carved into its flesh, something that clung to those blades and hissed against them as she stepped back, reset.

The others boiled free of the command center, pursued by the corpses of those humans that Zan would later describe to me.  Seni launched an attack of her own on them as soon as they came within sight, but all that did was draw their attention.

To us—to she and I and Parr, who stood suddenly all but defenseless but for the shield I still held.  Lin and Vigilynce were still engaged with the shadow-wolf, very much occupied and utterly unaware of the sudden additional danger.

Then, suddenly one of those corpses was on top of Parr, void spiking from its hands even as it tried to sink its teeth into his neck.  He tumbled back, shrieking, just beyond my reach.

There was no time.

The words that came from the corpses next came as many voices merged into one, in a tongue I didn’t know then but recognize now as Shath’yar.  The spell they wove was one of malevolent shadow, designed to spear and bind, inky, twining tendrils snaking through the ground like vines to impale us.

It was neither an act of desperation nor anything less than a delaying tactic.

I was still taking stock of who was hit when the corpse that had been attacking Parr instead threw itself at me.  For a heart-stopping moment, I thought it’d killed the boy, but even as void speared into my shoulder I realized he was still breathing, wide-eyed and bloodied, but very much alive.

The rain only grew worse.  The wind whipped around us, swirling, as if trying to gather us together—to gather us in.

Light seared through the corpse and I fell back a step, heart hammering fast, too fast.

The spot where Vigilynce and Lin had ended the wolf was empty but for a bubbling puddle of void-laden smoke.  The other corpses were falling dispatched by the skilled blades and fire of Blood Knights and the shots of rangers.

The places where those corpses fell held similar puddles of void—puddles of void that seemed to coalesce and solidify.

Dra’zar’s voice cracked across the space between all of us before I could fixate on what I was seeing—and what I was starting to see.  “Back to the entrance—let's rendezvous with Lin and Baldesion before we're caught completely unawares. Whoever that hooded man was...”

Somehow, my voice didn’t shake.  “What was that?”

As if in answer, a war horn sounded to the northwest.  Bile curdled in the back of my throat and my stomach shrunk into a tight knot.

Dra’zar cursed as I did.

“Nevermind.  It was a bloody distraction.”

Distracting us from what, I didn’t know.  Wasn’t sure I wanted to.

We regrouped quickly and just as he started to order Senithvia to get us the hell out of there, an arrow shot right past Dra’zar’s ear and embedded itself, quivering, in a pile of corpses a dozen yards behind him.  Even as Seni was opening that portal, a force broke through the trees, clad in Alliance colors, armed with spears and lances.

“Change of plans!” Dra’zar shouted.  “Arm yourselves, form up!”

I was wrong about the distraction.

This was the distraction.

It was very nearly a rout—we were terribly outnumbered, but our enemy was not nearly so skilled as one might have expected, even in the driving rain and crackling storm.

Above us, all but unnoticed, the shadowy smoke that had drifted away from the corpses and the wolf swirled together.

The smell of gunpowder and burning flesh began to drown out anything else—the rain, the scent of magic, blood, horse, fear—all of it.

Something was very wrong.

A flash of lightning told the tale.

These forces were too clean.

Too fresh.

They hadn’t been behind Vol’jin point.

They were the distraction.

The whole thing was a trap.

A trap for us, though it would take time to understand why.

A crack of thunder, louder than the rest, shook the whole damn world around us, set horses rearing, their eyes rolling back in terror.  It took what must have seemed an eternity for their riders to pull them back under control, to form up, all of them somehow ignoring the rising electricity in the air as they did, arraying themselves opposed to where we stood.

I was already weaving a shell around us all thanks to the crackling energy I could feel in every healed break of bone in my body when Dra’zar bellowed, “Shield us!”

The others—Zan and Vigilynce and Parr—joined me in my effort.  The shield held—barely—as bolts rained around us.  The forces in front of us were not so lucky.

I still remember the screams in my nightmares.

Because my nightmares sometimes take the shape of what came next.

As the brightness and afterimages of the lightning began to fade, we started to see the bodies—contorted in agony, blackened, expressions locked in final, shocked pain and fear.

Dead center among them stood a hunchbacked, hooded old man with a cane, utterly untouched by the hell that had just erupted all around us.  Palsied hands folded over the head of the cane as he regarded us across the gap.

The words that came next were in perfect Thalassian, no hint of accent, clear as the stars on a moonless night but trembling like a leaf on the wind.  “This is certainly an inconvenience, is it not?”

He raised one of his hands, a gnarled finger pointing upward toward the clouds.  They had coalesced above us into a perfectly rendered eye: lidless, its iris detailed, absolute.

Something within me curled back in on itself as I stared up at it for a few seconds, then tore my gaze away to regard the old man again.

He was smiling, coughing with laughter, and hissed the words: “The Eye sees all, young Children of Blood…the Wolf and Shepherd stand trial. Tonight's tribulation is only the first of many.”

It was not the first time we had heard those terms—the Wolf and Shepherd.  But this felt different somehow.

I had not been there when Antorus of Riverstead came to us in Val’sharah.  It was another thing I learned of in whispers later.  But that had been the first.

Would that we had known then all we came to know later.

Dra’zar answered.  “Stand down, creature. The sands have all fallen.”

The stranger’s next words came sharp, honed like a blade made of bone, “Death awaits you, all of you. The sea grows restless, children, and high tide draws near. His laughter echoes from seven maws, his damnations spill from seven tongues.”

The defiance in Dra’zar’s voice must have either been expected or galling.  “We have felled worse than the likes of you. Stand down.”

And yet, somehow, the stranger simply seemed amused, though his laughter was the sort to set the teeth on edge, to set toes curling and children shrinking back into the safety of an adult at their backs.  “Even your nightmares fear me, Wolf. The Eye beholds all paths, and they all end at your death. Take heed, children, that your transgressions do not end you: prove yourselves worthy tonight.”

His lips curled in a cruel smile.  “N’raqi.”

For the space of one heartbeat, then another, we couldn’t see anything.  As our visions faded back in, he was gone, but something terrible stood in his place: a Faceless One.  It was clad in armor made of ivory sheets, a mask painted crimson settled over where a face should have been.  A pair of battleaxes of some kind of black alloy were its weapons, its tentacles tasting the air as it oriented toward us with nothing short of terrible malice.

“Fuck,” I breathed, even as Dora loosed an arrow.

It skittered off the Faceless One’s mask and off to the side, lost among the twisted ruins that were once human that sprawled around it.

I still do not know how we managed to fell the thing that night.  We were not what we would become and we were already battered, depleted.

But we did.  We lived to tell the tale.

That night, anyway.

That was the night that Dra’zar named me a captain.  I would remain such until the 194th dissolved.

I have never stopped granting him my counsel.

As I tended to the wounded, hours before I would find out what they found in the command center, Dra’zar radioed Orgrimmar to deliver the news.

As I understand it, the true fate of Vol’jin Point remains classified.

[adventuresinclientservice]

Breakfast on Pluto

Many of us recognize the actor Cillian Murphy – that’s pronounced “Gillian” with a hard “G” where the “C” appears -- for his leading role in the epic movie Oppenheimer, or perhaps in his turn as Tommy Shelby in the long-running Netflix series Peaky Blinders, but I knew him years before, as a star-in-the-making for his daring, courageous role in Breakfast on Pluto.

Tomorrow I will board a plane to travel to a place not as distant as the furthest planet in our solar system, but quite the journey nonetheless. 

I’ve been writing about this for months, with Roberta and I (finally) traveling to Bucharest, to attend the International Advertising Association’s Annual Conference, where I will speak on Why Client Service is an Art.

Among the sixteen speakers, I am the only one who proudly claims to be an Account person, so I feel more than a little responsible for representing my Account Management brothers and sisters as well as I can.  The challenge is made more acute by anxiety, accustomed as I am to battling a case of nerves before going on stage, especially when the stage is really, really big, the crowds really large, and expectations really high.

“Is there pressure?” 

A little.   

“Is the presentation done?”  

It has been done for months, and in recent days I’ve been rehearsing it, rehearsing it, and rehearsing it some more.

“Can I see it?”  

For those of you in New York or elsewhere in the East, if you’re willing to rise at 7:45 am on Tuesday, October 31, you can log in and stream me live; just let me know you’re interested and I will email you the link.   For my West Coast friends and colleagues, it would mean rising three hours earlier, at an ungodly, pre-dawn 4:45 am start time. 

I’m certain I would not rise that early, especially knowing my speech will be recorded for subsequent viewing.

The presentation has easily been through at least one hundred revisions, maybe more, but it got its start the way I conceive many of my presentations, in the most unassuming way imaginable:  on a single sheet of paper filled with initial thoughts.  I ultimately transformed those scribbles into a 105-slide, 45-minute explanation of its title.  

For some reason I saved that page; its origins are here for you to view if you’re curious.

I will try to post again from Bucharest, or from Paris, which is our four-day layover on our return to Napa, but if Paris prevails and what you receive instead is radio silence, patience is the word until I return to the keyboard the second week of November. 

In the interim, if you need something brief and (mostly) digestible to occupy you while you’re riding on the subway or picking up a carryout order, you might want to click on the “Archive” section in the navigation above, to browse the other 739 posts chronicled there. 

Among my favorites is a post that includes links to several others, each of which serves as a tribute to the departed, among them my Creative Director friend Shelley Lanman, and Media colleague Mike Lotito, and my hero Tom Petty, now enshrined among the singing/songwriting gods.

Perhaps these could tide you over until I’m back in-country, ready to regale you with tales from abroad.

[thebard490]

Paladins Chapter 17: Hearthfire

            I am The Bard, who has seen The Story echoed over and over anew. Chaos rises, and the goodly creatures of the world banish it for a time, each again and again until night falls, then dawn breaks anew. Thus it has been since the days of old, when creation was young but no longer very good, so it shall be until the last verse is graven.

As the exhausted and bloodied band of crusaders flopped down in the nearest beds they could find, occupied by a giant warming pad called Kazador or otherwise, they were swiftly claimed by the quiet net of sleep.

This night, they all dreamt, and all dreamt the same dream. Again, they stood outside, but this time atop the walls of the abbey, now blazing with fire like the light of the sun, but the fire did not burn them. From atop the walls they looked out into endless and dark night, dark without stars or moon to light it. In the forest past the edge of the fire’s light they all saw clearly the writhing, strangling infection. All now saw the dark vines, even Julian, pulsing with ebon ichor upon the land, upon the trees. Yndri saw a stag running in the night, agile even through no less tangled than the flora in the creeping curse. Then, they sensed a presence beside them.

Senket saw the Tiefling ghost, blazing in brilliance besides her, and he turned to the abbey and raised a bright finger at it. “Seek us. Seek that which has fallen. Seek the story unforgotten. Echo of what once was, take up our sword once more.” He commanded.

Kazador looked to the west and saw a stone dragon lying broken on the shore, barnacles upon its tail, smokeless fire in its breath, and a sword of mithril rippled liked the waves, in its claws. Fire burned so very dimly around the blade, and he heard many voices, male and female, speaking in the tongues of men, in the tongues of dragons, in the tongues of dwarves, and in the tongues of angels. “Lord of Order, restore what was lost.”

Yndri looked to the north and to the east, and saw trees hung in spiderwebs. Amidst the trees stood a statue of an elven woman, pale as marble. Her arm fell off as she reached for Yndri, and the statue called to her “Wandering Wind, let the gates be opened once more.” As she watched, shadow spread across the statue, marble regressing to insidious obsidian, save the hair. Two pairs of amethyst eyes stared into one another, as the statue spoke words in a language Yndri did not know. Yet still she understood the pleading, as for a mother for her estranged daughter to return. Before any more words could come, silver spiderwebs cracked across the statue and strangled it to dust.

Peregrin looked into the dark and saw many tiny lights, like fireflies in tar, scattered out across it. Across the north, across the east, and all about his feet. “Sword of Light and Shadow.” The voice of a halfling woman commanded him “Let the light of the small be lit once more. Let light shine forth and bring the wanderers home.”

Julian looked into the dark and heard no voices, saw no visions at first, until he felt himself drawn far from the walls into the north. There, where the old road and the mighty river met in the ruins of a once great city he heard a voice. “Godless and without inheritance. Son of heaven scorned for the mother’s sins.” A woman’s voice, great and terrible, rang about him. “What shall you fight for here? You have no gods to fight for and will find no gods here.” It warned, but the paladin did not quail.

“No, you have no time for the dalliances of divinity, do you?” she asked with a chuckle, knowing the answer. “Only that your will shall be done, and the world redeemed by the hands of a man. Such folly, to think that you, a man, shall do what no god can? Come then, seek beyond gods, to the fire that cannot go out, so that the worm must die. Seek that which is anathema, if thou dares to choose a destiny for oneself.” She challenged him, as the black vines burned with the sulfuric smell of brimstone.

