#just give me young gomez and morticia making out in every dark corner of the school

[obaewxn]

i’m halfway through ep 5 and i’m not joking when i say i’d give a kidney to have a tv series on gomez and morticia’s years at nevermore

[hildorien]

A Rom-Com in Dom-Lomin.

Ataniweek Day Two: Edain. 

I wrote this because Morwen and Hurin deserve a whole lot of love. They aren’t a fairy tale romance, they don’t get a happy ending, but they were deeply in love and deserved a happy ending. Only the best for the true Gomez and Morticia of Arda.   

@ataniweek

A03 LINK (X)

It was no secret who Hurin, son of Galdor, loved more than any jewel in a noldor's private coffers. She was black as night and a true beauty. Sadly, she was colder than ice and had a tongue sharper than the best sword but Hurin only saw his whole universe in her. Even from the age of six, he met her dark brown eyes and that sealed his fate. He had always tried to impress her. 

He climbed trees he shouldn’t have, to impress her.

He picked fights he couldn’t win, for her. 

He wrote a love letter after love letter, each one more dramatic and bad as the last.

Morwen, for her part, had adored him too then and until the end of her days. It was said she regarded him as her first friend in a new and scary land she had to flee to in rags. She did not see pity in his eyes, only the shine of the sun and a mischievous tint and that meant everything to her. After that small act of kindness, it was like God, himself, granted them his blessing to go and be in love. 

They had been together for years, not once did one’s heart wander away from each other. Not even the flowers found during his entrapment in Gondolin could make Hurin wander. When he returned from that place, his brother at his side, the cold rain of north east Beleriand bearing on him, he saw her on the battlement like a spirit of war with only a lantern and a cloak. He made his way through the gate, leaving his brother in the dust and ran to where she stood. 

He smiled, “you waited for me.” 

“You are late.”

“I’ve always been late, my lady,” he laughed stalking closer to her to cup her cold cheek in one hand. “But I hope you can forgive me.” 

In her grey eyes was a fire as she spoke, “make it up to me then, Hurin.” 

He smiled and kissed her, dipping her slightly despite the rain, he felt so warm as her arms wrapped around his neck. Pulling away and gazing on her soft, smug smirk, Hurin realized something. 

He wanted to marry her. 

Now. 

But the words didn’t escape his lips before Morwen started pulling them down the stairs towards her house. 

-

It had been a month since he returned from Gondolin and he still couldn’t find the words. He stalked around his house, his brother giving him tired look. 

“I think if you just asked, she’d say yes.”

“I can’t, everytime I see her, I just freeze.”

“Fearsome Hurin, son of Glador, taken down by the steely gaze of his true love,” Huor mocked as he bit into his apple. “What a horrible things to have bard write about you, utterly pathetic.” 

Hurin smacked him, “I’m being serious and don’t mock me when you can’t even talk with Rian.” 

“She’s just too nice!” He whined out, his words slurred by pieces of apple that flung out of his mouth onto the table. 

“Whatever,” Hurin snorted and sat down, his head in his hands. It was then that a tired Galdor came walking through the door; despite his disposition, he looked amused at his two young sons. 

“I heard your hennish squawking from outside boys. What are you fighting about now?” He asked. 

It was noted that Huor resembled his father more than Hurin did. He was tall like Galdor. Huor often spoke like Galdor, respectful and metaphorically. It was something among the Edain that was labeled as very Elvish; as to hide your feelings behind words and riddles rather than giving a straight answer. Even sometimes as they grew older and older, people mistook Huor for Galdor if he was looked at from the back. Most days this minded Hurin not, he did not mind being smaller than most (even smaller than Morwen), or that he was loud on the border of being too loud, or that he was blessed with his mother’s Haladin features but there were others were he wondered if his father wished the two brothers had been born with Huor as eldest (therefore heir to his legacy ) and him as youngest (the spare). 

“It’s nothing important father, just,” Huor gave him a smug look. “Hurin’s just being a ninny about asking Elfsheen to marry him.” 

He picked up an apple and lobbed it at him. “Don’t call her that she hates it.” 

Galdor laughed, “it’s a complement to her beauty.” 

“She hates it, so I hate it.” 

“Devotion is a good trait to have,” his father said absentmindedly, “but please stop lobbying apples at your brother.”

