#just read the rest of the stories in the east of the sun west of the moon anthology can you tell

[perplexingly]

I like the whimsy of fairytales so much with all their strange rules that just are respected and personifications of things like the wind that noone questions and characters’s reactions that are either too drastic or too mild for the situation and never just right

Modern storytelling makes too much sense 😞

[merinsedai]

For @dreamlingbingo

Square/Prompt: A1: Sticks and Stones

Title: The Shepherd and the Stones

Rating: G

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Warnings: n/a

Additional Tags: fairy tale, shepherd Hob, faerie Dream, inspired by folklore, standing stones and treasure 

Summary: This is the tale of a lonely shepherd and a cunning sorcerer; of a stone circle and a faerie treasure.

One Midsummer Eve, the giant stones of the high plain will rise from their pits and leave their treasure unguarded, ripe for the taking .

But for a faerie's treasure to exist in the mortal world, it requires a human sacrifice...

Link: Read on ao3 here or below the cut :)

Once upon a time, on the high fells of England, there lived a lonely shepherd. Once, he had had a family and there had been love and laughter in his home, but a great sickness had come to the land and stolen his joy. Now there was just him.

Alone and sad, the shepherd had left his village and journeyed to the North, away from the memories and any who knew him. He settled in a small village, nestled amid the wild hills and the wilder weather.  He moved amongst the villagers like a ghost, quiet and unnoticed, taking his small flock up to pasture every day on a high and windy plain and every evening returning to his sad and silent home.

Upon the plain, one could see for miles in every direction: there was the village to the south, the far off mountains to the west, and in the north- a distant, winding river. And right in the middle of the plain there stood a circle of 7 giant stones. No one knew how they had gotten there: the villagers were afraid to approach as there were tales that the stones had once been giants, turned to rock and moss as a punishment; and that the fairies who dwelt amongst them, and whose duty it was to care for them, would curse or trick any mortal who dared approach. 

But the shepherd was not afraid of the stones, nor the stories of the fair folk. Each day he took his sheep to graze on the high plain and there the weather was often harsh. The stones were the only shelter when the freezing winds blew in from the East bringing the rain and snow in winter; they were the only shade in summer when the sun beat ceaselessly down upon him; and moveover they were familiar, comforting, and constant. The shepherd began to regard them as friends, and whilst he rested his back against their craggy sides to eat his meagre fare, he talked to them and told them tales of adventure and romance.  And though he was lonely still, there was a happiness of sorts to be had there, alone amongst the stones.

Then there came a day, in the fading warmth of autumn, where the shepherd found he was no longer alone. For whilst he was preparing to take his midday meal, settling in against the biggest of the stones, he sensed a presence above him and looked up. 

Before him stood a strange and ethereal creature, shaped much like a man but quite evidently not one, not if the large and delicate wings at his back were any measure. They were beautiful, waving slightly in the wind, and he stared openly. At first they looked black, but as the sunlight caught upon them, they shimmered in shades of purple and green. And the creature they belonged to was himself a sight to behold: his skin gleamed palely-perfect, like moonlight on new fallen snow, his hair was long and black as night, and his eyes… his eyes were piercing and blue as a clear midwinter sky, and glowed as if lit from within. He was barefoot and wore a flowing robe that gleamed with the same iridescence as his wings. 

“Hallo,” said the shepherd, surprised but not frightened. He babbled on a bit when the stranger merely stared at him. “I’m Hob. The shepherd. Bring my sheep up here a lot. Though I’m guessing you already know that. You’re one of the fair folk, right?  Lovely spot you have here. What’s your name?”

“I have been listening to you,” the stranger replied, not answering Hob’s question. “You like to talk. You tell… interesting stories.”

“Well, I’m glad someone’s been appreciating them.” Hob said. “Not sure what Old Mighty here thinks, but he’s a good audience.”

The stranger's eyes flicked to the giant stone, then back to Hob.

“You are bold, to linger here.”

“Am I?” Hob said unconcernedly, paring his apple carefully.  

“Yes. Most mortals fear to tread lands touched by fae magic. And yet, you are here every day and you are not afraid. Instead you treat our stones with reverence and bring us gifts of stories and song. Why is this so?”

Hob shrugged. “Never found anything to be afraid of. Not yet anyway.” he added with a chuckle. “And I love it here. It fills me with peace. Would you like some apple?” 

The stranger was wary at first, recoiling slightly from Hob’s outstretched hand. But Hob merely placed the slice of apple upon his kerchief and put them on a rock to his side, then continued talking. Gradually he drew the faerie man in to him as he spun another wild tale while continuing with his meal. He spoke to the rocks, the sky, the grass, eyes occasionally darting to his companion, who eventually settled on the ground a few feet away, listening intently.

When Hob eventually wound his story down, he found the faerie suddenly closer than he expected. Eye to eye, they stared at each other.

“A fine tale, Hob,” the stranger said softly. “I thank you for sharing.”

“Anytime, stranger.”

The stranger smiled, a small secretive thing. “My name is Dream.” he said softly, and between one blink and the next, he was gone. 

And when Hob gathered the wits to look round, so was the apple. 

From that day on, Hob would often find Dream awaiting him amongst the stones. And while Hob would share his stories and food, Dream would weave him crowns of moorland flowers (whatever the season, he had flowers of white and purple and yellow; of mouse ears, tormentil and willowherb) and teach him faerie songs. When they were together, the time passed more happily and Hob wasn’t lonely anymore.

For he had found he had a friend.

***

Living in the same village as Hob was an old sorcerer who could understand the language of the animals and birds. The sorcerer’s name was Burgess and he was a cold and cruel man, though that was well hidden beneath a veneer of charm and amiability. The people of the village were in awe of the sorcerer, but they did not fear him. He had dwelled amongst them many years, studying the ways of magic, and they came to him for healing and advice when their crops failed. In return they gave him what they could, and he lived a life of some comfort, though as with many men he desired much more: wealth, acclaim and power. 

One day in early summer, the sorcerer was busy with his arcane workings when he happened to overhear the excited chatter of two sparrows who were sitting on his windowsill. Burgess made a habit of leaving tidbits for the animals to eat so he could eavesdrop on all their tales.

“Did you hear?” said one of the little birds to the other. “The stones are stirring! This Midsummer Eve, at midnight, they will rise from their pits and go to the river to drink!”

“I know!” answered the second, fluttering its tiny wings madly. “The whole flock is atwitter about it. The stones have not risen  for many turns around the sun! And did you hear that there is treasure in the pits where the stones stand?”

“Everyone knows that, silly,” tutted the first bird. “It is the faeries’ treasure! The stones guard the treasure and the faeries tend the stones. The magpies were very excited, they would love to steal it. But of course, they will be fast asleep come midnight.”

“They would be very foolish if they did, but that’s magpies all over.” The second bird hopped along the sill, searching for the last of the scattered crumbs. “The faeries’ treasure will turn to dust come morning unless the stones are given a human sacrifice in return. No hope of that happening! Come on, we’ve finished here… I heard the miller’s wife has been baking again…-”

And with that, the two little birds flew off. 

Burgess snapped his book shut and rubbed his hands, a gleeful smile spreading on his face. Faerie treasure, as he had long suspected! And it was his for the taking… but what to do about the human sacrifice…? The sorcerer sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers in thought. Well, there was only one choice, really. Only one person in the village who had no family or friends to ask awkward questions when they disappeared. It would have to be the shepherd.

***

That evening, Burgess went in search of Hob and found him finishing shutting his flock away for the night. 

“Robert,” purred the sorcerer, lacing his voice with just enough magic to make the other man suggestible and not suspicious. “I have the most wonderful proposition for you. Let us talk.”

Spellbound, Hob invited Burgess into his home and, over a cup of braggot ale, the sorcerer told the shepherd all that he had overheard. All, that is, except for one small detail. He made no mention of the human sacrifice.

“It is agreed then?” said Burgess with his wicked smile. “We shall meet on the plain at midnight and when the stones go to drink we will have treasure beyond our wildest imaginings.”

With another flick of his power, he swore Hob to secrecy- “We must tell no one; this is our little secret, Robert.”- and then he left, chuckling to himself at his own brilliance.

***

At first, Hob was excited at the idea of the treasure, imagining all the things he could do with it- all the places he could go. But later the next day, as he sat in the shade of Old Mighty waiting and hoping for a visit from his friend, he began to feel bad about it instead.

It would be very unfair to steal the stones’ treasure whilst they are drinking and unable to protect it. They are guarding it for the fae folk, and Dream is my friend… I could never steal from him, he thought, beginning to feel angry at himself for even considering it. It was just that the sorcerer had been so friendly, so convincing…. He pressed his palm into Old Mighty’s sun-warmed side and sighed. I will not do it. I don’t care if I stay poor my whole life. I will not do it.

A rustling in the brambles announced the arrival of the faerie, and Hob looked up at him, chewing his bottom lip.

“You look very thoughtful today, my friend,” said Dream, eyeing him closely with his head tilted to the side.

“I..-” Hob wanted to tell Dream of Burgess’s plan, but the sorcerer’s magic kept the words locked in his throat. “I was just thinking it was a most marvellous day! And I found some wild strawberries on my walk up here today. I was hoping you would share them with me.”

Dream favoured him with one of his small, secret smiles, folding his legs to sit neatly beside him, both of them resting with their backs against Old Mighty. They shared strawberries and stories, and Dream taught Hob a counting game with dandelion clocks. It was a beautiful day, peaceful and still. As always, Hob delighted in his fae friend’s company. He wished he could tell him of Burgess’s plan but he could not, and so that evening he departed with the words unsaid and an unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

***

A few days later, Hob was awoken from a restless sleep in the deep watches of the night by a touch to his dreaming mind that brought him gasping back to awareness. Dream was there before him, bending over the bed and drawing his hand back from Hob’s forehead.  Hob had never before seen his friend outside the vicinity of the stones, and never at night. Dream was more otherworldly here, his features sharper, his hair wilder. The moonlight painted his pale skin with an ethereal glow and his eyes- so blue in the day- were washed to full black. Hob had never been afraid of Dream but now he felt a thrill of fear to know that fae magic had been at work upon him.

“You are correct in what you think,” Dream said without preamble or explanation.  “It would be wrong to steal from us and from the stones.”

“I...I know,” Hob said, trembling slightly. He did not question how Dream knew of his conversation with the sorcerer: the ways of the fair folk were mysterious and always surprising. He could not read Dream’s expression and he wondered if even his brief consideration of helping Burgess was enough to condemn him in the faerie’s eyes. “I wasn’t-”

“But you are our friend,” Dream interrupted calmly, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “And we give you leave to take some of our treasure.”

“What-”

“But first,” Dream holds up a finger, forestalling Hob yet again. “You must cut a long trail of honeysuckle and lay it beside Old Mighty, and you must only take treasure from Old Mighty’s pit. For he is the stone that I tend, and it is by my invitation that you may enter.”

Hob struggled to sit up in the bed. “ Dream, I am not going to do it. I swear I am not! I admit I thought about it but I- I can’t do it. I’m going to tell Burgess tomorrow; try to persuade him of the wrongness of this deed.”

“I know you would try to refuse the sorcerer, my friend, because I know your heart,” said Dream.  “But Burgess’s magic sits deep within you still, and he will compel you whether you will it or no. To steal from a faerie treasure is the riskiest of ventures, and without the grace I now grant you, your death would be almost assured.”

Hob gaped at him. Dream sat down next to him on the bed, unexpectedly close. He pressed his hand to Hob’s chest and looked upon him with an unreadable expression.

“For the friendship you have offered me, I would give you a reward,” he said.

“I don’t need a reward-!”

“A gift then. One friend to another. Take it, please,” Dream said, pressing closer, his hand moving up from Hob’s chest to cup his cheek. Hob’s breath caught in his throat at the gesture, and the serious look in his friend’s eyes. 

“Yet one word of warning,” Dream continued quietly. “Do not let greed drive you, Hob. Be mindful of what you take. A faerie’s favour is hard won, and easily lost.”

Hob nodded shakily. He had no desire to lose this faerie’s favour. 

“But what about Burgess?” he asked after a moment.

Dream’s smile was back, only  grimmer now. Hob shivered.

“Leave the sorcerer to me.”

***

Late at night on Midsummer Eve, the sorcerer and the shepherd met on the plain to await the moving of the stones. Burgess performed some magic- a simple bending of the light- to make them invisible to any watching eyes, and in silence, they waited. As the church bells in the village began to chime out the midnight hour, clouds scudded over the moon and the earth began to tremble.  Hob watched in awe as the seven massive stones stepped from their pits and began to move across the plain, rocking gently from side to side as though walking on invisible feet. Peering closely, Hob could just make out some smaller, darker shapes flitting about amongst the stones: the faeries were escorting their charges to the distant river. Soon, only he and Burgess remained on the plain and all was silent once again. 

“Quickly,” hissed the sorcerer, pushing Hob onwards. “We haven’t much time.” They ran to the empty pits and Hob stopped dead- they were much, much deeper than he had anticipated.

“How will we get out?” he breathed, turning anxious eyes on Burgess who waved his worries away impatiently.

“Do not concern yourself with that,” he snapped. “Do you believe I came here so unprepared? I will lift you out with my magic, just as I will do with myself. Now go!” A sudden force propelled Hob forward and he stumbled, dropping down into the pit with a startled oath. The hard landing knocked the breath out of him, and he lay there gasping for a moment, listening to the sound of Burgess entering his own pit and the clang of metal as the sorcerer clearly began gathering his booty. 

The clouds cleared from the sky as Hob sat up and looked around. The sudden bright moonlight illuminated a hoard of treasure beyond Hob’s wildest imaginings. Gold and silver in every form: ingots and jewellery and goblets; gem encrusted scabbards and armour and torques; strings of diamonds and pearls; jewels in every cut and hue; and coins of every weight and denomination under the sun. Hob stared in amazement, picking things up and marvelling at their beauty. Then, mindful of Dream’s words, he gathered enough treasure to fill his pockets, whispering his thanks as he did, and settled down to wait for the sorcerer’s aid in escaping.  

Meanwhile, in a nearby pit, Burgess was shovelling treasure into sacks as fast as he could, heedless of what he stole. And all the time he was shovelling, he was smiling to himself and thinking that no one would miss that lonesome shepherd.

Time passed and Hob was growing nervous. He paced the pit, constantly looking up. He tried shouting for Burgess but heard nothing in response. What was the sorcerer up to?! Presently, there came the sound of a distant rumble which began growing louder and louder… the giant stones were returning from the river. 

Hob’s heart was beating triple time in his chest. I must get out of this pit, or I’ll be squashed by Old Mighty! he thought frantically. He began trying to climb out but the sides of the pit were steep and slippery, and he couldn’t gain a foothold anywhere. His fingernails were bleeding from his desperate scrabbling at the walls and over his own panting breaths Hob could hear Burgess screaming with fear, clearly unable to use his magic to escape his own pit.

Sighing, Hob resigned himself to his fate and sat down amid the treasure. It had been a decent life all told. His family had been a bright spot, and Dream… Dream was a bright spot still. Hob wasn’t ready to go, he wasn’t done with living yet. Blinking back frightened and angry tears, he looked up at the sky one last time…

… and leapt to his feet when he saw Dream peering over the edge of the pit.

“Dream!” he shouted, shock and elation both clamouring for dominance within him. “What-”

“Take hold of this,” Dream interrupted brusquely, and lowered the trail of honeysuckle which Hob had cut and laid beside Old Mighty earlier in the day into the pit. “I will pull you up.”

It was a very close thing. As Hob fell gasping onto the grass, Old Mighty stepped into the pit with a heavy thud. All around, there were echoing thuds as the stones returned home, and when the earth stopped trembling… Complete silence. 

“I apologise,” Dream said calmly, pulling Hob to  his feet. “I was delayed… and I have heard it is impolite to keep a friend waiting.”

Hob gaped at him, then laughed with the kind of relieved giddiness that only a near-death experience could bring. “You-! You mad creature!” he exclaimed. “I really thought that was the end for me…! And then you-! Oh, I could kiss you, I really could!”

There was a hand on his cheek, and his laughter stopped abruptly. Hob found himself caught in thrall to those gleaming black eyes.

“If you mean it…” Dream said quietly, “If you do not speak in jest or high spirits-”

“I have never meant anything more in my entire life,” Hob said somewhat hysterically and then he couldn’t say anything more because he quite suddenly had his arms full of Dream and his mouth thoroughly occupied. It was a glorious, beautiful thing. Dream tasted like starlight should and he kissed like Hob was the most desirable thing on the Earth. Hob would be quite pleased to do this forever: kiss his faerie love in the shadow of the great stones…

He pulled back, struck by a sudden thought. “Wait, what of Burgess? He had spells ready to get him and his loot out of the pit, but he never answered my calls and I heard him screaming…?”

“You stopped kissing me to ask me that?” said Dream petulantly, but with a smug smile tugging up his lips. “Worry not, the sorcerer is dealt with. His paltry magic was nothing compared to my own. The moment he stepped into the pit, he doomed himself, for I trapped him there and there he shall remain., until such time as I deign to remove his bones.”

From that day on, the sorcerer was never seen or heard of again. Hob, the shepherd, became a rich and benevolent land owner, beloved of his tenants. And although he never again took sheep to graze upon the high plains, he could often be seen up by the stone circle, resting in the shade of Old Mighty. And though mortal eyes could not see it, he was never, ever alone. He had found his happily ever after.

[stellar-constellations]

An Alliance (Part 6)

        Fem! Spy! (Y/N) x Yuri Briar

        Parts: One, two, three, four, five, current part, seven, eight, nine, ten (to be continued when Spy x Family has more Yuri content!)

        (Y/N) is given her own backstory that is important for the story!

        The setting for this story is based off West and East Germany's (because Spy x Family is heavily based off Germany in the 1940-1950) laws (or at least replicated to the best of my abilities since it's unknown what time period Spy x Family is exactly in, we'll go with 1950 for the sake of this story). 

        Historically-accurate women misogyny and mistreatment! Only small comments and historically-accurate laws (replicated to the best of my ability). 

        The story, plot, and settings might not match up to the Spy x Family manga as it's not completed and the manga is still being crafted.

        This series contains spoilers for the manga and anime!

        My dad read the Westalis newspaper where the headline was: “Ostania Threatens Westalis with Nuclear Warfare!” as me and my siblings played outside. He was outside on the porch watching us play in the sun. It was springtime, a nice and warm day where there were lots of clouds in the sky that helped with shade. My mom's nowhere to be seen, she's been gone for a while now. She left us when we were young so we didn't have a two income household, it made it hard to pay bills or cook dinners; but it taught me a lot about the real world, so I'm a glad I can see the bright side of it. 

        I had the rest of the day off from working at the bakery. The lady owning it told me to enjoy myself since things were really starting to look bright for us ever since Westalis and Ostania made that peace pact with us. I agreed, taking my paycheck and running home to go play outside with my siblings.

        My two younger brothers both chased my older sister around, playing tag and enjoying their youth. My older brother sat in the background (he wasn't much for socializing with us).

        My older sister had a pure heart and loved to spoil me as I was her only little sister. My two younger brothers were both troublemakers that very often got away with stuff (somehow nobody ever looked their way when things went south). My older brother never liked to hang out with us much, but I know he cares about us (he's just in his "I'm independent and don't need no family" phase).

        I don’t know why, but I decided to look up at the sky that day. Maybe because I wanted to see how long it'd be until sunset, but I found myself looking at something else. The clouds parted a path for a weird yellow thing in the sky. I gawked at it in amazement, before smiling and running to my dad in uneven zig-zags as any child does when they've not properly mastered balancing.

        “Dad! Dad!” I called out. “Is that a shooting star?” I questioned, pointing up to the sky. 

        He looked up at the sky, trying to see what I was talking about before his eyes widened.

        “Oh no.” He muttered, utter fear in his eyes and voice. “Everyone, get inside now!” he shouted.

        I looked at him confused, looking up at the sky in curiosity.

        “Why?” I questioned.

        “That’s a nuke!” he exclaimed, grabbing my arm as everyone ran inside due to his panicked voice.

        I quickly squirmed out of his grasp, scared of his sudden change of attitude. I didn't understand what war was; if anything, I thought it was good! Why else would neighboring kids be running around and playing games such as "cops and robbers" or "army"? Why would kids be playing a game that glamorizes the death and suffering of others? 

        “N-no! I have to make a wish, otherwise it won’t come true! That’s what sissy said.” I spoke, making a dumb excuse.

        “We don’t have time, come here!” he spoke, lunging for my arm. 

        I quickly retracted, turning and running away with the excuse of “at least let me get my chalk!” 

        I was scared and confused of his sudden change of attitude. It won’t hurt me, I’ve never heard of shooting stars crashing into Earth. I was set it was a star, not a nuke (not that I was even aware of what nukes were at the time). Besides, the star will be tiny! When it falls, I can pick it up and keep it in my pocket as a pet. That's how naive I was as a child.

        “(Y/N)!” my father screamed, frustrated.

        I turned around, seeing how the star went from over my to hitting something I couldn’t see from far behind the house. I looked at it, shocked at the sky flashed red for a second, before it returned normal. A blackish gray mushroom cloud appeared behind the house, growing big by the second.

        “Woah.” I spoke, shocked.

        It took a second, staring amazed at it, before I was hit with powerful winds as the sound of glass broke and the sound of trees getting ripped from their weakened roots. I barley heard the screaming of people before I was taken in the powerful wave of wind as my ears started to hurt. My body slammed against a tree, knocking the wind out of me as I hit my head. 

        The wind stopped and I fell to the ground, not defying gravity anymore as I cried, covering my ears. I could barely even hear my own cries, just the sound of a church bell that hurt the headache I was immediately forming. I smelt something awful as I realized my vision was completely gone.

        I held my ears, desperate to hear the ringing stop, and cried, curling myself into a ball from the pain. I don’t know how long I sat there before I tried standing up, swaying side to side as I took a blind step forward, only to trip on something thick and fall onto my knees. I crawled around, desperate to find a sense of familarity, before feeling a sharp pain stab into my hands. I wept louder, not knowing what hurt me as my vision didn't approve. 

        I stayed on the ground longer, waiting for something, anything, to happen. Eventually, I regained my vision from this light, but darkness. It was black and white, I really can't explain it in words. It's just not something you can explain. 

        I looked down at my hands and noticed blood that came from my ears. I ran to go tell my dad, but saw my house crushed, barely standing. I looked around in the rubble, trying to see if my dad or any of my siblings were alright. 

        I saw a hand from the rubble and notice it was my dad’s from the size and skin tone. I tried to move the bricks and debris but couldn’t. I tried to tug his hand but to no avail. I gave up, sitting down on the ground next to the hand and resulted to screaming and crying, hoping somebody would hear and save my family and I.

        I don’t know how long I was there, crying as my ears rang miserably and how my body ached, but I eventually heard shouts and the sounds of heavy tires and machinery, and looked up. People in green and huge, huge tanks came around.

        I realized it was the military and cried, standing up and running to them.

        “Oh, shit. A kid’s alive!” someone shouted. 

        They had a terrifying gas mask on their face as they looked at me.

        “My dad! My family! They’re trapped under the house!” I cried, pointing. "You gotta help them. I can't do it on my own!"

        The man looked over and sighed, kneeling down.

        “I’m sorry, kid, but we can’t save them. You can't be there, the Ostanian army is here.” He spoke as another man came up with a gas mask in his hand and on his face. “Here, wear this. It’ll help you breathe.” He spoke, taking the mask.

        “It’s a miracle we got here when we did. Ten minutes more out here in this radiation and you could’ve died, that, or the Ostanians...” The other man spoke, muttering that last part to himself.

        Even though I was seven at the time, I knew what death was; however, I didn’t know how gruesome it was. I didn’t know how cruel people could be. When I thought of death, I thought of old people with gray hair dying peaceful in bed, not young people robbed of their lives and lying in their childhood home's bricks and their own blood surrounding them.

        “W-what’s gonna happen now?” I questioned. 

        “The military has a shelter going on right now. We’ll bring you there. After that, the state government is gonna take care of you. Probably put you in an orphanage.” The first man spoke.

        And yet, even though I was seven, I had no idea how kids could live without a parental figure. I had no idea how someone could live in a house full of strangers. I had no idea how to accept their death, or my own that would probably be nearby.

        The tank’s hatch opened up, revealing another guy in a gas mask.

        “Then after we’re going to go kill those Ostanian fuckers for this!” he bellowed loudly, obviously angry.

        "Rancher, could you shut the hell up?! A kid is present!” the second man yelled back at the third one.

        A white van pulled up, their windows tinted, iron prison bars covering them as the door opened.

        “Hurry up and get into the van. Keep your gas mask on too while you’re in there for extra safety.” The first man spoke, pushing me into the van. 

        I entered with my head racing and my heart pounding. There wasn’t many survivors they’ve found. Five people out of the sixty seated bus must’ve been here. Some napped while others cried, and some stared outside of the window with disappoint and rage to see their homes and families gone.

        I sat down alone, deciding to be another one of those people who bottle up their emotions and stare out the window as their head bangs against it from the bus’ movements. 

        I’m going to destroy Ostania for everything they’ve done to us. I thought to myself. They'll atone for what they've done.         .         .         It wasn’t long after that nuke dropping that I found myself in a large shelter where alive civilians and the military were huddled down. I saw those guys once and thanked them for saving me, to which they said it was their jobs. 

        I was still mad at losing everything I had in just thirty seconds, so I decided to try and find a way into the military to help Ostanias downfall. Despite my many attempts to get into the military, they declined me each time for being under 18 and for being a girl.

        I slammed my head on the metal table, ignoring the sting on my forehead as a military officer came up to me.

        “Hey, Net.” I sighed, lifting my head.

        “You keep doing that every time you don’t get in you’re gonna kill yourself before even getting your application accepted.” He spoke, taking a bite from his food.

        “It’s no use. I’m a girl” I groaned. 

        “You’re still trying to get in?” he questioned.

        “Not try, I am gonna get in.” I stated defensively.

        “Here.” Net spoke, sliding me a piece of paper.

        “What is it?” I questioned, picking up the paper. 

        I recognized the form instantly from stealing it so many damn times. 

        “Woah. Dude, why are you giving me this? You could be in serious trouble!” I whispered.

        “Instead of remaining calm and peaceful like how you'd normally fill the form out, just fucking obliterate the thing.” Nat spoke.

        “Oh.” I muttered. “Thanks?” 

        “No problem. Hurry up and get to Gerald. But if anyone asks, then you stole it…again.” Nat ordered.

        “Yes, sir!” I chuckled, standing up from my chair and stealing a pen from Nat’s pocket.

        I ran to the military counselor’s tent, sitting down and quickly filling out the form with the most unprofessional and colorful vocabulary I never even dared to utter alone to myself. I reread it proudly, determined to get that position in the Westalis military. I opened the tent and sat down, seeing the military counselor was there with one of the squad captains. 

        "Excuse me, sir and sir." I acknowledged, bowing to show my respect. 

        I handed the paper to the counselor as he groaned, already knowing why I'm here and what this paper meant.

        "Yet again, you show up in my office like the stubborn little brat you are. I told you, children, and especially girls, aren't welcome in the Westalis mil–" Gerald gasped loudly, his face going pale as he stared at the paper with white-shot eyes. 

        He quickly flipped the page, and the next page, rereading the papers over and over again. 

        "Y-you..." he spluttered. "The audacity of you!" he shouted, grabbing a nearby yard stick and slapping my wrist with it.

        "Oi! You fucking wad of earwax!" I yelp, retracting my hand back as his face went even paler.

        "In front of the recruiter too?! Brats like you have no chance into the Westalis military!" Gerald spoke.