The party awoke with minds burning, and in Kazador’s case, a blanket of halflings. He pushed off the several smallfolk who decided the warm dragonborn was a good place to sleep, rumbling and grumbling with enough ornery morning grumpiness to rival War Pig.

“Ah’m gonna have tae tell Peregrin tae ware his folk against using me as a pillow.” He grumbled as he pulled on his armor and belted on his axes.

“Kaz, you are the first man I have ever known to complain about having too many companions in bed.” Senket remarked dryly as she pulled on her tunic and donned her armor. The dragonborn turned slightly more red than usual.

“Speaking of the little fellow, where is Peregrin?” Julian asked as he walked out of the privy, still wearing his helmet out of habit.

Yndri walked in, fully dressed and ready to go. “Julian, do you really need the helmet?” She asked. “Strange habits aside, Peregrin sent me to come and get you. Breakfast is ready.”

Julian took off the helmet and put it by his bunk. Fully aware of the stares the halflings were giving him, he pulled out his spellbook. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.” He said slightly self-consciously.

“Fine, more scoff fer me.” Kazador rumbled as he heads out.

As Julian studied his spellbook. He was surprised to find a new page in the book, not simply leafed in, but completely new, as though it had been made with it. The paper was of high quality, and furthermore the spell was not written in his draconic engravings he preferred, nor in the diabolic script his mother used, but in a fine hand of sacred runes, as used by priests and angels. He frowned as he considered this, and quickly identified the spell as one to call forth a familiar. Even stranger, to find arcane magic written in a script most commonly used for divine rituals. He set the mystery aside for the moment.

Down in the kitchen, Peregrin had been up for a while alongside Yndri, putting the abbey’s food stores to good use. A wide collection of grains, flours, and premade loaves made life far easier, and furthermore the abbey possessed many looted spices and sugars. Best of all though was when he discovered a coop of irritable but bountiful hens, and therefore a small hoard of eggs. With this bounty, the paladins, halflings, and goblins were treated to their first hot breakfast in quite some time, hot steaming bowls of porridge, scrambled eggs, and toast. Simple, but exceedingly satisfying.

Kazador examined the workmanship on the bowls and spoons. They were all identical, indicating that they were either created using magic, or perhaps a gnomish invention such as an auto-forge. They were simple, but all of rather high quality, clearly not goblin make, and thus were either stolen or perhaps simply were used by the abbey’s original inhabitants. As they ate, Peregrin and Yndri joined the pair in the scoff. “You know, we still need to find this place’s name.” Yndri said between bites. “I say we wander about and see if we can’t find any old records of it.”

“Julian, Peregrin, you two are the most well read and well-traveled among us, have you ever heard of this place?” Senket probed the more intellectual pair.

“My studies were mostly large-scale history and the arcane. I’m afraid I’ve heard no mention of this place’s name in my books. The Northern Garden have been abandoned by all civilized races but the hobgoblins for three centuries or so, and it wasn’t exactly a densely populated area even at the best of times. So, its “history” seems all too much tied up in legends and myths rather than solid facts.” Julian said, sounding slightly disappointed.

“I’ve heard stories that supposedly came out of here.” Peregrin said. “And heard a few more from my kin here. However, it’s sort of garbled. Either there’s been a whole lot of times where this place has been invaded and a hero rises to deal with the problem, or it happened once, and everyone kept switching around who the hero was and what the problem was.” He said with a bit of a shrug. “It’s probably a bit of both if I’ve had to guess, my folk will tell a story a thousand times and never the same way twice depending on what we want to get across as a point. I get the feeling that we’re going to be part of one of those stories again.”

“We are nae allowing a bard to come an’ follow us around getting intae trouble. Nae way. Ah am nae keepin me eye on some frilly lute lover.” Kazador rumbled aggressively. Not to worry my friend, I was here the whole time, and you had never needed to keep an eye. Not that you could have seen me after all. The eyes of a king are wise indeed, but one doesn’t get to record these kinds of stories without a certain kind of cleverness,

“Don’t you dwarves have a long history of using songs to keep pace when you mine and march?” Yndri questioned.

“Aye, we chant the old histories and remember the old grudges. It’s nae bard-song though, we tell it like it happened, nae frilly turned o’ phrase or unnecessary elven maids tae rescue an’ bed. Our women can deal fer themselves.” He grumbled.

“I’m afraid we are probably going to wind up in a story one way or another, a whole bunch of paladins on a merry crusade to retake lost lands? It’s practically storybook.” Peregrin chuckled.

“Hm, sort of like that epic about the lizardfolk, out of Muab, Rising Dawn was it? With that… oh what was his name, Matlal?” Julian considered. “Strange habit bards have of slapping names on parties. And why are they always called parties to begin with?”

“Tradition, I suppose.” Senket muttered into her coffee. “I suppose they’ll slap one on us as well. Probably something silly like the Stardust Crusaders or something.”

“I think that’s already a thing, a bunch of monks in Mercat if I recall correctly.” Yndri pointed out. “I suppose if we want to avoid something silly, we might as well come up with something of our own.”

“Bah.” Kazador said as he wiped his mouth and picked up his dishes. “We’ll work it out when we’ve got time. Let’s get this bloody place cleaned out first then deal with this wee bit o’ nonsense.” With the name discussion left behind for the moment, the party split off and began to wander the abbey in search of any clues as to its history and identity.

Senket headed to the walls and the gatehouse, finding the place where she stood in the dream. Scouring the top of the wall, she did find something unusual. Covered by a layer of sandy dust, she brushed clear a section just where the Tiefling was standing to find a small brooch in the shape of a sun, carved from what looked like silver, set into the stone. With a small bit of effort, she managed to pry it free from its engraving to examine it more closely and realized that it was in fact a medallion. The medallion was far too sturdy to simply be made of silver, but it lacked any hum of magic about it. No words were carved on front or back to identify the owner, but it was very clearly placed in this stone and hidden by dust for a purpose.

Peregrin headed outside and wandered through the orchard, between the thick glades of apple trees, ripe with fruit. He saw a clear progression of ages, indicating that each tree was planted several years apart. He followed this to the youngest tree, which even still was a rather old fellow, though nothing before the ancient and massive sort at the other end.

He searched around the tree, trying to find out why they were planted at such seemingly random intervals, hoping to find some hint, until his bare foot stepped on something cold at the base of the youngest tree. He turned to investigate. Brushing aside the dust, he gasped as he found that what he stepped on was a plaque set into a small stone at the base of the tree. It read, in common and a language he didn't recognize; “Abbot Thibb, A good and generous man even in the harshest time. Claimed by the great plague, he provides even in death. Rest in peace.”

Peregrin rushed to the next tree, and found a similar plaque, the resting place of an abbess. He rushed to another, and then another. He swiftly realized that this orchard was not merely a supply of food inside the walls but was in fact the final resting place for the leaders of the abbey. Each abbot and abbess lying peacefully beneath a fruit tree, their body providing nourishment for a new life that shall in turn nourish others. From the general dates of life and death, he was able to find this abbey had stood a remarkably long time, nearly seven hundred years. It predated the hobgoblin empire, and had survived throughout it, and then for almost a hundred years after its fall.

Kazador headed down, following a staircase from the great hall into the comfortable underground. Inside, he found a long table covered in reports with thirteen chairs. The paper and quills still lying there seemed to be various reports, and it seemed this room was where the legate held conferences. The entire room was made of the same warm sandstone as the walls and main building but was generally comfortable and cozy.

On the far side of the room was another door, and next to it a grand tapestry that covers the entire wall. It was a massive cloth edifice showing Tamur’s conquest of the other goblin gods, and his many wars against the other gods.

Kazador was obviously displeased at the existence of such a tapestry and walked over to it. After confirming that there was nothing else flammable nearby, he sucked in a breath and bathed the remarkable piece of pagan artwork in fire. He smiled slightly smugly to himself, thinking that if they wanted to keep their art, they should have made it a bit more permanent. He turned to investigate the other door, when, out of the corner of his eye he saw the flaming tapestry was in fact hiding something. He turned and chuckled slightly, as it seemed the original designers of the abbey had the same ideas on art as him.

Hidden behind the tapestry, which was presumably hung to hide this, was a massive stone carving into the wall itself. This was clearly dwarven work, as only they could paint such a picture in solid sandstone. The carving depicted the building of the abbey, by dwarves and humans working together, under the watchful eyes of a stout looking dwarf lord and a human wearing a mighty sword. As the scene progressed, the human and the dwarf defend the abbey from a horde of various monstrous races. Goblins, Orcs, Gnolls, and creatures more obscure and profane that Kazador could recognize rush in a great swarm against the pair, only to be flanked by an elf from the woods and a dragonborn riding on the river. He stared very closely at the dragonborn in the picture, it appeared to be descended from one of the aquatic dragons, perhaps a gold or bronze one. Most curious of all though was their sword, which rippled like water and was wreathed in flame.

At the far end was the most recent work, looking to be perhaps two hundred years younger than the original piece, showing the human from before, standing with sword in hand in front of a multitude of different humanoids of all races, all standing behind with the same sword in their hands and the same determined stare in their eyes.

It is a truly beautiful piece, although it did contain an imperfection, one only a dwarf or one raised by them might notice. In the final panel, the first hero’s sword was missing the center of its crossguard. Rather than being carved outwards like the rest, it was carved inwards, digging into the wall rather than out of it. Examining the sword’s depiction with the other heroes, the crossguard would appear to have a small symbol of the seven for its center. Kazador smelled a hidden door, and to confirm his suspicions, he quickly departed, moving to go find the one other party member with the senses to detect it.

Yndri was exploring the main building, finding mostly dormitories and other such rooms, but she was pleasantly surprised to find a large suite of rooms that appeared to be a hospital. These rooms were immaculately clean, even by the hobgoblin’s own obsessive standards. The beds are laid with fresh linens, and the room was light and airy with several large windows.

Further examination discovered what looked to be an alchemy lab, with a small stock of potions, names labeled in goblin. Since she could not read them, she left them until she could find Peregrin or Jort. In the next room over was a single bed with straps to bind the occupant down. Many cruel looking sharp implements hung on the walls. It was uncertain whether this was a torture chamber or an operating room. However, considering it was run by hobgoblins, probably both. She turned from the room, which even when cleaned still stank of blood, when she heard Kazador calling for her and headed over to him. After the situation was explained, she headed down to the carven hall and examined it. After several long minutes of study, she confirmed his suspicions. There was indeed a cleverly hidden secret door here.

Julian followed Jort, while also looking like he was conducting his own search. Despite the young paladin’s aid in defeating Pompey, he was still somewhat suspicious of the treacherous blue-nose. Eventually the pair arrived at the Legate’s suite and began to search through it, finding mostly situation reports.

In searching his bedroom, they found the leader’s war chest, a large padlocked and sturdy oaken box. A solid strike from the nephilim opened it, revealing a substantial amount of gold, silver, and copper, as well as several precious stones and golden images. It was probably enough wealth to purchase half a small village, but Julian was somewhat unconcerned with it, what were they going to spend it on?

Despite this, they left it alone for now, and continued to search the room. Julian raised an eyebrow when he spotted a book poking out from under the pillows of the large bed. He snorted derisively when he discovered it was the rather popular “How to Pick Up Fair Maidens.” He considered just tossing it back down on the bed, but instead, after making sure Jort wasn't looking, slipped it inside his bag for later reading. Books are books after all, and he’d needed something new to read for some time.

He was then incredibly pleased when the next room they searched was filled to the absolute brim with books and scrolls. Jort was certain this was the happiest he’d ever seen the Nephilim as he carefully began to look through. Julian’s grin grew even wider when he realized what they’d just stumbled across. Volumes upon volumes of recordings, mostly in the form of clearly dated journals from the abbey recorders across history. The newer books were written in the common tongue, but as he also scanned several of the older ones, other languages appeared. It seemed angelic was popular at the beginning of the abbey, several were written entirely in dwarvish, and an entire tome, larger than all the rest, was written entirely in draconic. The writings on that seemed to have been written by what looked suspiciously more like a claw dipped in ink than a quill.

As he dug in with sheer glee, Julian at last discovered the true name of the abbey in the recordings of one Methuselah; “7.16.[illegible], Little has occurred of note this day, save that I have discovered the etymology behind our fair Hearthfire’s name. It seems that there is indeed magic [illegible] as I discovered in an ancient, almost crumbling letter from our founder [Illegible] to lord [dwarven runes, mostly illegible]. “This place shall have the warmth of the kindly sun in it, a [faded and illegible] goodly people I build it for, for this age and the ages yet to come.” So, that is why it is Hearthfire. I am very pleased to have discovered this, though I fear the paper shall soon become entirely destroyed by age.”

”Hearthfire then.” Julian mused as he looked at the old book, it itself now almost as ruined by the wastes of time as that letter this ancient Methuselah had found. “Fate smirks at least.” He muttered as he put it down. There was too much here for him to throw himself into for the moment, so he selected the youngest of the books and headed to find the others. As noontime rose, the group re-assembled in the hall for a meal and to discuss their findings. At Kazador and Yndri’s report, Senket’s eyebrows jumped.