“I will when he stops being an ass.” 

Huor stuck out his tongue like a child. 

“Then that will be like waiting for the sun to rise in the west.” 

Hurin’s face broke out into a smile while Huor's turned to horror. “Father!” 

Hurin imitated his words in a whiny tone, “One-Almighty! Sometimes you're so pretentious. You never called him father before Gondolin, just say Da, like a normal person.” 

“The Elves in Gondolin call their Da’s ‘father,’” the younger boy mumbled munching on his apple. 

“You aren’t an Elf, Huor,” Hurin rolled his eyes. 

“Okay, enough boys,” Galdor put his foot down. “So you are serious about Morwen?”

“I’ve been serious since I was a babe, Da.” 

Galdor smiled, “that may be true. But have‘ye asked Emeldir yet?”

“Emeldir?” 

“She is Morwen’s keeper, is she not? That bear of a women,” he said with a roll of his eyes almost out of habit, though a friendly and loving lent never left his voice. Galdor and Emeldir butted heads, but it was like Hurin and Huor, a sibling relationship. The strong chieftess of the Beorians had enamoured the settlement of Dom-lomin with her striking inability not to die, not from illness, or grief. She watched over every child she brought with her as if they were her own. No one was more enamoured by her than Hurin’s own mother Hereth. The two were thick as thieves. Hurin imagined it was because Emeldor reminded his mother of the women from her youth in Brethil, who she missed dearly. 

“I have not,” he gulped. 

“I think it would be best if you asked her before you did anything impulsive. You wouldn’t want to upset the bear women of the Beorians by asking the hand of one of her favorite wee ones without even so much as a notice?” 

Hurin could see his body very clearly thrown in a ditch somewhere where no one would find it if he did that. Nodding to his father, he made plans to visit Emeldir in the coming days. 

-

Emeldir’s house was uttermost east of the main village of Dom-Lomin. It was located near the land designated for holy sights where festivals would happen, the highest vantage point of the whole main village. Now it was called the Grey Corner, or the Beorian Quarter since that's where the refugees located themselves. His father had given them full range to live wherever they wished, but they wished to remain almost separate from the rest of them all. Some found it odd, other a little insulting, but Hurin somewhat understood, the best he could. They had lost so much. All they wanted was a place to rebuild and remain Beorians rather than just another section of the people of Marach or Hador. He grew to see as a very Edain way of doing things; coming into a new land and making it yours despite someone else threatening to overcome you and make you them. It was early that morning when he went, the sun had barely came over the peaks of the mountains when he reached the steps of the Beorian’s chieftess' house. It was given the name “white-den” by him and some other children back in Hurin and Morwen’s youth because it was made of white wood and some children had been sure Emeldir had been one of those Bear shape changers. Hurin wasn’t one of them, but if he was going to find out if he was wrong, it would be now. 

Knocking on the large door, he heard a soft “come in!” 

He opened the door, he saw Rian coming down out from the kitchen area. The house was rather dark still, silent. He hoped Morwen wasn’t home. 

“Oh! Rin-rin,” she cooed, her clothes were covered in dirt and she held a hoe in her hand. Hurin gave her a small smile and gave her a small hug. She refused to call him anything less than the name she gave as a babe. “Morwen isn’t home.” 

“Ah,” Hurin smiled, “I am actually here to talk to Elemdir?” 

Rian blinked, and cocked her head to the side, “why?” 

“I needed to ask her a question.” 

“Ah, I see,” Rian smiled, her smile was soft and shiny; utterly polite and coy. It was a ‘princess’ smile, Morwen called it. Sometimes it was hard for Hurin to understand that she came from the same family that produced Morwen and Elemdir. She was more of a flower than the cold rock the rest of her family was. She was somehow still soft, sweet on the eyes and the ears, more interested in singing and dancing than politics. She was a folk tale princess come to life, that is what his brother always said about her. He had always fancied her, respectfully from a distance. The two of them dancing around each other, constructing their perfect folk tale romance.  It all seemed like too much work for Hurin’s take rather than to be not subtle about his feelings and have a constant bedmate. For that reason, she was never Hurin’s type. 

“She’s in the barn. You can go around and see her.” 

“Thanks Rian.” He turned. 