        "You bet! I'm done with your fucking shenanigans! You better count all your lucky pennies because if I don't get that position in the military, I'm gonna sneak my way into them tanks and rapid fire your tent to match my hometown!" I shouted, slamming my hands on his desk and taking his yard stick, slapping it against his wrists instead of mine.

        I ripped the paper out of Gerald's hands, giving it to the recruiter instead. 

        "Take it. You read it instead, you're the boss; not this leprechaun." I spat.        

        The recruiter kept a straight face before taking the paper. He read it, unamused and blank faced as I impatiently tapped my foot.

        "Twenty-six times I've entered this tent within two months, and no results. I'm not going to stop until I join your squad." I stated, standing my ground as I stood straight and tall, hoping to seem determined enough to make up for all my weak strength and sour attitude. "I know that I don't look like much, nor do I act it. I'm seven and a quarter. I'm not very strong or tall, and I've barely lived long enough to even be a pre-teen, but I'm smart enough to understand the government and give advice of a seventy-year old, and I swear to whatever God there is that there's no fucker in Ostania that going to want to cross me after they see what I'll do with their soldiers." I spoke. "So if you could give me a chance and prove myself to you, that'd be really fucking fantastic." I spoke, allowing the colorful word to brighten my sentence.

        "You're seven?" the recruiter spoke.

        "And a quarter." I spoke. "I can be useful! I'm fast and stealthy and my size helps me hide good. Ostania would never expect a girl to fight in the military, let alone a kid." I smiled. 

        "You realize you'll most certainly die within two days, maximum?" the recruiter questioned.

        "Sometimes you just gotta jump to know what's there." I replied, determination filling every ounce of my soul and body.

        The recruiter stared at me for a second, before looking at Gerald. 

        "Do you have this kid's other application forms?" he questioned.

        "You're not seriously going to allow this brat? Out of everyone?!" Gerald questioned.

        "Shut the hell up, Gerald." I snapped, slapping his wrist with the ruler. "Ain't nobody gonna join; everyone's too afraid to die or they're suffering from some major PTSD. You aren't gonna find a gal as determined as me to get this job." 

        "Give me her recent form." The recruiter demanded. 

        Gerald mumbled alienated words under his breath as he searched through his desk, pulling out a paper packet I gave him last week. The recruiter scanned through the papers for a good three minutes, before setting the papers down. 

        "You're recruited. Welcome, (Y/N) (L/N), to the Westalis Military." The recruiter spoke, a small smile on his face as he held out his hand. 

        I shook it proudly, cackling as Gerald tried his best not to break down to tears in the background. 

        .

        .

        A month went by with me in the military. It felt longer than it was, and it was absolutely exhausting. Just because I was a kid doesn't mean that the recruiter took any mercy on me. 

        ("You've got the body of a crazy kid, and the mind of an even crazier adult.") The recruiter once told me. ("If you give up now, I'll kill you myself for making me look like a fool to have you join us.")

        I experienced many bombings, tank firings, gunshots, and many comrades die. Nat and Hujo (that second man that helped me when Nat found me in Luwen, Eastern Westalis) both died in combat, their bulletproof vests being false advertising. I saw ####, a boy from my hometown, here. 

        I feel like I should’ve been happy to see someone I know alive, but me and #### never really got along well, even before the war. While he was seven years older and a quiet kid, he was a total pushover and aimed to please people. I was the rowdy and opinionated kid, ready to kick someone in the stomach and shout insults if they decided to pick on me. 

        We both lived in the small poor town of Luwen, the more poorer side of Westalis, but we made it work. And despite our many differences, we both had one common goal: to appease our parents. It amazed me how I never once saw him cry despite everything we've been through. He was older, taller, and stronger than me—something I was extremely envious of—and he became a squad commander after too many deaths, of my damn squad!

        I hated him for being tough. I hated him for being an amazing liar. And I despised that he knew how to keep his emotions to himself, while I frequently lashed out and cried. I was predictable; and he was a closed-book, and it pissed me off beyond belief. 

        Rations were getting smaller and smaller, but it wasn’t too much of a problem for soldiers since they kept falling like dominoes, but it was a problem for the survivors we kept finding. The survivors came with missing fingers, broken limbs, and charred faces, it was almost like Ostania wanted the civilians of Westalis to suffer, and that just pissed us off further. 

        I sighed, resting my head on the cool metal table. My body ached from the training I’m out to before having to be dispatched out for another rescue mission. 

        “You should eat that shit. You’re getting glares.”

        I sighed, lifting my head.

        “Sup, Rancher?” I spoke. 

        Rancher was off-duty for a few days after Nat and Hujo died. Rancher was best friends with the two of them for years, so he really took it to heart when they died. He was the loud and rowdy guy in the tank when Nat and Hujo found me. He looks like total shit too. His tanned skin got paler and his brown eyes seemed dull and darker then before, the death of his two buddies really took a toll on him.

        “You look like shit.” I admitted.

        “Not like you look any better.” He chuckled.

        “I’m still growing, so I have a chance at being tall and pretty; you’re too old to keep growing and you still look like a rat’s ass, just worse.” I laughed.

        “The bigger the bark, the smaller the dog is.” He smiled, causing me to glare at him.

        “Yeah? W-well…the stupider you are…the uglier!” I retorted, having no idea what I said as he laughed.

        “Alright. Well, hurry up eating. I’m going to join the rescue mission before I get kicked out.” Rancher spoke.

        “You sure, dude? I can come up with something for you. Like, something you ate went bad and you have food poisoning or some shit like that.” I suggested.

        “Nah. I figured Hujo would be pissed off and Nat would be scolding me if I stayed in bed any longer.” Rancher smiled sadly.

        “Take it easy, man. I’ll look out for you during the mission.” I spoke, patting his hand on the table before quickly shoveling my food down my throat, ignoring the plain and slightly repulsive taste it had. 

        I took a large sip of water to drown out the taste, then stood up.

        “Rightie-oh!” I spoke, faking a British accent to cheer Rancher up. “Shall we go?”

        “Yeah, sure.” He stood up—stretching and complaining about back problems—and walked out of the shelter’s roof to join the other soldiers. 

        The squad was—unfortunately—led by ####, who took the fake name “Roland” from Luwen to join the military. I was already in a sour mood thanks to #### and we haven’t even left!          .         .         A total fail. That’s what the mission was. Rancher was down, clutching his arm as he looked down at the wound. He had a hole in his chest and another in his forearm. The gun must’ve not been sighted since they missed all vital organs. 

        What an amateur… I thought, stuffing the wound in his chest with gauze.

        “The bullet is stuck deep in there. It’s not something I can remove, but the nurses at camp will get it. Show me your arm.” I demanded. 

        I grabbed his arm, slapping his other hand that tried to stop me.

        “Kid, you gotta get out of here. They’ll find you soon.” Rancher spoke, taking heavy breaths.

        “Shut the hell up, Rancher. You and your big ass mouth. I know they’ll come here!” I snapped. 

        “Then fucking abort the mission. You shouldn’t even be in this whole mess.” Rancher sighed.

        “Don’t try and give me final words like you’re dying; you’re going to live and I’ll make sure of it.” I spoke, determined as I stuff gauze into his arm, causing him to hiss at the pain.

        “You need to live and do whatever you can to complete that goal you decided to join the military for.” Rancher argued.

        I heard a branch snapped and quickly grabbed my gun, listening and shooting into the trees, as someone screamed and fell onto the ground not to far from here. 

        “Shit. I’m low on ammo.” I sighed.

        “Just get out of here.” Rancher ordered.

        “No.” I defied. “If I die, then I die. But I won’t. That mission can be postponed 'cause we’re both going to live. Now stop bitching.” I spoke, wrapping his arm with bandages to hold the gauze. 

        “You’re stubborn.” He growled.

        “You’re stupid.” I retorted. “Can you stand?” I questioned.

        “If I stand, I’ll pass out.” He spoke. 

        I nodded, grabbing his walkie-talkie from his belt and switching it to the channel our military agreed on using.

        “I need medical assistance. Soldier was shot twice and I’m low on ammo. His wounds have been caused and wrapped but he needs professional assistance. Over.” I spoke, repeating the line over and over until I heard a voice.

        “Affirmative. What’s the coordinates? Over.” The voice questioned.

        “Uh. Shit, probably...” I pulled out the map I had, fumbling with it. “Like... like 50°46'46.8" North 10°00'09.1" East? Over.” I spoke into the walkie-talkie.

        (Author note: These are random coordinates I found in Germany and are no means accurate.) 

        “Negative. We can’t send anyone there, over.” He spoke.

        “Well why the fuck not? Over!” I questioned.

        “Enemy territory. Abort the premises with or without the soldier. Over.” They spoke.

        “We’re in enemy territory because you fucking sent us in this mess, fucker! Over!” I hissed.

        The line went silent before speaking: “Abort the mission with or without the solider. Over.” 

        “This is (Y/N) (L/N)! I can’t carry him! Rancher is down, over!” I informed.

        “Oh, shit. You’re the kid? The seven-year-old kid?” the radio spoke, surprised that he didn’t even say “over”.

        “Yes! And I can’t get Rancher to a safe place with my size and strength. I need either back up or medical assistance! Over.” I hissed.

        “…Leave Rancher and get the hell out of there. War isn’t something a kid like yourself should be in. Over.” The man spoke.

        “I'm sick of everything telling me what I should be doing! I chose this path. And I’m choosing to save Rancher, and I swear to god if you don’t help us I’ll haunt you when I’m dead because mine and Rancher’s blood will be on your hands. Over.” I spat. 

        The line went silent for a bit, before it picked up: “We’ll see what we can do. Over.” 

        I sighed, grabbing my gun and unloading the magazine chamber to check how much ammo I have. 

        Five bullets. As long as I don’t run into any trouble, I can make it. I thought to myself.

        I grabbed Rancher’s gun to see how much ammo he has, not too surprised when I saw he had blew through it all. He's always been unsparing in our resources, whether it was food or ammo.

        “You can leave. They said they’ll probably do something, so I’ll be fine.” Rancher sighed, his face pale as sweat ran down it, whether from the heavy uniform we’re wearing in this heat or the blood loss.

        “Probably." I shrugged. "However, I told you I ain’t leaving. I told you I got your back, man.” 

        There’s no way I can turn back and leave, that’s how Nat and Hujo died. 

        “And do you have an off switch? Can you just shut up before the enemy finds us?” I sighed.

        “Can you not be so stubborn?” Rancher retorted. “And I’m not the one that was yelling in the walkie-talkie two minutes ago.” 

        “And?” I dared, causing Rancher to roll his eyes.

        I heard a branch snap and immediately raised up my gun.

        “Wait! It’s Roland! I’m on your side.” 

        #### stepped out of the bushes, causing me to groan and roll my eyes.

        #### looked like shit. He had a small stubble and had large eyeballs, obviously his sanity has deployed ever since the war officially set off, but so has mine, I supposed.

        “You’re so damn lucky I didn’t shoot you.” I sighed, placing my gun down on the dirt.

        “Yeah…” #### sighed, relieved that I actually didn’t. “Is Rancher okay?” 

        “He got shot twice; in his chest and arm. The bullets are too deep to get by hand, we need medical assistance. I’m afraid if we don’t get help, either he’d die from blood loss.” I sighed. 

        “Smart thinking. Good job.” #### spoke.

        I ignored the praise and the fluffy feeling in my chest, glad to have been seen as useful and smart, but I don’t want to here praise from that prick.

        “Yeah. I know from the med class I had to take to join...” I muttered. 

        Not like you didn’t take that class too. I thought, sarcastic.

        Gun fire broke out nearby as you can hear stomping from not to far off.

        “Crap…” #### muttered.

        “Pick him up and let’s go!” I whispered harshly.

        “I’m not going to be able to carry him with the heavy uniform and run and shoot.” #### stated.

        “Of course you can, you have to save him. That’s why you’re here!” I whispered, ignoring the tears that started to build up in my eyes from the hopeless feeling in my chest. 

        “We have to go.” #### spoke, calm and collected despite the gunfire and steps getting louder.

        “No.” I hissed.

        “(Y/N)!” Rancher hissed. “Fucking go. I would never forgive myself if I’m the cause of your death; not when you have so much left to do.” 

        “B-but… I can’t abandon you…” I whimpered.

        “I want you to listen to me. Leave and go do whatever you want with your life. Please. Do something I’ve never done and continue your legacy.” He chuckled.

        “No….” I muttered, unsure of my words.

        “We have to go!” #### whispered harsh.

        “No!” I hissed back.

        #### stared at me for a good second, our eyes rivaling each other before he swiftly scooping me up, balancing me on his shoulder, and running.

        “Hey! Let go!” I squirmed. “We have to go back and get Rancher.” By now, the panic and hopelessly fully took over, causing the dam in my eyes to break. “Please. We have to go back…” I whispered, my bottom lip trembling as more tears fell.

        “Sorry. I’m sorry.” #### spoke, his voice shaking.

        I could tell it was hard for him to leave Rancher too. Despite not knowing Rancher well, he was ####’s teammate, an ally, an amazing tanker with an amazing sense of humor, and a human. But for me, most importantly, he was my friend, and he reminded me of myself; stubborn and ready to fight no matter what. It’s hard to trade one’s life, even if they asked for it. 

        “I’m sorry, (Y/N).” He repeated. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything for Rancher, or our families. I can’t change the past to where I was stronger or where this war never happened, but I can at least change the present. And I want us to live.” 

        “I hate you.” I whimpered. “I hate how tough you are. How calm you are. And how you always know what to do and say. You stupid pushover and golden goose. I hate how you’re always Hercules.” I whined softly as more tears came down my face as I listened to the gunshots and yelling fading away as #### ran.

        “I’m not as perfect as you think.” He chuckled poorly.

        His tone surprised me, and I turned around to see his face. His blue eyes crying out their own sorrow as he focused his eyes ahead. I focused my attention back to the blurry ground as I allowed myself to cry some more.

        Sometimes. Me and #### are different people; stubborn and smart, strong and weak. Other times, we’re the same person with the same goal; trying to appease our parents, or just trying to survive.

        He stopped, placing me down and catching his breath as I sat on the ground, tears still in my eyes.

        “You’re not injured, right?” he questioned.

        “No.” I muttered. “Why’d you join the military?” I questioned.

        The question came out of nowhere, yes. But I wanted to know why #### joined. What could his reason be? 

        “When Ostania crossed the border. In just 60 seconds, everything I cared about was taken away from me. All that was left, was thing I despised. And that’s more than enough for me to pick up a gun and destroy Ostania.” He admitted.

        “We’re pretty similar…. Same reason I’m here.” I chuckled, wiping the tears out of my eyes.

        “How’d you even get in?” he questioned. "You're too young. I had to fake my age and name."

        “I had to do a lot of pestering and cussing.” I laughed. 

        A shuffle in the bushes was heard, causing me to stand up and #### to draw his gun as someone appeared out of the brushes. It was a man with curly brown hair and circular glasses and a piercing on his left ear. 

        “Bwah! Time-out! Time-out! Stop! Don’t shoot!”

        Did that grown-ass man really just “time out?”

        Surprisingly, #### held his fire, sizing up the man.

        “You’re Ostanian Infantry, yeah?” #### spoke.

        “Gah! Westalis soldiers—is that a kid...?” he muttered the last part confused as he held his hands in the air.

        I glared at him and pulled my own gun out, causing him to begin freaking out again.

        “Where is your gun?” #### asked.

        “I don’t have one! I’m unarmed! I surrender!” he quickly spoke, then sighed. “I… look, I deserted. I just couldn’t take it anymore. But I got lost and have been wandering around in these mountains for two whole days… so please can you give me something to eat?!” he shouted, putting his hands together and begging.

        “I don’t have rations to spare on dead men. Say goodbye.” #### spoke calmly.

        “Wait! Please! I’m begging you! I don’t wanna die having never been with a woman!” he screamed loudly.

        Men are so simple minded… I thought to myself, yet chuckled as #### did.

        “All right. I can give you one cigarette.” #### spoke. 

        “Oh, thanks.” The man spoke, taking a cigarette has #### lit it.

        “I didn’t know you smoked.” I spoke up.

        “There‘a a lot of things I do that you don’t know.” #### commented.

        “Oh, okay, creep. Like that wasn’t weird.” I commented myself.

        “What’s with the kid?” the man asked.

        “Are you the one holding the gun? No? Don’t question it.” I huffed, holding up my gun.

        “Sorry, sorry!” he quickly wailed.

        Soon enough, #### and the man started to click together, a weird combination in this war.

        If I go back now, I wonder if Rancher would still be alive, if unspotted from the Ostanian military, that is. I thought to myself, sighing as I drew my focus back to the conversation.

        “But you know, they actually do some interesting research at that university!” the man spoke. “Like, they got all these test subjects and showed ‘em a film of a guy getting slapped, right? And they showed signs of discomfort ‘cause their brains emphasized with the guy’s pain. And that means its human nature to avoid violence.”

        “But the thing is they ran the experiment again, and this time they told the subjects that the guy gets slapped by his lover because he cheated on her. So what do you think happened? When they watched it, the subjects brains showed signs of pleasure!” he explained.

        I think if I saw someone get slapped, I’d laugh without even knowing the reason. I thought to myself. Maybe if I convince #### to slap this guy, we can see. I thought impulsively.

        “I mean, doesn’t it freak you out? They have no idea if they’re being told the truth, but once the idea’s in their head, they do a complete 180°. Weird, right?” the man spoke.

        I feel like this is going somewhere. But I can understand what he’s saying. I thought to myself. I looked at my gun, feeling the weight in my hands and the heavy burden it was to carry it. 

        It’s be easier to drop it and walk away. I can barely hold this weight on my own. Someone else can; someone stronger and less sensitive. 

        I looked at ####, who seemed slightly frustrated. 

        “Just say what you’re trying to say!” he ordered.

        “I’m just saying, isn’t it stupid? This whole war between East and West, it’s all the result of some diplomatic fiasco. So why is it that all of us worthless peona gotta be the ones to clean us their mess?” he sighed. “They tell us to hate each other. So we fight. And then we die. It’s the most pointless thing in the world.” 

        I didn’t know it at the time, but I was playing as a small cog in the machine—we all were. But the things with machines, is that they’re specially designed and assigned certain tasks. But once a cog is lost, the machine cannot perform its chores unless another cog takes the place of the previous one. It's easy to replace an old, broken cog with a new, naive one.

        To put it in simple terms, the government, the war, needs us in order to win, and when we die, we’re easily replaced by another solider. 

        I’m surprised I’m not dead yet. I thought to myself. I have no major injuries and I still have a comrade with me—I doubt most of our soldiers have that. 

        All of the soldiers sent on this rescue mission are probably dead (with the exception of me and ####). 

        “Yeah, except it’s you Ostanians that started this war.” #### pointed out.

        “In the East, they say it was the West that started it.” The man stated. “They say that first bombing of Luwen was a false flag operation. They’re even rumors Westalis got operatives from some other country to incite the Ostanian Army was doing it.” 

        I turned my head to ####, curious of his reaction.

        I’m an open-minded person when it comes to politics or law as long as it doesn’t go against my moral code. I’d rather research to the ends of the Earth for the truth rather than believe in a simple lie. I’ll take this man’s words and place it on the back burner for when the time is right, to where I can find the truth, whether it’d be today or tomorrow or years from now.

        Some Shakesphere I am, I thought to myself, watching has #### held his gun to the man.

        “That’s just blatant propaganda to get your country off the hook!” #### shouted. 

        “Yeah! Yeah, right, of course it is! I’m just saying, how could a bunch of foot soldiers like us know the truth about anything?” the man immediately spoke, putting his hands in the air to prove no threat as I groaned.

        #### isn’t really all that open-minded, though.

        “That day! That bombing! Those bombs killed every last one of my friends! There’s your truth!” #### spoke.

        “Our families died in that bombing. Whether Westalis or Ostania started it, it’s no way for anyone to die.” I spoke, closely eyeing ####’s finger as he held it on the trigger.

        “Well, I’m in the exact same boat!” he spoke.

        #### gritted his teeth and kicked the man down to the ground, his glasses getting knocked off his face. Just then, gunfire from the bushes danced in the wind, causing me to yelp and duck to the ground, helpless as a I felt a searing pain in my side and leg. A bullet hit ####’s helmet, but luckily it didn’t pierce it.

        “Gah! The Ostanian army squad that’s been chasing me! You just had to try and shoot me and give our position away!” the man complained. “Well, no way in hell I’m letting them catch me! See ya! Thanks for the cigarettes, I guess.” He yelled, running away.

        I crawled to #### using my body to protect his down body. 

        His ears are probably ringing since the metal helmet just got hit. I thought. 

        “If you can run, go away. I’ll be fine.” I spoke through the gunfire.

        #### huffed, getting up on his knees and picking me and his gun up. 

        “I’m not gonna abandon you! Not when I have the power to save you!” #### yelled through the bullets.

        I sighed.

        He’s just as stubborn as me. But he should really let me die. It’s not like there’s anyone alive who’d miss me, and ####’s using me as a replacement for the friends he couldn’t save. So there’s no point for me to live, and all I’ve been is useless and problematic. I couldn’t save any of my friends, family, comrades, or even myself.

        “Thanks for being such a suck-up.” I spoke, wincing at each step he took since it threw my body around like a rag doll, hurting my wounds.

        “Let’s save the tears for when we get back alive.” He gruffed.         .         .

        What am I doing? Getting emotional like this? I hate getting emotional. I thought, snapping out of my thoughts and rubbing the tears from my eyes. I guess that's another reason I quit being a spy. I thought. 

        I don't really like to use violence anymore. I'll fight and shoot if I have to, but I don't like turning to it unless it's necessary. I'm afraid if I pick up a gun again, then all of my anger and sadness would return and control my actions just like it did before.

        ...That's stupid. I can't believe I just lied to myself in my own head.

        The real reason I don't want to fight is because it hurts more than anyone can imagine. When people see war movies or read the books, they always think "yeah, I can do that." But once the first bullet flies, they all follow. When the sky has turn gray from tank smoke and fires from the bombings. When the bullets fall from the sky like rain and you're ordered to engage in battle; you don't want to. Who would want to?

        Nobody wants to actually die. When they're in the face of danger, they're looking for a way to fight or a way to flee. When you're actually experiencing something as stressful and traumatic as that, you realize that every plan you've been brainstorming inside that little head of yours had ran away with your bravery and rationality. The only thing you'll be thinking of is a way out, a way away from the men in guns, a place to hide or a weapon to protect yourself with. Humans are made with fear; it's how we survive. 

        Fear is a human's best friend and worst nemesis. Fear navigates you away from danger, and it also forces you to think unclear. Fear is one of the human's survival instincts, so when you find it hard to breathe or your chest starts racing; don't ignore it.

        I sighed, turning my body to Yuri and observing his face. 

        He's seriously so annoying. He's always so focused on work and how I'll betray him. He's probably always thinking about his sister, I wouldn't be surprised if he was dreaming about her. I thought, reaching my hand up and letting my intrusive thoughts win as I poked his injured forehead lightly, just barley any touch.

        "You. Are. Stupid." I spoke, believing the words I said with every poke. "But..." I paused, thinking of what to say to the unconscious Yuri. "I don't think I'd want to be anyone else's wife." I admitted. "Don't think it's a compliment though, jerk." I huffed, going back to poking his forehead until I got bored. 

        I sighed again, trying to close my eyes and sleep, but the silence and the dark really started to bother me. I could hear the steps of the neighbor's above us, or is there something crawling on the ceiling and watching me. I could hear the air conditioning, or is it a monster breathing? Or the neighbor's opening their doors, or is that our front door?

        The bedroom door creaked open and I froze, my arms immediately latching onto Yuri as I kept quiet, my heart in my throat as I could hear it beat loudly.

        Wait? What the hell am I doing?! I should be protecting Yuri since he's unconscious!

        I gathered my nerves and opened my eyes, almost screaming once I saw a face staring down at me. They quickly covered my mouth, then spoke.

        "Don't scream. It's me." They spoke. 

        I recognized the voice as Twilight's and immediately felt angry and relieved. I carefully got out of the bed, gripping Twilight's sleeve and dragging him out to the living room, delicately closing the door as to not disturb Yuri. 

        "I almost pissed myself, asshole!" I hissed, slapping his arm. 

        "Sorry..." he whispered, then cleared his throat. "I just wanted to know why you're quitting the spy industry." He spoke.

        "Oh ho ho! Is the ever so great Twilight actually caring about me?" I teased, then cleared my own throat. "In actuality. I don't like risking my life all the time. It's not fun to get hurt and worry about if you'll ever see the people you love again." I sighed. 

        "What are you talking about? You don't have a lover—" His eyes widen, voice silently before he looked at me, mouth gaping open and shut like a fish. "Y-you actually love Yuri?! I thought you were kidding!" he questioned.

        "Tsk! Of course not!" I exclaimed, slapping his hand. "I want to be able to live long enough to have a lover, and in this case, Yuri is my 'lover!'" I spoke with quotation marks on my fingers.

        "How'd you meet him?" he questioned.

        "Oh yeah. Some mole ratted me out like a little bitch to the SSS when he got caught, then they caught me after a long chase that lasted a few weeks, next thing you know, I'm being interviewed and signed a contract to work with the SSS in order to keep my life—" the words came out of my mouth before I could think of the consequences from them.

        I started to open and close my mouth like a fish (and like what Twilight did earlier).

        "So, you're leaving because they've got you hostage?" Twilight spoke.

        "No! No!" I quickly shut down the idea. "Well. I mean, I don't want to work with the SSS, and I don't want to work with Westalian Intelligence either. I just want to live a normal life, but then this happened." I sighed. 

        "So there's nothing between you and Yuri?" he questioned.

        "Nope." I spoke, popping the p.

        "And you're sure?" Twilight questioned.

        "Of course I'm sure, why do you care so much?" I questioned.

        "Because he's the enemy!" Twilight hissed. "That, and he's the one killing off our spies. You don't care about that?" he spoke.

        "Of course I care." I snapped, offended that he would think I wouldn't. "But I'm not going to mope about the past and get myself killed. Besides, it's not like the Westalian Intelligence cares about if I ditch or not." I sighed. "But they'll kill me if they know I'm in the SSS, so you better not spill it. I told them absolutely nothing about the people in charge or even you, Twilight. So you better keep your mouth shut because I don't care if we've known each other for years or if you're the greatest spy, you cross me and I'll find a way to make you regret it." I threatened, pointing my nail to his throat.

        "Alright. I understand." Twilight spoke calmly. "But you're sure there's no feelings attached?"

        "Yeah. I don't need to be worrying about that stuff. I'm only here so I can live, and trust me, he doesn't care about if I live or die either." I smiled.

        "I don't know, you two were quite something today." Twilight spoke, causing my face to heat up.

        "W-well, of course! I didn't just work on hacking into databases or gathering information inside forces, you know. So, you're not the only one who can lie and disguise themselves. Remember, I trained alongside you, so I know almost everything you know." I spoke, turning my head away to hide my face. "Besides, he's more of a jerk behind closed doors." 

        I sighed, remembering his douche personality. 

        ("Just so you know, I'm not looking for this to be a real thing. When we're in public and at work, we'll act close—but don't expect anything kind of special treatment behind closed doors. Our 'marriage' is just a piece of paper that can easily be destroyed. The only thing that we have in common is work; nothing else." The second-lieutenant spat harshly as he walked closer to me, standing tall as he looked down at me in more ways than one.) 

        Yeah, he's a mega douche. I thought. I still wanna know his damn problem...

        "Alright. Good." Twilight spoke.

        "What about you and Yor. I don't know about you, but I almost facepalmed eight different times in five minutes. You need to get Yor to work on her acting skills." I pointed out.