“Would this perhaps be what was missing?” She said, producing the medallion. Kazador examined it, and his eyes went wide. “By the maker’s beard.” He invoked. “This is Mithril.” He said as he examined the small medallion carefully, seeming unable or unwilling to let it go.

The paladins looked at one another excitedly. They all knew the incredible value of that particular metal, and while they were not greedy, the existence of such a token indicated that this was once an incredibly prosperous place.

“More dwarf work tae boot. Ah keep findin signs o’ me kin but nae a place where they’d call home.” The dragonborn said, actually sounding worried for the first time.

“Still, that’s definitely the key.” Yndri agreed as she looked at the craftsmanship.

“But the key to what I wonder?” Peregrin said, his natural curiosity piqued. “Underground and hidden behind a secret door, whatever it was they really didn’t want it disturbed.”

“Considering I found it where the ghost was, maybe it’s his tomb.” Senket offered.

“I’m not sure, I found where they buried all their abbots, why would they go through so much trouble to hide anyone else? Unless there was some kind of super-abbot.” Peregrin said, trying to consider what a super-abbot would do with his time.

“Whatever it is, it should prove useful, though I think I may have found the most valuable point of all.” Julian said proudly as he produced his book (the history one, not the dating one). “There’s maybe a score or two more of these, the whole history of the abbey once I get time to go through it.”

Kazador rumbled something under his breath about the inferiority of paper to stone, but Julian ignored him and opened the book. “Now, let’s see what happened here.” He mused as he began to flick through the pages until he found where they stopped and the book went blank, and then turned back several pages and his eyes flicked across the paper. He read through the last days of the abbey quickly, flicking the pages over seemingly every minute, totally oblivious to the outside world. Even when Senket placed an empty mug on his head to test, he still didn't notice.

“I’ve seen men look at their gods and at their wives with less love than that.” Peregrin whistled, honestly impressed by the scholarly warrior’s focus.

As Julian read, his face grew sourer and darker as he came to the end and sighed, face grave. “It seems the inhabitants of this place were wiped out by a plague.” He said, though his eyes said that what he read there was far more than that. He shifted slightly, and the mug fell from his head, caught by Jort, who threw it back to Sen. “It struck the land without warning, wiping out almost all major settlements, spreading like wildfire through anything larger than a halfling village. The people here took in the sick, tried to help them. All they did was let the sickness in.”

The account had been harrowing, the recorder steadily growing more and more frantic as more and more died, and then as he had felt the symptoms take hold. It seemed he had tried to keep writing, but collapsed, as the last page had nothing but gibberish, ending with a letter that collapsed into a long scrawl across the page.

“It got worse.” he said, deciding to reveal this last horror. “The symptoms were this. Their bodies wasted away, like the life was drunk out of them. Their blood turned black, and their veins thickened, until they were, and I quote:

“Like vines digging through skin, wherever the light was weakest.”

A chill ran down the party’s spines as they remembered that creeping curse in the dark, and their vision of the strangled land beneath the coils of endless black vines, pulsing darkly like blood vessels.

“None of us are sick though, and neither were the goblins or the halflings.” Senket raised.

“We can’t get sick.” Peregrin reminded her. “And the halflings and goblins are probably the descendants of survivors who developed an immunity.”

“Wait, you can’t get sick?” Jort asked.

“We can’t.” Julian replied, including the younger hobgoblin in that we. “The magic we passively channel keeps us from succumbing to any illness. It’s the same reason why we’re faster, stronger, and heal more quickly.”

“The colonists won’t have that though. Weren’t they sick when we left?” Yndri realized, and the party began to understand why every colonization effort before had failed.

”Damn!” Kazador cursed, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “Julian, that book, did they ken even the beginin’s of a cure?” He demanded.

“Not even close, they sent out people searching but those never came back.” Julian said grimly. “We’re on our own.”

“No, we’re not.” Senket said. “The ghosts, the visions. We all saw our own, didn’t we?” The party nodded. “They must have found something, and now it’s up to us to follow through. This is our quest, to finish the job and save this land. We shall not fail.” She stated, her faith becoming ironclad as the pieces fell together. That same determination spread across the party as fervor and zealotry banished fear and replaced it with the invincible resolve of heroes.

“The ghost bade me to seek where he rests.” Senket said as she stared at the mithril medallion. “I think I might know just where that is.”

[antivanruffles]

Gon loved Killua. 

That wasn’t a revelation to anyone who knew them. Gon was free with his affection, and he loved those closest to him fiercely and without abandon. That was evident in everything he did for them; from simple things like making a cup of tea for Aunt Mito after a long day, to more complicated matters like ensuring their safety through any means necessary. 

It only made sense that Gon loved Killua, he was Gon’s best friend. His partner in crime, his confidant, his equal. He was the one person who knew Gon as well as he knew himself. Maybe better. So yes, Gon loved Killua. That was never a question, and it was never a problem. It was a fact of life, just like it was a fact that the sky was blue, or that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. 

Gon loved Killua. 

The problem arose when a realization slowly dawned on him one day. It wasn’t a thunderous realization that smacked him right in the face like a dodgeball. It was more like a gentle tide rising slowly before waves broke on the shore; something soft and soothing in its obvious simplicity. 

Gon was running errands for Aunt Mito, as he usually did. He stopped at the cafe down by the port for the loose leaf tea she preferred. While he waited in line, the cafe busy with tourists vacationing for the summer, he was aware of a family seated at a table nearby. One parent was engrossed with their youngest child, trying to get the baby to eat some breakfast. The other was equally engrossed in their older child, a girl in a floral tulip dress that likely would have made Bisky envious. The girl was slowly reading from her book, stumbling over some of the words as she sounded them out, but doing well enough. 

Gon wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but as he waited he found that his hearing easily picked up the girl’s voice through the din. She was reading a fairy tale about a princess, a dragon, and true love. 

“Mama,” the girl said at the conclusion of the story. “What is true love?” 

“Well,” her mother said slowly. “It’s a lot of things.”

“Are you and mommy true love? Like the princess and her prince?”

At the question the girl’s mother shared a look with her partner, a sly smile spreading across the other woman’s face before she went back to feeding the baby. 

“I think so,” was the calm reply from the girl’s mother. 

The girl seemed very pleased with that answer, her eyes glowing. “But how do you know?” 

“I know because of a lot of small reasons that add up to something big. For instance, your mommy is the first person I want to talk to when something exciting or important happens. She’s the person I want to see when I’m feeling sad, because she always makes me feel better. I think her laugh is one of the best sounds in the world, and I like being the one to cause it. She makes me feel safe, and heard, and supported. All of those things, plus a hundred more, are what I think makes us true love.” 

The little girl nodded slowly, a very serious look on her face as she pondered this new information. Gon found himself pondering it as well. Whatever else the girl was going to say about her mothers and their ‘true love’ was lost as it was his turn at the counter. 

Gon ordered Aunt Mito’s tea, and some muffins for the morning. Then he was headed out the door, his mind a swirl of strange thoughts. 

He pondered what the woman had said, and the soft looks she and her wife shared. It seemed so simple, and yet not remotely simple. 

True love. 

It wasn’t something he had ever really thought about before, aside from the casual mentions you would hear in movies or books or whatever else. Gon hadn’t had much experience with it, not in his life, and certainly not personally. Romantic love, true or otherwise, hadn’t been on his radar as a child. Not even now at eighteen. It was just a thing that existed in the world, something for other people. 

He turned over the woman’s words over and over again, and if he applied the scenarios to a person in his life there was only ever one answer. Gon thought about other scenarios, other moments, and other ways someone might love a romantic partner. Some of them were cliche, because that was all he knew, some were things that came to mind for no reason at all, but it was clear as day. 

Each time the answer remained the same. 

Each time a piece of the puzzle seemed to slide into place, and the picture became a little clearer. 

Questions were swirling in his mind, things he hadn’t even thought to broach before now came to the forefront. Like, what did love mean to him? It meant a lot of things, like that woman had said to her daughter, and there were many different kinds of love, absolutely. Then he asked himself what did true love -- or the idea of it anyway -- mean to him? 

Gon was halfway home, arms ladened with everything Aunt Mito had requested, when he stopped dead in his tracks as the puzzle pieces all fell in line and the picture finally solidified in his mind. There was one answer, and one answer only. 

What did true love mean to Gon?

The answer was Killua. 

The answer had always been Killua, even when Gon hadn’t known what the question was. And he was certain the answer would remain Killua, for as long as Gon could imagine. For as long Gon lived.

He stood rooted to the spot as the sun sank down low on the horizon, and it was only when the sun was starting to kiss the ocean that he forced himself to move again. And only then for fear of making Aunt Mito worry.  

Gon barely paid attention to what he was doing the rest of the night. He dropped off his shopping bags, helped Aunt Mito put everything away. He ate dinner, washed the dishes, and finished up his chores for the day even as his mind was reeling and his heart was thundering. 

As he crawled into bed that night, body buzzing with this realization, that was when the worrying started. Like what would he do? What would he say to Killua? How did any of this work?

What would happen if Killua returned his feelings? That was terrifying in a way Gon couldn’t explain, what did it mean to be in love with someone; to be in a relationship? Or what if Killua didn’t return his feelings? That terrified Gon in ways that were easy to explain. And he tried very hard not to dwell on that scenario.  

This had all been much easier when Gon simply loved Killua. That was straightforward, and something he understood. This though? This he did not understand, and yet it somehow made perfect sense. 

Gon was in love with Killua.

[captainderyn]

Fictober Day 1: “I Chose You”

Fandom: LOTRO

Rating: Teen and Up

Warnings: None

Relationship: Wulfwryn & Aragorn (Friendship)

Posted to AO3

---

Wulfwryn thought the day the Nazgul stole Amdir from her was the day her world crumbled. Finding Amdir laid, bloody and sickly, on that altar, watching him writhe and rise again in untold evil, ruined her worse than she thought she could be. 

    With the loss of Amdir also came the loss of Strider, as he rode for the Prancing Pony on his own business, leaving her to tie up her loose ends in east Bree-land. 

    Buckland hummed with the soft noise of nightfall. Insects buzzed, fish darted to the surface of the pond she trotted by in a symphony of natural harmony. 

    Lenglinn’s camp rested on a hill above the pond, the dark shadow of his tent alerting her to his exact location despite the darkening sky and deepening shadows. 

    A report was already flowing from her before her horse had fully halted, “Strider says the hobbit with him is known as Underhill, not as Baggins. He sent me back to you to aid however I can, sir.” 

She slid off of her horse, exhaustion taking root in her bones as her feet hit the ground. As she undid the buckles and straps of her horse’s tack, she listened halfheartedly to what she wrongfully assumed would be an acknowledgement and some instruction for the morning. 

“You say that Underhill is with Aragorn?” Lenglinn pulled himself up from the ground, the injury he’d sustained in Chetwood still healing slowly, “I know of no Underhills…I was sent to watch over a hobbit named Baggins. I must assume that is who Aragorn spoke off…” 

His words washed over Wulfwryn, fading into static after that name. That name.

Her fingers fumbled on the straps, sending her saddle’s girth flopping to the ground.

“Who do you mean, Aragorn?” she asked numbly, “Strider gave you those orders.”

Lenglinn trailed off, blinking owlishly at her for a long moment. 

“Who do you mean Aragorn?” she repeated with more force, “The man I know has gone only by Strider!” 

If he was…if that name. Cold was washing over her despite the heat of the fire pulsing beside them. If for two months now she’d walked right beside the very man she’d abandoned everything to find. Abandoned her posting, her family, her life on the desperate rumor that he still lived. 

“Strider is his name to the common-folk around here.” Lenglinn said slowly, “He has his reasons for secrecy.” 

Wulfwryn slowly nodded, covering her saddle with the saddle blanket and placing the bridle and martingale alongside it with controlled neatness. 

“What else do you have for me to do?” she asked, pressing her lips together. Filing away the news that shook her deep into her bone marrow to deal with later. 

For now, finding the pattern of the Nazgul was what she understood. What she knew. 

Even if she felt like she didn’t know anything at all. 

---

Barlim Butterbur must’ve seen something in Wulfwryn’s face as she breezed through the door of the Prancing Pony, for he didn’t offer her a lick of food or drink. Instead he gestured towards the stairs and muttered, “Strider’s up there.” 

 As she stormed up the stairs, pausing at Striders familiar door, Wulfwryn couldn’t decide what emotion caused her hands to quiver and her mind to run in circles. 

She pushed open the door and made sure it closed tightly behind her. 

“Wulfwryn!” Aragorn greeted her, pausing when he saw her stormy expression. 

“You knew.” Her voice wavered despite her best attempts to keep it steady, “You listened to me talk about where I came from and you hid from me.” 

Understanding dawned overAragorm and he squeezed his eyes closed, “Tell me, did Lenglinn slip?” 

“You’re Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” Wulfwryn’s voice dropped, drifting somewhere in the gray between awe and pain, “My rightful king. And you hid.” 