“Oh and Hurin,” she called after him as he walked off. 

“Yes?”

“Don’t let her scare you,” she winked. “She’s all bark and no bite.” 

Hurin laughed. She may have been more a flower than a rock, but she was still a Beorian. 

-

If there was ever a moment that defined who Elemdir was as a women, it was right now, Hurin thought to himself. She was wearing her typical black dress (that she either wore for mourning or she wore to be even more terrifying than she was), her hair was outfitted with beautiful beads and clips, her face was lined with wrinkles and her hair was looking more silver each day and yet she looked like a chieftess, no, a true Queen worthy of the throne. However, it was juxtaposed against the fact that her hands were stuck in the guts of a deer as if she was common hunter. She barely looked at him when she grunted welcome at him at him. 

“Hello Hurin.”

“Hello Chieftess.” He bowed, still, respectfully as his mother had taught him. 

“Why are you here?”

“I have a question for you,” Hurin squirmed. 

She ripped the heart out of the animal, “and that would be?”

“I would like to ask Morwen’s hand in marriage.” 

She threw the heart into a bowl, the blood splattered onto Hurin’s face. There seemed to be a chill in the air the moment the words left him. She looked at him as if examining his very soul, not a single emotion on her face. Hurin frowned. 

“Is you're silence a no ma’am?” 

She raised up a bloody gloved hand. “I have a question for you before I give you my answer.”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Do you love her?” 

“More than the sun, moon, and stars. She’s my best friend.” Hurin spoke his cliche words with sincerity. It was the truth, and for that, he was not ashamed. 

Softly a smile appeared on her weathered face, “then the answer from me is yes.” 

Hurin knew he wanted to cry but he kept his face stoney as to not embarrass himself. “Thank you, Chieftess.” 

“I cannot say she will say yes, though,” Emeldir said evenly.

“Even if she does not,” he smiled. “I will have her know she is the only woman who will have my heart.” 

With that he turned to leave, before Emeldir called out for him, so he turned back to her. 

“Your a good man, Hurin. You remind so much of my husband and my son, both of whom are lost to us all now, please,” she pleaded. “Don’t gamble away your life away for stupid reasons and leave my little one heartbroken and weathered like I am.” 

“I will try not to, Chieftess.” That was all he could offer her in these times. 

“That is all I ask you to do.” 

-

It was a rush of happiness since that moment. He tried to ask Morwen to wed him so many times it was almost a joke by now but each and every time they fell short. Every time something was wrong. They were either failures on his part put to get the words out or nature ruined the moment. It just had to be the rainy season when he got his okay from Elemdir. Though sometimes much worse ruined any goodwill and happiness in Hurin. The pyre he stood in front of said it all. 

“The smell of burning flesh is horrible,” Hurin said to himself as he watched his father’s body become ash with the rest of the fallen. He was chief now, and yet he still felt like a child. Too much like a child to lead his people, too much of a child to have lost his father. He felt as if someone had extinguished his flame with ice water and left him to languish in the bitterest winter blizzard. He couldn’t even comfort his mother or brother, he could barely comfort himself. He was being hailed as a hero, but what kind of hero couldn’t save his own family? 

He cursed everything when he lifted his father’s body to the wise women and men to clean his body. He wondered why the One Almighty would take good men like his father away them but keep Morgoth and his monsters around to kill those good men. 

In his anguish, he felt something touch his shoulders. It was fur. 

“Standing here in the cold doesn’t bring them back,” Morwen was stoic as always as she stood next to him. She had left the mob of wailing women still singing funeral songs that had long had the Edain sung when they lost someone too early. Her grey eyes staring into his soul. 

“Fighting didn’t do anything either. Nothing does.” 

“You did what you could.”

“Then why do I feel so cold?” Hurin asked, his voice was rough and mean and he practically barked at her. She didn’t seem very impressed. 

“Because you love so strongly, and you care, and you hate to lose. But loss is a part of our life, Hurin, that’s the fate of mortals like we are. We cannot linger with what we did, what could have been done, the what ifs, we can only keep going. Let the dead be dead, but do not die with them. That is what I have learned.” She it all like it made sense. 