        "I know." He sighed. "But she's just so..." he paused, thinking. "She's a little...simple-minded, I guess." 

        "It runs in the Briar family." I laughed. "Now, you should leave before Yuri wakes up and freaks out. He doesn't really like you, if you haven't noticed." 

        "Yeah." He spoke, fixing his coat. "Thanks for your hard work at the Westalian Intelligence. I hope we'll meet again." 

        "Don't think because I'm leaving the force that you're never going to see me again. You've been a close friend of mine for years now, so I consider you my family. Besides, we're in-laws." I teased. "And even if we never see each other, I'll just haunt your ass from beyond the grave." I joked.

        Twilight chuckled. "I wouldn't expect anything less. Goodbye, (Y/N)." He spoke.

        "Bye, ####." I responded.

        He stood there for a second, shocked to hear his birth name after so long of using Twilight, before smiling and parting.

        I'm not too sure why they gave #### the codename "Twilight" but I know they gave me the codename "Vixen" because I usually went undercover, disguising myself in the night and manipulating others to get information out of them (I'm not too fond of it either, but I convinced myself that business is business).

        When we got our codenames, we were told that our old names meant nothing and that our old lives don't matter anymore. I agreed to the terms, but there was no way I was gonna forget my past, not when it's made me the person I am today. 

        Twilight left, closing the front door as I locked it. I looked at the time, noticing it was 1 A.M. 

        Damn. Tonight's been a long one. I thought, sighing as I stretched and walked back to the bedroom.

        Yuri was still dead asleep. I carefully observed his face to make sure he wasn't faking it in case he heard the conversation. I grabbed Flower and dangled it over his head, seeing for a reaction, but none. I poked his cheek, making sure his eyes didn't twitch before concluding he wasn't faking it.

        Good. It must be the alcohol that made him pass out. I thought.

        I crawled back into bed, placing Flower in my arms and lying on my side to face away from Yuri. I concluded I didn't like the position, and switched to facing Yuri. He was still in the same spot as earlier, still facing me. I grabbed his hand and held it, believing that his position was comfortable enough before sleeping. 

        Parts: One, two, three, four, five, current part, seven, eight, nine, ten (to be continued when Spy x Family has more Yuri content!)

        Want more Yuri content? Check out these headcannons and one shots!

        Yuri Briar x Sick! Fem! Reader

        Slightly mean! Yuri Briar x Fem! Reader

Yuri Briar x Fem! Reader headcannons + other fandoms!

        Have any requests? Check my masterlist to see the characters I write for: Masterlist (Please request, I have too much free time and too little fics).

[didnt-hear-idsb-live-again]

I just had a conversation on the phone with a close friend about how sometimes feeling neutrally is the biggest benchmark you can measure something by; because there's such a starkness between a neutral feeling versus an intense one, that suddenly the act of feeling neutral about something means everything, and all the sudden that is the biggest thing in the world.

I think that is how I feel as I sit on this bed on a chilly-but-sunny fall day as midday light comes in through the sheer white curtains I have had open for 4 months, massive mirror behind me and a nightstand I can never manage to keep neat next to me, tears streaming down my face at the thought of the suitcase sitting in my closet, and how I have to take it out now. To take it out to pack. Take it out to begin the end. The path of least resistance is to stay, and I want to stay: but, suddenly, as the weeks roll on, it becomes clear that I am here because it is the path of least resistance. There is a heart I have stored across an ocean, and finally, I am on the west side of the Pacific Ocean feeling like flying east across it is what I'm supposed to be doing, not the other way around.

I don't know what that means. I don't know what it means to hold this place in the palm of my hands; my everything; my all-i've-ever-dreamed-of, my 2019 fairytale, and lay it to rest. to feel like I am living inside of a ghost; like I am wearing a coat that once belonged to kings and adventurers and sorcerers and someone who had every dream and every possibility in the world, adorned with fossils and memories and gemstones the sparkle in the sun, that mirror the waves of the arctic ocean and the eucalyptus trees filtered in sunlight and the southern cross and a billion and two other stars and.... just have it on because it was left on me and I guess I'm kind of cold.

A million kinds of closure and a million stories tied in bows, and suddenly it's just becoming a place I've been, before my very eyes. The Grand Adventure, the big thing, the unfinished story. The greatest story I'd ever tell, my favorite story I'd ever tell. Finally turned over and read and analyzed and a hidden sequel discovered and secret messages poured over and songs and spinoffs written and new worlds inspired. and, finally. it's all done. every last drop has been squeezed out. And you hold it in your hands, and you just know. It is time to return the book to the library. It is time to put it back on the shelf. There is nothing more to gain, or lose, or anything anyone can take away, or anything new someone can find dripping out the spine at the moment you least expect it.

There is a life here. And it is not mine. There is a suitcase in the closet that needs to be packed. There is a car in the driveway that needs to be sold. There are rocks that need to be cleared from the trail. I am so aware of everything. I am aware of the coffee I had this morning, and the taste of the croissant, and the feel of the sun hitting and finally a moment of warmth in the outdoor chill that hit me while I ate my breakfast on the patio furniture outside; the giant vine that snakes across my ceiling that I have all but killed, the massive mirror opposite my bed and the giant closet and the drawer full of Eras Tour memories that sits beside me. White sheets and a white comforter and white walls and white curtains with vibrant pops of green and orange across the room, a kitchen with a pan I have tried not to destroy and a living room filled with vinyl records and a map of tropical North Queensland haphazardly taped to the wall. Friends and movie nights and a workplace I belonged in for a fleeting moment; coworkers that were my whole, temporary life. A life I am a guest in, a stop on the road up a mountain. A beautiful viewpoint. I haven't wanted to clear the trail to go on, because how can you when this spot looks like this?

But the trail was supposed to go somewhere. And there is more ahead.

Time to pack the suitcase. Time to tell my closest friends and bosses here that I'm leaving. The point of no return, that once I start the path it's done. I've moved on, even if I haven't left yet. I've been staring at this spot in the road for 4 months. I got so much out of it. But there's nothing else to look at anymore. Still, I stare at the road frozen. I choke on my tears as I stare at the road. I only feel everything because I also feel nothing. But still, I stand and I stare at the suitcase, now out of the closet, and I hug myself as I cry for all this has been. Every galaxy that has lived within my heart and this place; every black hole and every exploding star and every supernova. And my tears pour so hard I actually hear them falling onto the floor.

But I know in my heart that it's over whether I pack my bags or I don't. It's already ended.

Time to start moving.

[corseque]

Here because I love your writing (and might be a lil insane for Lucy/Ghoul) and I'm a fallout nerd, I would say the wiki is great for info on the lore BUT if you want to play the games and specifically want info on the conflicts/factions/locations of Fallout the series I would avoid at first Fallout 3 and 4. They are good games in their own respect but both happen in the east coast aka with the exception of the Brotherhood of Steel (and that is very dependant on who's Elder/ what chapter of the BoS you get) that is pretty much across the whole country and the Enclave there's nothing similar to what's going on in the west coast, there's no NCR for example. Fallout 4 is a good introduction because it's the newest one and so the gameplay is more modern but it happens in the Commonwealth and although timeline wise is the closest game to the date where Fallout the series starts, it shares like, no background elements with it. Fallout 3 has perhaps the most similar beginning story to Lucy's in the series, but it's worth noting that unlike 4 or New Vegas where you can "side" With a faction and see the inner workings of them, 3 kind of pushes you along a very straightforward story.

Fallout New Vegas would be the best starting point location and gameplay wise, as season 2 is gonna happen in the Mojave, it starts 15 years prior to the show and pretty much gets you up to speed in the factions that are in the area. It can be a little buggy (tbf there are no non-buggy Fallout games) and unlike F3 and F4 it doesn't handhold you as much about the main quest and rather lets you go wherever you like whenever. It also has that "western" vibe that is absent in both 3 and 4, and from the 3D Fallout games I would say it's the one that allows you the most freedom roleplay wise with your own character. Would be my go to for a first Fallout in this scenario.

Now if you wanted the most accurate vision of the events that happened in the past on the show timeline wise that would be the original Fallout 1 and 2. They are old (as games as well as in the timeline both happen respectively 135 and 55 years prior to the show) and gameplay wise it's like eating broken pieces of glass without a drop of water to help it get through but Shady Sands or Vault 12? That's where you get to actually be in there and see how they were and what happened. I have a soft spot for them and unlike the 3D Fallout 1 and 2 are connected through the protagonist sharing a familial bond, so it's kind of a continuation (but 2 can be played on its own too having read a summary of 1). Some of its themes have aged like spoiled milk left in the sun for an entire summer and Fallout 1 has a time limit (so does 2 but it's so forgiving it barely merits mentioning), so I really can't recommend them in good faith unless you've played the rest and truly feel like you want to experience that lore first hand or you love that kind of old school 2D isometric rpg from the 90's. Just beware that, specially Fallout 2 can get pretty dark (in a distasteful way let's just say) pretty fast, and playing as a woman is... Yup.

Sorry for the infodump and you can just ignore it, but I saw you on Twitter talking about where to get the details for fanfic writing porpuses and got excited lmao 💀

Thank you so much for the information, this is actually exactly what I was about to ask. The fact that 3 and 4 are on the East coast would have been weirdly disappointing for me to play first then

I actually can’t afford to start playing at the moment, but hopefully soon I’ll scrape something together. I think I’m leaning toward NV or 1 for the first one

[the-corvidae-know]

The man in the woods

The Stranger: Hey there newcomer, Come sit by the fire for a while. It's warm and bright. God knows what’s out in those woods tonight, eh? Please, sit, sit! There's plenty of room. My buddy Billy here won't bother ya'. He don't talk much, really. Hasn't for a while. I don't mind it though! I talk enough for the both of us, eh? How about we talk a little bit more. I ain't really feeling the old sandman comin' for me so why don't I tell ya' a story, to pass the time. Consider it an exchange for an actual conversation partner for once! Not to hate on you o'course, Billy my long time pal. But anyways, a story, right? Well… Here's something we done on the road here. We're from out west - round Wyoming. It's where my family's always lived but we started movin' east after our farm went south. South as in outa business because some folks didn't like our kinda business. Farms don't move on their own, yanno! Well, we was on the road for a few weeks - this was back when Billy was more talkative - and well - he dropped some book he was reading and it fell down into a ditch a ways away from our path. This was when we were still over in Wyoming. You ever been? Naw, I assume not. I'd know if someone like you was over in my part 'a Wyoming at least. Wonderful forests and we was right in the smack dab of it. So, I says he should go an' grab the book, seein' as it's his and he walks down real fast and I lose sight of him. I expect him to be quick but he don't come back. I call out for him. "Billy, Pal, where'd you go?", but he don't answer. I was getting a bit confused so I went down out in the ditch too. It was steeper than ida' originally guessed and I slipped and fell the rest of the way down. When I brushed off the dirt it was a hell of a lot darker than it had been up on the trail. I kept walking, calling for Billy all the time. Now I ain't one of those fools who gets scared by noises in the woods - I was just about raised in the woods yanno? So I keep walking and calling but I feel as if I'd been walking for hours before I give up and go silent. Instead of thumping and calling I slink in an outa' the trees. I know how to not make a sound movin' through the woods, specially when it's woods I know. I was thinkin' I oughtta think of it like I was hunting. I went hunting a lot back in the day. Me and my whole family would go out and come back with a great haul. But anyways, I'm looking for Billy and then I see a shakin' and a shudderin' in the trees a distance away. Then the sound of footsteps. Then the smell of a scared human. So, I start running towards him. Silent o' course - the first rule of hunting is to not startle your prey, yanno. So I approach the sounds, and praise the Lord, I find Billy there. Except Billy ain't doing too hot. He was laying on the ground, cowering and shaking. Yanno, the best thing to do when facing a wild animal is to play dead! But I guess Billy didn't know that because suddenly he starts screaming and crawling away from something out there. Of course I couldn't have that; who knows who'd hear him! So I grab him and teach him my best lesson on staying silent in the woods. Billy took to it real well. Spent the whole time back to the trail struggling with it but eventually I beat it into his thick head how it works, yanno. Well, we never did find that damn book, but after that Billy didn't feel much like reading or talkin' or doing just about anything anyway. So we've been keeping on moving. Yanno, you've been a good listener, I can feel the sun just about rising over in the east there. You do look awfully tired though. I can tell you're about to be dead on your feet! Feel free to take a rest around here if you want. No? You'll move on? All right pal. Well. Wishing you well. I think I'll go out and look for some breakfast. Maybe I'll see you around.

[newtsniffles]

SAVING GRACE | BBC SHERLOCK

A STUDY IN PINK - bbc sherlock x oc

summary: Grace Carter, the newest and best detective at Scotland Yard meets Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective. The case of the woman in pink marking the first chapter of their story.

Or in which two pained individuals find each other in amidst some of their hardest times.

WARNING/S: This story will contain mature scenes and discuss themes of mental health, specifically depression, suicide, and drug use. If these topics may trigger you in anyway please proceed with caution or do not read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

word count: 12.6k

There was a certain dreariness to living in a constant state of repetition. The sun would rise in the east, set in the west, and in between Grace would find herself completing the same mundane tasks. It was boring. Life is boring. Even the persistent feeling of melancholy that swallowed her entire being felt a little empty as of late.

Grace had only taken a few bites of her cereal before deciding that she did not want it to start with. The clattering of a spoon and now-emptied bowl echoed around her small apartment. The sound loud enough to distract her from thought, if only for a second. The niggling voice in her head whispering to do more with her life, find some excitement. The other half of her wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed and never get out again.

Cold fingers clutch onto the strap of her leather handbag as Grace rushes out the door. Dark hair swishing behind her as fresh winds connected with her front. It was unlikely that she’d be late to work. However, who was she to give Anderson something to bitch about? The rain had lightened up during the night, now just spitting in the early morning. There was a chill in the air, the type that you felt down to your bones. Each splash of water as boots hit the ground created a small sound that drew comfort, should you listen for it carefully.

There were too many noises in the morning rush. Grace found it severely overwhelming, but it had been something she had learnt to cope with. The overpowering of her senses that she found completely and utterly unbearable. It sent a shiver up her spine, and her fight or flight spiralling. Perhaps not the best thing to be susceptible to when working as a detective. But oh, how good she had become at concealment. So unbelievingly talented at masking it all. How great she was at getting lost in thought and forgetting the present moment. Such that as she walked into her workplace, Scotland Yard, she felt as though only moments had passed since she left her apartment, and not half an hour.

‘You’re late,’ Anderson tsked from behind his desk.

‘I’m on time,’ Grace spits back. The minute hand on the clock flicking to 9am just as she places her belongings down.

‘For future reference, it’s best to get here at least ten minutes early—’

‘For future reference, mind your own business. And get a haircut.’

‘Now, now, children, play nicely.’ Lestrade exits his office, files in hand. ‘I’m going to need you all on board for this one.’ He drops the files individually down on each desk.

‘The serial suicides?’ Grace questions. ‘I thought you and Donovan had these covered.’

‘So did I, there was another one late last night. Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport.’

‘And you didn’t call me in?’

‘You needed rest, we had it covered.’ Greg lowers his voice before continuing, ‘and I don’t want this case to trigger you.’

‘I’m fine, Greg. I wouldn’t be in this field of work if I couldn’t handle it. I’m not as fragile as you seem to believe.’

Lestrade was aware of Grace’s mental health issues, he had to be as her boss. But sometimes she wished she could erase that part of his memory, so that he’d stop treating her like a child that cannot look after herself. She was capable of resting, she was capable of eating, so why must be bother her so much? One could say it was friendship, another could say he simply worries. Grace would say that Greg just had a very caring nature. He was rough and tough around the edges, but anyone could tell he was a softie at heart. But sometimes, he cares a little too much, and it becomes overbearing.

‘We have a press meeting in an hour, you’ll want to read those files by then,’ Greg gestures with his head.

‘The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide,’ Sally Donovan addresses the gathered reporters. ‘We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.’

‘Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?’

‘They all took the same poison,’ Grace cuts in. ‘They were all found in places they shouldn’t have been.’

‘Yes, and well, none of them had shown and prior indication of—’ Greg continues, only to be cut off by reporters.

‘But you can’t have serial suicides.’

‘Obviously you can,’ Grace rebuts.

‘These three people: there’s nothing that links them?’

‘There’s no link been found yet, but we’re looking for it. There has to be one,’ Greg sighs. At that moment every phone in the room goes off, signalling the receiving of a text message. There was only one word written across every screen.

Wrong!

‘If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them,’ Donovan rolls her eyes.

‘Just says, “Wrong.”’

‘Yeah, well, just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.’

‘But if they’re suicides, what are you investigating?’

God, these people just don’t get the hint.

Grace sits back as the conference continues, the sentences of her colleagues and the reporters all blurring into one as she struggles to care enough about dealing with the press. She may not like Sally but she certainly thanks whatever higher power is out there that it is Donovan that deals with the media.

‘We’ve got our best people investigating—’

Wrong!

Grace smirks as she glances at her phone screen. This must be the famous Sherlock Holmes that Greg had been telling her about when she transferred a few months ago. She had never met the man but judging by the way Anderson and Donovan speak of him, she has a feeling that he couldn’t be too bad considering he irks them in the same way she does.

‘One more question,’ Sally informs the reporters.

‘Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?’

‘I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered,’ Greg explains.

‘Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?’

‘Don’t take the poison,’ Grace answers.

‘Daily Mail,’ Sally mumbles under her breath in warning.

‘Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be—’ Greg is cut off once more as all the mobiles trill their text alerts.

Wrong!

However, this time on Greg’s phone, he receives another message.

You know where to find me.

SH

‘Thank you,’ Lestrade ends the press conference.

‘You’ve got to stop him doing that,’ Sally complains. ‘He’s making us look like idiots.’

‘Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.’

Grace smirks as she walks past the two and towards the exit, ready to start her own investigation of the suicides—if you could even call them that. Any human would have to be blind to continue walking the path of ‘serial suicide.’ They are murders, she just doesn’t know how, yet.

Despite all the obvious signs that point to a serial killer, Grace had yet to find any hint of how or why. There was one thing about killers though, they always make a mistake… eventually. The problem though, is waiting for that mistake to be made. How many bodies will turn up before the killer leaves behind a trace? Too many a lot of the time.

Grace knows how killers work; she’d been this career for a while now. But even despite that, her childhood had been one filled of late nights in her dad’s office at the police station. Reading books and watching documentaries written and filmed by professionals since such a young age. She was quick to complete university, graduating earlier than most. Now, Grace wouldn’t call herself a genius, she would simply say she works hard, perhaps too hard in the grand scheme of things. Burning out was not something infrequent, learning to persevere was the difficult part of it all.

She had been staring at these files for hours, the words had started to go blurry. God, she needed a cigarette, a coffee, something to keep her from pulling her hair out. Something to occupy the mind so that her thoughts wouldn’t. The shrill ringing of her phone is what finally brought her back to the real world.

Greg Lestrade

‘There’s been another one.’ Grace states rather that inquires to the man on the other side of the call.

‘Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.’

‘Be there shortly.’

A monotonous beep indicates the end of the call, as well as the end of being stuck at her desk in a hopeless back and forth of words and papers. Now the real fun starts, it’s time to catch a killer.

It was only early in the night, eight o’clock to be precise. A building and its vicinity had been blocked off by red and blue lights, police tape lined corner to corner. It seemed most of the crew was already here. Had they accomplished anything though? That is the question. Grace approaches the building, slowing her pace and coming to a halt after seeing a fuss at the entrance.

‘Quite clear. And is your wife away long?’ A tall man questions Anderson at the doorway. He has fair skin with dark curls, high cheekbones sharp as knives. His eyes a grateful victim to central heterochromia, beautifully green in the centre, fading out to a cold and calculating blue.

Ah, this is Sherlock Holmes.

Grace struggles to hold in her snicker as she listens in to the conversation, it seems he was as observant as she had heard. Although, it didn’t take much brain power to deduce Anderson was cheating on his wife.

‘Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that,’ Anderson sneers.

‘Your deodorant told me that.’

‘My deodorant?’

‘It’s for men,’ Sherlock mocks.

‘Of course, it’s for men! I’m wearing it.’

‘So is Donovan. Oh, and I think it just vaporised. Excuse me.’ Grace smirks as she pushes past the quarrelling men. Intrigued blue eyes watching as her form recedes into the building.

‘Whatever you’re trying to imply Carter! —’ Anderson calls out to the woman, but she was too far to hear it.

‘Nothing is being implied,’ Sherlock nudges past Anderson, stopping to look Sally up and down. ‘And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.’ With a smug smile, Sherlock enters the building, his new flatmate, John Watson, following close behind.

Grace was already upstairs examining the body. Her mind starts running a marathon, exploring all the details, discovering different conclusions. The dead woman sure did love pink… pink nails, pink coat.

Peculiar. Underside of the collar is wet. Rache… German, revenge? No. Rachet? Absolutely not. Ah, Rachel. Who is Rachel? She wrote it with her left hand, so she must be... there’s a wedding ring—

‘—hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her. Grace, found anything?’ Greg asks as he enters the room.

‘A bit, but I’m missing something.’ She stands, taking a step back from the body. Pulling the gloves from her hands, Grace turns to see that Sherlock Holmes and his friend had joined them.

‘Sherlock, Doctor Watson, this is Grace Carter, best detective on our team,’ Greg introduces.

‘Best?’ Grace watches Sherlock’s eyes squint as he observes her. Up and down. She’s more than interested to know if he can tell her entire life story as she has heard from others. Actually, she was observing him herself.

Straight posture. His clothes are neat, crisp. Shirt slightly crinkled, only because it seems a size too small. He doesn’t like things out of place unless it’s his own mess. And those eyes… so cold but so captivating. He’s hiding a lot behind them. There’s a loneliness—

‘Intriguing…’ Sherlock mumbles.

‘What is?’ Greg questions.

‘Nothing,’ he snaps out of his daze. ‘Now, let’s have a look. Shut up.’

‘I didn’t say anything?’

‘You were thinking, it’s annoying.’

John and Greg share a surprised look while Sherlock steps forward, beginning to examine the body. Grace watches as his eyes flicker everywhere, unbelievably quick. Only a few moments of silence pass before Sherlock is standing back up, pulling off his gloves.

‘Got anything?’ Greg asks.

‘Not much.’ Sherlock takes out his phone, using it to search something up. Meanwhile Anderson appears in the doorway.

‘She’s German. “Rache,” it’s German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something…’

‘Yes, thank you for your input,’ Sherlock slams the door in his face, still typing away on his phone.

‘So, she’s German?’

‘Of course she’s not. She isn’t from London though,’ Grace answers Greg. Sherlock pulls his phone down, staring deeply at the female detective.

‘Coat?’ She watches a brow rise on his face as he questions her.

‘Coat.’

‘Intended to stay in London for one night…’ Sherlock trails off, turning his attention from Grace to Greg and John. ‘Before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.’

‘Sorry, obvious?’ John’s eyes appear to pop out of his head.

‘What about the message though?’ Greg joins in with his astonishment.

‘Doctor Watson, Detective Carter, what do you think?’

‘Of the message?’

‘Of the body. You’re a medical man, no?’ Grace questions the doctor.

‘We have a whole team outside,’ Greg scolds.

‘I don’t like them.’

‘They won’t work with me,’ Sherlock is blunt in his response.

 ‘I’m breaking every rule just letting you in here, Sherlock.’

‘Yes, because you need me.’ Lestrade stares at Sherlock for only a moment before lowering his eyes in surrender.

‘Yes, I do. God help me.’

‘Doctor Watson.’

‘Hm?’ John looks over to Greg for permission to assess the body.

‘Oh, do as he says. Help yourself,’ Lestrade exits the room. ‘Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.’

John and Sherlock move to crouch by the body, the doctor painfully leaning on his cane. Grace entertains herself, fiddling with her fingers while they whisper quickly to each other in hushed voices.

‘Yeah, well, this is more fun.’

‘Fun? There is a woman lying dead.’

‘Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.’

Lestrade walks back into the room, standing beside Grace in the doorway. He gives her a look and she shrugs in response.

‘Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.’

‘You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.’

‘What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth…?’

‘Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got,’ Lestrade cuts in.

‘Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.’

‘Suitcase?’

‘Suitcase,’ Grace murmurs. ‘That’s what I was missing.’

‘Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up,’ Greg huffs.

‘He’s not,’ Grace cuts in. ‘Her wedding ring. It’s got to be at least ten years old. Her necklace, earrings, all clean. But not the ring. State of her marriage.’

‘Yes…’ Sherlock is now staring directly at Grace as he speaks. She was quick, almost as quick as him.

How interesting.

‘The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ John admires both the detectives. ‘Sorry.’

‘Cardiff?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Sherlock scrunches his nose.

‘It’s not obvious to me.’

‘Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.’

‘May I take this one?’ Grace steps in, interrupting Sherlock.

‘Be… my… guest.’

Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto her smaller form, waiting for the words to leave her mouth. Where had this woman come from? She wasn’t here three months ago on the last case he took with Scotland Yard. Not to mention he couldn’t read anything about her past the obvious lack of sleep, the slight discolouration under her eyes proving the fact. She had noticed everything he had about the crime scene… she is unreadable... she is a mystery waiting to be solved. The woman is a lack of boredom in which he’d keep documented in his mind palace for later.

‘Her coat. It’s damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London during that time. Under her coat collar is also damp, she turned it up against the wind. Umbrella in her left-hand pocket is dry, and unused.’ Grace paces back and forth beside the body as she speaks. ‘The wind was too strong for it. Now that Mr Holmes has previously mentioned it, I see what I missed. I missed her suitcase, which means she came a decent distance. But her coat is still wet. Where has there been heavy rain and strong winds within that travel time? Cardiff.’

‘That’s… fantastic.’

‘Yes. Quite… remarkable.’ Oh, those eyes. They studied her so deeply. Grace wanted to run and hide from the piercing gaze of the tall consulting detective. But her physicality did not betray her, remaining strong in her stance, continuing to appear unbothered.

‘Not too bad yourself, Mr Holmes.’

‘Please, Sherlock is fine.’

John and Lestrade exchange a look once more, completely confused by the odd situation in front of them. Two stone faced detectives staring into each other’s souls with such intrigue. An exchange that Greg never thought he’d see, Sherlock… complimenting someone? It couldn’t be. ‘Why are you both saying suitcase?’

Sherlock spins on his feet. ‘Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.’

‘She was writing Rachel?’

‘No, she was leaving an angry note in German,’ Grace rolls her eyes.

‘Of course, she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is why did she wait until she was dying to write it?

‘How do you know she had a suitcase?’

‘Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand,’ Sherlock explains. ‘Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.’

‘So, where is it? Did Anderson take it?’ Hands on hips, Grace moves to open the door that had previously been slammed in said man’s face.

‘There wasn’t a case.’

Sherlock’s stare narrows, ‘say that again.’

‘There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.’

‘Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?’

Lestrade follows Sherlock down the stairs. ‘Sherlock, there was no case!’

‘But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them.’

‘Right, yeah, thanks! And…?’

‘It’s murder, all of them,’ Grace walks downstairs. ‘Unsure of how yet, been exploring the files. But they’re not suicides. They’re killings—serial ones.’

‘We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those,’ Sherlock claps. His excitement unbefitting of the current situation. ‘There’s always something to look forward to.’

‘Why are you both saying that?’

‘Her case, Greg. Where is it?’ Grace, now standing beside Sherlock on the lower level of the stairs.

‘Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case,’ Sherlock has a sudden epiphany. ‘So, the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.’

‘She could have check into a hotel, left her case there?’ Doctor Watson pitches in for the first time in a while.