“I am not!” He was quick to respond, but grit his teeth at the bite in his words, “I do not embrace that side of my history, my so-called destiny.” 

All of the time she’d questioned whether abandoning her post, her duty, her people, was the right decision was finally falling into place in sweet validation. She realized then that it was not an emotion that caused her to shake, but sheer emotion. A culmination of years worth of hopeless wandering and barely reputable leads. 

It didn’t matter if he threw away the crown, refusing to bear the weight that it carried. 

    Her knee hit the ground and she bowed her head, hands coming to rest on the pommel of her sword. She hadn’t taken this fealty pose since she’d been sworn on to the guardianship of the White City. 

    “Wulfwryn,” Aragorn insisted, a flustered edge taking hold of his words. He backed up a step, “This is unnecessary. I am no king to Gondor.” 

    She shook her head, “I don’t care about that.” she clenched her fingers tighter to stop their quaking, “If I had known…I left the place I was sworn to protect, on the desperate hope that somewhere you were still out there, a hope that one day the White City would gleam again.” 

    Aragorn’s hand was gentle on her arm, tugging her until she stood.

    “I cannot be that.” he said softly, “But your dedication is admired, my friend.” 

    “I don’t care about Gondor.” Wulfwryn repeated, though it wasn’t exactly true, somewhere in her heart she still cared deeply for the White City that had raised her.     She continued, “I looked at the corruption running rampant in the city and I chose to pursue rumors and hope that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was still out there. And you are. I chose you, as your loyal soldier, your loyal guard, and now, upon pure accident, your friend. I intend to hold that same loyalty through whatever murky path lies ahead.” 

[themousefromfantasyland]

How the Tooth Fairy Became a Guardian

Extracted from Toothiana, Queen of the Tooth Fairy Armies, third book in the Guardians of Childhood series by William Joyce.

In this series, which served as inspiration for the DreamWorks' Rise of the Guardians, William Joyce managed to create one of the craziest and most epic origin stories for the Tooth Fairy. If I'm not mistaken, in one interview, he himself admitted how crazy it was, and how it was inspired by jungle movies he watched as a kid.

The bookworm bowed and told them, “The story of the Queen of Toothiana lies in volume six of Curious Unexplainables of the East.”

“Of course! I should have remembered that myself,” Ombric said, nodding. “Mr. Qwerty, please enlighten us.” (Ombric, the Wizard,and Qwerty, the literal bookworm, are characters that only appeared in the books)

The Guardians sat around the table while Mr. Qwerty began his tale.

“To know the story of Queen Toothiana,” he said, “you must first hear the tale of the maharaja, his slave Haroom, and the Sisters of Flight.”

“Sisters of Flight?” North interrupted.

“Sisters of Flight,” Mr. Qwerty repeated patiently. The image of a beautiful winged woman appeared on one of Mr. Qwerty’s pages. She was human-size, with long, willowy arms and legs and a heart-shaped face. But her wings were magnificent, and she held a bow and arrow of extraordinary design.

The Sisters of Flight were an immortal race of winged women who ruled the city of Punjam Hy Loo, which sits atop the steepest mountain in the mysterious lands of the Farthest East. An army of noble elephants stood guard at the base of the mountain. No humans were allowed to enter, for the mountain’s jungle was a haven for the beasts of the wild—a place where they could be safe from men and their foolishness.

Toothiana’s father was a human by the name of Haroom. He had been sold at birth into slavery as a companion for a young Indian maharaja. Despite being slave and master, the maharaja and Haroom became great friends. But the maharaja was a silly, vain boy who had his every wish and whim granted. Yet this did not make him happy, for he always wanted more.

Haroom, Toothiana's father

Haroom, who had nothing, wanted nothing and so was very content. Secretly, the maharaja admired his friend for this. For his part, Haroom admired the maharaja for knowing what he wanted—and getting it.

The maharaja loved to hunt and slay all the animals of the wild, and Haroom, who never tired of watching the powerful elegance of wild creatures such as tigers and snow leopards, was an excellent tracker. But he hated to see the animals killed, so when that moment came, he always looked away. As a slave, he could do nothing to stop his master. And so, with Haroom tracking, the maharaja killed one of every beast in his kingdom, lining the palace walls with their heads as trophies. But the one animal the maharaja coveted most continued to elude him.

In the mountain land ruled by the Sisters of Flight, there dwelled one creature that no slave, man, or ruler had ever seen: the flying elephant of Punjam Hy Loo.

The maharaja was determined to do anything to have one for his collection, but every time he tried to force his way up the mountain, the elephant army at its base turned him back. He realized that he must find another way to reach Punjam Hy Loo.

In those ancient times no man had yet discovered the mystery of flight. But after demanding advice from his wizards and soothsayers, the maharaja learned a secret: Children can fly when they dream, and when the Moon shines brightly, their dreams can become so vivid that some of them come true. Sometimes the children remember, but mostly they do not. That is why children sometimes wake up in their parents’ beds without knowing how they got there—they flew!

The wizards told the maharaja a second secret.” At this, Mr. Qwerty lowered his voice, and all the Guardians leaned closer. “The memory of everything that happens to a child is stored in that child’s baby teeth.

And so the maharaja’s wizards gave him an idea: fashion a craft of the lost teeth of children and command it to remember how to fly. The maharaja sent out a decree throughout his kingdom, stating that whenever a child lost a tooth, it must be brought to his palace. His subjects happily complied, and it was not long before he had assembled a craft unlike any other the world had ever known.

Meanwhile, the maharaja ordered Haroom to make an archer’s bow of purest gold and one single ruby-tipped arrow. When the weapon was finished, the maharaja ordered Haroom to join him aboard the craft. Then he said these magic words:

‘Remember,

remember,

the moonlit flights

of magic nights.’

And just as the royal wizards had promised, the craft flew silently through the sky, over the jungle, and past the elephants who guarded Punjam Hy Loo.

They descended from the clouds and flew into the still-sleeping city. In the misty light of dawn, the maharaja could hardly tell where the jungle ended and the city began. But Haroom, used to seeking out tracks, spotted some he had never seen before—tracks that could only belong to the flying elephant, for although they looked similar to a normal elephant’s, his keen eye saw one addition: an extra digit pointing backward, like that of a bird.

It did not take long to find the flying elephant, sleeping in a nest in the low-lying limbs of an enormous jujube tree. The maharaja raised the golden bow and took careful aim. The tip of the ruby arrow glittered in the first rays of morning sunlight. Haroom looked away.

Suddenly, there came an intense, cacophonous alarm, as if every creature of Punjam Hy Loo knew of the maharaja’s murderous intent. Charging down from the towers above came the Sisters of Flight, wings outstretched, with all manner of weapons at the ready—gleaming swords, razor-sharp daggers, fantastical flying spears with wings of their own. It was a sight so beautiful, so terrifying that Haroom and the maharaja froze.

Then the maharaja raised his bow again, this time aiming it at the Sisters of Flight. ‘Look, Haroom, an even greater prize,’ he exclaimed.

In that single moment Haroom’s whole life changed. He knew, for the very first time, what he wanted. He could not bear to see a Sister of Flight harmed. He ordered the maharaja to stop.

The maharaja paid his servant no heed. He let loose the arrow. Haroom blocked it. Its ruby tip pierced his chest, and he crumbled to the ground.

The maharaja stared in shock, then kneeled beside his fallen friend. Weeping, he tried to stop the flow of blood but could not. Haroom was dying.

The Sisters of Flight landed around them. The most beautiful of the sisters, the one the maharaja had meant to kill, approached them. ‘We did not know that any man could be so selfless,’ she said. Her sisters nodded.

With one hand, she grabbed the arrow and plucked it from Haroom’s chest, then kissed her fingertips and gently touched his wound.

Haroom stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. All he could see was the face of the Sister of Flight. And all she could see was the brave and noble Haroom.

He was a slave no more.

She took his hand, and in that instant her wings vanished.

The other sisters lunged toward the maharaja in fury. They raised their swords, and Haroom could see they meant to kill his former master. ‘He will no longer harm you,’ he said. ‘Please, let him go—send him on his way.’

The sisters looked from one to the other, then agreed. But they declared that the maharaja must leave all he brought with him. The golden bow, the ruby-tipped arrow, the flying craft of teeth, and Haroom, his only friend.

‘And one thing more. You must also leave your vanity and cruelty behind so that we can know and understand them.’

The maharaja was heartbroken but agreed.

The flying elephant glided down from his nest, and with his trunk, he touched the maharaja’s forehead, and all the vanity and cruelty went from him.

But once these things were gone, there was little left—the maharaja was as simple as a baby monkey. In fact, he even sprouted a tail and scampered away speaking gibberish, shrinking to the size of an infant.

His vanity and cruelty would never be forgotten—the flying elephant had them now, and an elephant never forgets. As for Haroom and the beautiful Sister of Flight, they were married and lived on in Punjam Hy Loo. Within a year, a child was born. A girl. Selfless like her father. Pure of heart like her mother. She was named Toothiana.

The child of Haroom and Rashmi (for that was Toothiana’s mother’s name) seemed to be a normal mortal child. As there were no other human children living in Punjam Hy Loo, her parents thought it best to raise her among other mortals, and so they settled on the outskirts of a small village at the edge of the jungle. The young girl was well loved and protected and lived a simple, happy life until she was twelve and lost her last baby tooth. That’s when all her troubles began.

“Troubles?” Katherine asked nervously. (Katherine is also another book only character. She is friend of the Guardians and future guardian herself, Mother Goose, guardian of the stories)

“Yes, troubles,” Mr. Qwerty said. “For when she lost her last baby tooth, Toothiana sprouted wings. By the end of this first miraculous day, she could fly with the speed of a bird, darting to the top of the tallest trees to choose the ripest mangoes, papayas, and starfruit for the children of the village. She played with the birds and made friends with the wind.

But while the children delighted in Toothiana’s new skill, the adults of the village were bewildered, even frightened, by this half bird, half girl. Some thought she was an evil spirit and should be killed; others saw ways to use her, as either a freak to be caged and paraded about, or to force her to fly to the palace of the new maharaja and steal his jewels.

Haroom and Rashmi knew that to keep their daughter safe, they would have to pack their few belongings and escape. And so they did, deep into the jungle. The village children, all of whom adored Toothiana, tried to persuade their parents to leave her alone. But it was no use. The grown-ups of the village had gone mad with fear and greed.

They built a large cage, hired the best hunters in the land, and asked them to capture the young girl. Among these was a hunter most mysterious. He spoke not a word and was shrouded from head to foot in tattered cloth stitched together with jungle vines. The villagers were wary of him, and even the other hunters found him peculiar. ‘He knows the jungle better than any of us—it’s as if he’s more a creature than a man,’ they remarked quietly among themselves.

But Haroom and Rashmi were as wily as any hunter. Haroom, knowing everything there was to know about tracking, could disguise their trail so that no one could follow it. And Rashmi, who could converse with any animal, enlisted their aid in confounding the hunters. Tigers, elephants, even giant pythons would intercept the hunters whenever they neared. But the hunters, eager for the riches and fame they’d receive if they caged Toothiana, would not give up.

Rashmi, Toothiana's mother

The children of the village were also determined to thwart the hunters. They defied their parents, sending word to Toothiana and her mother and father again and again whenever the hunters were stalking the jungle. Toothiana, wiser still, hid in the treetops by day, only visiting her parents in the darkest hours of the night.

After weeks of the best hunters in the land failing to capture Toothiana, the cunning villagers became more sly. They secretly followed their children and discovered where Toothiana’s parents were hiding. They left a trail of coins for the hunters to follow. But only one hunter came—the one they almost feared. It was then that the Mysterious Hunter finally spoke. His voice was strange, high-pitched, almost comical, but his words were cold as death. ‘Seize the parents,’ he snarled. ‘Make it known that I will slit their throats if Toothiana does not surrender. That will bring this child of flight out of hiding.’

His plan made sense; the villagers did as he suggested. They attacked Haroom and Rashmi’s camp. With so many against them, the two surrendered without a fight. They had told their clever daughter to never try and help them if they were ever captured.

But the Mysterious Hunter had planned for that. He shouted out to any creature that could hear, ‘The parents of the flying girl will die by dawn if she comes not!’

The creatures of the jungle hurried to warn Toothiana that her parents were doomed if she did not come. Toothiana had never disobeyed her parents, but the thought of them at the dubious mercy of these grown-ups filled her with rage and determination, and she flew straight to her parents’ aid. She dove down from the treetops, ready to kill any who would try to harm her parents.

But Haroom and Rashmi were brave and cunning as well. Haroom, who had never harmed a living creature, was prepared to stop at nothing to prevent his daughter from being enslaved. And Rashmi, like all Sisters of Flight, had been a great warrior. As Toothiana neared, they slashed and fought like beings possessed. Toothiana flickered back and forth, hovering over her mother and father, reaching for them, but she did not have the strength to lift them up over the angry mob. Rashmi thrust a stringed pouch into her daughter’s hands. ‘Keep these to remember us by. Keep these to protect yourself,’ she pleaded to her child.