“But I, too, have lost my father, my mother, cousins, aunts, and uncles. I know loss, Hurin. This is a new experience for you, but the pain will always be fresh no matter how many times it happens. He was your father, you are allowed to feel pain, allowed to feel cold, allowed to cry. I never allowed myself to cry, and it only brought more pain. I was in so much pain before I met you Hurin, but you taught me that crying and that the pain I was feeling wasn’t weakness and neither is yours now.” 

“Chiefs shouldn’t cry.” Hurin said weakly, his eyes shadowed and glossy. 

She looked at him, a soft and warm hand went to his cheek. “But Hurin, son of Galdor, should.” 

With only a few words, she had unravel him. He broke down; ugly wet streaks came down his face, he scooped her up in his arms and sobbed. Her arms tangled around him like wisteria on a wall. He slept with her that night, nothing happened, it rarely did these days. They weren’t kids anymore and he was increasingly more busy. Eventually being Chief got easier after a year, the pain dulled, and then after two he was finally starting to get the gist of this thing he was groomed his whole life for. It helped that Morwen was at his side constantly, a beorian through and through her mind was made for this kind of work. She could neogate and organize with the best of them. She was often the logic to his emotions, his blue to his red, often just smarter than him.

One night, they sat together late into the night piecing together Taliska and Sindarin documents and talking about crop rotation under candle light when Morwen paused and stared at Hurin. 

He laughed, “was it something I said about the peas?” 

“I’m tired of waiting, Hurin.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Hurin, will you marry me?” She reached inside her cleavage to pull out a ring. 

His jaw fell open. 

[krystalreverb]

Something Human (Fic Preview #1)

Oh my god a fic from me that isn't xanlow I know it's the end times it's still fire emblem tho, don't get that confused so I have a weakness for master servant stuff so this is what you get I immediately had a weakness for Hubert/Edelgard I forced hubert to learn some healing magic so I could have more healers, haha I also like to make jokes so I paired them up and Hubert is just like of course I love you, was that not clear? ok I have no excuses for the ending but here we go gender neutral and pan byleth, I use the female Byleth in my runs because it makes recruiting Sylvain so much easier and he's a great unit and also i'm a huge slut for fishnet tights but this Byleth can be either one you want they use they/them pronouns and I don't describe their appearance at all so it can be either Byleth you want this takes place during the war when the black eagle strike force is still using garreg mach as a base I guess? It's vaguely sometime after they take out deirdru but before they march on fhirdiad i'm pretending byleth didn't recruit any other students into the BESF because my brain only has room for so many characters and I don't want to remember any extras nor did I want to explain why they're there Have a little body worship for your troubles this is self indulgent and shitty don't hate me this is just what I do for fun edelgard is 100% loud af in bed, don't try to tell me she's not a screamer ok so in my headcanon how this works is Byleth splits their class/training session time into two or three chunks to give the BESF a generous lunch break and give them a chance to study and train on their own for a couple hours before moving onto a different topic or training focus this is mostly focused on Hubert, there are some good Edelgard moments but this is mostly a Hubert-centric story bi king linhardt is my lifeblood, he's so jealous and catty there are multiple music and pop culture references dating back into the 90's, there are quite a few, see if you can spot them I was born in '92 I'm allowed to call myself a 90's kid dadgummit you kids these days I s2fg the first person to give me a complete list of memes and references that I put in this fic gets a hubelgard drawing by me I am not an artist but I'll do it anyway just don't expect anything good so basically Hubert is Gomez Addams and Edelgard is his Morticia, okay he worships the ground she walks on and lavishes her with affection and love and just thinks everything she says and does is beautiful and magical and she enjoys every second of it I headcanon that edelgard is an absolute unit she's just smol and Hubert kind of has the build of a guy who sits inside all day reading spellbooks

Something Human

The hallways of the monastery were dark, the night outside peering in through the windows and casting slim moonlight beams on the floor and walls. Within those moonbeams was a shadowy figure, slithering through the shadows like a phantom in an ancient opera house, a glass of water in one hand. The figure stopped, hearing something strange.

“N-no... S-stay away! Stay away!” It was Edelgard. She was in distress. The water glass shattered loudly on the floor, and the water spilled across the stone. The figure bolted across the hallway and around the corner. Protect her with your life.

“No! No, stop! Get away from me!”