‘No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never had left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh. Oh!’

‘Sherlock?’

Lestrade leans further over the railing, desperate to hear whatever realisation Sherlock has come to. ‘What is it, what?’

‘Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.’

‘We can’t just wait!’

‘Oh, we’re done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!’

‘Of course, yeah – but what mistake!?’

‘Pink!’

Grace watches as Sherlock rushes out the building, a whispering voice in the back of her head growing louder, eventually shouting at her to ‘follow!’ For once in her life, she decided to listen, a split decision to do what she actually wants. Her feet carry her quickly after him, it took only seconds to catch up to his speedily walking form heading down the street.

‘You’re following?’

‘You’re looking for the case.’

Oh, I’m going to be in so much trouble for this. Forgive me, please don’t fire me, Greg.

‘A correct observation, but as to why you’re following?’

‘That is a question I would think you already have the answer to.’

Sherlock stops walking for a second, his gloved hands moving from his pockets to clasp behind his back. His taller form looked down at the shorter woman. ‘There is a lot about you that I thought I would have the answers to.’

‘One, consider me your get out of jail free card. You find the case without me; Sally and Anderson try to pin the murders on you.’ Grace starts walking again, every two of her steps equalling one of his. ‘Two, you’re aware of how dull working for Scotland Yard can be, they’d never find the case. Three, curiosity.’

‘Curiosity?’

‘You’re a curious person yourself, surely you understand. This case is intriguing. How does this killer work? How does this killer make a person take the poison? We’re running out of time to figure it out, before long another dead body will be on our doorstep, and I will be blaming it on the incompetence of Scotland Yard,’ Grace sighs. ‘I understand the steps they need to take, the protocols. But between you and me, things could be solved so much more efficiently if they turned a blind eye to the rule book, if only sometimes, which I’m thankful they’ve done this time by calling you in. Now, tell me your thought process.’

‘The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely.’ Sherlock turns down a back street, not bothering to look back, knowing the female detective would be following. ‘So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. If we check every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens...’

‘…and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed,’ Grace follows along with Sherlock’s thought process. ‘Back street skips.’

‘You continue to astound me, Detective Carter.’

She watches as Sherlock begins to search around the first skip, moving to help. ‘Please, Grace. Should I call you Sherlock, I think it only fair. I was never one for formalities anyway.’

‘Not this one,’ he announces, stepping back and walking onwards.

‘I heard you can tell everything about a person at first glance, have I been lied to? Greg claims you call yourself a “Master of Deduction.”’

‘I can tell things about people that not even they know.’

‘Well, can you deduce me?’

‘Most people tell me to piss off, yet you’re openly asking me to do so?’

‘I told you. I am a curious individual.’

Sherlock’s head tilts slightly to the side, as he tries once more to deduce things about the woman. But again, he was left with hardly anything. It was infuriating, and yet so exciting. ‘You’re tired.’

‘Yes, but that is common knowledge. I expected to be astonished.’

‘You’re a mystery to me. And it’s maddening.’

‘Well, “All great experience has a guarded entrance and a windowless facade.”’

‘Robert Grudin, 1997,’ Sherlock immediately recognises the quote.

‘Precisely. You can’t deduce anything about me because I won’t let you. Becoming aware of someone’s strength is to find their weakness.’

‘You seem quite adept in the nature of observation yourself. What do you see?’

‘I doubt my skills are anywhere near as I’ve heard yours to be. Although, I can say that you probably won’t enjoy hearing what I think.’

‘Did I not just say people mostly tell me to piss off? I’m quite aware of the consequences. Nobody likes to hear of their hidden complexities so easily read by another.’

‘You have very straight posture; you carry yourself tall because it makes you feel less vulnerable. Your clothes, they’re neat, ironed regularly. But your shirt is slightly crinkled because you buy a size too small. Why? Because you like the way it hugs you. It feels affectionate, something I think you’ve forced yourself to believe you don’t want, but subconsciously crave. You don’t like things out of place, unless it’s your own mess, even then the mess is somewhat organised to your liking.’ Grace could mention that loneliness, that pain in his eyes. But she won’t for the sake of the hiddenly vulnerable man digging through a skip in front of her.

‘I don’t need affection,’ Sherlock spits.

‘Ah, yes. Sociopath. You don’t have a heart, I’ve heard.’ Grace smirks as she sees a flash of pink behind the large bin. ‘But I don’t have to look very hard to know that isn’t quite true.’ She reaches an arm behind the skip, pulling the case out with little struggle. ‘Found it.’

Sherlock reaches out to grab the case from her, ignoring her previous statement. Pulling it away she hums a little ‘ah-ah.’

‘How do you expect me to investigate if you won’t hand over the case?’

‘Where do you live?’

‘221B Baker Street.’

‘Closer than me, let’s go. We have a case to investigate,’ Grace begins walking to the main road for a taxi, pink case trailing behind her.

‘Why must you insist on coming with me? I am perfectly capable, even more so than you of solving this.’

‘Perhaps, and I don’t doubt it for a second. But I have jurisdiction, something in which you don’t.’

Sherlock’s steps fall into sync with Grace’s, knowing he won’t be able to shake her off. ‘Gage won’t be happy.’

‘I think you mean Greg. And he’ll survive. Taxi!’

The two climb into the backseat of a taxi, informing the driver of their destination. They sit in silence for a moment. Grace well aware that Sherlock had no urge to start a conversation.

‘Should I tell you something about me, to make things fair? Even out the playing field.’

‘No. If I don’t figure it out myself, I don’t care.’ Sherlock is blunt, not once turning his head from looking out the foggy window. ‘There is one thing I have figured out though.’

‘That is?’

‘You get bored.’

‘Everyone gets bored.’

‘Not enough to follow a stranger down different back streets to pick up a murder victim’s suitcase.’

‘You called me a mystery, didn’t you?’ Grace grins. The streetlights casted a light glow through the window connecting with Sherlock’s cheekbones, casting a shadow across his face.

‘I did.’

‘You’re a mystery yourself. I’m a detective, a bored one, a curious one.’ Sherlock’s attention finally shifts, casting his gaze at the woman in the seat across from him. Curiosity meeting curiosity. Blue eyes meeting grey eyes. ‘Such are you. Let’s do our jobs and stop another body from showing up, yeah?’ Grace doesn’t continue to elaborate, but he didn’t need her to because he understood.

He is a challenge to her, just as she is to him. Something that intellectual minds gravitate towards. There was a comfort in finding someone that understands your thought process. Someone that could keep up. And then there was John Watson, Sherlock’s mind was running rampant. A man that craves danger, and a woman that seeks mystery. Perhaps he finally found the correct people to surround himself with, maybe he could finally belong somewhere.

No, I don’t need friends. He was simply intrigued, that is all. Intrigued in the face of mystery.

The rest of the taxi ride passed in silence. Both detectives spending the remaining period of time lost within their own minds. Neither had even realised they had reached Sherlock’s flat until the taxi driver let them know of the cost. Sherlock was already walking inside with the case, leaving Grace to pay. Which she did deem fair considering she forcibly tagged along.

‘Hm, endearing,’ she hummed, observing the sight. A small café, Speedy’s, was beside the flat building. It appears to be a nice place to live. Convenient.

Grace enters and walks upstairs into 221B. Sherlock had discarded his coat and suit jacket, his white button-up sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Forearms exposed; three nicotine patches stuck to alabaster skin. He dug through the contents of the pink suitcase, sat with his legs spread on a black leather chair by the fireplace.

What a sight for sore eyes. Snap out of it.

‘Smoker?’ Grace questions.

‘Trying not to be.’

‘Makes two of us. Three patches though?’

‘Three patch problem.’

Grace moves to sit on the armchair opposite Sherlock. Looking through the contents of the bag herself. ‘Found anything?’

‘It’s more what I haven’t found.’

‘Hm?’

‘Grab my phone. It’s in my jacket pocket by the door.’

‘Did your parents never teach you manners?’ Grace asked, doing as he said anyway. ‘Here.’

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his position, hands clasped together under his chin. ‘Text John, “Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.” Don’t forget to sign my initials at the bottom.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Tell him it could be dangerous and to come if inconvenient anyway.’

Grace’s own phone dings. She lifts it up to inspect the message, knowing already who it will be. And as she thought, Greg Lestrade.

Come back to Scotland Yard, right now.

‘And that is my signal to go back and receive a scolding.’ Phone returning to pocket, Grace walks to the entrance. Blue eyes watching her every move unbeknownst to her. ‘If I leave the case here for you to further investigate, you promise not to run off with it?’

‘I assume you’ll be coming back with the Detective Inspector the next time I see you,’ Sherlock lowers his hands, letting them cross over his lap.

‘I’ll stall him as long as I can. You’d best keep me updated, Sherlock Holmes.’

‘How do you expect me to do that? I don’t have your number.’

‘Your excuses fall to deaf ears.’ Grace holds her phone out, shaking it at him. Walking downstairs she calls back out, loud enough for him to hear. ‘I don’t think you had the numbers of everyone at the press conference either.’

Sherlock grinned to himself at her words. She was a smart woman; he’d allow himself to admit that much. Maybe he’d even allow himself to admit her beauty had he not known it to be construct based entirely on childhood impressions. One thing he knew for sure: Grace and John are both completely different mysteries waiting to be solved.

‘You just decided you’d run off from the crime scene?’ Greg scolds Grace. She sat across from him, on a chair at the other side of his desk. ‘I know you’ve been off lately, but—’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it, Greg. People are dying and you’re all being awfully slow about trying to do anything to fix it.’

‘You followed Sherlock, didn’t you?’

‘What about it? You’ve said so yourself, he’s the best out there, and you need him.’

‘That doesn’t mean you just run off instead of doing your job.’

‘I was doing my job, and I was doing it a hell of a lot quicker than anybody else here.’ Grace taps her finger on Greg’s desk in frustration. ‘Who found the case? Me and Sherlock. I’m doing you a favour. I don’t care who sticks their name on the report.’

‘You found the case?’

Oops.

Grace had flaws, of course she did. But one she hates the most about herself? Her inability to not spit things out that she shouldn’t whenever she’s angry.

‘Yes.’ Better to admit it now.

‘Where is it?’

‘With Sherlock, but please, just give him a few hours at least to figure it out.’

‘Why should I? —Grace! This is not how it works. I know you like to work on your own and differently to everyone else, but you do not just give away evidence to people!’

‘Greg, please,’ Grace takes a deep breath. ‘You know my judgment is better than anybody else’s here. As much as you, and I, hate to admit it, Sherlock is what we need to solve this case.’

‘He’s got two hours,’ Greg finally agrees after a moment of thought. ‘After that we’re going to his flat.’

Ding

‘Got a text?’ Both Lestrade and Grace know well who it is. She doesn’t get texts, there’s nobody she really talks to. Apart from work colleagues.

Got a lead.

SH

Attached to the message was an address, a restaurant on Northumberland Street.

‘Go, but I’ll be expecting to be updated,’ Greg sighs, slumping in his seat. He may not be a ‘Master of Deduction,’ like Sherlock, but he wasn’t stupid. He knows Sherlock is a great man, and perhaps Grace is what he needs to be a good one. And potentially, Sherlock may just be what Grace needs. So, for once, he will turn a blind eye to the dos and don’ts.

‘Yes, sir,’ Grace fake salutes before exiting his office and the building, rushing downstairs to get a taxi.

There is a welcoming warmth that encases Grace’s body as she leaves the icy streets and enters the restaurant. A shiver runs down her spine at the sudden temperature change. She gazed around, not taking long to notice Sherlock and John sitting at a booth beside the entrance. Pulling up a chair, and removing her coat, she sits across the table from Sherlock, and beside John.

‘Detective Carter?’ John questions, not expecting to see the woman here.

‘Evening.’

‘Wh—’

‘I texted her,’ Sherlock answers the question on John’s mind.

‘I told him to keep me updated, lest he get into trouble with Scotland Yard.’

‘George knows of the suitcase?’

‘Greg, and yes. But you’ve got time.’

John shakes his head, the poor man struggling to keep up with any events of the day. The clock hands were turning a lot faster than normal, and 6pm had been quick to become 11pm. He decides changing the subject might be the best way to involve himself in the conversation. ‘People don’t have archenemies.’

‘Sorry?’

‘In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.’

‘Doesn’t it? How dull.’ Sherlock’s line of sight does not stray from across the street.

‘So, who did I meet?’

Ignoring John’s question, Sherlock responds with his own. ‘What do real people have, then, in there “real lives?”’

‘Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don’t like… girlfriends, boyfriends…’

‘Yes, well, as I was saying, dull.’

‘You don’t have a girlfriend, then?’

‘Girlfriend? No, not really my area.’

‘Mm,’ John pauses. ‘Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.’

‘I know it’s fine.’ Sherlock’s eyes finally move from the street and to lock onto John at his insinuation.

‘So, you’ve got a boyfriend the—’

‘No.’

Grace listens to the conversation, trying to stop herself from giggling. Lips grinning, knowing full well the misunderstanding between the two that it taking place between her.

‘Right, okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.’

‘John, um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…’

‘No. No, I’m not asking. No,’ John shakes his head. ‘I’m just saying, it’s all fine.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

John turns, giving Grace the most bewildered look she has ever seen, and she couldn’t help the small laugh finally pushing through the restraint of her lips. Sherlock snaps his head to look at her, before quickly turning back to look outside.

‘What about you, Grace?’ John asks. ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend?’

‘No, no. Not at the moment. I only moved here a few months ago. Also, not really an area I’m great at.’ If she couldn’t even love and care for herself, how could Grace ever care and love for another? The feeling was foreign, she longed for it, but found it impossible to find.

‘Oh? Where are you originally from?’

‘Around…’ Grace trails off, not wanting to discuss further.

‘Look across the street. Taxi.’ Sherlock interrupts, saving them all from a lot of awkwardness. ‘Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?’

‘That’s him?’

‘Don’t stare.’

‘You’re staring.’

‘We can’t all stare.’

All three grab their coats before hurrying out of the restaurant. The second the cab starts to drive away, Sherlock rushes forwards, almost getting hit by a car. Luckily, they slam on the breaks and narrowly avoid him.

‘Sorry!’ John yells to the driver. ‘I’ve got the cab number.’

‘Good for you. Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights,’ Sherlock lists off quickly. He takes off in a sprint, Grace and John quick to react, chasing after him.

They run through buildings, up sets after sets of stairs, across roofs, and back down again. Sherlock leading them around every corner and down every back alley. Eventually, they intersect the taxi. Pulling open the door, Sherlock observes the man in the back. ‘No, teeth, tan. What, Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’ John asks.

‘The luggage,’ Grace informs.

‘It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?’

‘Sorry, are you guys the police?’

‘Yeah. Everything all right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Welcome to London,’ Sherlock says sarcastically, walking away from the cab, clearly frustrated.

‘Uh, any problems just let us know,’ John closes the taxi door. ‘Basically, just a cab that happened to slow down.’

‘Basically.’

‘Not the murderer?’

‘Not the murderer, no,’ Grace answers.

‘Wrong country, good alibi.’

‘As they go.’

‘Hey, where-where did you get this?’ John pants, still exhausted, pulling a badge from Sherlock’s hands. ‘Right. Detective Inspector Lestrade?’

‘Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.’ Grace and John share a glance, both starting to laugh at his words, and the situation as a whole. ‘What?’

‘Nothing, just… “Welcome to London.”’

Sherlock grins at the two before he notices the American man talking to a police officer by the corner. ‘Got your breath back?’

‘We’re ready when you are.’

‘That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.’ John admits, laughing as the trio stumble into 221 Baker Street. They lean against the entrance wall, panting from the long distance they had just ran.

‘And you invaded Afghanistan,’ Sherlock laughs.

‘That wasn’t just me. And why aren’t we back at the restaurant?’

‘They can keep and eye out, it was a long shot anyway.’

‘So, what were we doing there?’

‘Proving a point, from my observation,’ Grace smirks, now noticing John was without his walking stick. Also, him having ran many kilometres.

‘Precisely,’ Sherlock grins at her.

‘What point?’

‘You. Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the man at the door.’

A knock echoes through the hallway, John glancing between Sherlock and Grace before walking over to answer the door.

‘What I don’t get is why you messaged me?’ Grace turns to Sherlock. ‘If it was a “long shot.”’

‘Because,’ he grins.

‘Because?’

‘Because you’re bored.’

‘That’s not why.’ Grace watches a brow raise on Sherlock’s face, clearly, he wasn’t expecting her to see through his lies. ‘I know a lie when I hear one. You want to try and deduce me. But you can’t, can you?’

‘It’s infuriating.’

‘I try my best.’

‘Sherlock, what have you done.’ An older woman in a purple dress comes into view. Her worried and panicky stature informing everything that something wasn’t quite right.

‘Mrs Hudson?’ One thing that Grace noted was the concern in Sherlock’s voice, and the man had the audacity to say he has no heart, that he doesn’t feel.

‘Upstairs.’

The three rush up the stairs, Sherlock skipping two at a time with his long legs. He opens the door to 221B, finding Greg sitting in his seat, and other Scotland Yard officers searching the flat.

‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock demands.

‘Well, I knew you’d fine the case. I’m not stupid. Plus, Grace slipped up and told me. You’re lucky she convinced me to lay off as long as I did.’

‘You can’t just break into my flat.’

‘And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.’

‘Well, what do you call this.’

‘It’s a drugs bust.’

Oh Greg, that’s low, very low. Grace shakes her head, stepping further into the room to make herself known to Greg and the other officers.

‘Seriously? This guy, a junkie?’ John asks, bewildered. ‘Have you met him?’

‘John.’ Sherlock addresses sternly.

‘I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational.’

‘John, you probably want to shut up now.’

‘Yeah, but come on… No?’

‘What?’

‘You?’

‘Shut up!’ Sherlock shouts, turning back to Lestrade. ‘I’m not your sniffer dog.’

‘No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.’

‘What, An— Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?’

Anderson peeps his head out from behind a cupboard in the kitchen. ‘Oh, I volunteered.’

‘They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.’

‘Are you serious, Greg? You told me you’d come for the case in two hours, not set up a drugs bust.’ Grace’s annoyance begins to show. All of this was highly unnecessary, and frankly, just mean.

‘Yes well, you didn’t tell me you were running off from the crime scene to find the case with this guy,’ Greg points to Sherlock. ‘So, I guess we both don’t tell each other everything.’

‘Are these human eyes?’ Donovan rounds the corner, holding up a jar.

‘Put those back!’

‘They were in the microwave!’

‘It’s an experiment!’ Sherlock spits.

‘Keep looking, guys.’ Lestrade orders. ‘Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down. That goes for the both of you.’

‘This is childish.’

‘Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?’

‘Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?’

‘It stops being pretend if we find anything,’ Greg stands, coming face to face with Sherlock, although slightly shorter.

‘I am clean!’

‘Is your flat? All of it?’

‘I don’t even smoke.’ Sherlock tugs up his sleeve, a nicotine patch stuck to his forearm.

‘Neither do I,’ Lestrade pulls up his own sleeve. ‘So, let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.’

‘Who is she?’ Grace inserts herself back into the conversation.

‘Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.’

Sherlock tugs his sleeve back down. ‘Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?’

‘Never mind that. We found the case,’ Anderson points. ‘According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.’

‘I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.’ Sherlock’s head snaps around. ‘You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Excellent! How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.’

‘Well, I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.’

‘No that’s… that’s not right. How? Why would she do that?’

‘Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup – sociopath, I’m seeing it now,’ Anderson rolls his eyes.

‘She didn’t think about her daughter, Anderson,’ Grace spits, fed up with his shit. ‘She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails, while she was dying. It took effort, and it would have hurt.’

‘Sherlock said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he… I don’t know, talks to them?’ John offers. ‘Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.’

‘Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?’ Sherlock pauses after his words. ‘Not good?’ He turns to John.

‘Bit not good, yeah.’

‘Yeah, but if you were dying… if you’d been murdered; in your very last few seconds what would you say?’

‘“Please, God, let me live.”’

‘Oh, use your imagination!’

‘I don’t have to.’

‘Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers – she was clever. She’s trying to tell us something.’

Mrs Hudson stands at the doorway. ‘Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.’

‘I didn’t order a taxi.  Go away.’

Odd. Grace closes her eyes, falling into thought.

‘Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?’

‘It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.’

‘But they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers.’

‘Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.’

‘What? My face is?!’

‘Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back.’ Greg demands.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘Your back, now, please!’

‘Come on, think. Quick!’

‘What about your taxi?’

‘Mrs Hudson! Oh…’ Sherlock’s brain clicks. ‘Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him.’

‘When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer,’ Grace opens her eyes, finishing Sherlock’s explanation.

‘But how?’

‘What? What do you mean, how? Rachel!’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘Don’t you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.’

John is the first to speak amongst all the vacant faces. ‘Then what is it?’

‘John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address.’

‘Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk.’

Sherlock sits at his desk, laptop open. ‘Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s email enabled. So, there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address. And all together now, the password is?’

‘Rachel.’

‘We can read her e-mails. So what?’

‘Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lost it, you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.’

‘Unless he got rid of it.’

‘We know he didn’t.’

‘Come on, come on. Quickly!’

‘Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…’

‘Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother? We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We’re gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.’

‘We’ll just have a map reference, not a name.’

‘It’s a start!’

‘Sherlock…’

‘It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had.’

‘Sherlock…’

‘What is it? Quickly, where?’

‘It’s here. It’s in two two one Baker Street,’ John informs.

The phone is here, how? I’m missing something, what am I missing? Grace felt like hitting herself across the head, scratching the skin from her arms. It was in front of her, she knows it, but she can’t put her finger on what she’s missing. ‘How can it be here? How?’

‘Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,’ Lestrade suggested.

‘What, and I didn’t notice it? Me? I didn’t notice?’ Sherlock spits.

‘Anyway, we texted him and he called back.’

‘Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…’ Lestrade ignores the facts.

‘Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them?’

‘Who passes unnoticed?’ Grace adds to Sherlocks food for thought.

‘Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?’

‘Oh—’ Grace whispers, but only Sherlock hears. She steps backwards slowly, out of the room. Step, then step, she walks down the stairs and out of 221B. At the same time, Sherlock’s phone dings with a message from an unknown number.

COME WITH ME.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Grace confronts the old man. He stands in front of his cab, pink phone in hand.

‘Took you ‘while. But then again you did surprise me, keeping up with the great Sherlock ‘olmes.’ The old man glances over Grace’s shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil. Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.’

‘I didn’t order a taxi,’ Sherlock’s deep voice sounds from behind Grace. He walks forwards, standing beside her with his hands in his coat pockets.

‘Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.’

‘You’re the cabbie, the one that stopped outside Northumberland Street.’

‘It was you, not your passenger,’ Grace observes.

‘See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.’

‘Is this a confession.’

‘Oh, yeah. And I’ll tell you want else; if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.’

‘Why?’ Sherlock asks.

‘‘Cause you’re not gonna do that.’

‘Am I not?’

‘I didn’t kill those four people, Mr ‘olmes, Detective Carter. I spoke to ‘em… and they killed themselves. An’ if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing. I’ll never tell you what I said.’

‘No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.’

‘An’ you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?’

‘If I wanted to understand, what would I do?’

Grace steps towards Sherlock, placing a hand on his arm. ‘Sherlock—’

‘Let me take you for a ride.’

‘So, you can kill me too?’

‘I don’t wanna kill you, Mr ‘olmes. I’m gonna talk to you… and then you’re gonna kill yourself.’

‘Sherlock.’ Grace warns again, his face becoming far too curious for her liking. ‘Don’t.’

‘You too, Detective. Get in the cab, come for a ride.’

‘I don’t think I want to.’

‘I ‘on’t really care what you want.’ The cabbie moves his jacket to the side, flashing the sight of a pistol.

Don’t let him know you’re onto him.

Shame Grace didn’t have her own on her person at the present time. Both Sherlock and Grace get into the backseat of the taxi. ‘Phone up ‘ere please, Detective.’ Grace takes her phone from her pocket, placing it on the console of the car. The engine starts, and they’re on a ride.

‘How did you find me?’ Sherlock questions, inwardly judging the driver’s route.

‘Oh, I recognised ya, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes!’ The cabbie exclaims. ‘I was warned about you. Both of ya, actually. I’ve been on your website, too, Mr ‘olmes. Brilliant stuff! Loved it.’

‘Who warned you?’ Grace crossed her legs, deciding it best to be comfortable while potentially heading to her death.

‘Just someone out there who’s noticed.’

Sherlock sits forwards in his seat, eyes brushing over every detail of the cab. ‘Who? Who would notice me?’

‘You’re too modest, Mr ‘olmes.’

‘I’m really not.’

The cabbie glances at his passengers through the mirror. ‘You’ve got yourself a fan.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘That’s all you’re gonna know… in this lifetime.’

‘Wow, how ominous,’ Grace rolls her eyes.

The rest of the trip passes in silence. Each set of eyes wandering out each window, staring into every mirror to avoid surprise. The cabbie gets out of the car, walking around to open Grace’s door.

‘How gentlemanly.’

‘Where are we?’

‘You know every street in London, Mr ‘olmes. You know exactly where we are.’

‘Roland-Kerr Further Education College.’

‘Why here?’ Grace asks.

‘It’s open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie; you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.’

‘And you just walk your victims in? How?’ Sherlock’s brows furrow on his face, his eyes darting between Grace and the cabbie. He pulls out a pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Oh, dull.’

‘Don’t worry. It gets better.’

‘You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.’

‘I don’t. It’s much better than that,’ the cabbie tucks away his gun. ‘Don’t need this with you, ‘cause you’ll follow me.’

Grace could just run away, take the cab and drive back to Scotland Yard at this moment. Left behind in the car as Sherlock and the cabbie walk into the right-side building. What kind of detective would she be if she left an unarmed man to enter a building alone with a serial killer? She was well aware that Sherlock could look after himself, but her own curiosity needs an excuse. Her own hunt for mystery, and the excessive need to just know. That was the truth behind her rapid footsteps, gradually catching up to the two men in the building.

Lights flickered on in an empty study hall as they entered. Sherlock paced slowly, observing his surroundings.

‘Well, what do you think?’ The cabbie grins. ‘It’s up to you. You’re the ones who’re gonna die here.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Bold of you to assume,’ Grace and Sherlock answer simultaneously.

‘That’s what they all say. Should we talk?’

The cabbie takes a seat at one side of the table, Sherlock turns a chair to sit on the other. Grace, who still stands in the doorway walks over, pulling up a chair beside Sherlock. He was a man lacking empathy, yes. A man who struggles to show his emotions. He didn’t purposefully exude comfort. But there was just something about his tall frame, his intellect, that allowed Grace to feel safe in his presence. Or maybe, just maybe, she was simply comfortable knowing the cabbie couldn’t outsmart him.

‘Bit risky, wasn’t it?’ Sherlock removes his gloves, tucking them in his pocket. ‘Took us away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you.’

‘You call that a risk? Nah. This… is a risk.’ The cabbie lifts a small glass bottle onto the table, containing a singular pill. ‘Oh, I like this bit. 'Cause neither of you get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this.’ Two more bottles are lifted onto the table. ‘Weren’t expecting that? You’re both gonna love this.’

‘Love what?’

‘Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me about it.’

‘My fan?’

‘And yours, Detective Carter. Didn’t think you’d be able to keep up, but ya did.’

‘Your compliments are very backhanded,’ Grace snarks.

‘You are brilliant. You both are. A proper genius though, you are Mr ‘olmes. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you, me, and Detectibe Carter sitting 'ere, why can't people think? Don’t it make you made? Why can’t people just think?’

‘Oh, I see. So, you’re a proper genius too,’ Sherlock mocks.

‘Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever know.’

‘Okay, three bottles. Explain.’