'Now go!’ commanded her father. ‘GO!’

With a heartrending cry, the winged girl did as her father ordered. She flew away but stopped, unsure of what to do. Her ears filled with the sound of the vengeful mob falling upon her parents.

‘Go!’ shouted her mother.

Toothiana flew wildly and desperately away. And as she went, she screamed from the depths of her soul. It was the scream of two beings: human and animal. It was a scream so pained and fierce that it caused all the villagers who were attacking her parents to go briefly deaf. All except . . . the Mysterious Hunter. He screamed back to Toothiana. His was a scream equally unsettling—a scream of rage and hate that was more animal than human. Toothiana knew in that instant that she had a mortal enemy—one who she must kill or be killed by.

But for now she would grieve. She flew to the highest treetop and huddled deep inside its foliage. She had no tears, only the blank ache of a now-empty life. She rocked back and forth in a trance of disbelief for a full day and night. Then she remembered the pouch her mother had thrust into her hands. Trembling, she opened it. Inside was a small box carved from a single giant ruby. It was covered in feathery patterns, and Toothiana knew that the box had once been the ruby-tipped arrow that had nearly killed her parents. Inside this beautiful box was a cluster of baby teeth and a note:

Our Dearest Girl,

These are the teeth of your childhood. If you have them under your pillow as you sleep, or hold it tightly, you will remember that which you need—a memory of happy days, or of deepest hopes, or even of us in better times.

But one tooth is not yours. It is a tooth of amazing power, and from what being it comes from, we do not know.

Use it only in times of the greatest danger or need.

Your Dearest Parents

Toothiana still did not cry, not even after reading the note. She slept with her baby teeth under her pillow and took solace in the dreams and memories it gave her.

Toothiana stayed in the jungle. She began to hate her wings. Once, she had thought them wondrous things, but now she saw them as the reason for the death of her parents. Her grief and loneliness knew no depths. The creatures of the jungle did what they could to help her, by bringing her food and making her treetop sleeping places as comfortable as possible. The children of the village tried to aid as well, but they now had to be doubly cautious of the village grown-ups.

As for Toothiana, she became more and more convinced that she belonged nowhere—not among the creatures of the jungle and certainly not among the humans of the village. She was alone. When she was at her very saddest, she would take one of her baby teeth from the carved box she always carried in her mother’s pouch she now wore around her neck, and hold it until it revealed its memories.

As the lonely years passed, Toothiana saw that the village children lost much of their innocence and some of their goodness as they grew up. She began to collect their teeth, so that, in the future, she could give them back their childhood memories and remind them of their kindness, just as her own parents had done for her.

Soon the children, not wanting their parents to find out, began to hide their lost teeth under their pillows for Toothiana to find. And she, cheered by this new game of sorts, began in turn to leave behind small bits of treasure she had found in the jungle. A gold nugget here. A sprinkling of sapphire chips there.

But you can imagine the curiosity that is stirred when a five-year-old sits down to breakfast with an uncut ruby in her palm, or when a ten-year-old boy comes to the table with a pocket full of emeralds. Once again the hearts of the grown-ups filled with greed, and it wasn’t long before they forced their children to tell them how they had come upon those treasures. Soon enough they had laid a new trap for Toothiana.

One dark, cloudy night Toothiana flew to the village to make her nightly rounds. A boy named Akela had lost his two front teeth, and Toothiana had a special treasure saved for him: two beautiful uncut diamonds. But as she entered his open window, it wasn’t Akela she found. Instead the Mysterious Hunter leaped toward her. From behind his shroud of rags, she could see the strangest eyes. Close together. Beady. Not entirely human. And cold with hate.

Toothiana’s rage clouded her keen intellect. All she could think was, I must get rid of this . . . thing! But before she could act, a steel door slammed down between her and the Hunter. She glanced around with birdlike quickness. The room was not Akela’s bedroom, but, in fact, a cleverly disguised steel cage.

She was trapped! The villagers cheered as the Hunter hauled away the cage. His platoon of slavelike helpers pulled the wheeled prison away from the villagers and into the jungle. The helpers were as strangely shrouded as the Hunter who commanded them was, and seemed excited by the capture. The children wept, begging their parents to let Toothiana go free. But they would not. The Mysterious Hunter had promised them riches beyond their dreams when he sold Toothiana.

Toothiana flung herself wildly against the cage, like a cornered eagle. But it did no good. The Hunter and his minions traveled swiftly through the night, deeper into the jungle. They knew the creatures of the wild would try to help Toothiana, so they carried the one weapon every animal fears: fire.

Torches were lashed to the roof of Toothiana’s cage. The Mysterious Hunter himself carried the brightest torch of all. The animals kept their distance, but they continued to follow the eerie caravan and keep watch over Toothiana, waiting for a chance to strike.

After days of travel they arrived at the base of the steep mountain of Toothiana’s birthplace—the kingdom of Punjam Hy Loo. The great elephants that guarded the mountain were standing at the ready, shifting back and forth on their massive feet. Toothiana’s jungle friends had warned them that the Mysterious Hunter was headed their way.

The Hunter did not challenge the elephants. He ordered his minions to halt and made no move to attack. Instead, he held his flaming torch aloft. ‘I bring a treasure to the Sisters of Flight and the flying elephant king who dwell in Punjam Hy Loo!’ he shouted into the night sky. The sky was empty; there was no sign of either the winged women who ruled there, or of the flying elephant.

The Hunter called out again. ‘I bring you the half-breed daughter of Haroom and Rashmi.’ At this, an otherworldly sound—like a rustle of trees in the wind—was heard. And indeed wind did begin to blow down from the mountain. It grew stronger and more furious, with gusts that nearly put out the torches.

Toothiana knew instinctually that this wind was sent by the Sisters of Flight and that they did not trust the Hunter. She also knew that it was time to take out the box her parents had left her.

As the winds continued to rise, the Hunter grew increasingly nervous, as did his minions. They began to chatter in the oddest way, not in words, but in sounds.

Then a chorus of voices, all speaking in unison, rang out bright and clear above the howl of the wind: ‘Tell us, Hunter, why cage our child? Where be her father and mother? What trick of men do you bring us? What do you seek, you who seem of men and yet are not?’

The Hunter rocked on his feet, seething with undisguised hate. He held his torch high and stepped forward, leaning into the wind. The elephants raised their trunks but took a step back. Fire was a fearsome thing, even for these mighty beasts.

The Hunter laughed, then threw down his tattered cloak. He was no man at all, but a massive monkey. ‘A maharaja of men I once was,’ he screamed, ‘and by your doing, I am now a king of the monkeys!’ Then his troops dropped their cloaks as well. An array of monkeys revealed themselves, all armed with bows and arrows.

The Monkey King shrieked above the roaring wind, ‘You ask about her parents? Dead! By my doing! What do I seek? Revenge! On all who made me thus!’ Then he threw his torch into the herd of elephants and grabbed a bow and arrow from one of his men. He had it drawn in an instant, aimed directly at Toothiana’s heart.

Before he could let loose the arrow, the wind tripled in strength. Toothiana knew what to do. She held the ruby box tightly in her hand. ‘Mother, Father, help me,’ she whispered furiously, clenching her eyes shut. She pictured them clearly in her mind, letting herself feel the bond they had shared so deeply, letting herself remember how much they had sacrificed for her.

Suddenly, she was no longer in the cage. She was no longer a single entity, but several smaller versions of herself.

Bow drawn, the Monkey King hesitated, bewildered. How can this be? He could not remember the power of love—even though it had been this girl’s father who had loved him best—and his own memories were now fueled only by hate.

So the world turned against him once again.

The Sisters of Flight circled overhead. It was the flapping of their wings that made the great wind. It grew wilder and stranger, like a tornado. Leaves snapped off trees. Dirt swirled like a storm, and the Monkey King’s torch blew out.

Now the only light came from the Moon, and no jungle creature fears that guiding light. In an instant the elephants stampeded forward. Toothiana’s animal friends attacked. Toothiana’s mini-selves charged the Monkey King. The monkey army screamed and ran.

The king tried to grab the Toothianas, but he could not catch them. Then all the fairy-sized selves merged back into a single being. Toothiana was mystified by her new power, but she didn’t think on it. With one hand, she grabbed the Monkey King by the throat. It was as if she now had the strength of a dozen. The Monkey King cried out in terror and pain.

For an instant Toothiana felt the rage within her swell. She would snap his neck and be done with him. But the little box glowed in one hand, and the memory of her parents made her stop. She would not end this monkey man’s life. Let the jungle choose his fate.

So she let him go.

He fell to the ground, and she did not look back as she flew up to join the Sisters of Flight.

As they sped away, Toothiana and her kindred could hear the creatures of the jungle do as they saw fit with the fallen Monkey King. And his cries could be heard all the way to the Moon.

Mr. Qwerty then shut his pages. The tale, as it was written, was done.

[emospritelet]

Homecoming - chapter 27/?

I know it's been ages...

Last time, Belle and Ogilvy spent the night together, and were walked in on by one of the maids. Here's what happened next

[AO3] - 3,758 words

-

Belle hurried along the corridor, the shawl clasped tightly around her shoulders, ears pricked for the sound of a footstep, the creak of a floorboard. It was still early, and she heaved a sigh of relief when she reached her room without meeting anyone. Closing the door quietly behind herself, she went to wash, stripping off the nightgown and wrapping a robe around herself. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, and paused, turning her head this way and that. Nothing had changed as far as she could see, and yet it seemed that everything had. She could see the corners of her mouth wanting to curve upwards, and she allowed herself a wide, contented grin. Her fortunes had certainly taken a wonderful, if unexpected, turn.

By the time she was dressed and her hair in place, the children were awake, letting themselves into her room while rubbing sleepy eyes and yawning. Alice was behind them, already dressed and still trying to brush her blonde curls into some sort of order.

“I was about to ring for their breakfast,” she said.

“I can do that,” said Belle. “Is anyone else up, do you know?”

“Only the servants, I think.” Alice eyed her curiously. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly.” She could feel a blush start to rise in her cheeks. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, you just look…” Alice shrugged, turning away. “Never mind. May I borrow a ribbon? All of mine seem to have disappeared. I think I must have packed them in the trunk rather than my valise but I can’t find them.”

“Of course, help yourself.”

Belle rang the bell, and set about getting the children ready, ensuring that faces were washed and hair brushed. Their breakfast was brought up by a dark-haired maid that Belle didn’t know. The maid seemed to be glancing at her out of the corner of her eye every chance she got, and Belle wanted to sigh. All the servants knew, then.

She focused on getting the children to eat their porridge, stewed prunes and sweet rolls, and Alice chattered about the journey ahead of them, and how much she was looking forward to getting home.

“Papa said we’d be leaving around midday,” she said. “Are you headed out for a walk this morning?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought.” Belle chewed her lip, glancing around. “Will I have time before breakfast, do you think?”

“It won’t be served until nine-thirty,” said Alice. “You should go. I can sit with the twins.”

“In that case, I might take a turn around the lake,” she said. “I think some fresh air would do me good.”

“You do look a little tired,” observed Alice, eyeing her. “Didn’t you sleep? My bed was ever so comfortable, but perhaps yours wasn’t.”

“No no, it was fine,” said Belle quickly. “I just didn’t sleep all that well. I’m sure I’ll feel better once I’ve taken some exercise.”

She took up her hat, securing it on top of her hair with a pin, and drew on her coat and scarf.

“If I see Papa, I’ll tell him where you’ve gone,” said Alice, and Belle smiled to herself.

“Thank you.”

-

The air outside was crisp and cold as she left the house and took the path to the lake, gravel crunching beneath her feet and the chill from the snow already biting at her feet. She shivered, pushing her chin down into her scarf and quickening her pace as she left the relative shelter of the house and headed down the long avenue of beech trees that led to the lake. A set of footsteps marked the snow in front of her, and the tracks of birds crisscrossed the trail.

The trail turned to the right, and Belle rounded the last of the beech trees, looking down on the lake, its surface frozen in all but a few places and covered with a layer of snow. Brown reeds poked up through the ice, and she heard the cawing of rooks from the oak trees to the east of the lake. The sky was clear, the orange sun rising over the dark veil of bare branches, and a low layer of mist hung over the lake. The trail of footsteps led down to the water’s edge, and Belle broke into a smile as she saw Ogilvy making a slow circuit, picking his way through the snow with his walking cane. He seemed to sense she was there, and turned as she approached, his eyes gleaming with that soft light she loved so much.

“Good morning again,” she said lightly, stepping close to him, and he grinned.

“Miss Marchland,” he said formally, with a tiny bow. “May I say how very well you look?”

“Alice doesn’t think so,” she said dryly. “She said I looked as though I hadn’t slept at all.”

“She always was observant,” he remarked. “Goodness knows what she’d make of my appearance this morning.”

Belle covered her mouth with a gloved hand to hold in a giggle.