The figure stopped in front of a locked door and very quickly assessed the situation. No sign of forced entry. That was good. But Edelgard was still crying out, and the bed was rocking, banging against the wall alarmingly. The figure picked up a lamp off the windowsill and lit it, lighting up his face as he knocked on the door. It was Hubert, who had gotten up thirsty in the middle of the night and left his quarters to fetch himself a glass of water from the kitchens to take back to his room with him. He was a human, as were they all, and he occasionally got thirsty in the middle of the night. This simply happened to be one of those nights.  

“Your Majesty? What's going on in there?” Hubert asked. He got no response other than Edelgard crying out again and the bed crashing against the wall violently.

Hubert spared no time. He quickly used a bit of magic to trip the lock and opened the door. Immediately he saw that there was no one there, other than a very sweaty Edelgard in her bed, eyes screwed shut, crying out in fitful sleep.”Stay away! Stay away! Leave me alone!” Edelgard cried out in her sleep, clutching her head with her hands and thrashing in her sheets. Her hair whipped about her head, creating a shimmering white halo around her head. The bed crashed loudly into the wall, and the vibration knocked her crown clean off the bedside table. Hubert let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

A nightmare. Of course. Hubert knew his lady suffered from nightmares; who wouldn't, after the life she'd led, the horrors she'd suffered? Hubert often found his dreams equally grim and frightening, on nights such as these. On clear nights, with no immediate threat present, sometimes, just sometimes, his mind turned in on itself too. It was a side effect of the rigors of war.

Hubert quickly put the lamp on her bedside table, picked her crown up off the floor, placed it back on the table next to the lamp, and shook his lady gently with one hand. “Your Majesty.” It was simple, but direct, quiet, yet audible enough to carry within the dorm room.

Edelgard's eyes shot open and she sat up straight, woken up suddenly. Her hair was a disaster and there were red rings around her eyes. The string-like strap of her thin nightgown fell pathetically off of her shoulder to hook around her arm, the neckline slipping down until her right breast threatened to fall out of the material entirely. Hubert pretended not to notice. “Ahhhh!” She shrieked, her eyes fixing on him and taking a couple of seconds to fully focus.

Hubert was almost knocked backwards by her force. “My lady, it's only me!” He exclaimed in a direct whisper.

“Hubert??” Edelgard asked, wild-eyed and terrified, clutching her blankets to her chest. “What are you doing in my chambers this late at night???”

“I heard you from the hallway, Your Majesty. You were crying out in your sleep. Is it that nightmare again?” Hubert asked, gently placing his hand on hers to placate her anxiety for now.

“Oh, Hubert... I don't want to talk about it.” Edelgard said stubbornly, casting her eyes away. Her cheeks turned a rather cute shade of embarrassed pink.

“The professor said talking about it would help.” Hubert supplied. Edelgard huffed.

“I know. But I...”

“But I won't force your hand.” Hubert relented. “At least allow me to stay by your side, my lady, for my own peace of mind. I thought you were being attacked, Your Majesty. It gave me quite the fright.”

“Oh, Hubert, don't be overdramatic. Yes, you can stay.” Edelgard shuffled over in bed and allowed Hubert to climb up next to her. Hubert immediately found himself the subject of a tight embrace, the Emperor's head resting on his chest and her arms looped around his shoulders.

“Hubert.... I will create peace, for all of Fódlan.”

“I know, Your Majesty. I know. And I will be by your side every step of the way, my lady.”

“No.... No titles tonight, Hubert. Please....”

“As you wish, Edelgard.” Hubert stroked Edelgard's hair softly, running his fingers through her white locks. This was familiar to them; comforting. Hubert often would let the crying little girl that was a pained and tortured young Edelgard sleep in his arms after a particularly terrible day. It always allowed her a restful sleep, to know he was always there to watch over her. Edelgard's father never knew, and neither did Hubert's. It wasn't entirely proper of them, but then again they had never quite been a proper pair. Closer than siblings, they knew each other more intimately than lovers, and touch came naturally between them as a sign of their devotion to one another. A hug, a touch on the shoulder, their pinkies intertwining as they walked their bloody path together. There was a world of words between them never spoken, but implicitly understood. What was proper and what was crossing the line. What they could and couldn't say. What they wouldn't say, not yet anyway.

“Hubert?”

“Yes, Edelgard?”