‘There's a good bottle and two bad bottles. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.’

‘Both bottles are of course identical.’

‘In every way.’

‘And you know which is which.’

‘Course I know.’

‘But we don’t.’

‘Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the ones who choose.’ Words continue to fly back and forth between the two men. Grace listens intently, thoughts racing although she appears to remain calm.

Grace sits forwards in her chair, inspecting the glass bottles thoroughly with her eyes. ‘Why should we choose? We have nothing to go on. There’s nothing in it for us.’

‘I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one, and then, together, we take our medicine.’

‘So basically, two of us die.’

‘Exactly, Detective. Think of it as natural selection.’

‘Nothing about this is natural, old man. I think six feet under is going to be calling for you first.’

‘You don’t believe that do ya? You’ve been ‘ere before, Detective. Tossing up whether to take your medicine or not.’

The racing of Grace’s mind stops only for a split second, thoughts replaced by a single word. How?

Sherlock takes note of the blank expression on her face. His mind formulating its own theories and conclusions. How? How did he miss it, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

‘You of all people should know that you’ve been a lot closer to hell than I ‘ave.’

‘This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice,’ Sherlock cuts in. The tense form of Grace clearly unlikely to respond any further on the topic.

‘And now I’m givin’ you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game.’

‘It’s not a game. It’s chance.’

‘I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this...’ The cabbie pushes two of the bottles forwards. ‘This... is the move. Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.’

A moment of silence washes over the study hall. Grace had taken the time to collect her thoughts, bringing herself back to the present moment. ‘Who told you?’

‘Your fan has known about you a lot longer than you’d think. So, are you ready yet? Ready to play?’

‘Play what?’ Sherlock spits. ‘We each have a thirty-three-point-three percent chance of surviving.’

‘You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I give you the good pill? Or a bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?’

‘Still just chance.’

‘Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.’

‘Luck.’

‘It’s genius. I know ‘ow people think. I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone’s so stupid – even you. Or maybe God just loves me.’

‘Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie.’ Sherlock interlocks his hands and rests his elbows on the table. ‘You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?’

‘Time to play.’

‘Oh, I am playing. This is my turn.’

Grace sits up straight. Was she finally going to witness Sherlock Holmes’ full skill set? Indeed, she was, and that excites her. Her emotions were spiralling at this moment. She is worried, excited, scared, thrilled. A little bit of everything that is slowly going to cause her to overload.

‘There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd dead, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts.’

Oh, he’s good. Much better than her. Grace watches the side of his face with wide eyes as he continues deducing the old cabbie. Once again, his prominent cheekbones casting a mysterious shadow over his face that makes him all the more enticing. He’s like forbidden fruit, so dangerously tempting. Hosting his own set of consequences should you ever take a bite.

‘Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about? Ah... Three years ago. Is that when they told you?’

‘Told me what?’

‘That you’re a dead man walking.’

‘So are you.’

‘You don’t have long, though. Am I right?’

‘Aneurism. Right in ‘ere.’ The cabbie points to his head. ‘Any breath could be my last.’

Grace scoffs. ‘And because you’re dying, you’ve just killed four people?’

‘I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can ‘ave on an aneurism.’

‘No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children,’ Sherlock deduces.

‘Oh. You are good, ain’t you?’

‘But how?’

‘When I die, they wont get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.’

‘Or serial killing.’

‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Surprise me.’

The cabbie leans forward, speaking his sentence slowly. ‘I ‘ave a sponsor.’

‘You have a what?’

‘For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think.’

‘Who’d sponsor a serial killer?’

‘Who’d be a fan of Sherlock ‘olmes? You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that.’

‘What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?’ Grace questions.

‘There’s a name no one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose.’

‘What if we don’t choose? We could just walk out of here,’ Sherlock threatens.

‘You can take the chance, or I can shoot you both in the ‘ead.’ The cabbie lifts his pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option.’ Grace and Sherlock share a glance momentarily, little smirks on their faces.

‘I’ll have the gun, please.’

‘I’ll take the gun too.’

‘You’re both sure?’

‘Definitely. The gun.’

‘You don’t want to phone a friend?’

‘The gun.’ The cabbie pulls the trigger but is quick to sigh after realising he’s been discovered. The pistol, not real, but a cigarette lighter instead. He tosses it to the side.

‘I know a real gun when I see one.’

‘None of the others did.’

Grace stands from her chair. ‘Clearly.’

‘Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.’ Sherlock walks to the door but stops at the cabbie’s taunting.

‘Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?’

‘Of course. Child’s play.’

‘Well, which one, then? Which one would you ‘ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on! Play the game.’

‘Sherlock—’ Grace whispers warningly for only the tall man to hear. ‘Don’t fall for it.’

Sherlock ignores Grace, walking back over to the table, he picks up the bottle that is closest to the cab driver. Grace rolls her eyes. Could this man ever just listen? A bit hypocritical of her to think actually.

‘Oh, interesting. So, what d’you think? Shall we?’

Grace watches as both Sherlock and the cabbie take the pills out of the bottles. She is quick in her movements, walking over to Sherlock, grabbing his arm in an attempt to pull him towards the exit. ‘Sherlock, come on. It’s not worth it. We can have the pills tested if you’re so desperate to know.’

‘What do you think? Can you beat me?’ The cabbie continues to taunt, ignoring Grace. ‘Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you… So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict.’

Sherlock was much stronger than Grace. Lifting his arm to inspect the pill under the light, her hands falling in the process. He didn’t even bat an eyelid, like she didn’t exist in that moment. Just a speck in an indifferent universe. Hopeless, little Grace, she couldn’t save the ones she loved, what makes her think she could save someone who chases the danger?

You think you can stop him? You think he cares about what you want? Nobody cares about you, never did, never will. Stop trying. Get over yourself. Pathetic, and weak, is all you are.

Shut up.

‘But this… this is what you’re really addicted to. You’ll do anything… anything at all… top stop being bored. You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?’

Just as Sherlock was about to place the pill in his mouth, Grace understands that he truly will go through with this. Ignoring the voice in her head, the instincts kick in. She forcefully slaps the pill out of his hands. At the same time, a gunshot rings out and the cabbie falls to the floor.

Sherlock rushes over, inspecting the gunshot in the window. He steps are quick to carry him back over to Grace.

‘You’re not hurt?’ He asks, hands grabbing each of her shoulders. She shakes her head, unable to voice her thoughts as her heart pounds against her chest. The gunshot having startled her, unaware of any backup that had been heading their way.

Sherlock scurries around, finding the pill that had been slapped from his hand. He stands over the cabbie, holding it in front of his face. ‘Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right!?’ When he doesn’t receive a response, Sherlock harshly throws the pill at the dying man’s face. ‘Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan? I want a name.’

‘No.’

‘Give us a name,’ Grace demands.

‘You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name.’ Sherlock presses his shoe to the cabbie’s gunshot wound when he continues to refuse. ‘A name! Now! The name!’

‘Moriarty!’ The cabbie screams in pain.

Moriarty?

‘I’m fine,’ Grace nudges the paramedics hands away from poking and prodding. ‘Please stop touching me.’ She watches as Sherlock speaks to Lestrade in front of another ambulance, the orange blanket around him a striking contrast to his dark hair and clothes.

‘We have to make sure you’re not injur—’

‘I’m not injured!’

She feels overloaded, overwhelmed in this moment. Her senses clashing with each other in an all-out war. The flashing lights were too much, the different conversations were too much. Grace wants to run away and hide and never come back. The whole ordeal so confusing.

She was doing fine. She was doing so much better until very recently. What has gone wrong? That’s the scary thing about depression. It creeps up on you so quickly, so unnoticeable, and then you can’t see yourself anymore. It’s no wonder Sherlock couldn’t deduce her; she doesn’t even know who she is at this very moment. She doesn’t think she’s known for a while if she’s being honest.

I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just breathe. What can I see? What can I feel?

Grace’s eyes were trained on her hands, fingers picking at fingers in attempts to ignore all the heightened senses. A soft warmth falls over her coat-covered shoulders, looking up to find Sherlock has draped his ‘shock’ blanket over her.

‘For the shock.’

‘I’m not in shock.’

Sherlock grins, ‘I know.’

‘Thanks.’ Grace tries to smile at him, but her attempt falls short.

‘It’s very busy here. A lot happening…’

‘Yes, well, we did just catch a serial killer… sort of.’

‘There’s a good Chinese, Baker Street. Open till two. Should we see if John wants dinner? He’s a growing boy.’ He pokes fun at the doctor’s height.

Grace chuckles and looks up, directly into Sherlock’s icy irises. They were so cold but so warm, so inviting, yet so standoffish. She was stupid to think he wouldn’t realise, especially after the words of the thankfully now dead cab driver. This was Sherlock’s way of trying to help, to get her out of this situation that had made her fight or flight go off the rails. This was him… trying. ‘Chinese sounds good right now, I won’t lie.’ She stands, blanket falling off her shoulders and back into the ambulance.

Sherlock looks down at her shorter form with a soft expression. There was something about her head only reaching his chin that he found… endearing? And by Gods did he despise it. Who does she think she is to waltz into his life only a day ago and inspire such thoughts.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t read her earlier, he had discovered. It was that he had stopped himself from doing so subconsciously, as she reminded him of himself. And even he wasn’t immune to the fear of looking so deeply into oneself. Even he wasn’t immune to insecurity. She was as broken as he. She has learnt to put on a mask just like him. She was lonely, in a constant battle with herself. Grace was smart, and she was misunderstood. Sherlock knew the feeling better than anyone.

‘Come on.’ Sherlock and Grace walk over to John who stands behind some police tape. ‘Good shot.’

‘Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.’

‘Well, you would know,’ Grace smirks.

‘Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course I’m all right.’

‘Well, you have just killed a man.’

‘Yes, I… that’s true, innit?’ John looks up at Sherlock. ‘But he wasn’t a very nice man.’

‘No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?’

‘And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.’

‘That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here.’ The trio start walking away from the scene, giggling.

‘Stop it! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it.’

‘Well, you’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame us.’

‘Keep your voice down! Sorry, it’s just nerves, I think.’ John apologises to the passing Sally Donovan. ‘You were going to take that bloody pill, weren’t you?’

‘Course I wasn’t. Biding our time. Knew you’d turn up.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Grace rolls her eyes. ‘You were going to take the pill.’

‘It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’re an idiot.’

Sherlock smiles, ‘dinner?’

‘Starving.’

‘End of Baker Street, I was telling Grace, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.’

‘Sherlock, that’s him, that’s the man I was telling you about.’ John gestures towards a car. A tall, posh looking man in a suit climbs out.

‘I know exactly who that is.’

Grace watches onwards, completely confused. ‘I think I missed a chapter.’

‘So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?’

Ah, sounds posh too. Must be the “archenemy” from earlier.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘As ever, I’m concerned about you.’

‘Yes, I’ve been hearing about your “concern.”’

‘Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?’

‘Oddly enough… no!’

‘We have move in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer… and you know how it always upset Mummy.’

‘I upset her? Me?’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.’

‘No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?’ John asks.

‘Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?’

‘Losing it, in fact.’

‘He’s your brother?!’

‘Of course he’s my brother.’

‘So, he’s not… some criminal mastermind?’

‘Close enough.’

‘For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British Government.’

‘He is the British Government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.’

‘Huh? I never heard of him,’ Grace mumbles.

‘What?’ Sherlock’s head snaps in her direction.

‘Nothing.’

‘Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home – you know what it does to the traffic.’ Sherlock storms off, Grace chuckles and follows him with John close behind.

‘So, it runs in the family then?’

‘What?’

Grace grabs the lapel of Sherlock’s coat playfully, pulling it to the side to expose his suit. ‘Weird names and an affinity for suits.’ She drops the coat back into place.

‘Shut up.’ He pretends to be annoyed but cannot help the smile that rises on his face.

‘So, dim sum?’ John brings up dinner.

‘I can always predict the fortune cookies.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Almost can. You did get shot, though.’

‘Sorry?’

‘In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.’

‘Oh, yeah. Shoulder.’

‘Shoulder! I thought so.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Left one.’

‘Lucky guess.’

‘I never guess.’

Grace cuts in, ‘yeah, you do. Gonna tell us what you’re so happy about?’

‘Moriarty.’

‘What’s Moriarty?’ John questions.

‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

‘I don’t think I want to know, to be honest.’

‘Come on, Grace. Not the least bit curious?’

‘I might be after getting some food in my stomach, but right now I’m hungry and tired,’ Grace groans. ‘By the way, I’m crashing on your couch.’

-

like my work? consider tipping me for a kofi!

[dayseyemay]

The fallen mountain and it's little Regent: a short reading inspired by the TTRPG Wanderhome

From atop the bristling pines that now cover the once active mountain city of wedgeton, little J mouse looks out apon the vast expanse that is the Hæthland.

off to the east the salt flats of bea are drying out in the morning sun, as the greatful tide pulls away the ocean responsible for its rich mineral deposits.

in the west J mouse could still see the dancing twin moons, just about to set, behind canyons cut deep into the ground. She didn't have a name for them yet, but thought to ask her older sibling G if they had known once.

Now looking down the mountain, past the ruins of old wege, that spread out from when the city crashed, J saw the longing meadow. Her meadow, she thought. It was the first place she named after all. The tall grasses swayed and called to her as if they once knew her name too. From the hiden perch J could not see the figures in the meadow, but she knew the bumbles and hoppers were flitting about gathering their pollen and sweeping up the wind.

- and she knows: knows that they are not hers, that the land is not hers and never could be. She knows that despite what the stories say, the land was never even the claim of the once floating mountains' king; because land itself can not truly be owned. But from up here, where she is all alone... it's fun pretending to be someone else.

letting out a sigh filled with the dreams of a romanticized journey and the longing for a place of her own, J packed up her book of poems, climbed down the tree and made her way home to help the rest of her siblings prepare for the day.

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 40

Reunion at Dawn

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

The first time Veery arrives in Fódlan, he is hiding behind some crates below deck on a ship he is not even allowed to be on. He honestly still does not know exactly where that ship docks, only that he wanders for some time, avoiding humans, before finally being confronted in the fog on Magdred Way.

The truth is that Veery still doesn’t know most of Fódlan. The monastery he knows like the back of his hand, but the rest he only sees on excursions when he goes with the Deer on missions. He knows Magdred Way, Conand Tower, and the Rhodos Coast in the Kingdom. He knows Remire Village and the Brionac Plateau in Adrestia. He knows some of the trade roads in Alliance territory, and Fódlan’s Throat.

Even then, he’s only been to most of those places once or twice five years ago. It is Garreg Mach, and the immediately surrounding areas, that Veery actually knows.

That is why it should not be as surprising as it is that four Albineans, only one of whom has stepped foot in Fódlan before, setting out without a guide or directions beyond a single map, almost immediately get lost.

“When does winter begin, here?” Hoarvug asks, kicking at the melting slush of the morning’s snow. “We need to find this monastery before then.”

“This is winter,” says Veery, frowning at the map.

A collective silence falls over the group. Then, all three of Veery’s companions burst into laughter. “Excuse me, what?” Caub asks. “I know it’s warmer down here, but… really?”

“You must be joking,” Sadi says. “The sun is still high in the sky! Do not tell me that the sun flees to Fódlan for winter.”

Veery chuckles, eyeing his friends with humor. “You’re lucky we’re arriving in the winter. The summer sucks. This is… nice weather. Not close to the worst Fódlan winters get, especially not in Faerghus, but you shouldn’t expect anything like an Albinean winter.”

Hoarvug snorts. “How coddled can these humans get? Winter is the test of our strength!”

“I… don’t think they have any control over whether the sun stays or goes, Hoarvug,” Veery says, biting back a chuckle. “But don’t underestimate them. They may not have survived our kind of winter, but they have survived five years of war.”

“Ha! That is true.”

“Speaking of which,” Caub says, leaning close over Veery’s shoulder to look at the map, “we really need to figure out where we are. If we wander too far south, we could end up in the thick of the fighting by accident. Or… is it east?”

“And who would say no to that?” Hoarvug laughs.

“Us, for now.” Veery frowns. “You’ll see plenty of battle after we meet up with Claude. We should avoid skirmishes if we can. And it depends on if we’re caught. The front line is around here, I think. We’ll have to cross it at some point if we don’t go into Adrestia.” He points to the right spot on the map.

“Naturally,” Sadi says. “But how do you intend to find the monastery? At this rate, we’ll be wandering in circles.”

“Wander east until we see mountains?” Veery offers.

“Didn’t we cross mountains not long after we got here?” Caub frowns.

“Yeah, but we landed in Duscur,” says Veery. “That’s this peninsula here, which has mountains between it and the mainland.”

“Which means we’re somewhere in mainland Faerghus,” Sadi says, eyeing the map as well. “Likely still within Edelgard’s territory.”

“Most likely,” Veery agrees. “According to Claude, the Faerghus Dukedom has pretty much everything west of Fhirdiad. Which is here.”

Caub nods. “Which means we will surely run into mountains if we just head southeast. Once we find those, we can follow the range until we get to Garreg Mach.”

“Great!” Hoarvug says. “Which way is east?”

Everyone falls silent once more. “…The sun shouldn’t even be that high in the sky this time of year,” Caub says tentatively, glancing up at the blazing sun. “I… can’t say for sure. Veery?”

“Don’t look at me.” Veery balks. “I only ever wandered aimlessly or followed the Fódlanders. And that was five years ago!”

Sadi sighs heavily. “This is going to be a long walk.”

“Aren’t you a seer? Can’t you just use your magic to show the way?” Sadi asks, panting as they cross what has to be the same tree a fourth time.

Caub huffs in offense. “That’s not how it works. I can peer at the tapestry of fate, not find directions to a mountain. Besides, I’d need the proper ingredients for that, and I doubt those are readily found here in Fódlan.”

“Maybe we should… ask for directions?” Veery offers.

“It’s worth a shot,” Caub groans. “Although, we were trying to avoid anyone who might spread word of a bunch of foreigners here, weren’t we?”

“We need to be at the monastery on a very specific day. I’ve already lost track of how long we’ve been wandering around – we may not have a choice.”

“A few weeks,” Caub says. “We’ve got almost a moon, still, but I wouldn’t count on making it to the monastery within a week even if we know where we’re going. We could be starting from the furthest point for all we know.”

“And we’ll probably just get lost again,” says Sadi.

“Plus, even when we get to the mountains, we still have to find the monastery itself,” Veery groans. “Next village we find, let’s just ask someone.”

“If you think that’s wise.” Caub shrugs. “Normally, I’d volunteer, but I think I’d be pegged as a foreigner almost as easily as you, so I’m not sure it matters.”

“You’d be surprised,” Veery hums. “Raphael actually looks a lot like an Albinean. Then again, humans can tell the differences between you better than I can.” Veery shakes his head, remembering when Claude actually expected him to be able to just realize that Claude isn’t from Fódlan, as if Veery has any basis to draw from when Claude is literally the first Fódlander he’d ever formally met.

“Ha! Perhaps, but I haven’t seen any Fódlanders with these.” Caub grins as he taps the shaved side of his head, the tattoos on his scalp and hand showing clearly.

“Hm… actually, yeah. If I remember right, the only person I know here with tattoos is Petra, and she’s from Brigid. Well, either way, you’re probably our safest bet. People seeing an Albinean will raise some questions, but an agell is a little… more noteworthy.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Hoarvug laughs. “If they turn out to be Empire, we can just kill them!”

“That’s… technically true, yes, but I’m sure Edelgard assumes that I’m in contact with Claude. The moment she finds out I’m back in Fódlan, she’ll suspect that Claude is up to something, and I’d rather not show our hand until we’re all reunited and prepared. So, no dead bodies killed by agell, if possible.”

“So,” Caub says, “we need to find directions to the monastery while not raising suspicion about why a bunch of foreigners want to go to a ruin that’s been abandoned for five years. No problem.”

“…Yeah, let’s just keep walking. We’re bound to get there eventually. Or, at least, to some landmark.”

Caub bites into his knuckle to stifle his laughter. “…Veery?”

Veery sighs, already regretting returning to Fódlan at all. “Yes, Caub?”

“That isn’t… you, is it?”

For a moment, a long-suffering groan is the only sound Veery finds himself capable of making. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Hoarvug starts cackling. “You are a god here! How fitting!”

“I’m not a god,” Veery says quickly trying his best to ignore the statue of the cat saint in front of them. “Technically, I’m not even a saint.”

“A saint!” Sadi giggles. “What is a saint, exactly?”

Caub, at least, still tries to hold back his laughter, unlike the other two. “It has to do with the religion here, I think,” he says. “Saints are important people, usually ones who perform some kind of divine miracle. They’re basically like weaker gods.”

“Partially true,” Veery says. “The saints were actually dragons who fought alongside Seiros in the war a thousand years ago – Seiros herself canonized them in her religion after she founded it because she just can’t help herself.”

“Mhm. And, um… I think you left out the part where you became a saint, Veery.” Caub chuckles. “Why didn’t you tell us about this?”

“Honestly? I had hoped they’d forgotten about it. Or, at the very least that Edelgard would have done away with this. I guess she can’t do even that one good thing.”

“Hang on, that’s a good point,” Caub says. “This statue is well-tended. Not the statue of a war criminal. The people around here must still be faithful. We might be able to ask them for directions to Garreg Mach.”

Veery absolutely hates to admit it, but Caub has a point. This little monastery they’ve stumbled across must be a Western Church stronghold if they’re still going strong even though they’re within Dukedom territory.

Edelgard may not necessarily be anti-religion, only anti-Church of Seiros, but Veery seriously doubts she’ll allow her people to hail someone who openly fought her on the battlefield as a saint. That’s way too dangerous when she knows he’s alive and must assume that he’s in contact with Claude.

“It’s… probably a safer option than asking anywhere else,” Veery reluctantly admits. “Let’s see if anyone’s still here.”

With no small amount of trepidation, Veery approaches the door to the chapel and knocks firmly. There’s a shuffling from the other side of the door, followed by a voice. “Who’s there?”

Veery shares an uncertain look with his companions. “Travelers,” he says. “Seeking directions. Can you help us?”

There is a tense moment of silence. “Of course. The Church of Seiros is always open to those in need.” The voice says, and a click marks the unlocking of the door. What in the world is happening here in the dukedom that a church must bar its doors? Claude’s letters don’t often speak of the state of the church.

The chapel doors open a crack, so that a man can peer through. The moment his eyes land on Veery’s party, they open wide in shock and the door swings open fully. “Y-you are… the cat saint! You’ve returned! And come to our humble monastery?!” Collecting himself quickly, he bows low. “F-forgive me. Please, come in! Anything you need, say the word. Are you… are you here to free us from Imperial control?”

Veery bites his lip, sharing a glance with his friends to silently ask them to stay quiet. Frankly, Veery doesn’t want to take part in this conversation, but given all the work Claude and Sylvain and Hilda and Dorothea did with him, he’s… probably the most qualified. Not to mention the cat saint thing.

Gods, if only that could never be mentioned again.

“What has happened here?” he asks, hoping it’s suitably caring and enigmatic. Really, he’s just trying to channel whatever small part of him is capable of acting like Claude. Or perhaps Professor Byleth.

The man ushers them all inside and closes the door behind them. “Well…” he titters, jittery and unsure, “after Garreg Mach fell, and you disappeared, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus fell into turmoil. Grand Duke Rufus was assassinated, Prince Dimitri accused of his murder and executed… it’s terrible, truly terrible.” He shakes his head, as Veery settles into a pew, his friends all sitting nearby quietly as the man tells his tale.

“All but the backbone of Faerghus is part of the Faerghus Dukedom now. Lady Cornelia welcomed the Adrestian Empire in with open arms. The Empire hasn’t… well, with everything from the revelation and the Empire’s accusations against the church, they aren’t kind to us. But there are those in the Western Church who remain faithful still. I count myself among them. We haven’t forgotten that the goddess worked through you, or your words about the revelation, no matter what the Empire or the Central Church says.”

“I…” Veery honestly does not remember his own words back then. He… basically just explained the facts, right? Gods, it was five years ago and just about the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, he can’t be expected to remember his specific speech. “I see.” He says awkwardly. “Good job.”

It’s almost a question when he says it but still the man beams like the goddess herself has touched him. This is weird. And awkward. And they still need to get to Garreg Mach.

And also, he should get them out of there before he gives Caub and the others more material to tease him with than they already have.

“Just remember to stay safe,” Veery says. “I’m sorry that my visit has to be so short, but if you don’t mind, we’re trying to get back to Garreg Mach.”

The priest’s eyes widen. “Garreg Mach? You mean to return there? Ah… it is nothing but ruins now, I’m afraid. It’s been abandoned since it fell almost five years ago.”

“I’m aware,” Veery says patiently. “I’ll… let you in on a secret, okay? We’re going to end this war soon. But to do so, it’s imperative that we get to Garreg Mach without the Empire detecting us. Understand?” He tentatively reaches out to touch the priest’s arm. “I’m sorry that you’ve suffered. Be strong for a while longer. And… at least until the war is over… we were never here. Yes?”

The priest looks at Veery with stars in his eyes and nods emphatically. He trips over himself to give them all the information they need. Directions to Garreg Mach, what he and the faithful he’s in contact with know about Imperial movements on the road, and a promise to not tell a single soul about the cat saint and his companions passing through, not even the other faithful, until the die is cast and no more danger can come from that information.

Which is… very good. Veery is honestly extremely nervous that he won’t be able to pull it off. Luckily, faith often blinds people to even glaring flaws, so even Veery’s awkward performance doesn’t ruin this encounter.

And they’re on the road again, this time finally knowing where they are and where they’re going. And Caub has the map, because everyone collectively agrees that he’s the least likely to steer them off a cliff.

The agell have their pride, but luckily Sadi and Hoarvug know where their strengths lie. Reading human maps is not one of them.

Caub hums to himself as they set off again. “I’ve never seen a place of worship so empty. What has the war put Fódlan’s faithful through?”

“Edelgard doesn’t hate the faith,” Veery says. “Or she didn’t when she started this. But I don’t think she understands that the faith and the church aren’t as separated for many people as it is for her. Or… more likely, she just doesn’t care. If they don’t see the world her way, that’s their problem.”

Sadi curls her lip. “I do not understand much of this,” she says, “but that man reeked of fear. Whatever Edelgard is doing, she has the faithful frightened to perform their rituals.”

Veery hums. “I never particularly liked the faith, but it should not be subversive to act as one believes.” He sighs heavily. “This is exactly why I don’t trust Edelgard’s dream.”

There is a muted silence for a while, before Caub speaks again, voice brighter, teasing, in an attempt to lift the mood. “I never pictured you as a saint. Which is actually pretty weird, considering we met when you literally came out of nowhere to save my life. You’re good with your followers.”

Veery balks. “No. No, I’m not. I just… thought it’d be easier for all of us if I played along. Claude told me before that it’s easiest to lie about something the other person already believes. They’ll convince themselves so you don’t have to sell it. Pretending to be a saint is… the best way to ensure he doesn’t rat us out to the Empire before we meet up with Claude.”

“But you are the saint, are you not?” Hoarvug asks. “Is it truly a lie?”

Veery sighs. “They started calling me a saint at one point, yes. It’s a… long story.”

“It’s a long road.” Sadi chuckles.

Oh, boy. Now he has to relive this whole episode. “Fine…”

“Finally,” Veery breathes, taking in the sight of the ruined monastery. “I can’t believe it took us that long to get here.”

“That’s Garreg Mach?” Caub asks, a little breathless as he peers through the dark.

“How does it stay up there?” Hoarvug asks. “It clings to the mountain like a ram!”

“It is impressive,” Sadi admits. “But we’re also late.”