“Considering I had so little sleep, I feel quite - refreshed,” she said, and his grin widened.

“In that case, would you walk the rest of the way with me?”

“With pleasure.”

She took his arm, enjoying the excuse to be close to him, and they made their way along the lake shore at a steady pace.

“I’ve missed walking here,” she said. “A circuit of the lake was part of my morning routine when I lived at Furton Grange.”

“It’s a beautiful estate,” he said. “Living in town is convenient in many ways, but I must say I enjoy the peace and quiet of places like this.”

“Would you ever move out of London?” she asked, and he glanced across at her.

“It would have to be a family decision,” he said. “I feel Alice would want to stay there for a few more years. I daresay we’ll need to travel around, in any event.”

“I see.” She pursed her lips. “I think I’m rather looking forward to it. I’ve seen so little of the country since I arrived here.”

He smiled, his eyes gleaming in the early dawn.

“I want to show you everything,” he said softly, and she smiled, ducking her head as she felt her cheeks heat. Really, she had to stop blushing every time he looked at her. He was still staring at her with that tiny smile when she looked up. Belle could feel her heart thump hard at the warmth in his eyes, the look of utter devotion. How had she not seen it before? He held her gaze for a moment longer, and she could feel that pleasant tug low in her belly before he glanced away again.

“Are the children awake?” he asked. Belle nodded.

“I got them dressed. Alice is sitting with them while they have breakfast.”

“She’s a good girl,” he said, and she made a noise of agreement.

“I had some very curious looks from the maid that brought the breakfast,” she said. “I fear everyone downstairs knows how we spent our time last night.”

“Thankfully Lady Ella is a late riser,” he said. “It may mean we can slip away before she finds out.”

Belle giggled.

“Will she be very cross with me, do you think?” she asked, and he laughed.

“No, not at all,” he said. “She’ll be delighted to have been proven right and will want to interfere in the wedding plans.”

“I very much doubt she’d approve of our notion of a small and understated ceremony.”

“Certainly not.”

“Time is of the essence, then.”

He turned to face her, still smiling, and she stepped closer, until they were almost touching. Belle inhaled deeply, pulling the cold air in through her nose, sharp at the back of her throat, and let it out in a sighing plume of white.

“I almost don’t want to leave this place,” she said. “It’s so peaceful. It feels as though you and I are the only two people in existence.”

His hands rose up to cup her cheeks, fingers surprisingly warm in the cold air, and he gently pressed his brow to hers, white breath billowing into the air between them as he exhaled deeply. Belle closed her eyes, nose brushing against his, feeling the brief warmth of his breath against her lips.

“The time will fly once we return home,” he said quietly. “A little over a week, and we shall be together forever.”

“Yes,” she breathed, and he bent his head to kiss her.

She rose up on her toes, hands finding his waist and sliding up his back as the kiss deepened. The harsh caw of a rook startled them, their lips parting, and Belle giggled a little, burying her face in his chest as he kissed the top of her head.

“Perhaps we should head back to the house,” he suggested. “I want to make sure the trunks get onto the carriage in time for us to leave.”

“You really are hoping we can get away before she wakes up, aren’t you?” said Belle, amused, and he pulled a face.

“Would you prefer we had the inevitable conversation here or by letter?” he asked dryly, and she giggled again.

“An excellent point,” she admitted. “Let’s go.”

Ogilvy smiled broadly, and turned on his heel, offering his arm to her once more as they headed back to the house.

They entered the hall together, stamping a little to get the snow from their boots. Ogilvy watched Belle as she did so, cheeks pink with the cold and eyes bright, her breathing a little quicker from their walk. She was so beautiful it made his throat catch, and if Hatter and Ivy had not appeared to take their coats, hats and scarves, he would have been tempted to kiss her again. He was unwinding the soft wool from around his neck when Doc appeared by the staircase, giving him a pointed look and inclining his head in the direction of the drawing room.

“Breakfast smells delicious,” said Belle, making him glance around. “I - ah - I think I might go and see if Alice has come down yet.”

“She’s in the breakfast room,” said Doc. “Our hosts have yet to arise, I fear.”

“I should think they won’t be up this side of noon,” said Ogilvy, and nodded to Belle with a smile. “Please tell Alice we’ll join you shortly.”

Belle sent him a soft-eyed smile, biting her lower lip a little and smoothing her skirts with her hands as she hurried away. He watched her go, well aware he was probably looking like a lovesick fool.

“Shall I bring the trunks down, sir?”

Hatter’s voice made him start, and Doc snorted softly, turning on his heel and heading into the drawing room. Ogilvy turned back to his valet.

“Ah - yes,” he said vaguely. “What time did you arrange the carriage for?”

“Eleven, sir.”

“Good man.” Ogilvy clapped him on the arm. “I’ll make sure we’re ready.”

“Very good, sir.” Hatter hesitated. “I think you should know that there’s been some talk amongst the servants, sir.”

“Has there, indeed?”

“Yes, sir. About you and - and Miss Marchland.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” said Ogilvy impatiently. “As long as they keep that talk within these four walls, I’ll pay it no mind.”

“Yes, sir.” Hatter opened his mouth to speak, appeared to think better of it, and hurried off with the coat looped over his arm.

Ogilvy sighed, staring after him, then headed for the drawing room. Doc was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, looking impatient, and he turned on his toes as Ogilvy closed the door behind him.

“Well?” he demanded. “I mean, I don’t want the details, but my Sight told me to switch rooms last night and there must have been a good reason for it.”

Ogilvy smiled.

“She believes me,” he said. “She accepts it. All of it.”

Doc seemed to sag with a deep, sighing breath, his shoulders slumping.

“Oh, thank the gods!” he whispered. “She came back to us in truth.”

“Yes.” Ogilvy stepped forward, pulling him into a hug and squeezing. “She’s home. She doesn’t remember yet, but she wants to.”

“Then we must find a way,” said Doc, his voice muffled by Ogilvy’s chest.

“We will, I promise.”

“Of course.”

He hugged Ogilvy tight before pulling back, snatching off his glasses and plucking a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his eyes.

“You told her what the Seer said?” he asked. “The unknown price for her memories?”

“Yes. She said she would think about it.”

Doc nodded, using the handkerchief to polish the lenses of his glasses before putting them back on.

“Good,” he said, his voice wobbling a little. “After all this time - gods, I can scarce believe it!”

“Nor I.” Ogilvy hesitated. “She has Elizabeth Willoughby’s diary.”

Doc stared at him, mouth open.

“She has what?” he breathed.

“I know.” Ogilvy began pacing restlessly. “She found where it was hidden at Willowbrook Grange. She - she had a dream about hiding it there. A memory, I suppose.”

“Well.” Doc shook his head. “Perhaps she’s nearer to waking than we thought. That’s encouraging. What did the diary say?”

“I didn’t read it,” said Ogilvy, stopping his pacing. “It was - somewhat tragic, I believe.”

“I imagine so.” Doc’s face was grave, and he patted Ogilvy’s arm. “Still, if it helped her realise the truth…”

“Yes.” Ogilvy took off his glasses, running his hands over his face with a sigh. “I think that was what convinced her. Elizabeth’s tales, and her own dreams, and things I had said to her… I suppose it’s good that something came from that tragedy.”

“Indeed,” said Doc quietly. “We must be thankful for that, at least.”

“Yes.” Ogilvy put the glasses back on. “I asked her to marry me, by the way. She said yes.”

“Hmm.” Doc sounded amused. “That was short work.”

“I could hardly not under the circumstances!” he retorted. “She spent the night in my bed!”

“Yes, well, we don’t need to go into the details,” said Doc hastily. “Have you mentioned anything to Alice yet?”

“No. I thought I’d talk to Alice on the train,” he said. “The servants know. One of them walked in on us this morning to light the fire. I believe Hatter heard them talking.”

“Is Belle aware?”

“Yes. She says it won’t go beyond the house. Ella will see to that.”

”As long as it doesn’t,” said Doc. “I’d hate for Belle to suffer.”

“We’re marrying as quickly as I can arrange it, so there’ll no doubt be gossip from some quarters,” he said. “Nothing too severe, I imagine, but you know how small-minded society can be.”

“I have a feeling we’ll be called away before too long, anyway,” said Doc. “That should help. Out of sight, and all that.”

“Indeed.” Ogilvy eyed him. “What do you mean, away?”

“Nothing certain yet,” admitted Doc. “Just a feeling. Give me a few days and I might have something more definite.”

Ogilvy felt an odd, swooping feeling in his stomach, almost a sense of apprehension.

“Nothing too sinister, I hope,” he said. “Dealing with Lady Tremaine’s imaginary ghosts was one thing. I don’t want Belle facing a demon before she’s ready.”

“The forces of darkness are unlikely to wait around while we teach her what she needs to know,” said Doc, in a dry tone. “I’m afraid we’ll just have to do the best we can.”

Ogilvy nodded reluctantly. The work was never-ending, and the price for failure too high. Belle is a quick learner. She’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.

-

Lady Ella had still not risen by the time they left, and Ogilvy was secretly relieved. He had no doubt that the servants would relay everything they had seen, and while he was sure that Ella would be delighted by he and Belle being intimate (and self-satisfied at having noted their mutual attraction) he was not in the mood to be quizzed about it in front of the others. Hatter and Ivy must have known, but to their credit they gave no indication. As long as Mrs Wolfe could remain blissfully ignorant, they should be able to reach the wedding day without any scandal touching the household. Not that he gave a damn about that, but Belle no doubt would.

They managed to catch the train in plenty of time, and once they had changed at Derby to the London train, Ogilvy took the seat opposite Belle and the children. Doc settled down beside him with a sigh of relief, folding his hands over his lap as Alice squeezed in between them. Ogilvy glanced at Belle, who had Nicholas on her lap and Ava tucked beneath one arm. She smiled at him, blushing a little and dropping her eyes before looking up again, and he wanted to lean across the carriage and kiss her. Unconsciously, he began turning the ring on his finger. Belle eyed him, touched her own finger, and briefly inclined her head towards Alice and Doc. He understood, and cleared his throat, catching the attention of the others.

“Miss Marchland and I have an announcement to make,” he said, meeting Belle’s eyes to ensure she was happy for him to proceed. She smiled and nodded.

“What announcement?” asked Alice eagerly. “What’s happened?”

“She’s agreed to do me the very great honour of becoming my wife,” he said, and winced as Alice squealed in excitement, throwing her arms around him.

“Oh! That’s wonderful news!” She jumped up and almost fell on Belle, kissing her cheek. “Oh, I knew this would happen! I knew it!”

Belle laughed, hugging her before embracing each of the twins and kissing their heads.

“This is so wonderful!” said Alice. “I knew you would be a part of this family from the moment we met, I just knew it!”

“Will you still be our governess?” asked Ava, a worried look in her eyes. “You won’t send us away, will you?”

“Of course not!” said Belle soothingly. “You will always have a home with us, I promise.”

“Does this mean you’ll be our mother?” asked Nicholas, and her smile widened.

“It means we’ll be a family,” she said. “And you may call me mother if you wish.”

The twins shared an awed, delighted look, and Ogilvy bit back a grin.

“When are you getting married?” asked Alice excitedly. “Do say it’s soon! Papa has been lonely for far too long, and you’re perfect for each other.”

“I believe we can arrange it quickly enough to satisfy you,” said Ogilvy. “I shall make enquiries as soon as we return home.”

“Oh!” Alice sat down beside Belle with a thump, beaming widely. “This was the best present I could have asked for! Mrs Wolfe will be delighted. She always said you needed a woman to keep you in line.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was out of line, but very well,” remarked Ogilvy.

“Papa, you know as well as I that most people consider you very odd.”

“Then their lives are lacking in colour and variety,” he said, and she giggled.

“Oh, I can’t wait to tell Ivy! She and Hatter were convinced that—”

She cut off, mouth snapping shut.

“Convinced that what?” asked Ogilvy dryly, and a blush rose in her cheeks.

“Never mind,” she said lightly. “Oh! Belle, what will you wear to the wedding? Perhaps the dress that Madame is making for you.”

“I don’t think that will be ready in time,” said Belle. “I don’t know. You must help me choose.”

“Of course I will!”

“Can I help?” asked Ava, and Nicholas chimed in with an offer. Belle laughed, hugging them both.

“This will be the best prepared wedding in history,” she told them.

-

It was dark by the time the train pulled into London, and the carriage ride home jolted weary bodies. The children were sleepy, and Doc grumbled about the state of the roads. Only Alice had kept her cheerful disposition, and Ogilvy heard a chorus of relieved sighs as they drew up outside the house. Hatter was immediately at the carriage door to help them down, and Ogilvy spied Mrs Wolfe waiting at the front door to welcome them home. Belle guided the children towards the stairs, speaking in a soothing tone about warm milk and comfortable beds. The twins leaned against her as they climbed, and Ogilvy watched them go with a faint smile. They would probably be asleep before he could read them a story. He rolled his shoulders to get out the stiffness as Hatter removed his coat, and went through to the living room, followed by Doc and Alice, Mrs Wolfe gliding behind them.