“Do you think I'm... a good Emperor?” She asked, in a small voice. An uncertain voice. A voice wracked with insecurity, disbelief, and thinly-veiled suffering in isolation.

“Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg, ruler of the entire Adrestian Empire... yours is a reign I am proud to swear my fealty to.” Hubert answered immediately, without hesitation or second thought. “And you know me, Edelgard. I am an excellent judge of character.”

Edelgard giggled. A joke. Hubert did have a sense of humor, as much as he didn't like to show it. Her face fell somewhat, and her giggle died down. She snuggled her head deeper into Hubert's chest, holding onto him like a lifeline. Hubert allowed this.“Hubert, will you sing to me? That song you used to sing for me when I was small...” She murmured, and Hubert's expression softened. A particularly terrible event was haunting her tonight. Perhaps the night when.... no. Hubert refused to think about it. Edelgard had been through enough.

Hubert began to sing an ancient lullaby softly. It was in the ancient language of magic, one that Edelgard did not understand but found beautiful. Hubert was not particularly talented at singing, but as he was of a noble house, he was studied somewhat in the art, being capable of at least holding a tune. He was clearly not destined for a musical career but he wasn't awful. His voice carried well, anyway, and he could pass for a gravelly, underused, sinister sort of low tenor. As he sang, he gently ran his fingernails across Edelgard's scalp, scratching her head softly and sweetly, and she damn near melted in his arms. Soon she was sleeping soundly again, and Hubert very quickly came to realize that he really didn't have the ice-cold heart it would take to move her from the cozy spot she seemed to have claimed on his chest. So there they lay, curled up around one another, a tangled mess of limbs until the sun rose again.

When they roused from slumber, Hubert got up early, woke Edelgard, and then fell into his regular routine of helping Edelgard get dressed for the day. Her armor did have too many buckles, and that blasted dress, with all its buttons and epaulets. He carefully brushed out her hair, and pinned it elegantly to her head, placing her crown atop it, all in silence. That silence passed between them like a ghost through the room. She stood. And she turned.

“Thank you, Hubert.” She said softly. “For staying with me.”

“My lady, I would never leave your bed, if that is what you asked of me. I am ever your faithful servant, Your Majesty.” Hubert replied. Edelgard had to laugh a little.

“I know, Hubert. Perhaps after the professor's lecture, you'd like to share a meal with me? I'd love to hear more about that book Dorothea is making you read.”

Hubert rolled his eyes. “That drivel can barely be called a 'book', my lady. It's hardly anything more than blatant erotica mixed with stale and tiresome literary tropes. It's garbage.”

“Still, she seemed insistent. Does she quiz you?” Edelgard teased.

“Unfortunately, and at random times, so I'm forced to continue reading it until I can make her stop. She starts crying when I get a question wrong.” Hubert complained.

Edelgard laughed. “Then at least tell me about it. Share a meal with me. And tell me all about it.”

Hubert relented. “Of course, my lady.” He bowed politely, and offered his arm to escort his lady to Byleth's class.

[unchartedterritoria]

Dangerous (Sam Drake x OC) - Chapter 20

This chapter was hard to get started and then just came flowing out. I promise a lighter chapter soon!

WARNING: There is mention of suicide in this chapter. It’s a dark chapter.

You can read past chapters on A03, as well as read this current one if you don’t wanna read it here:

A03 Chapter 20 Link

“You sure we're out of museums?” Faith asked.

“Yup, the drunk bastard's house was the last one on the list,” Sam answered her.

“How do you know Hemingway was a drunk?”

“Weren't all the 'great' American authors drunks?”

Faith thought about it for a second and shrugged her shoulders in agreement.

As the prospects of finding a link between Mudd and Key West were beginning to dry up faster and faster, Faith and Sam decided to switch the focus of their search to the phrase branded into the barrel. The Third Artillery. They found no mention of it in any of the history books they had, which left what hope Faith had left waning. Sam on the other hand, who was trying to hold on to his diminishing optimism, had another idea.

Faith and Sam rounded the corner of the block. A basic, black wrought iron fence ringed the Key West Cemetery. Beyond the barrier sat 19 acres of eccentric island graveyard. Each headstone, each marker, each crypt had a unique twist that embodied the essence of the island itself. White mausoleums, faded with age, stretched along segments of the fence. They dwarfed the other single person crypts, five rows of final resting places resided in the tall buildings.