“Not quite,” Caub says. “We made good time after the last village we passed. By my count, this morning should be the day.”

“I trust your count far more than mine,” Veery says. “And if you think it’s impressive now, you should have seen it when it wasn’t a ruin. I wonder if Claude and the others are already there…”

“Only one way to find out! We’ve still got some rough terrain to cross to reach the monastery, though I guess at this point if we want to find the road it should be relatively safe.”

Veery shakes his head. “We’re in familiar territory for me. To get to the road would be almost as difficult as just going straight there. We will want to circle around that peak, though, to get to the bridge. Otherwise, we’ll have to scale the mountain and the walls to get inside.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sadi hums. “It’s the final stretch. Let’s move quickly.”

Progress is slow, taking more treacherous and indirect paths to avoid the main roads where any passing traveler will be alarmed by the four Albineans. As they approach Garreg Mach, those paths only get more difficult as the land grows steeper. Veery and Sadi have little trouble on the mountains, but they must slow down for Hoarvug, whose bulk makes him a little more awkward on the terrain, and Caub who isn’t blessed with the agell’s sure-footedness.

But still they make good time. Though less comfortable than a couple of cats who have spent their whole lives in precipitous mountains, Caub is nonetheless proficient at navigating the environment.

Veery had hoped to arrive at Garreg Mach early. But there is a reason why so much extra time is planned for this trip (and it is only partially because it’s simply easier to come south before winter truly sets in in Albinea). He’ll content himself with being on time.

As they approach, the mountains to their west glow a rosy pink, marking the imminent rise of the sun. Veery smiles and basks in the light, eagerly awaiting the sun.

“Veery,” Hoarvug huffs. “You hear that?”

Should he hear something? Veery frowns, ears twitching as they keep walking slowly across the bridge towards the monastery. Yes… he does hear that. “Fighting,” Veery says. “We should hurry. It’s probably Claude – I just hope the Empire hasn’t found us already.”

“Finally, a fight!” Hoarvug laughs. “Let us partake, and may Chaos favor us who so brazenly ravage her domain!”

“Just be careful!” Veery says before he can shift and run off. “I don’t want you accidentally attacking our allies. You haven’t met them yet, so just keep an eye on me, alright?”

“Always, my battle-brother! I follow you into the flames and blood gladly! To bask as you demonstrate your strength once again is an honor I shall never refuse!”

“Good. Let’s go, then.” Veery runs, jogging without shifting for the sake of not rushing ahead of Caub, until they find the fighting.

Luckily, it looks like it’s just a bunch of thieves. Not Empire. Wait, there! Atop a wyvern! A brilliant white one, which glows golden in the sun’s rising light. Claude!

“Thieves,” Caub huffs derisively. “Scavenging the monastery’s valuables, no doubt. After five years, I’d think this place would be picked clean.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sadi smirks. “What say we strike terror into their hearts?”

Veery shakes his head slowly but smiles. This is his team. “They should at least know who they’re facing.” He concedes. “Let’s strike up a battle-roar.”

All three agell shift and roar together, the sound of all three big cats reverberates throughout the ruins. In the sky, Veery spots that beautiful white wyvern pause, and Claude’s eyes find his.

Thieves drop what they’re doing when they hear the roar, jumping and fleeing as the Albineans tear through, carving out a piece of the battlefield as their own.

“Veery!” Claude cackles with delight upon seeing his reinforcements. “You’ve brought friends!”

Veery roars again in response, a joyous thing to celebrate seeing his brother once more.

“Ha! I couldn’t agree more! Let’s clean up here so we can greet each other properly! Do me a favor and storm the center, Teach and I will take care of the stragglers!”

Veery can only laugh. Really, what does he expect on his return? If it is anything except a battle and Professor Byleth’s triumphant return all in one, then he forgets more about how stupid Fódlan is than he thinks.

Very well, if Claude asks, he will receive. Veery leads the charge, pushing his way uphill to the square Claude indicates is in the thick of the thieves. Caub’s axe sinks deep into a thief’s neck, to be viscerally torn out without mercy. Hoarvug, practically twice the size of some of the humans, picks enemies up as easily as if they were paper dolls and throws them about. Sadi is vicious and uncompromising taking advantage of the terror their group inspires to bring down enemies before they can even raise their swords.

Veery uses his Silence spell on a mage. Horror overcomes their expression before Caub slams his shield into the man and buries his axe into the mage’s ribs. An archer draws their bow but Caub grins with all the ferociousness of a warrior and casts Freeze, locking the archer’s muscles before they can release the arrow, before yanking his axe roughly out of the mage it’s sheathed in.

These are not trained Imperial soldiers. These are common thugs at best. They are no match for a group of warriors.

And, of course, when the rest of the Golden Deer begin to trickle in, the match becomes even more one-sided.

Veery breaks into the square, his Albinean companions at his side, and pauses when he scents his opponent. The others sense his hesitation and hold back but give him questioning looks as he gapes at the man in front of him.

Who catches sight of Veery and lets out a high-pitched shriek. Veery winces, as does Hoarvug and Sadi. Their poor ears. He shifts back so that he can speak to the thief. “Hi, Pallardó.”

“Y-you!” Pallardó squeaks. “You can’t be here!”

Veery chuckles, shaking his head. “Still up to no good? Did you not learn anything from the Brionac Plateau?”

Pallardó lets out another involuntary squeal at the reminder.

Veery sighs. “What was it that Anna said would happen to you if we saw you again?”

“N-no!” Pallardó jumps out of his skin. “Take it! I’ll leave everything! Don’t tell Anna!” He frantically throws his bag of loot in Veery’s direction and sprints away.

Hoarvug lets out an agitated growl and shuffles on his paws a little, squinting after Pallardó before looking over to Veery.

“Are you going to let him get away?” Claude asks from his mount above them. “Hang on, do you know that guy?”

Well… he hasn’t changed in five years… and Anna did warn him. Honestly, what Hoarvug will do to him is probably merciful by comparison. Veery sighs. “Oh, go on then, Hoarvug.”

Off like an arrow loosed from its bow, Hoarvug shoots after Pallardó, disappearing into the ruins for a moment before a familiar scream pierces the golden air. Claude lands nearby, wincing. “Yikes. How do you know a rat like that?”

Veery shrugs. “He tried to rip off Anna, once.”

“And he didn’t learn his lesson?” Claude makes a face. “Huh. I guess there is no cure for stupid.” He shakes his head, smiling again and dismounting from his wyvern. “Ah, but that doesn’t matter. It’s been too long, Veery! I can’t begin to express how happy I am to see that adorable face of yours.”

The two quickly embrace each other, holding tight. “You too, Claude,” Veery murmurs. “I missed you.”

“And I missed you, my friend.” Claude detaches himself just enough to hold Veery’s shoulders and examine his face. “You’ve got a few new scars. Ah, but we have plenty of time to catch up later. Who are your friends?”

“This is Caub.” Veery lightly taps Caub’s chest with his knuckle. “And that’s Sadi. The one who – oh, there he is – that’s Hoarvug.”

Claude nods approvingly. “You’ve been busy these past few years.”

“Not nearly as busy as you.”

“Ha! I hope not. You would hate working this much. But I have to ask. Your friends are strong. Are you all here to fight, even though it’s not your war?”

Hoarvug guffaws. “Veery has placed his teeth to my neck and drawn my blood. He is a true agell warrior, and I will bleed all that he asks of me to touch his strength!”

Claude raises a brow, looking between Hoarvug and Veery as he fights a smile. “…Kinky.”

Veery covers his face with a hand. “Please ignore everything he says.”

Caub clears his throat awkwardly. “What he’s trying to say is that we believe in Arcadia, sir. It doesn’t matter that it’s Fódlan and not Albinea. We believe in this fight, so you needn’t worry about us.”

“I see.” Claude nods. “Well, I’m honored to have you all here.”

“Veery!” Veery barely turns in time to catch and scoop up the mound of pink that throws itself at him. He laughs, spinning around for a moment before placing Hilda gently back on her feet.

“It’s good to see you, too, Hilda,” he chuckles.

“I was so excited to see everyone again,” another familiar voice distracts Veery from Hilda, who still hasn’t let go of him, “and then this happens…” Nonetheless, Lysithea smiles at Veery and Professor Byleth, who steps into the square looking not a second older than she was in the battle of Garreg Mach.

Ignatz chuckles awkwardly. “Let’s all take a moment to catch our breath.”

Hilda huffs, looking to Claude even as she continues holding Veery close to her breast. “Really. If you’ve got time to play with those guys, the least you could do is prepare some tea.”

Professor Byleth smiles. “Blame Claude.”

Claude sputters for a moment, looking to Professor Byleth in mock betrayal. “Come on, those guys were thieves! We couldn’t just let them get away.”

“Don’t worry professor,” Leonie says, “we always blame Claude.”

“Now, that’s just rude.”

Lorenz chuckles. “Well, things are usually your fault.”

“I cannot believe I came all this way to have a wondrous class reunion and now I’m being attacked.”

Marianne giggles gently. “In any case, um… I’m glad that all of you are well.”

“Yeah!” Raphael says. “That was fun! What an exciting way to start our class reunion!”

Vindicated, Claude smugly preens himself. “At least someone appreciates my genius.”

Hilda snorts. “Don’t act like you didn’t just use us to clear out your new secret headquarters for you Mr. Leader Man. We all see through you.”

“Oof. Piercing my heart as always, Hilda. But I can’t deny that you’re right.”

Leonie rolls her eyes. “Claude aside, it’s good to see you, Professor. What a relief to see that time hasn’t rusted your skills.”

“I’m just glad you’re still alive,” Ignatz says. “We were all so worried.”

Professor Byleth smiles softly at her class. “I’m sorry for leaving you all for so long.”

“We all know you wouldn’t if you could help it.” Lysithea says. “But what exactly has kept you so busy?”

Byleth frowns. “I was sleeping.”

Claude meets Veery’s eye, and the brief confusion that washes over him vanishes. Oh… sleeping. “Sothis?” Veery asks.

Byleth nods. “I assume so. She said that my slumber helped me heal from the fall at the battle. She’s still weak now, though I feel just fine.”

Lysithea nods. “I see. I do seem to recall some story or other mentioning a healing sleep. Interesting that you can do the same thing.”

“Several stories,” says Claude. “Including that the goddess was killed during one. But on that note, why don’t we move this reunion party into the monastery proper? I think you all know already what I’m about to ask of you.”

“Of course, we do,” Lorenz says, leading the way as the group begins to head towards the more familiar area of Garreg Mach. “You mean to take Garreg Mach for the Alliance and begin the fight against the Empire in earnest.”

“That’s right. We’ve played defense for too long. This war is never going to end if we don’t end it.”

“And of course, we’re with you, Claude,” Leonie chuckles. “I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for years!”

“I believe we all agree,” Marianne says. “We won’t run.”

“What about you, Lorenz?” Hilda asks. “Are you going to go back home to your scary father, or what?”

“Heavens no,” Lorenz huffs. He pats his horse and pulls a wrapped object from one of the saddlebags. “In fact, foreseeing this very event, I’ve elected to take possession of my family’s Relic.” He unveils it, showing the pulsating, grotesque staff. Even as Byleth, Hilda, and Claude hold their own Relic weapons, there is a reaction of recoil.

No one is particularly comfortable with those things. Not after knowing what they are.

Least of all Veery’s crew. Sadi tugs his arm roughly to ask about it. He has, of course, warned them all about the Relics, knowing that at the very least Claude will have Failnaught. It doesn’t make it any less disgusting to witness firsthand, especially for Sadi.

She grits her teeth but stays quiet, knowing enough of the context to not protest. Yet, at least.

“Wait,” Hilda says. “You stole Thyrsus?”

Lorenz scoffs. “How could you even insinuate- No. Of course, I did not steal it. I convinced my father to entrust it to me.”

Claude chuckles. “And… you did that by telling him that you’re going to fight alongside us, then?”

“That would be ridiculous,” Lorenz huffs. “You know well that my family enjoys close ties with the Empire. My father simply cannot risk something happening to his only son when the roads are as dangerous as they are.”

“Ha! Lorenz, you clever bastard.” Claude claps him on the back, grinning widely. “I underestimated you! And Thyrsus may be… kind of gross – not that Failnaught is any better – but it’ll help a lot in the battles ahead.”

“Naturally. And, Professor, will you help as well?”

Professor Byleth purses her lips, looking to Claude and her Deer before smiling. “Of course. I will always support you.”

“Excellent! Now that that’s decided, this place is a mess!” Claude says. “It’s not going to inspire hope in anyone like this.”

“And you expect us to clean it up,” Hilda groans. “That sounds like a lot of work. I wonder if anyone would be willing to help us out with that?”

Caub nudges Veery’s shoulder playfully. “Menial labor? Count me in,” he says quietly. “This is the part they don’t sing about, huh? Ah, well, it’s important all the same.”

Luckily, it’s not just a small collection of old classmates pitching in to clean up the entirety of Garreg Mach, in the end. Seteth and what remains of the church arrives later in the day, and strings are pulled on the sides of both the church and the Alliance to get workers trickling in in the following days and weeks.

At the present time, though, those already here do what they can, focusing mainly on the most important locations for their war effort. The dining hall, the entrance hall, lodging, the classrooms and war room.

Caub, Sadi, and Hoarvug stick with Veery for the most part. There is enough work to do that their four-man team has plenty to do without splitting up, though Caub and Hoarvug’s physical strength is often requested. (Especially by Hilda. Caub figures out her game fairly quickly, but Hoarvug just refuses to take orders – even veiled ones – from humans, so at least he doesn’t fall for it, even if he doesn’t actually see the trap.)

That does mean, though, that it’s usually only the four of them, with so much more work to do in other locations, Veery’s old classmates are often cleaning up other parts of the monastery, leaving him and his team to their own devices.

“Sorry that I haven’t seen much of you since we got here,” Claude says, striding confidently up to the group. “I’ve been talking with Teach and Seteth almost constantly.”

Veery chuckles. “Don’t worry. I know you’re busy.”

Claude grins, then turns his gaze to Caub. “After Veery came here, I did a lot of research on Albinea. Even so, I wasn’t prepared to see a warrior like you. Was that magic you used back with those thieves?”

Caub smiles politely and nods. “Yes, sir. I’m a seer as well as a warrior, and I’ve been taught magic by the seer in my village and Veery both.”

“Impressive. What does it mean to be a seer?”

Veery nudges Caub encouragingly when he looks over for direction and continues gathering debris as Caub speaks. “I’m a healer, for ailments of both mind and body. In addition, with the proper ingredients, I can peer at the tapestry of fate – although the visions can be difficult to interpret.”

Claude nods. “I’ve heard some of those ingredients are hallucinogens.”

Caub laughs. “What of it? You do not believe I can drug myself and see fate in the dreams they induce. I’m not asking you to believe. I do not judge you for begging the sky for favors.”

“Ha! Fair enough. I apologize if I caused any offense, I promise I’m only curious. Actually, I might be able to find those ingredients if you want me to. Let me ask something more… practical, then. What manner of magic are you capable of? I’ve found little on Albinean magics. Do they differ much from what we have in Fódlan?”

Caub shrugs. “Aside from our hallucinogenic drugs, you mean? Well… as for what I in particular am capable of. I can freeze an opponent in place, so that they are unable to flee or fight for a short time. I can warp myself a short distance, though not others. I can also summon einherjar to support me in battle. And I can heal and ward an ally against magical attacks, but I believe those are common techniques here.”

Every word has Claude’s brow rising higher. “…I have a few questions.”

“Ha. Ask, then.”

Claude hums thoughtfully. “I guess the most nagging thing is… what is an einher… what you said?”

“Einherjar?” Caub strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I don’t know a direct equivalent in your language. Einherjar are select warriors who have fallen in battle. Their valor is favored by the gods, and their souls are chosen and retrieved to join the gods in eternal battle. That the gods allow them to answer my summons is a great honor.”

Claude opens his mouth, shuts it, then says, “…I have more questions.”

Caub chuckles. “Believe it or not, it is something to strive for. I can only hope that I prove valorous enough before fate cuts my thread to meet the gods and become one of the einherjar myself.”

“Right. And you… summon ghosts that fight for you?”

“In essence, yes.”

“I have to admit, that’s kind of terrifying.” Claude grimaces. “Hey, Veery, remind me to never tease Lysithea for that again.”

Veery bites his lip, unable to suppress his giggling. “If you do, maybe Caub’s einherjar will come for you next.”

Caub laughs, hitting Veery’s shoulder playfully. “Don’t tease him. Or should I tell him how you first reacted to seeing one?”

“Good point,” Veery admits. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Anyway.” Caub shakes his head. “If it makes you feel any better, sir, the einherjar that I summon are bound to me. They act according to my will. They slay my foes and protect my allies. You have nothing to fear from them.”

“That does make me feel better,” Claude says. “Good to know. And you don’t have to be so formal. Any friend of Veery’s is a friend of mine. I know I’m Grand Duke of the Alliance, but we’re allies, so there’s no need for this ‘sir’ business.”

“Ah, if you say so.” Caub rubs his neck awkwardly. “I admit, your titles are still somewhat confusing to me. I’m trying to be respectful, but I don’t actually know the proper form of address.”

Claude laughs. “Well, Hilda calls me Mr. Leader Man, and I’m ostensibly the one in charge of this whole effort, so I don’t think you need to worry too much about it. Veery still won’t call Edelgard ‘Her Majesty’.”

“She introduced herself as Edelgard,” Veery protests. “So, I call her what she said to call her.”

“Exactly!” Claude grins. “There are some people who get all offended about it, but with me there’s no need for any of that. After all, Veery’s my brother and you’re his best friend, right? We’re practically family, anyway.”

Caub blushes, looking to Veery and then to Claude. “I… yes. Thank you, Claude. I’ll try to relax a little.”

“Oh,” Claude says, “and I want to hear that story of Veery first seeing one of your… einherjar, was it?”

“Ah, you picked up the word fast. Sorry, though, but I’ll say nothing that Veery does not want me to share.”

“No! Veery! You can’t just put that out there and not tell me. You know the curiosity is going to eat me up inside!”

Veery glances up at Claude, remembers his embarrassing display when Caub first summoned that einherjar, and says, “Then suffer.”

It’s not like it’s that much worse than cowering behind Claude for a month after they met. Still, it’s fun to tease Claude a little. Veery will tell him all about it – eventually.

[loveshotzz]

There’s a place for me

Eddie Munson x Fem!reader

Chapter 1/?

Summary: On the run for wrongful murder charges, Eddie finds himself stopping in a sleepy ocean side town far enough from Hawkins where he can lay low for awhile. Running from the people that want him dead, his only hope is that his past doesn’t catch up to him. Especially when he meets the pretty eye’d waitress up the street.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: slow burn, angst (Eddie hates himself for running) eventual smut, strangers to lovers. My blog is 18 plus.

A/N: this concept was sent as a request by my irl friend @elthreetimes and as soon as I read it, there was no way it could just be a one shot. It needed to be a series. I feel so lucky that you trust me to bring this story to life, and I hope you enjoy this. Also I couldn’t have done this without my hellfire crew @myobmaya @boomhauer @subparwritersuperbreblogger @sweetsweetjellybean for bouncing ideas and characterizations with me. I seriously couldn’t have written this with out you guys. This is the most ambitious story I’ve ever tried, so here goes nothing. Also bonus points for anyone who guess’s who which character Ron is based off of.

*comments, likes, and reblogs would mean so much if you enjoy my work 💘

For days it felt like all Eddie did was drive, the passage of state signs was his only measurement of time. The hours blending together like the lines on the highway, tangerine skies bleeding vermillion the colors remind him of Chrissy eyes after they exploded inside her head. The beauty of it all being taken away as the image of her crumpled body replays over and over in his mind. With no destination he was driving on auto pilot, only deciding where he was going the third night in.

Hair dripping from the storm outside, his fingers feel bruised from switching out his plates for the third time. Sitting in the back of his van tucked away on the side of a dirt road somewhere in West Virginia, it was the first time in his life he was thankful his dad had taught him a thing or two about evading the law. Stripping off his wet jacket he knew he needed to find somewhere to go. He couldn’t keep driving aimlessly, he didn’t have the money for that. The only cash he had was whatever he’d gotten from his deals earlier in the week, thankful he didn’t spend it on the re up that was suppose to happen the night before everything changed.

He’d never seen the ocean, an elusive place he could only visit in his dreams. Stopped on the boarder between West Virginia and Pennsylvania he wasn’t that far from the east coast. Using his lighter to illuminate the road map he’d found stashed in a messy wad in his glove box he guessed it was maybe a 10 hour drive from the coast. Throwing the idea of sleep out the window with wet clothes making it impossible for him to get comfortable he decided to do what he’s done this whole time, drive.

Watching the early morning sun slowly seep into through the storm clouds the grey sky fades to a more comforting cerulean. Eddie drove with the kind of determination that he wish he’d used to pass high school. Maybe he wouldn’t even be in this mess if he’d just graduated when he was suppose to. Convincing himself he would have been long gone playing guitar in any city that wasn’t Hawkins, he lets himself wallow in self pity till his tires bring him to the ocean.

——

Finding his way into a nameless town that wasn’t even listed on his map, it made Hawkins look like New York City. A small strip set on top a broken battered road - he swerves to miss the never ending onslaught of pot holes. The few shops they had were attached to a single grocery store, the sides of the buildings eroding away from the misted wind. Snorting to himself - of course this is where he ends up, a beach side ghost town. Eddie catches the Help Wanted sign hanging in the window of the diner that lay nestled at the end. Sticking out from the rest, the way it’s lit almost makes it look like it glowing against it’s drab surroundings. It was also the only place he’d seen with any sign of human life.

The lights of The Sleepy Hill motel greet him like the four seasons, when his tired van pulls into the mostly empty lot. The flashing vacancy sign is a promise of a bed, his bones worn down and sore the weight of everything finally kicking in. When his dirty white Reebok’s hit the ground his arms reach for the sky in a kitten stretch of his whole body, eyes closing he relishes in the pops he feels in his spine.

Inhaling a deep breath the salt in the air stings his nose, the mist off the shore making his bangs stick to his forehead. Pulling a runway strand of hair from his cheek he finally takes everything in. On one side of him there was nothing but an endless expanse of tumultuous waves raging against the shore line. The storm clouds he had out run were making their way back through, the lingering bitterness of winter still hanging thick in the March air. It wasn’t like the kind of warmness he’d seen on the postcards, or the in the stories that Rick told, this wasn’t Venice Beach. The sight of a light house in the distance brings a slight feeling of comfort when he watches the strobes of light break through the purple hues of the darkness starting to set in over the horizon. Eyes lingering he lets himself sit in it for awhile watching the waves crash into the broken brick holding it up from falling into whatever laid in the water beneath it. When he turns his attention back to the town that took him less then a minute to drive through, the red “EAT HERE” sign that spun on top of the diner mocks his stomach when he realizes it had been almost a whole day with out any real food.

Slamming his car door shut, he takes quick strides to the back making a mental note to drive to the next town over at some point tomorrow to switch out his plates again, it was too risky to try to do it with any car in a town like this. Eyes darting nervously he opens his back doors with shudder that rings out over the sound of the waves. Furrowing his brows in concentration he starts digging though the blankets in the back searching for the outfit he’d found balled up a few nights ago. Forgotten about after a sleep over at Gareth’s, the memory of a time where his life wasn’t like this hurts in a way that he can’t explain. Maybe he wasn’t as miserable as he thought he was — all the little things he took for granted now at the forefront of his mind.

He hadn’t let himself think about Wayne. Maybe it was the adrenaline that kept his mind from going there, or that thing he’d heard about when your own mind blacks things out to protect you, but he hadn’t thought about what that must’ve been like for him to come home to that.

A life less mangled girl he didn’t know and a nephew that no one was going to find. Eddie just ran without a single thought as to what that would mean for him. Scowling to himself he blames the Munson blood that runs through his veins. Images of his Uncle slumped over with tired shoulders, shuffling into the trailer in the early morning hours when the sun is just peaking through the trees. Boots heavy from another double at work, walking right into the nightmare that Eddie left him with.

Eye’s burning he holds back his tears grabbing the balled up shirt and jeans giving them a sniff. They didn’t smell clean but they smelt better then what he was wearing now and that was just going to have to do. Fingers crossed the motel clerk would let him rent a room with out an ID, he was desperate for a shower. Shoving the garments into his backpack he takes another deep breath ignoring the sting this time, closing his eyes he fights away all the emotions that are ready to spill out. Clearing his throat he cracks his neck before slamming the metal doors shut.

Half way across the pavement Eddie stops in his tracks when he see’s the guy behind the counter. Not much older then him there was something oddly familiar about him, when he glances up catching Eddie in his line of sight. Shaggy brown hair parted down the middle and big teeth protruding from below his upper lip, his beady eyes squint as he tries to figure out what Eddie was doing. The sound of a distant boat horn is what makes his feet finally move again, the boy behind the counter standing up as Eddie closes the distance.

There’s a small chime when the glass door swings open, the warmth of the lobby heats him in a way he hadn’t realized he missed until its hits his skin. There’s an awkwardness that hangs thick in the air when the door closes behind him. Eddie hadn’t talked to another living soul in days besides mumbling the amount of cash and on what pump at gas stations. The man behind the desk who’s name tag said ‘Ron’ was staring at him like he was trying to pin point something familiar about the metal head, and it was making Eddie’s palms sweat. The anxiety of being caught tightening in his chest. Scratching the back of his neck he clears his throat.

“Hi — hey, man I’m uhh- I’m looking to get a room?” He tries to hide how startled he is at his own voice having not heard it in hours.

Ron’s silence doesn’t break much to his dismay as he takes in Eddie’s appearance. Dark eyes trail over his disheveled form before flicking back towards his van in the parking lot. It wasn’t just his palms that were sweating now.

“What’s your deal? You some kinda rockstar or something?” Ron finally breaks his silence, stunned it takes Eddie a minute to comprehend what exactly he’s being asked. When he finally wraps his head around the question he has to actively stop the snort that threatens to come out.

Looking down at his wrinkled hellfire shirt, the cotton is stained with a mixture of dirt and grime from the nights in his van. The whites of his Reebok’s barely visible under the dried up mud from last nights storm. Having caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of the door on his way in, he knew his wild mane looked like a bird had laid nest in it.

“Excuse me, what?”

Ron sucks his teeth shrugging.

“You just look like that Van Halen guy, but there’s no way you’d be here if you were actually him I’d reckon.” He says matter of factly before sitting back down in his desk. “And he wouldn’t look like he just rolled around in a pigs play pin. Or maybe he would? I don’t know the life style of a celebrity.” He adds with a wave of his hand.

Stunned and completely unsure of how to respond to the man in front of him, the conversation was not going a direction Eddie had even seen coming. Opening and closing his mouth a few times, he finally finds his voice again.

“Yeah, not Eddie Van Halen. My name is Eddie though, Eddie umm Henderson.” He winces internally when Dustin’s last name leaves his mouth.

“Eddie Henderson? That’s not very rock and roll.” Ron tuts before looking up at Eddie from his computer.

Feeling his frustration start to reach it’s tipping point, his fists clench at his sides before they release. Running a hand over his face he exhales sharply through his nose mustering up enough self control to answer politely.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Eddie pointedly looks at his name tag before adding with a curt smile. “Ron.”

Arching a brow, the man at the front desk brings his attention back to the computer screen with a hum. The awkwardness from before becomes almost suffocating in the small room. The growing silence between them lasting long enough that Eddie starts to panic.

“Look man, I’m just trying to get a room for a few nights then I’ll be out of your hair okay? I’m not some rockstar who’s gonna trash the place. I’m a nobody.”