“We’re very pleased to see you all safely returned, sir,” she said.

Ogilvy took a deep breath, the familiar scent of beeswax and burning coals filling his nose. Lamps were lit, sending out a cheerful light, and the room was pleasantly warm. The Christmas greenery had been removed from the mantelpiece, along with the tree, and he found himself missing the scents of pine and rosemary.

“It feels good to be home, Mrs Wolfe,” he said. “Anything to report?”

“The chimney above the rear attics has started to leak, and there was an incident with the grocer’s boy teasing one of the maids,” she said. “I’ve arranged to have the chimney repaired next week, and have spoken to the grocer in the most severe terms.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. Alice flopped onto one of the couches with a sigh, and Doc sat across from her in his usual chair, head rolling back against the leather.

“Would you please ask Mrs Potts to send up some mulled wine?” he asked. “I think we could all do with a glass.”

“It’s being prepared, sir,” she said.

“I knew we could rely on you, Mrs Wolfe,” he said, earning one of her rare smiles.

“Oh, there’s a telegram for you, sir,” she said. “It came this afternoon. I left it on the salver on the hall table.”

“Ah, thank you.”

He stepped out into the hallway again, spying the envelope and opening it up. It was marked as being sent from the Furton Post Office earlier that day, and he smiled.

“I KNEW IT!” declared the note. “STRONGLY WORDED LETTER TO FOLLOW!”

Ogilvy bit his lip in amusement, slipping the telegram into his pocket and returning to the living room. Ella knew, then.

[heliads]

Making the Team

Based on this request: “The reader is the daughter of natasha and steve, and she is nervous about for her first mission. Her mom and dad tell her that everything is gonna be great, and the mission is complete, but the reader is badly injured and her parents and Bruce takes care of her.”

masterlist

You’re awake when the first light of dawn tentatively begins to shine through your window. You’ve been awake for a while, actually, too excited to sleep a wink. This is the day of a very important mission. It’s probably going to be the most important mission of your life, in fact. If you do well on this assignment, you’ll be made an Avenger. If you don’t, you’ll have to get sent back to training and know that your entire future might have just slipped between your fingers.

Most teenagers your age would never have gotten this opportunity. If they were lucky, they might be accepted to the S.H.I.E.L.D. academy or embark on an internship with Tony Stark. You, however, happen to have two Avengers as your parents. Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff, the classic Avengers couple. After much wheedling and careful manipulation on your end, they’ve allowed you to begin training as a potential Avengers recruit. Now, all you have to do to cement your place on the team is to prove yourself in this mission.

It’s not like you’re getting into this team solely based on nepotism, though. Your father was a super soldier and your mother was trained in the Red Room. Ever since you were old enough to walk, it was evident that you would be destined for the same path as they so famously trod. You ran faster, knew more, threw punches harder than anyone else your age. Even without your parentage, S.H.I.E.L.D. would have tapped you long ago. You just get to bypass the protocols and go straight to a potential slot on the team.

Eventually, you can lie in bed no longer, your adrenaline already pumping through your veins at the mere thought of the upcoming mission. You sling your legs over the side of the bed, jumping down onto the floor and rushing over to don your awaiting clothes. Your real suit is waiting in a quinjet at Avengers Tower, so all you have to do is pull on some casual clothes and rush your parents out the door.

They’re already up, as it turns out. Your mother is nursing a cup of coffee, and your father is standing over the stove, brow furrowed as he considers a pan of scrambled eggs. Natasha smiles when she sees you. “Look at you! Ready for the big day?” You nod excitedly, starting to grab the beginnings of a breakfast. “Couldn’t sleep a wink.” Steve chuckles. “I’m starting to think you’re excited about running headlong into danger.” You stare at him pointedly. “I wonder who I learned that from.” Natasha laughs at Steve’s expression. “She’s got you there.”

By the time you’re pulling up to the Avengers Tower, however, the excitement bubbling into your chest is deepening into nervous worry. What if something goes wrong? You’ve never been allowed on a mission as large as this one before, where civilians and the other Avengers alike are counting on you. What if you mess this up? The stakes are higher than you’ve cared to realize- not just a spot on the Avengers, but the lives of those you care about. You head over to the quinjet, but your fears only grow when the plane takes off.

You force yourself to calm down, heading over to the racks of weapons and gear in the hopes of distracting yourself. There at last is your suit- a flexible, bulletproof black jumpsuit with armored paneling overtop. You glance at your reflection in the mirror, but instead of seeing the usual confident version of yourself, you only see a nervous teenager. Why have you been allowed on this mission in the first place? What if this really isn’t what you were meant to do?

You hear footsteps behind you and turn hurriedly, doing your best to wash away your worries and plaster on an expression of relaxed calm. Your mother, however, has been reading people her entire life, and nothing can get past her. Especially not the worries of her daughter. She frowns at you, pausing at the doorway and heading inside. “Hey, you alright?” You sigh, staring at your palms. “What if you guys were wrong about me? What if I’m not supposed to be an Avenger after all?”

Natasha shakes her head. “We’re not wrong about you. That’s a promise. Y/N, I’ve seen you since you were little. You can do things that most soldiers couldn’t even dream of. If Steve or I thought that you couldn’t do this, we wouldn’t have suggested you take the mission.” You look at her anxiously. “But Steve is a super soldier. You’re a Black Widow. I am none of those.” There’s another voice from the door now, and you turn to see your father leaning against the doorframe.

“You don’t have to have that experience to be special. What about Maria Hill? You’ve seen her before. Even Thor’s afraid to take her on, and she doesn’t have any special abilities.” Steve walks into the room, smiling comfortingly. “No, Y/N, you are more than capable, even without training or a strengthening concoction. Honestly, if I was out in the field and I came toe to toe with you, I’d be worried.” A laugh rises unbidden to your lips. “You just have to say that because you guys are my parents.”

Natasha shakes her head, a small grin crossing her face. “Actually, us being your parents means that we wouldn’t usually say that at all. We made sure that you were given the best training and preparation, and that you had equal treatment with the other recruits. You didn’t make it this far because of us, you made it this far because of you. And, if that isn’t enough to convince you, check out your file. We didn’t write that, your instructors did, and your instructors gave you the highest marks we’ve seen in years.”

You smile grudgingly. “You’re sure I can do this?” Steve nods, reaching out to pull you close in a hug. “I know you can do this. You’re an excellent fighter, Y/N, and after today, you’ll be an Avenger. Just like that.” You laugh, returning the hug. “Just like that.”

This, however, is easier said than done. S.H.I.E.L.D. and Avenger training have done a lot for you- teaching you how to fight, readying you for battle. Nevertheless, no amount of simulations can prepare you for the mission at hand. There are hostages inside a building, dozens of guards and soldiers waiting outside. The hostages aren’t the only things to contend with, though- there are civilians, goons, and the knowledge that S.H.I.E.L.D. plans are hidden in the coat pocket of one of the hostages. At any moment, the guards could find out, and then the mission would be over before it even started. You have to rescue the hostages before the data is uncovered.

Your group fans out, looking for entrances. You spot one quickly, rushing to it. There’s an opening on the roof, and you jump from window to window, quickly scaling the building. There, you’re able to take out a couple of snipers and a few roof guards before heading inside the building through a service entrance at the top. The fighting gives you a rush, and you find yourself smiling as you take down yet another soldier. Maybe you were meant for this after all.

At last, you find the room with the hostages. You draw back, waiting around the corner out of enemy view. You tap on your earpiece, speaking hurriedly. “I’ve found the hostages. Second floor, far east side, about a dozen or so guards.” Steve’s voice crackles across the radio. “We hear you. Do not engage, wait for us.” You nod. “Affirmative. Waiting for you.”

Steve and Natasha, however, take their time getting to you. The soldiers must realize that someone’s found a way in, as they’re doubling up around the entrances. You stare at the room with the hostages, watching with bated breath as the leader of the goons circles the captive men and women. The man frowns, pausing by a woman in blue. She has a gold circle pinned to her chest, designating her as the leader. The man stares at the pin, then at her. You can almost see the pieces clicking into place in his head.

You curse softly as you realize what he’s about to do, and switch your radio back on. “The leader has figured out that someone has the plans. I think I have to go in.” Natasha’s voice is sharp over the comms. “Negative! Y/N, do not engage.” As you watch, the man draws closer, flipping open the woman’s jacket with the tip of his rifle. Even from here, you can see the hidden pocket, and even from here, you can see the man’s eyes light up as he spots the rectangular package tucked away inside.

Your hand rises to your earpiece once more. “Sorry, but I have to do this.” You flick your radio off, drowning out the frantic voices of your parents. You race over to the room, kicking down the door with your boot. The guards turn to you when the door crashes open, but you fire your weapons methodically, taking down the guards one by one as you race around the room to the woman. The leader is standing back up, shouting orders at his troops, but you’re not paying attention.

Then his rifle is raised again, pointing towards the woman with the plans. You feel your feet moving without a second’s hesitation, pounding towards the pair. You manage to shove the woman aside just before the man’s finger tightens on the trigger, and you can feel her slip you the plans even as the bullet impacts on your side. For a second, you don’t feel anything at all, and manage to turn your weapons towards the leader, knocking him to the ground. Then your hand comes up from your side, stained red as blood begins to pour onto the ground, and the pain truly hits.

It’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt in your life. You’ve seen Thor wield his thunder before, seen him raise his hammer and watched as a boom of thunder cracked the sky. Lightning arced down to the ground before him, burning the ground and decimating his opponents. You’ve wondered what that would feel like, and now you have a fairly good idea. Maybe you’re not being electrocuted, but you feel like you’ve just been hit by the blow of a god.

There is shouting above you, more shouts ringing out. You stand up unsteadily, hand clamped to your side, and realize that Steve and Natasha have finally found you. They take down the guards with an almost frightening certainty, and then they see you. Just like that, their calm and cool exteriors break away and they run to your side. Steve visibly pales when he sees the blood pooling out from your side. “Y/N!” He shouts, and you weakly hold up the plans. “It’s alright, I got them. They’re safe.”

Steve shakes his head, and he’s saying something else but you can’t quite make it out. You think you hear your name, then Natasha’s, but for some reason you can’t focus on his words. Then the room tilts dizzyingly, and then you can feel nothing at all except for the overwhelming pain in your side and a sickening worry that your parents will never be able to forgive themselves if you die on this mission.

When your eyes open at last, you’re in a bleached white room. A smiling face swims before you; after a second you recognize it as Dr. Banner. His smile widens when he sees you sit up. “Hey, easy there. You took a pretty big hit.” You groan, feeling pain starting to blossom again from your side. It’s not as bad as it was in the room with the hostages, but it isn’t a picnic either. You rub your face with your hand, still disoriented. “What happened?”

Bruce chuckles. “You took a bullet for Ruth Hanaway.” At your confused expression, he clarifies. “The woman with the plans. You know, with the rest of the hostages. She’s fairly important, too. Apparently a higher-up among the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and she’s very impressed with what you did. She said you didn’t hesitate at all, just dove to save her. Now, that’s Avenger material.” You frown up at him, remembering the stakes of the mission. “So that means-”

You’re cut off by Natasha, who’s just burst through the doors. “Yes, you’re on the team.” She rushes to embrace you, and you smile at the show of affection. “But I got shot- I disobeyed orders-” Steve, who’d been closely following Natasha, shakes his head. “You saved the mission. If you hadn’t acted, the plans would have been lost. As much as I hate to say it, you did what you had to do.”

He fixes you with a sudden glare, although you can see right through it. “That being said, that was incredibly dangerous. You could have died or suffered serious injury. Even as it is, you’ll be spending at least a week in the hospital wing. We thought you were going to die, Y/N. No amount of missions will make up for your life.” You smile up at him, undaunted. “I’m not planning on repeating this anytime soon. I’ve had my life-and-death risk quota used up for the time being.”

Natasha chuckles, mussing up your hair. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Barely awake five minutes, and you’re already cracking jokes. I didn’t expect anything less.” You fix her with a triumphant grin. “Hey, I’m an Avenger now. I’m supposed to be used to this whole lifesaving thing.” Bruce chuckles, standing up to check a few readouts on the surrounding monitors. “I have no doubt about that. You might have to contend with Parker for the title of youngest Avenger, but I think that will be the least of your worries. Welcome to the Avengers, Y/N. We’re happy to have you.”

requested by @maximeevansblog​

marvel tag list: @mycosmicparadise​

[paversandplatters]

|| 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙|| (1/20)

Apocalypse! Au (TW! Minor gore and cussing)

Read x multiple

Chapter 1: Shortcut

“Would you please shut up for just one minute!?” She calls out behind the steering wheel, voice horse, and struggling to keep the battered SUV On the road, keeping speed and avoiding the now long forgotten vehicles left on the two lane road. Every part of her feels like it's on fire. Blood from the oozing wound on her scalp finds its way right into her eye, clouding her vision further.