Sam strode through the gate and under the large metal archway into the cemetery as if on a breeze while Faith trudged slowly through, the unease of all of the dead people inside doing a tap dance on her stomach. Nervous perspiration began to form at her temples and mingled with the beads of sweat already there from the heat.

It's just a cemetery. It's not like you know anyone buried here. You got this Faith; you got this.

“You ok?”

The sound of Sam's voice shook her brain loose from the anxiety that was trying to grab hold.

"Yeah, I'm good," she said.

“Then let get moving,” He said, nodding his head forward.

Faith blew out a heavy breath, quickly caught up to Sam and fell into step next to him to explore the sprawling graveyard.

A small, green sedan with Georgia plates parked underneath one of the massive palm trees which lined the street that led to the entrance to the cemetery. The man in the driver's seat watched as Sam and Faith walked up the wide lane, the graves flanking them on either side. He kept his distance. When he was sure he was out of earshot, he slid out of the driver's seat and closed the door behind him. Stowing a small handgun in the holster hidden under his billowing shirt and a cellphone in his pocket, he began to follow them. He kept a reasonable distance, but never took his beady eyes off the pair walking a couple of rows ahead of him.

Faith made sure to grab one of the maps for the self-guided walking tour of the cemetery when they came in. After a few blocks in, she produced the glossy pamphlet from her back pocket.

“Where's their section for the military?” Sam asked.

"I don't see a designated military part, so I'm guessing they're just spread all over," Faith shook her head and scanned the numerous gravestones around her.

“Shit,” He grumbled as he produced a smoke from his shirt pocket, giving it a light.

Good thing it's a full pack, he thought to himself, I'm gonna need it if I have to look at every goddamn tombstone in this place.

“So, I gotta ask, how do you know so much about a town you've never been to?” Sam asked, his words accented with an exhaled plume of smoke.

Faith smiled as she stared at the long worn in ruts of the cemetery road under her feet.

"When I was around 15 or 16, my mom decided that we should go on vacation when I graduated high school. She let me pick where we would go, and I picked Key West. Before we went, I wanted to know all about where we were going, so I read up on the city and its people and its history. You know, like the geek that I am. Then graduation came and..." Faith shrugged her shoulders with a defeated sigh.

Sam nodded knowingly while he walked beside her. He knew that expression. He'd spent most of his teenage life wearing it.

"We tried to go again when I graduated college. We got closer that time! We had the money for it then, and we were all ready to book it, but then my mom got sick, and that was that." Faith's voice went soft and quiet as she reached the end of her story.

“She was sick for a pretty long time, huh?” Sam said as his eyes scanned the text of the tombstones as they walked by them.

Faith picked at her cuticles. "Since I was eleven. That was the last time I remember her being healthy."

“Cancer?”

"Self-destruction."

Faith's answer caused Sam to look at her; his face wore a look of confusion.

“Ok,” She began with a deep breath, “My parents loved each other. I mean, really loved each other. I'm talking Gomez and Morticia Addams level of love; you know what I mean?"

Faith continued after Sam nodded his head, his full attention focus on Faith's story, the cemetery falling away around him.

"And that shit's rare. I knew that when I was little but I didn't really understand just how special and how rare that intense, 'compliment and complete each other' kind of love was until I was a lot older. Anyway, my parents went on vacation. There was an accident. My dad got hurt and ended up in a wheelchair with brain damage."

“How bad?” Sam interjected.

“Before it, he was a music teacher, did piano accompaniment that kinda thing. And after it, he couldn't play anymore; he couldn't remember how to either."

“That's a tough hand to be dealt,” Sam said as he ground the butt of his cigarette into the grass with his boot.

“Yeah it was, and mom tried her best. Quit her job, took care of him full time. Then one day, two years later, he told her he was tired and put a shotgun in his mouth,” Faith said very matter of fact.

“Jesus,” Sam exclaimed in a low voice.

Faith's eyes hardened. “Yeah, I don't think he was there that day,” she said through pursed lips.

Her retort caught him off guard and made him stop in his tracks while she continued forward without breaking her stride.