Eyes never leaving the screen the sound of the mouse clicking is the only noise filling the space.

“Got an I.D. Eddie Henderson?” Ron’s tone is flat when finally looks up at eddie through the hood of his lashes, his own irritation clear on his blemished face.

The question he knew was coming still stiffens his body when it leaves his mouth, but the thought of another night sprawled out on the damp blankets on the metal floor of his van is enough for the burning sensation of tears to sting his tired eyes again. Shuffling on his feet, he readjusts his backpack.

“I’ve got cash, I can pay for at least two days up front.” Stepping closer to the desk his fingers drum against the counter top nervously, doe eyes pleading to show him a shred of mercy.

“No, I.D. No ro—“

Digging the 200 of the 250 he had left from his pocket, he slaps it on the desk in a crumpled lump. His survival instincts kicking in with a new level of stubbornness he didn’t know he had. He wasn’t leaving until he had keys to a bed and a shower.

“Please, man. I’m begging you.” The tears that had been threatening fall finally breach his strong hold, a single droplet landing onto his bottom lashes. He wipes it away quickly with the back of his hand, sniffing he closes his eyes collecting himself again. “I’ll keep to myself, you won’t even know I’m here.”

Ron’s eyes soften at the desperation is Eddie’s voice, despite policy there was something sincere about the mysterious stranger standing in front of him.

“200 will get you three nights.” Reaching over the counter he grabs the crumbled up bills before standing up, turning to the wall of keys behind him.

Relief floods his body as he watches Ron’s fingers skim over the glistening metal dangling from the dark blue wall. Blinking back tears the tense muscles in his shoulders release some of the stress they’d been carrying for the last 700 miles.

“Room 10, it’s at the very end. No parties rockstar.” Handing over the single key, it hung from a round burgundy keychain, a faded gold 10 stamped onto the plastic. Eddie can’t help but actually laugh this time, his mood lifted for a fleeting moment.

“Seriously, thank you. You won’t regret this I promise.” Snatching the key before he had a chance to change his mind, he clasps both hands together in front of his face bowing slightly in appreciation.

“There’s free coffee in here every morning. If you bring your key to the diner up the road you get a ten percent discount. We don’t have laundry but there’s a laundromat next to the grocery store, it’s open weird hours you’ll have to check the sign.” Ron prattles on, his voice becoming more professional now that Eddie was a paying guest.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Walking backwards Eddie kicks the door open, the chill in the air sending a shiver down his spine.

“Nice to meet you Eddie Henderson.”

—

The walls of the motel room match the ones in the front office, the sapphire paint chipping at the edges of the ivory trim. The single bed in the middle was covered in a crimson duvet, two fluffed pillows propped against the black head board tempting him enough that he almost throws the idea of a shower and food out the window. Toeing off his shoes, the socks that should be a crisp white are the color of ash and it reminds him just how dirty he really is. Dropping his bag on the floor he starts peeling off his clothes making his way to wash off the last 72 hours.

A satisfied groan falls from between his chapped lips when the heat of the water hits his skin. Tilting his head back he lets it run through his thick tangled waves, pooling at his feet the water is tinged brown. Turning he faces the stream with closed eyes letting it wash over his face as he tries to find peace in his thoughts. The fear seeing Chrissy suspended in the air every time he closed his eyes was what prevented him from the sleep his strained body needed.

After spending longer then he should wrapped up in the warmth of the shower, he can’t ignore the growling in his stomach, remembering the discount at the diner he forces himself out.

The cheap blow dryer makes his hair frizz with more volume then he was used to, holding it down with both hands on either side of his head he sighs exasperated when he lets it go and it bounces back with more force.

Whatever, he didn’t know anyone here and he wasn’t going to be around long.

Changing into his cleaner clothes, he pats down his jeans feeling something in his back pocket. Reaching behind him his fingers come in contact with the thin plastic foiling of a crumpled half full pack of cigarettes he’d left in a drunk mess one night.

“Fuck. Yes.” He mutters to himself feeling a little more like a person rather then just a passenger in his own body for the first time in the last three days.

Grabbing his jacket off the bed nimble fingers search for his lighter once the leather is wrapped around his shoulders. Smirking when he finds it, he heads for the door grabbing his key off the off the dresser. Turning around before he leaves he takes one good look at his new home for the next few days. It wasn’t much but it was better then hiding off on the side roads begging to get caught.

——

The rocks crunch under his feet as he walks up the wounded asphalt towards the diner, the mist in the air taming the poof in his hair as he struggles to get the cigarette lit. The hint of tobacco on his tongue teasing him as the gust off the shore snuffs out the flame every single time.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” dangling in his lips he stops for a second to switch positions so his back was facing the direction of the wind. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” Grumbling he snatches it out of his mouth in a huff before shoving it back in his pocket. Keeping his hands dug in into his jacket his face is set in a hard glare as he hits the parking lot of the diner. The inside gleams brightly and it’s the stark contrast to the dark moody-ness of his thoughts and the outside.

There’s families gathered in the windows laughing in the warmth of the light and he does his best to ignore the pang in his chest. Shoving down the realization of just how alone he really is now, he wasn’t ready to mentally unpack that yet.

Opening the single glass door of the entrance, the sound of the oldies station plays under the low hum of everyone’s chatter. Red vinyl covering the seats, a row of booths line the outside, the white walls barely visible decorated, covering almost every inch in various collectibles. The long bar attached to the kitchen extends down the length of the restaurant lined with stools.

Unlike the booths, the bar was filled with truckers and waderers. Hunched over their food alone in their thoughts. Taking a seat where he belonged the chain of his wallet clinks loudly against the metal of the stool.

The menu was already laid out on the formica counter top, just a page long the corners of the lamination are creased after obvious years of use. His eyes strain to read the red words that pop out against the white of the paper, the sleepless nights slowly catching up to his body. He tries pulling it further from his face to get a better look completely unaware of the pair of eyes watching him.

“Need some help with the menu?” A melodious voice breaks his concentration. Looking for the owner he comes face to face with you.

Almost as if someone knocked the wind out of him the softness of your features stuns him enough that he can’t find his voice. The dress you wear as a uniform wraps tightly around your curves and he fights his eyes from wandering. Hand on the counter in front of him you lean into his space, the smell of maple syrup hits his nose — sickly sweet he wants nothing more then to close his eyes and bask in it. Your warm gaze lands on his face and it feels like he’s looking up at the bright sun on a summer day. You didn’t look like you belonged here.

Realizing he hadn’t answered you, he clears his throat trying to shake his nerves. He was never good at talking to girls, especially not girls that looked like you and definitely not under these circumstances.

“You’re new around here.” You grin eyeing the slightly disheveled boy in front of you.

“Do you have burgers?” Blurting out his question he closes his eyes embarrassed when he realizes he’s ignored your observation too caught up to think straight. “Sorry.”

Laughing sweetly you take the menu from his hands finger tips brushing against his, the connection making his cheeks blossom pink.

“Sure do, how do you want it?” Pulling out your pocket sized note book from your apron, his eyes catch the red of your nail polish and for some reason it makes his cheeks deepen to match.

“Medium is —uh, is fine.” Scratching the back of his neck he watches the way your pen swoops gracefully against the paper.

“Fries okay?” Looking up at him from under your lashes his breath hitches loud enough for you to hear, the reaction making you bite your lip in a smile.

“Yeah, fries are, fries are great.” Exhaling loudly he gives you a tight lipped smile wishing he could bury his head in the sand.

“Anything to drink?” Ripping the page you turn around slipping it through the small window of the kitchen behind you. The line cook grabs it with a curt nod before you bring the full force of your stare back to him.

“Water is fine.” The sentence is short but he gets it out with out a hitch at least. Rubbing his hands nervously on his thighs he catches the mischievous glint dance around your eyes.

A small knowing smirk plays on your lips before walking away to the drink station at the other end of the long bar.

“Real fucking smooth.” Eddie grumbles to himself catching the attention of the trucker seated next to him.

“If that makes you feel any better son, I think she thought it was cute.” The gruffness of his voice reminds him of his Uncle, the few moments with you had made him almost forget about why he was here in the first place. Guilt slowly starting to eat away at him as he tries to re focus his thoughts, the familiar sting coming back to his eyes.

Before Eddie has a chance to respond your sliding the glass in front of him, eyes never leaving his as you pull out a straw from your front pocket. This time he’s strong enough to hold your gaze even if the red on his cheeks spreads to his neck.

“It’ll be like 15 minutes, Freddy’s pretty quick.” Nodding back towards the kitchen, Eddie tries to listen to you but he’s too focused on the sheen of your lip gloss. A sharp elbow to his side snaps him out of his trance, his new friend trying to help him out.

“Oh— okay, thanks.” Dropping his eyes down he brings all of his attention to unwrapping his straw, silently scolding himself for being even less smooth then the first interaction. The only reason he knows you’ve walked away is the loss of sweetness that settles in the air in your presence.

Shoving the straw in his drink, the ice clinks loudly against the glass before taking a big gulp. When the water washes over his tongue in a wave of rejuvenation, he closes his eyes humming in satisfaction sucking more then half the glass down before pushing it away with a wipe of his mouth. He can feel what the needed hydration does for him in his finger tips, his brain function starting to sharpen.

Chocolate eyes finding you again, he watches the way you move around the restaurant with ease. Everything you were doing seemed second nature, bending down to meet the kids at eye level he watched the families stare up at you with the same adoration on their faces. It wasn’t just him you effected like that, it was every one.

Cleaning off one of the booths, he watches you bend over the table — selfishly letting his eyes wander your body in the way he’d fought off before. Expertly stacking the dirty plates in your arms, you shove the cash tip they’d left in your apron. Turning on your heel you catch his stare, stopping for a brief moment before your lips tug up in a way that makes him avert his gaze — but even he knew it was too late. He’d been caught.

Closing his eyes when you walk by he inhales deeply, chasing the comfort your scent brings. You smelt like Sunday mornings with his mom, the only childhood memories he was fond of. He watched as you disappeared through the double doors of the kitchen, loud voices greeting you once you were hidden in the back. It was obvious you’d been here for awhile. The urge to try and piece together your story is a welcoming distraction from his own.

You aren’t back there long before you push back through with a toothy grin, shaking your head in amusement. An irrational hint of jealousy settles deep in his gut at whoever was making you laugh like that. The high pitch ding of the kitchen bell brings his attention back to the small window, a burger and fries so warm he could see the steam coming off the bun sit waiting for you to collect. Brain going empty he can feel himself start to salivate, his hunger taking front and center in his mind now.

Too focused on his food he has better self control of his eyes when you go to grab it. Sliding the plate in front of him Eddie mumbles a thank you before snatching the burger, ignoring the way it heats under his finger tips.

Taking a giant bite he immediately opens his mouth at the shock of the burn, his initial reaction to spit it out is stopped when he looks up to see you watching him with crossed arms as you lean against the back counter.

“I would have told you to give it a minute, but I thought that was obvious.” Teasing him, Eddie fans his open mouth searching for reprieve only swallowing it when the pain subsides. Taste buds inflamed and seared he takes another gulp of water basking in the way it soothes his mouth.

“Sorry, I haven’t really eaten all day.” Grabbing a fry he dunks it into the small ceramic cup filled with ketchup before tossing it into his mouth. Curious eyes land on yours making him wonder what’s keeping your attention as he eats with out manners.

“So, what are you running from?” Choking on his food at your question his eyes go wide, maybe the news had made it’s way over here.

“W-what do you mean?” Swallowing loudly his appetite suddenly disappears.

“I mean, I’ve never seen you before. People either move here to run from something or they’re just passing through.” You shrug as if your question was nonchalant. “So are you a runner or a wanderer?”

“What are you?” Eddie counters back arching a brow before taking another sip of water.

The smirk you give him is almost devilish when you push yourself off the counter invading his space again. The smell he can’t get enough of swirling around him in a dizzying effect.

“I’m a runner.” There’s something hidden behind your eyes that he can’t decipher when you give him your answer unashamed. “I told you mine, it’s your turn now.”

Of course you weren’t from here, how could you be?

“Runner.” He says simply already nervous he shared too much. Averting his eyes he plops another fry in his mouth before he remembers that this 15 dollar meal was gonna put a significant hole in his remaining funds.

Looking back up from his food he sees you’re already half way down the bar walking he hasn’t even asked you about the Now Hiring sign dangling from the window.

“Hey! — I mean wait.” Eddie’s outburst catches you and half the diners attention and despite his embarrassment he doesn’t miss the way your lips curve up when you make your way back to him.

“Yes?” Raising your eyebrows in question you plant both hands on the counter top in front of him leaning forward a stance that keeps his Eddie swimming.

“I saw your help wanted sign in the window.” Clearing his throat for more confidence “How would a runner apply for said job?”

“You haven’t even told me your name, and you don’t even know what we’re hiring for.” All valid points leave your mouth and he nods with a scratch of his head.

“It’s Eddie, Eddie Henderson.” He said it once and now he just has to roll with it, he’ll apologize to Dustin if he ever sees him again. “I’m not picky, I’ll do anything. Just in desperate need for some cash.”

“Well Eddie Henderson, I guess that means you’re planning on staying here long enough to get work huh?” Tongue poking the side of your cheek he can tell there’s ideas bouncing around in your head.

“Yeah, for a little bit.” Eddie didn’t want to tell you that his time here was numbered in the single digits or that he needed the work so he wouldn’t become completely homeless in the next few days while he ran from the law.

Blowing out a loud breath, you drum your hands on the counter before turning around towards the white board behind you with various names and schedules scribbled on it. He wondered which was you. Grabbing an application from the stack that was pinned on the board you turn back around around pulling a pen from your pocket. Clicking it open you set it down for him to fill out.

Eddie wastes no time in scribbling out his fake information, chest swelling with excitement. He didn’t think it would be this easy and despite your stare making him nervous he could feel his own smile pull at his lips just for a moment.

“I’m just gonna need an ID to show my boss.”

The sentence leaves your mouth and Eddie wants to fucking scream, his grip on the pen becoming so hard he was close to snapping it in half. It was an issue at the motel why wouldn’t be an issue here? It’s not like he didn’t have one, it just had all of his real information on it. Information that had the potential to get him caught.

“I- I don’t have one.” It’s quiet when it leaves his mouth voice shaking and defeated. Meeting your eyes again he notices how they soften as if you could read his mind.

“You moved to a new town without any ID?” You question is gentle when it comes out watching the way his shoulders slump. The first smile you’d seen grace his handsome features slowly fading away.

“I’m afraid I can’t give this to him with out some kind of proof as to who you are.” It’s lame when it comes out of your mouth and you wish it could be different when you watch his big doe eyes glass over.

“It’s fine, I’ll figure something out. I appreciate the help none the less.” Eddie gives slight nod pushing the application away, his brain already starting to reel with no back up plan lined up. He feels fucking stupid.

Unsure how to comfort the cute mysterious stranger you shove your pen back in your pocket giving him your most apologetic look. The air shifting into something that felt like you should give him privacy— you walk away as he digs for his wallet.

Throwing a twenty on the table, he’s too embarrassed to even ask for the discount. He takes one last big bite of his burger before goes to stand up, the sudden urge to sleep becoming over powering with the hope a better idea would come to him tomorrow.

“Hey, actually.” Your honeyed voice drips through his very obvious despair.

Stopping him before he had a chance to leave, Eddie’s chestnut eyes meet yours in question.

Biting at your bottom lip, he can tell your nervous to ask him whatever was bouncing around in your head.

“Do you know anything about cars?” The thought of your late grandmothers car sitting motionless in your drive way comes to mind and how desperate you were for a pair of working wheels.

“I mean I’m no mechanic, but I can do the basics.” He offers back with a shrug.

“Good enough for me, I live by the beach not far from the motel down the road, it’s a shitty yellow house you can’t miss it. I’ve got a car you can come look at tomorrow, if you think you can fix it I’ll hire you myself.” Eddie doesn’t know why you’re being so nice to him but he’s not going to turn you down the offer. Even if he can’t fix it, he sure as shit was going to figure out how.

“Alright, sure yeah, I’ll come by.” Trying to contain his excitement the smile you’d already missed comes creeping back to his face.

“Perfect, I’ll see you around 10? I’ve gotta work at 4 so that should be plenty of time for you to come take a look yeah?” Not wanting to tease that six hours is plenty of time to do a normal check up on a car he just nods instead.

“I’ll be there at 10.” With a nod of his head and the first genuine smile on his face in days, he pushes back out into the developing storm.

——

Head swirling with the events of the day the cheap motel bed moans under his weight as he stares up at the water marks on the ceiling tile. The feathers of the pillows underneath him bring back the heaviness of his eyelids as all the muscles in his body finally relax. The fear of sleep slowly slipping to the back of his mind when the softness of your smile replays on a loop behind closed eyes.

——-

Taglist: @newlips @bimbobaggins69 @munsonology @triplethreat77 @edsforehead @manda-panda-monium @emotionaldreamer @eddiesprincess86 @micheledawn1975 @lil-graveling @b-irock @munsonmunster

If I missed anyone please let me know!

[wildjuniperjones]

(I just read your intro and followed immediately. I too have an interest in D&D and fiction writing.)

But, per your comment, this ask is about Plants and Magic. You mentioned that you had some suggestions about Herbalism and/or other reference materials after my ask on a-witch-named-crow's blog, and I would love to hear them.

I recently turned a rather critical eye to the sources that I originally learned magic from, namely books and my mother, who was very into Native American Shamanic things. I believe we have some ancestry and family history, but we are not culturally involved or members of a tribe. I decided it really wasn't right for me to continue many of the beliefs and practices I had learned because what I knew was likely from closed practices, and frankly I had no right to them.

But I felt that kind of left me in a bit of a lurch where learning more about plants was concerned. I studied Botany in college, and even back then I knew it was only part of the story, really. I love using what I grow for tea and food, and I am totally getting into foraging, so -crow's suggestions there are on point. What -crow said about working with the spirits of plants seems kind of the way I want to go. I am a Service Member, so I cannot take their latter suggestions. (constantly subject to the possibility of urinalysis when you are the property of the government).

I would love to know what you have to add!

So, most of my training is in medicinal herbalism, as a lot of the correspondences you'll find in older texts are actually code to describe the medicinal functions of certain herbs (like St. John's Wort being associated with Leo and the Sun, referring to its heating properties when applied topically (it causes sun sensitivity) and the joy that returns from taking it internally). But if you mostly want to get into herbs for your own purposes, I have some books to recommend.

First up, get a Peterson's Field Guide to Medicinal Plants & Herbs for your bioregion. I have one for the western US, but there are others. It will make all the rest a helluva lot easier if you're going to wildcraft (forage) your herbs.

Next, get a copy of The Herbal Medicine Maker's Handbook by James Green. It is THE book for creating your own tinctures, salves, etc. I never had success with making salves (they would mold) until I followed his instructions.

These two are required reading, from my perspective. But hey, you might want to know more about plants that are readily available in your local grocery, perhaps! For that, check out:

Kitchen Medicine by Julie Bruton-Seal, Matthew Seal Traditional Foods Are Your Best Medicine by Ronald F. Schmid

But I take conventional medication, how do I know what will interact? For that, check out Delmar's Integrative Herb Guide for Nurses by Martha Libster. Mine isn't the most up-to-date, but you might be able to find useful info in there nonetheless, especially if you do your homework and know what category of medicine any newer medication falls into.

Part of my training was with the East West School of Planetary Herbology, which included Traditional Chinese Medicine diagnostic techniques that I still use, like tongue diagnosis and pulse diagnosis. Understanding the theory and structure around TCM opens up a lot more resources, and the best book I've found for that purpose is The Web That Has No Weaver by Ted Kaptchuk.

A history and theory-based look at Western herbalism that really changed the way I viewed herbal medicine is The Herbal Lore of Wise Women & Wortcunners by Wolf D. Storl, which I highly recommend. I was having a hard time reading anything when I got it, but plowed right through anyway.

Lessee, honorable mentions go to Medicinal Plants of the Pacific West by Michael Moore (I believe there are a few other bioregions in that series), 300 Herbs by Matthew Alfs (especially useful if you already understand TCM and Ayurvedic theory), and my absolute favorite (which is sadly out of print) the two-volume set of The Energetics of Western Herbs by Peter Holmes. Just the most comprehensive guide to European and American herbs out there, explained very clearly, using both Western and TCM theories. There's a companion two-volume set by the same author called Jade Remedies that covers Chinese herbs exclusively, but is also out of print.

Most of these can be found on free sites like libgen or Z-lib, except for the last two, which as I said are out of print. These are just the books I kept, you understand. This is a tiny fraction of my original library, the ones that I considered too essential or rare to sell.

On the more spiritual side of plants, I'd recommend The Secret Teachings of Plants by Stephen Buhner. And if you're looking to grow herbs, especially woody herbs, I cannot recommend The Medicinal Forest Garden Handbook by Anne Stobart enough! Permaculture + herbalism? Yes please!

I wrote a few blog articles on the subject looooong ago, when I was trying to make a go of being a professional herbalist but I didn't yet have the confidence to see people. I didn't want to promise success when I was still so uncertain about my abilities. So I decided to catalogue every western herb I could and cross-reference their entries with the books I had at the time (which conveniently is also a listing of all the books I used to have, more or less).

This is the glossary, and this is the cross-referenced list, while this folder contains the few articles I completed. There's also this spreadsheet, which has links to the PubMed entries for each herb (if available) and the wikipedia entry for each herb (if available). It was a huge, obsessive undertaking at the time, and I'm still tempted by the organizational possibilities... The original plan was to have a blog/book that condensed dozens of books worth of information, including conventional science and traditional wisdom, with growing patterns/techniques, preparation methods, etc., etc.

I hope this helps and wasn't too overwhelming! I honestly held back a lot (I could talk about the East West program, for instance), so let me know if you want to hear more about any particular topic!

Best of luck, and happy herb hunting!

PS: If you do want to go mushroom hunting, the best book ever for the purpose is All That the Rain Promises and More by David Arora. Seriously, such a gem.

PPS: If you're a service member, you may want to do a bit of research on herbs that mimic the presence of illicit substances on drug tests. California poppy is a great choice for headaches, but if you're getting urine tests, it will show up as an opiate, despite being a mostly unrelated species.

[gentil-minou]

do u have any atla fic recs 🥺👉👈 pls i am begging

Okay so it's been quite a bit since I read atla fics and I'm a hardwired Zutara shipper so if that's your jam I got some stuff I super recommend! But because it's been so long and I can't remember them all I would say go through my Ao3 bookmarks here for a better list and my fanfiction.net account that has another list with old fics too I think (just remember that this account is from 2008 and will be cringe sdhgs)

Though I will plug a couple of my faves (though some of these are ancient in fandom years dsfjkshd):

Tempest in a Teacup by akaVertigo (T, complete with a sequel WIP)

Fate puts Katara in the Fire Nation to grow up in the company of a Dragon, a prince, and a lot of good tea. AU Zutara...of a sort.

BABY ZUTARA. They are everything to me and this fic is a staple of early zutara fandom I think. Also the writer reemerged last year after a decade and I almost cried I was so happy dsjfhds

Finding You by PearLynn (AU, complete, M)

"For each life you live, you shall suffer. This is your punishment: never to die, never to settle. Never able to love nor truly live, cursed to jump back and forth through time. You will spend the rest of eternity repenting for your actions, living a half life with no purpose."

No matter where, no matter when, he always found her. A Zutara story.

I think about this fic a lot. So much. All the time. Just read it. It's beautiful.

Moonlight and Sunshadow by GrapefruitTwostep (M, AU, Complete)

The dragon offered Katara a deal: protection for her family and tribe if she lived with it for a year and a day. And she said yes. Because what other way was there to save her people?

But there was more to the dragon than Katara bargined for.

An "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" retelling.

I love everything this author writes but this one was just...it was incredible. A literal epic with a wonderful story of romance and adventure and ahhhh I love it so much. Also Zuko is a cuddly dorky dragon and that's great I think

Enslaved by sharkflip (on ff.net) (T, incomplete but ends in a good place)

A triumphant war party returns with an exotic slave, a gift for the ruling house. Katara and Zuko AU

A common trope was capture fics but this one was Zuko getting captured and I LOVED it. It explores an interesting dynamic where he has no idea how to communicate with his capteurs and it's fascinating as a reader because the writer has us learn about Katara's culture along with him. I consider this a must read because it's just incredible.

Acquiescence by Ladyflick (ff.net) (T, complete)

Zuko, Katara and Sokka go under cover into the Fire Nation.

This is also super old but I remember loving it so much.

The Sparrowkeet Series by audreyii_fic (E, canon divergence, series)

Ba Sing Se has fallen and Katara has been captured by the Fire Nation; a more adult take on the potential progression of S3. AU series of interconnected one-shots. Zutara.

What kind of person would I be if not for Sparrowkeet? I don't know but I think I read this wayyyyyy back over ten years ago when it was on ff.net and I still love it man.

didn't know my heart by babyfairy (E, canon divergence, complete)

And yet, in a matter of days, she has managed to worm her way under his skin, has cracked open his rib cage and has begun to patch up the endless amount of wounds on his heart.

A retelling of the show but with added Zutara. I don't remember much of it as it's been a few years but I remember loving it! (EXPLICIT CONTENT)

Anything by damagectrl and brotherkupo, who also write for ML! (seeing their stuff when I started reading ML was so lovely ahhh)

Honestly I have so many recs now that i started sgkhfdjk but I really recommend checking out some blogs on tumblr for a better more updated list. I know there was also a Zutara Mini Big Bang that you can check out here, but I am grossly behind on the fics there but they look so good!

And if you're not a zutara fan then rip i guess i read them pretty much exclusively jfhsdjk

[insomniamamma]

Nightswimming: Young!Ezra x F!ShipCaptain!Reader

A/N: this took me WAY longer to finish than i thought it would. Egret AU. Takes place after “Fairy Tale of Puggart Bench” This is as close to multi-chapter fic as I can get, so if you have not read “Greenhorn” and “Fairy Tale of Puggart Bench” you might want to. Glowing algae is absolutely a thing that happens. I have witnessed it on the east as west coasts. We learn a little about Captain!Reader’s past. The song Captain!Reader sings is “The Fields of Athenry.”

Warnings: lots of food mentions, eating, alcohol consumption, language. Angst. Kissing. Soft, non-descript smut.

           "I don't feel so good." Ezra twists his head away from the rolling waves, the vast expanse of blue-green water stretching around the curve of the world. He staggers and Del catches him, hands on his shoulders.           "Hey, man, just breathe--" Ezra grabs onto Del's forearms like a man drowning and Del shoots you a desperate and exasperated look. You nudge Del out of the way and kneel in the damp sand so you are looking up at Ezra. He grabs your hands hard. It hurts a little.           "Ezra, I need you to open your eyes and look at me, yeah?" Your thumbs smooth the backs of his hands, "Don't look at the ocean, just look at me." He takes a deep, ragged breath, but opens his eyes. His pupils are wide despite the bright sun of local noon.           "Okay," he says, more to himself than you,"Okay."           "I've got you," you say--           "They don't have oceans where you come from?" Says Big Pete.           "No, Peter, we did not have oceans on my homeworld," he says, "What we had on Salis was a series of gritty puddles that could generously be called ponds--" Ezra is the only one who can call Big Pete by his given name without risking a throat-punch. "Most of our moisture came from the succulents that sprang out of that ugly, uncooperative ground--" You relax some, you know that a talking Ezra is a more or less okay Ezra. You tug at his hands.           "Take a look, Ez. Keep your eyes on the horizon. It's okay. Oceans are crazy if you've never seen one." He lets go of your hands, and you feel the shift in his body. He's looking out over the breaking waves, really seeing the ocean of Ursula's World for the first time. You haul yourself up out of the sand and brush your palms on your pants. The four of you stand in the damp sand and stare out over the sun-glittered blue water for a beat. Open water is a rare thing out in the black, whole oceans of it are rarer still. Even the seas of Puggart's world are a pale shadow of Old Terra's oceans, but not Ursula's World, a half-grav planet with an elongate orbit, a summer that spans stand-months and a winter that ices over for the rest, brief transitions between seasons that bring hurricanes unscalable by the standards of Old Terra, only reason this world doesn't have a station orbiting and shiny white hotels lining the beach-fronts. Ezra stands a little straighter, stops curling in on himself. You know by his body language that he is transfixed.           "It's so big," he says, his voice small for a change and Del claps him on the back.           "Greenie," Del chides, but not unkindly. You've all been here. You are station-born, and for cycles the vast sweep of sky made you want to hide, still does, but you control it better now. Del sprang out of one of the slum archologies of Central, mistrusting any luxury as a bribe or a trap, and Big Pete? You'll never know his story because he won't say, but his manner suggests some backwater. An actual ocean, a strip of pristine beach is something of a miracle, and the four of you stand and stare for a moment.