“Told you we've just gotta put some distance between us and Calhoun, then we can pull over for medical attention ASAP. ” Her eyes quickly flit between the road and the rearview mirror trying to get a glimpse at George in the darkness of the back seat. The young man is leaning his head against the broken rear window as the Escalade rumbles past a cluster of figures milling about the edge of the road. A single glance tells her they're hunched over something- or rather what's left of someone. She pushes the thought from her mind and tries to assess George again. He catches her eyes in the mirror only to look away- blinking tears away and wheezing miserably, his free hand gripping the bloody remains of what was his shirt over his middle. No doubt covering the gaping wound there.

The broken window rattles, as a slip stream of wind tussles his now blood matted hair. Nick is sat next to him looking equally disheveled but still in one piece- save some scrapes and bruises.

“I-I can't breathe- I can't-” he stutters out cutoff by Nick’s sudden yelp as a wave of rotten gore sprays across the windshield. It's undeniable that the sight and smell is enough to stick with you for days but anyone that has struck a zombie with a car knows the worst part is the noise. Rather that is- the gore and rot engulfs all senses, sure, but it’s the sound that lives on in memory. It's a series of greasy crunching sounds that bring to mind the thunk of an axe through cords of rotting termite infested wood. A horrible symphony of sounds as the dead are grounded into paste beneath the moving chassis and thick wheels. A quick series of dull pops and cracks as liquefying organs and bladders are squished. Bones are turned to kindling and skulls crushed open and flattening, mercifully bringing an end to a treacherous pilgrimage. This hellish noise is the first thing that registers with her and the two men in the back seat of the battered Escalade.

Both let out another yelp of shock and revulsion, holding on to the seats with a vice like grip as the SUV bucks and fishtails across the now wet and slippery tarmac. Most of the cadavers go down like domino pieces, pulverized by 3 tons of careening Detroit metal. Some of the excess flesh and appendages stumble across the hood leaving a ghastly trail of rancid fluids on the windshield, other body parts go pinwheeling in the air arcing across the night Sky. It might have been humorous if their own situation wasn’t so dire…

She remains silent, hunched forward- her jaw set and eyes fixed on the road, her arms still wrestling with the jittering steering wheel as the massive vehicle goes into a skid. The engine revs and keens as it reacts to the loss of traction. The squeal of the huge steel belted radials adding to the din, hands yanking the wheel back the other way turning into the skid as best she can in order to avoid spinning out of control when she notices something that has gotten lodged in the gaping hole in her side window.

The disembodied head of a zombie only inches away from her left ear. It’s teeth chattering softly, somehow it got caught in the jagged maw of broken glass, gnashing its blackened incisors at her fixing it's ghostly milky gaze on her. The sight of it is so grisly and awful and yet so surreal- the creaking of the jaws snapping at her with the hollow autonomic force of a ventriloquist dummy. She lets out an involuntary chortle, one akin to a laugh but darker… she jerks her head away from the window. Registering over the space of a single instance the fact that the re-animated cranium was torn from its upper body upon impact with the SUV and now still continues to go on without it’s body, seeking living flesh… forever seeking, forever masticating swallowing and consuming, an impulse never satiated.

“Lookout!”

The scream comes from the flickering darkness of the rear seats. In all the excitement she can't identify the source. Wether it's Nick or George- the issue is moot because she mistakes the meaning of the cry and the split second during which her hand flies to the passenger seat and fishes through the contents of it rifling through Maps, candy wrappers, rope and tools- frantically searching for the 9 millimeter Glock- she assumes that the warning cry it is meant to lookout for the snapping jaws of the amputated head. She finally gets her hands on the grip of the Glock and wastes no time swinging it up with one fluid motion towards the window and squeezing off a single point blank shot into the grotesque face skewered there. The head comes apart with the blossom of pink mist, splitting like a melon and sending splatter of viscera into her hair before being launched into the wind, the vacuum left behind in the broken window throbs noisily adding to the din.

Less than 10 seconds have transpired since the initial impact but now she sees that reason that one of the men in the back gave such a warning- it's nothing to do with the reanimated head- what they were screaming about back there- thing that she was supposed to lookout for… is now looming on the opposite side of the highway coming up quick on their right closing. She feels the gravity shift as she swerves in order to avoid the mangled wreckage of a VW bug sliding across the gravel shoulder then plunges down into a steep embankment on the dark unknown wooden grove.

Pine barrows and foliage scrape and slap the windshield as the vehicle bangs and clambers on the rocky slope. The voices in the back rise into a frenzied screams

She feels the land level out and manages to keep the vehicle going long enough to find purchase in the mud- then slams down the accelerator and the Escalade lurches forward under its own power. The massive grill and gigantic tires grinding through the thickets cobbling over deadfalls, mowing down the wild undergrowth and tearing through the scrub as though it were smoke. for the seemingly endless minutes the bumpy ride threatens to encompass her spine and rupture her spleen. In the blurry image of the rear view she gets a brief glimpse of the two injured young men holding on to the back seats for fear of bouncing right out of the vehicle. The front end hits a log hard and the impact nearly cracks her teeth.

For a minute or so they swerve through a thin patch of trees. When they burst out of the brush, an explosion of dirt, leaves and particles- she sees that they've inadvertently come upon another unidentified two lane road. She slams the brakes causing the men to headbutt the seats with an audible ‘thwap.

She sits there for a second taking deep breaths, getting air back in her lungs. She looks around. The men in the back collectively groan and whine, now suddenly back into their seats, holding themselves. The engine idles noisily, a new rattling sound is introduced to the low rumble- probably bearing a knocked loose in the improvised off-road adventure.

“Okay-“ she starts softly “that's one hell of a shortcut”

The only response for the backseat is silence- the humor lost on the two young men. Above them a black opaque sky is just beginning to lighten with the purple of a pre-dawn glow in the dull light. They can just see enough detail to now realize that they've landed across an access road and the woods have given way to wetlands. To the East she can see the a canal winding through a fog, probably leading to the edge of a swamp and to the West a rust pocket sign says state road ‘505- 3 miles’ no sign of roamers in either direction.

[shreddedleopard]

Rivahisu Week 2021

Day II - A n g s t

• Prompt: C h o i c e •

P a r t i n g W a y s, C r o s s i n g P a t h s

Historia slept fitfully. 

She rose even before the dawn light split the horizon; her bare feet carrying her quickly through the dew-soaked grass. By the time she reached the fence, her skin was wet all the way up to her calves, just below the point where the hem of her white dress reached. She didn’t care. 

She gripped the wooden rail, its surface worn smooth by the harsh elements of time, and she looked South-East. And waited. 

Eventually, the gentle warmth of the rising sun touched her back, and the MPs stationed at the Orphanage came outside to watch over her. 

Historia paid no mind to them; her stomach sick with a yearning so bad, it made every breath catch in her throat.

It was an impossible hope that she dared to cling to. She knew this, but still, Historia could not bring herself to move from that fence.

“I’m so sorry, kid. I’m not coming back over that wall with them.” Ymir dug her toes into the sand, sighing as she gazed up at Historia’s face in the illuminated tree. The ghostly image of her friend flickered at the ends of one of the branches which stretched up towards the inky, star-dusted sky. The petite blonde was watching some far off horizon, her expression forlorn as the sun rose at her back. 

A little way away, amongst the pearly sand dunes, another figure had recently settled. He was now watching the flickering branches of the tree, too, although Ymir was too fixated on her own view to pay too much attention.

It was only when he hummed in reply to her comment, that Ymir turned her head to find Commander Erwin now sat with her in PATHS.

“You’re here?”

He didn’t reply; it seemed he too was engrossed in another vision up in the branches of the glowing tree. Ymir followed his gaze, and then immediately she understood. She saw the translucent image of Captain Levi; bloodied and grim, as he perched upon a rooftop with Section Commander Hange Zoe. Beside them, lay the Commander of the Survey Corps’ body.

Ymir averted her gaze rather quickly, feeling suddenly as though she was intruding on some private moment. She stared up at Historia again; studying the curve of her long lashes, the deep azure of her eyes. She looked utterly sad. “Fuck. I still miss her so much. Reiner better deliver that damned letter.” The words fell out before Ymir had a mind to stop them.

What a choice. 

What a terrible choice to have had to make. And yet; he had done it. He’d fucking let him go. 

It was the right thing to do, by all accounts. It was time to let him rest. Levi had to believe that. He had to hold on to that truth, through everything. It was time. It was right. 

It felt as though someone was tearing a shard of glass through his chest as he sat on that rooftop, staring at Erwin’s lifeless body. 

It was the right choice. 

He felt the disgusting sting of moisture at the corner of his eyes, and he grit his teeth against the threat of such unwelcome emotion.

Erwin.

The one person he’d trusted, above all else. The man he’d given his own life to. Over and over again - he would have died for Erwin; who he’d now allowed death to claim. If only Erwin had asked him to, Levi would have done it without hesitation.

Instead … he had been the one to choose, in the end.

He felt Hange’s figure deflate next to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Erwin’s face, gaunt and pale. What he’d give now just for one more second of that dazzling vitality the man always seemed to possess.

But no.

This was the place it all ended.

There would be no more orders. There would be no more guidance. There would be no more moments where he could look to a presence so much greater than himself, and feel that pull of duty and dedication and …

What the fuck was he going to do?

Erwin frowned, finally tearing his gaze away from his Captain and towards Ymir. She gave him a sideways look, as if in question.

Then he glanced up at Ymir’s side of the tree.

“Ah. You’re watching Historia Reiss? Of course.”

Ymir shrugged. A moment of silence passed between them. There was too much silence in this lonely place; Erwin could feel it already. It seemed Ymir felt the same, because eventually, she spoke.

“Huh. For someone with so many admirers, she sure was one lonely kid, underneath the act.”

Her words prompted Erwin to look back at the flickering image of Levi. He hummed again in thought.

One lonely kid, underneath the act?

How strange - that the stoic Captain and the tiny blonde should be so similar, in so many ways.

“You know … Historia punched Captain Levi, just after her coronation, several months back.” Despite everything, his mouth turned upwards at the corners.

He realised Ymir’s had done the same. “Oh, I know about that. I was watching. Not sure I’ve ever been prouder.”

“Ah. I wasn’t sure if you had … arrived, here, at that point.”

“Oh yeah. Got chewed right up a few days before, actually. Gotta say, seeing her do that, from up here … or, down here … ugh, wherever this place actually is … it sure cheered me up.”

Erwin grinned in earnest then. “If I’m honest, think it did the same for Levi.”

Ymir’s features softened, her gaze fond as she stared up at the tree of flickering images. “Yeah. She always was good at that. You know, making people smile.”

Erwin was looking back up at the tree now, too. His mouth settled into a harder line. “Actually … I think Levi could do with some more of that, in the current circumstances. Although … I’m not sure a punch to the arm will quite do it, this time …”

Ymir looked back over towards Erwin’s section of branches. “Yeah…”

It was now Erwin’s turn to sigh. “Funny, I’d not thought about it before now, but … I think they both could have been quite good friends, you know. In another life. Not many people know about Levi’s background, but … I think they could probably understand one another quite well, if they tried.”

Ymir was rubbing her jaw thoughtfully, eyes back on Historia. The flickering image still showed her leaning against the edge of a fence, her own eyes fixed on the horizon. Both Ymir and Erwin knew what direction she faced.

South-East. Towards Shiganshina.

“You know … maybe they will yet. I guess we’ll both just have to keep watching.”

Erwin thought of the orphanage then, and how he’d been the only one not surprised when Levi had volunteered his services to Queen Historia. Those who’d witnessed his manhandling of her assumed it was largely guilt that drove the Captain. But they did not know the full story of Levi’s own upbringing.

He found his mind going to all the little orphans, filled with admiration and a sense of hope whenever they were around Levi. He’d seen their reactions with his own eyes. They’d all be awaiting his return. Waiting, along with a still grief-stricken Historia Reiss, Queen of The Three Walls. 

Now, more than ever, the Captain and the Queen would surely understand one another in a way that no-one else could.

When Erwin thought of all this, he knew immediately that what he’d done that day - the lives of the young recruits he’d sacrificed, along with his own - had been the right choice to make. Their deaths had been the result of the only logical choice that could be made. He had asked Levi to choose for him, twice, and twice Levi had chosen correctly. It made his heart swell in his chest as he gazed up at the image of his Captain and dear friend.

Erwin’s dream to prove his own father’s theory correct may not have come to fruition … but perhaps there was a different dream that was about to be set in motion in it’s place; this one not born from a child’s guilt.

It hurt to see the grief carved deeply into Levi’s usually stoic features. And yet … Erwin found himself clinging to a small glimmer of hope. Because Levi would not be alone in his grief. The girl sat across from him in the sand was testament to that.

“You know Ymir, you might just be right.”

‘Ain’t no picnic to be abandoned, it led us here … we had to share the pain.’

- Z e r o E c l i p s e

Added to A Captain’s Promise on fanfiction.net