Sam wanted to tell her that she didn't have to talk about this. That she could tell him to fuck off and mind his own business and that would be alright, but Sam had a feeling this was something that needed to be said.

"Ma kept it together pretty well in the beginning. She was strong for me; I was strong for her. Between going back to work and getting me through high school she didn't really have time to fall apart, you know? Then I went to college, and it was like this depression just... consumed her. She stopped taking care of herself. I'd come home on weekends and take care of her, try and distract her, get her out of her head and out of the house. But it just didn't work. She kept fixating on dad and why he did it and why didn't she stop him and yadda, yadda, yadda. And after ten years, her body just broke down. Kidneys stopped working, infections all the time, her muscles atrophied. She couldn't walk anymore so she couldn't work. For ten years I tried to get her to fight, tried to make her want to live. But in the end, she said she was tired, and she didn't want to fight anymore. So I had to let her go," Faith finished with her head hung down. She willed herself to keep it together and not cry. Instead, she continued to stare down at her shoes intently while they walked.

Her story sat in Sam's throat like a sticky ball. Some of it had felt so chillingly familiar. A mother giving up on life, depression, suicide, being left alone. The story had echoed that of his teenage years with the loss of his mother and ending up in an orphanage with Nathan. For one of the few times in his life, he didn't know what to say. He wanted to tell her he understood, that he understood deep down on a level that only a person that has lost a parent at a young age could.

Instead, Sam put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her in close next to him while they walked. He tilted his head, letting it rest on the top of hers.

The action was more sincere and heartfelt for Faith than any 'I'm sorry' ever could be.

They walked like that for a few more steps. Unable to deal with the sad, maudlin feeling anymore, she broke from his grasp and turned around to face him while she walked backward.

"But hey! I made it! I'm here!" Faith said with a grin as she stretched her arms out. She saw Sam smile back at her, but the small guy in the distance caught her eye. He was only a row or two back from their current position. There were other people in the cemetery, tourists on bikes, the occasional work truck of the groundskeeper. What grabbed her attention was his shoes. White penny loafers with no socks that stood out under his light tan slacks.

Definitely not appropriate footwear, I don't care how Miami Vice it looks, she thought to herself.

The man in the insensible shoes looked ahead to see Faith staring at him. He quickly slowed his pace and began to find the small mausoleum next to him very interesting, giving it his full attention.

Despite the looming threat of being found by Jasper's people, Faith had tried to keep her paranoia to a minimum. She knew if she were suspicious and freaked out about every person she passed in Key West, she would be a complete mess. She had been doing well until now. Those out of place shoes though. They sent a quiver up her back as if someone dragged their thumbnail up her spine. Faith shook it off, keeping the expression on her face light and airy.

“Let me see the map,” Sam asked, bringing himself to a stop and holding out his hand. Faith handed the sweat softened map to him.

Sam unfolded it carefully, his face contorted with a look of playful disgust.

“Didn't you just grab this at the gate?”

“Oh bite me. It's warm out,” She said with a wave of her hand as she stood next to him to read over his shoulder.

"I think here's probably our best shot." Sam pointed at a small square with a picture of an anchor that read 'USS MAINE MEMORIAL.'

“Yeah, but let's snake our way through the place, see if any of the graves in here mention 3rd Artillery.”

Sam refolded the damp map and put it in his back pocket.

“Alright sister, you lead the way.”

Faith chanced a small glance behind her, the man in the white shoes was nowhere to be seen.

Faith made her way through the cemetery with a lightness that came from the person next to her, Sam. She had entered the graveyard full of dread and trepidation, all but convinced that a panic attack was looming in her not so distant future. Instead, she ended up talking about the one thing that had sent her into countless states of anxiety and discomfort for the past six months, her mother, her father even. She had never told anyone about what happened with her father before, in the hopes of keeping conversations airy; the mention of suicide tends to really bring down the room. When people asked her about him, she always said, 'he passed away' and left it at that. But something in Sam, in his kind eyes, in his easygoing personality, acted as a truth serum for her. It brought down walls in Faith that had been built up brick by brick, leaving a wall that was mortared together with avoidance and hardened solid with the passage of time. Faith's wall had started to crumble and the sheer terror that she had anticipated with it, hadn't come. Instead, it was a feeling of refreshment, cleansing, and comfort.