          "Hey, Cap?"           "Yeah, Ez?"           "What's with this manifest? We got a lot of perishable goods for a quick jaunt downworld,"           "So?"           "So, it seems odd," His dark eyes bore into yours, "Most drops we live on Bitz-Bars and faith. Also, you've loosened the weight regs some. Is there something I should know about?" You try hard not to smile. Ezra is the dictionary definition of Too Smart For  His Own Good.           "Now, Ezra, are you questioning your commanding officer?"  He straightens and squares his shoulders, puts on a serious face, but those big eyes dance with mischief.           "No, Ma'am, I would never be so presumptuous. I am curious about the nature of this job, however, and our crew mates seem equally tight lipped. I expect that of Big Pete, but Del will usually respond to my queries so he doesn't have to listen to me."           "You ever hear the phrase 'let the mystery be?'"           "Can't say as I have, Captain," says Ezra. He's crept up into your personal space, a hand on your hip, "Care to enlighten me?" You lay your hand on his chest and give him a little shove.           "It means do your job and get us buttoned up for drop," you say, "That list'll make sense once we're down world."           "Fine. But I get the distinct impression that you are hiding something from me."           "Live with it."

          Ezra makes you think of when you were just as green as him and full of questions. For a time you were crew on a rust-bucket called The Polly Jean. To say The Polly Jean was a piece of shit would be a gross understatement and an insult to actual shit. You look back at your time aboard her and internally shudder. She would never have been allowed to fly in Central space.  The Polly Jean was captained by a sallow, long-faced man named Virgil, who differed from other captains you'd worked under in that he would say more to you than "shut up, Greenhorn," when you came to him with questions. You'd come to him with concerns like Ezra's. A cargo manifest that just seemed weird, a job much lower paying that what you'd been doing.           "Pay ain't everything," he'd said, "You gotta mix it up some. You'll never get a decent crew to stick if all you give them is gritty suit-work. People gotta get some sunshine and fresh air on occasion without worrying about getting poisoned or eaten by the local fauna." Virgil poked you in the chest, a hard, bony finger pressed into your sternum. He did that to everybody. It was his way of emphasizing a point. "This is good advice I'm giving you, kiddo. If you ever get your own ship you'll thank me." And when you dropped, the world you landed on was all snow-capped mountains and clear lakes so cold that swimming in them felt like being cut. You sometimes wonder if Virgil's still kicking about the black somewhere, but you doubt it. He was old when you were his juniormost and the Polly Jean was like the ship of Theseus, repairs over top of repairs held together with shoddy welds, patch sealant and the constant muttered prayer of C'mon babygirl, be good for me, while Virgil piloted her through atmo. You'd like to imagine he bought some little plot of land on a quiet planet, maybe by one of those frigid, crystalline lakes, you'd like to imagine a future like that for yourself, it could happen, the right convergence of timing and luck, the right pull at the right time and you could sell The Egret and find some calm, untouched patch of land on a decent world, not some barely habitable dustball out in the fringe. And maybe not alone, maybe Ezra with you--           You've got to stop this. Letting your thoughts drift like this on a drop, even a gentle one like this could get you killed. Virgil, Kevva bless him, is probably a smear of bone-ash in whatever crater The Polly Jean left when it finally fell out of the sky.           Trines are foolishly easy to harvest and plentiful, not the kind of pull you're likely to get shot over, but you and Big Pete keep the rails close at hand just in case.  Summer on Ursula's world is brief but kind, the long stretch of beach is dotted with drop-ships and pods, some are harvesters like you, some are luxury cruisers, drop-yachts with party tents, music that leaks up the beach to where you are. Ursula's world is a middling thing, profit enough from the pearls to get you to the next drop, but not so much that someone is likely to kill you for it. This is the kind of world where fringelings and rich folk might rub elbows for a minute, might forget caste and station.           Trines themselves are trivalve molluscs. Ursula's world is the kind of planet affectionately termed a "dumb Terra", life a-plenty but nothing to rival the biodiversity of Old Terra before the Last Extinction. There are some large, deep ocean predators, but that’s where the higher forms stalled out. Land-life is limited to fractal-trees and the few critters that hang out in the littoral zone where land and sea touch. Trines spray a dark, inky substance as self defense. Vibrations scare them. Stomp on the wet sand as the wave recedes and you see the ink trails and thats where you dig.           "The pearls are in the big ones, right?" asks Ezra.           "Just grab what you can," says Del, "We'll do the grading and shucking later."           "If the pearls are in the hand-sized ones, why we bothering with the little ones?"           "The little ones taste better," says Del.           "That is your opinion, Del," says Big Pete.           "Pete's crazy," says Del, "Any trine longer than a hand-width tastes like dead-hooker flavored rubber bands."           "And how, exactly, do you know what a dead hooker tastes like, Del?" says Ezra, "You got some weird proclivities we should know about?"           "Fuck you, Greenhorn," says Del.           "The big trines are best slow roasted," says Big Pete, "Don't let this kip tell you different. Good for you. Puts hair on your ass."           "Just what everyone needs," says Del, "A hairy ass."           "It's good to have goals, Del," says Big Pete. Ezra laughs and Del just shakes his head.

          The four of you drag buckets of trines up the beach to camp, pack damp sand around them to keep them cool.           "Now what?" Says Ezra.           "How bout a game of ships and kings?" Says Del, "They play that on your backwater homeworld or do I have to teach you?"           "Mmmm," says Ezra, "Didn't realize there was such culture in Central's sewer systems. Now you're inviting me to the game, but as a gesture of good will I will forfeit my right to chose colors." Del's already setting up the board, placing the neutral fleets.           "We flip for the colors. Like civilized men."

          "Hey boss," says Big Pete, "Let's go get some firewood while these two kips fight their fake-ass war--"           "You're just jealous because you don't understand the game--" says Del.           "Oh, I understand ships and kings," says Big Pete, "I just think it's boring. Like watching paint dry."           "--the fuck? Kevva's teeth--"           "Sit down, you asshole," says Ezra, flapping a hand at you and Big Pete, "Ignore the cries of these plebeians and make your move."           "C'mon, boss,--" says Big Pete. His hand rests lightly on your forearm, and your neck hairs prickle up. Big Pete does not like to be touched, nor does he tend to touch people.           "Petey-bird could beat both of you dipshits at ships and kings in an Ephrate minute," you call back to camp, and  Big Pete chuckles at Ezra's muttered curses. You let Big Pete lead you into the trees. You point to your ear-piece and draw a finger across your throat. Even on a world as gentle as this you wear your mic-rigs, even loose slung around your neck so you can hear a transmission. Your mute your mic and so does Big Pete. The two of you gather dry wood for a beat, you need it to roast the trines later, to get the fire going.           "Can I speak freely?"           "Kevva, you really need to ask?" And Big Pete looks genuinely worried and that unsettles you. They don't call him Big Pete as a joke. There is precious little this wall of a man is nervous about.           "Del's been actin weird," says Big Pete.           "How do you mean?"           "You know he plays ships and kings through the drop-net,"           "Yeah, so?"           "So he's been weird about it lately," says Big Pete, "He'll usually let me watch--"           "Thought you hated ships and kings,"           "I do," says Big Pete, "But beating Del at it would be a unique kind of joy. He ain't playing against his usual bunch. Lyta H. Emory. Those guys." You draw in a breath. People tend to underestimate Big Pete because of his size. He looks like a large dumb bruiser and lets people think that's exactly what he is. He says little and sees a lot.           "He's been playing someone called DawnsPlunderer..."           "So?"           "So you don't know latin?" Big Pete grins at you, a rare one that touches his eyes.           "Kevva. Of course I don't know latin. I grew up on Sogo station. You think we had Terran root language studies?"           "I don't know latin either, boss, but I can search the net and DawnsPlunderer is the translation of 'Eoraptor', you know, Marko's new ride."           "Hell. You're sure?"           "Del never agreed with you cutting Marko loose."           "And you say he's been acting shady," You reach for Big Pete and touch his arm like he did to you earlier, "I cut Marko loose for a good reason. You know what happened between him and the stationmaster's girl. You really think Del is okay with that?"           "Shit, boss, I don't know. I don't even know for sure it's Marko Del's playin ships and kings with. I do know that Del's been off since you brought Ezra aboard. High strung. Antsy. You don't see it. You've been distracted lately." He's right and you know it.           "By Ezra," Pete's eyes flick to the side. He doesn't have to say it. "You think I'm losing my edge."           "I think you're in love, Captain, and love makes people stupid."           "Fuck." You gnaw at your lower lip. "What should I do?"           "I don't want to speak above my station--"           "I'm not asking as your commanding officer, Pete, I'm asking as your friend."           "I don't know," says Big Pete.           "You think I should cut Ezra loose? If he's a liability--"           "I like Ezra," says Big Pete, "I think you and him are good together. I like seeing you happy. I don't want to see you get hurt. You need to keep your eyes open, boss, that's all."           "We both keep our eyes open, clear?"           "Clear," says Big Pete.           "We should probably actually gather some firewood. Before they get suspicious." Big Pete huffs.           "They're probably so wrapped up in that dumb game that time's lost all meaning for them." You reach for your mic-rig to unmute it, and pause.           "Thanks for telling me. Thanks for having my back."           "I've always got your back, boss."

          Sure enough, Ezra and Del are too embroiled in their game of ships and kings to even look up when you and Big Pete start piling up dry wood. They look a bit like angry cats facing off over the pentagonal board, each with a nest of captured pieces.           "Alright, fellas, it's time to start shucking these bad boys if we want to eat before we lose the light."           "I've almost got the little rat-bastard," says Del.           "Oh, in twenty moves or is it thirty?"           "I can see into the future, Greenhorn," says Del, "I can see your whole superficially clever strategy collapse under its own weight."           "Make your move if you're so certain." Del uses his cruiser to take out one of Ezra's point defense stations.           "Roll for collateral damage," says Ezra and Del gives him a dark look, as if he would forget that very basic bit of game mechanics. Del rolls the dice.           "Fuck! Shit! Fuck!"           "I take it you pissed off one of the neutral fleets?"           "Go fuck yourself, Pete," says Del "You talk an awful lot of bullshit for someone who won't even play."           "Oi!" You say, "Get to a stopping point. It's time to work. Or did you soft bellies forget what that is?"           "Okay okay," says Del, "Nobody touch this board! I got him right where I want him--"           "Keep telling yourself that--"           "You best get moving or I'll upend the table," says Big Pete. "You'll never find all those little pieces. Not in all this sand."           "Fucker," says Del. Ezra just narrows his eyes.

          Soon you are all seated in the cool sand, armed with trine-knives, a double sided tool, one end being a bladed hook, the other a wide rounded blade for levering the meat from the shells.           "Remember," says Del, "Don't shuck anything smaller than your hand is wide. Those go in this bucket here. You find pearls they go in this tub." There's a shallow plastic tub filled with a chemical cocktail that helps harden the pearls and preserve their luster. The leftovers from those go in the chum-bucket--"           "They sure as hell do not," says Big Pete. "Strip those big boys out and put em right here." Big Pete rattles a bucket half full of seawater. He has a pile of broad leaves the size of a station viewing port cut and sitting beside him.           "Rinse the sand off em, brine em a little, then wrap them up like a present and cook them in the coals. That is some fine dining."           "You are out of your fucking mind," says Del.           "What're we gonna do with the little ones?"           "Steam them open," says Del, "Manifest says we dropped with two pounds of butter, from actual cows."           "That true, Cap?" Real butter from real cows is absurdly pricey in this part of the Great Arm.           "Get shucking and you'll find out."

          "Son of a bitch," mutters Ezra, tucking a finger into his mouth. Shucking trines is tricky if you've never done it. Slide the hooked end through the narrow bit where the shells meet, scrape and pull and then the rest will relax open. Real easy to stab yourself in the finger when the hook slides through.           "Build us a fire, Ez," you say, "We gotta roast this whole mess. Best to get the coals going now. 'Round front so we can look at the ocean."           "Kid can't shuck for shit," says Big Pete.           "Trines're finicky," says Del, "The man can cut a carom blister without hardly thinking about it, but can't handle a trine-hook to save his life. Funny how that works, huh?"           "Yeah," says Big Pete. You look for tension, you look for any sign that Del is off somehow. Del just seems like Del. A bit prickly but he always is. You find yourself wondering if Big Pete is reading too much into things. The three of you sit, sort and shuck in silence. The tray of pearls is about what you expected. Most of them are irregular ovoids, all of them are varying shades of pink ranging from something the color of a cat's nose to absolute screaming fuchsia. A few of them are faceted, the little bit of grit they formed around caught close enough the where the three shells come together in a point to give them rounded, natural facets. Those dozen or so faceted pearls are going to make this drop profitable. Big Pete starts piling his spoils, shucked trines that look a little too much like boogers for your liking, into leaves and wrapping them into neat packets. The advantage of steaming trines in the shell is that they look significantly less like snot when they are fully cooked.           By the time the three of you are done shucking and grading, Ezra's got a good fire built. Del digs a narrow trench around the fire pours sea water into it to firm up the sides, dumps the small trines into the trench.           "Now what?" Says Ezra.           "We let them steam open." Pete lays his leaf-wrapped packets in the coals, prodding them with a long stick until they are positioned to his liking.

          Later the four of you sit close around a battered pan full of melted butter and a heap of steamed trines piled on a big leaf.           "Don't fill up on these little ones too much," says Big Pete, "Gotta save room for the main event." Del rolls his eyes. The shells have opened like three-petalled flowers. Ezra looks at you uncertainly.           "Here," you say, "Like this." You peel two of the three shells away from the little knot of muscle inside, dip the remaining shell into the butter and strip it with your teeth. The taste is salty, sweet and a hint musky at the same time. Like the ocean. Like sex.           "Oh Kevva that's good," says Ezra.           Later you all try some of Big Pete's roasted trines, mostly to be polite.           "I don't know how you can eat these," says Del, "I've been chewing this for a good sixteenth."           "I like the taste," says Ezra, "The texture leaves something to be desired."           "What do you think, boss?"           "I've had worse things in my mouth." Del snorts and Ezra swats his arm. If there is tension here other than the usual push-pull between crew members you don't see it. The two of them seem at ease. Maybe Big Pete is seeing things that aren't there. Maybe.           You all sit around the dying fire for a beat, gorged on buttered trines, passing a bottle of hooch. Something Petey picked up at the last station and now shares. Strong stuff. Enough to loose tongues and hearts. Big Pete produces a guitar. Not a real one, one with strings and pickups and a built in amplifier, packs flat, but the sound is still sweet when he plays and for a time the four of you sit passing the bottle and trading songs. There's a song in Vayok about a luckless pirate with a leaky suit trying to fix a balky airlock before he passes out, each attempt getting more desperate. Pete sings and Del translates the lyrics in the thickest, most ham-fisted Vayok accent you've ever heard. You've seen this act before, but Ezra hasn't and buy the second verse he is red faced and howling, leans bonelessly against you. Even with a belly full of trines and hooch you are still trying to suss out the tension in Del. And you just can't see it.  He just seems like Del as usual.           "That is the worst Vayok accent I have ever heard in my life--"           "You know Vayok only from holofilms, young man," says Del, "You do not speak Vayok, Vayok speaks you!"           "You ever try that bit with a Vayok girl?" asks Big Pete.           "Are you insane? I like my testicles right where they are thank you," says Del. You shake your head and Ezra presses Pete's guitar into your hands.           "You've got to know some songs, Cap,"           "I can't play for shit, and all of you know it except for this kip,"           "Yeah, but we've all heard you sing," says Ezra, "The dropper's not that big. Sing something you want to, and not just whatever you've got stuck in your head while you're running the checklist."           "I hate you, you fucking menace," you say and Ez just smiles, a self assured smirk that will probably land him in the brig again sooner rather than later. You hand the guitar back to Pete. Ezra has put you on the spot, and now Big Pete and Del are looking at you expectantly. Fine.           "I don't know the chords or any of that shit--"           "S'okay boss, you get it started and I'll catch up." You close your eyes and center yourself, your mom and her mom sang these words, some long forgotten time where your people lived down a well, planted crops, when sailing meant traveling over water and not throwing yourself out into the black in a pressurized can.           "'By lonely prison walls           I heard a young girl calling           Michael they are taking you away           For you stole Trevelyan's corn           So our child might see the morn           Now the prison ships lay waiting in the bay...'"

          Later, the coals are low, slow shifting embers, you and Ezra pass the last of Big Pete's bottle back and forth. Del and Big Pete struck out down the beach towards the party tents and the thumping music that leaks out of them.           "You sure you don't want to go with?"           "I've got no interest in all that noise," says Ezra, "Seems like a good way to wake up with your pockets turned out." You laugh.           "Awfully cynical for someone who's barely been out in the black."           "Learned from the best--hey look, the waves!" He points out over the starlit strip of beach and the waves break crested in shimmering blue, glowing foam spat across dark wet sand. You stand and shuck out of your clothes and start running for the surf.           "C'mon Ez,"           "What if someone sees?"           "Who gives a shit?" The water curling around your calves churns electric blue. Ezra strips down and runs towards you, only to get distracted by the way the sand lights up beneath his feet.           "What in Kevva's backroom?" You smile, watching him puzzle it out for himself. Ezra stomps his feet and the wet sand lights up blue.           "It's algae," you say, swirling the water around yourself in luminous curtains, "What? Are you scared, Greenhorn?" And with that Ezra strips down and pelts into the surf, silly in the way men running naked always are, less so when he wraps himself around you and kisses you hard enough to make you whimper, cradles you against him, all hot mouth and seeking hands until a big waves tumbles the both of you into the sand. He lurches up, spluttering, hauling you up, an arm hooked around your waist, pulls you flush against him.           "You knew that would happen."           "I didn't make you get in the water," you say. The waves suck at your ankles, swirls of bioluminescent blue trailing in and out with the tide, "As for the wave? Maybe that was Kevva testing your resolve."           "Hmmph," Ezra says, his breath warm against your sea-chilled lips, his eyes shining with starlight, "If she is testing me, than I am surely failing."           "Ezra?" He nuzzles his nose against yours, his arms vined around you, his hands splayed warm over your skin, and when his lips find yours they taste like salt, breaks away and then nips at your throat where your pulse beats hard and fast and you shiver, arch into him and you feel him hard against your thigh. You step away from him and take his hands, leading him out past the breaking surf.           "Captain?"           "It'll be easier out here," you say, press your lips to the shell of his ear, "Trust me."

          The water is warmer than the air, the breeze blowing over it raises gooseflesh on your exposed skin, but the places where your bodies press together burn hot, Ezra's hands gripping as he slides inside you, smooth roll of his hips with the rhythm  of the waves. He cradles you against him one hand on your hip to guide your movements, the other splayed warm between your shoulder blades, and this gentle ocean holds you both, making you buoyant, glowing algae flaring with your movements, sparkling on your skins like a mirror for the stars. You come with a strangled cry, swallowed by the low roar of the surf, and Ezra follows, head thrown back, cords of his neck painted in star shine, blooming hot inside you. You cling to each other, panting, you feel his chest heaving against yours, and the wind blows cold over the water. Ezra kisses your forehead, soft touch of his lips that never fails to undo you, to make your heart squeeze and stutter inside.           "Lets go get warm," says Ezra.

          The music still thumps loud and ugly from down the strand. Ezra sleeps sprawled on a blanket by what's left of the fire. You set your data pad aside and look at him. He is lovely in the starlight, the arc of the Great Arm spread across the sky. You know you'll get cold sooner rather than later, know you should head back to the tent and wake him up so he can do the same, but instead you shake the sand off a blanket and drape it over him, tuck yourself into his side, the warm weight of his arm enfolding you, pulling you into his chest. You will have to address this rift in your crew, this strain between Del and Big Pete, but for now it is enough to sleep in your lover's arms.

[darkfalcon-z]

ok. few facts about Li Nezha. I do not intend to go into shipping discussions, because I find shipping largely very boring and it’s also not my place to say who can/should and who can’t/shouldn’t ship what. There are people with more relevant opinions of appropriateness or inappropriateness of Nezha ships than me.

It’s just about the question of his age that have been flowing around.

I have fairly recently read Investiture of the Gods (Fengshen Yanyi). English version is over 1000 pages long and it’s not as well written as Journey to the West (that I’m also familiar with). Aside from that I’ve seen multiple Journey to the West adaptations and several Nezha movies (I’m also familiar with Hoshin Engi anime, which is retelling of Fengshen Yanyi, based on the manga by the same title, so a bit different tradition).

So far I haven’t seen a posts from anyone who is actually familiar with the version on Nezha’s story from the Fenshen Yanyi novel (16th century). Obviously many people are familiar with Fengshen Yanyi story in general - it’s a part of living storytelling tradition and living religion, especially in China and other East Asian countries, as well in diaspora in the “West,” where the story carries significant cultural relevance. The story is a myth or a legend and as such by the definition there is no canon. Hence I don’t think the novel is a “better” or “truer” version that the stories told by parents to children. I don’t have ethnographical data on the different variants of Nezha’s story is in oral retellings. Other people know the story from popular media and I don’t think that’s necessarily any less “true” (with the caveat that multiple popular media made departure from widely recognized story on purpose and therefore should not be treated the same as the versions that attempt to be faithful to the tradition).

We do however have a time frame, because both Fengshen Yanyi and JttW are fantastic retellings of real events. Fengshen Yanyi took place in 11th century B. C. E. and JttW in 7th century C. E.

Sun Wukong was born roughly 1000 years before the main plot takes place (there are different estimates on the exact number, but this is the magnitude we operate here).

According to Fenshen Yanyi novel Li Nezha died at the age of seven and after some time (at least half a year) his he was incarnated in the body made of lotus roots. At this point he gained the appearance of a young man,16 feet tall (everyone in this book is about this tall, also Naza was already 6 feet tall as a seven year old). At this point he’s a spirit of a child piloting artificial body with outwards appearance of a youth. Nezha’s body does not act as a normal human body and can’t be subjected to the same kinds of magic as normal people. He never experienced growing up.

Further time-frame is that apparently about 26 years passed between Nezha’s lotus incarnation and the conclusion of Fenshen Yanyi (at leats I think it’s the case based on the prophecy in chapter 15 that specifies the time frame of events). During that time Nezha cultivated himself under the tutelage of a Daoist master Taiyi Zhenren (Fairy Primordial). Afterwards he goes to cultivate for some more and then he presumably goes with the rest of his family to live in Heaven.

Funny story, time passes differently in Heaven according to JttW. A year on earth only last a day in Heaven. So the six-seven centuries that passed between Li Nezha’s ascension to the birth of Sun Wukong only lasted for about two years from the former’s point of view.

Sun Wukong is well over 300 years old (over 342 years old according the the records of the Underworld) when he is first invited into Heaven and subsequently meets Li Nezha for the first time. Again about a year had passed for Li Nezha, while Sun Wukong actually lived all those years on Earth. So Li Nezha is chronologically much older, bur he only experience living for about 40 years. So, anyway Li Nezha’s life experience can be counted in decades, while Sun Wukong’s life experience is in centuries. And in a show like Lego Monkie Kid, Heaven dwelling Li Nezha’s life experience is still counted in decades, while Sun Wukong’s life in Earthly Realm lasted millennia.

Technically Li Nezha is a adult (18+ and an adult body), but in JttW there are immortal boys over 1000 years old living and cultivating on Earth. 30-40 years is pretty negligible for an Immortal. So my interpretation (of portrayal in the novel) is that despite technically being older he’s still a seven year old piloting artificial body of an adult.

Both Li Nezha and Sun Wukong are extremely young by Heavenly standards. Comparatively Jade Emperor have cultivated himself for  “one thousand seven hundred and fifty kalpas, with each kalpa lasting a hundred and twenty-nine thousand six hundred years.”(JttW, Chapter 7 - that’s 226 800 000 years, even if you divide it by 365 to adjust for Heavenly time flow it’s over 621 369 years).

In most other versions I’m familiar with Nezha is portrayed as a child ranging from toddler(ish) to a pre teen, so instances when he’s portrayed as adult (in appearance)  departure from the dominant trend.

In Traditional Chinese Opera he’s portrayed as wawasheng (a child role). Of course he’s normally played by and adult actor. 

Some examples from popular media (illustrations below):

The legend of Nezha (2003-2004). I remember seeing advertisement of this show on RTL II (German TV station) but I wasn’t able to watch it then (I think I need to hunt German dub for this one somehow).

Nezha Conquers the Dragon King (1979)

NeZha. Birth of the Devil Child (2019). He’s technically three years old, but he grows fast.

that’s Nezha fighting Sun Wukong in Havock in Heaven (1961,1964)

actor playing Nezha in 2010 version of Journey to the West

Sure there are versions with teenager or adult Nezha

Nezha from Monkey King. Quest for Sutra (2001)

Nataku from Hosin Engi (1999)

Lego Monkie Kid (2020-present)

there is also (unfortunately) Nezha from Fate series. Who is (unfortunately) sexy anime girl (yet somehow no one argues that Nezha is a female, because there in some versions he is one. For that matter no one argues Sun Wukong is human, even though many human versions of him exist in pop culture. Funny that).

It’s not that Li Nezha is universally portrayed as a child. There are many versions of the story that depict him as an adult (at least in appearance), but being a child is as relevant as for the cultural understanding who this character is as being a monkey is for Sun Wukong.

[twinklecupcake]

What's the 'East of the Sun West of the Moon AU?'

[slams a book down on desk] I AM GLAD YOU ASKED.

"East of the Sun, West of the Moon" is a Norwegian fairy tale that, put very simply, is like Beauty and the Beast + Eros and Psyche.

Details vary slightly between tellings, but the gist is that a young woman is married to a huge, talking bear who takes her to his huge palace, and simply asks that she not break his trust. And oh, yes, also when it's nighttime he will keep the lights off and please never look at him. Which is really difficult to do since when it's time for bed, the woman notices by feel (and how his voice sounds) that it is NOT a giant animal sleeping next to her every night, but a normal-sized man. But she promised she wouldn't look, and they do quickly fall for each other, so she doesn't look.

But it's a fairy tale and conflict has to come in somewhere, so one day while she's visiting home, it's suggested that maaaybe the bear is actually a shapeshifting troll, and he uses so much power to look like a bear in the day that he shows his true form at night, and that's why he doesn't want her to look at him. Fearing for her safety, her family tells her to use a candle to look at him in the night, and if you've heard of Eros and Psyche, you know how that turns out. But in this case, the man was under a spell to be a bear in the day and a man at night, and it would only break if he took a wife and she did not break his trust/see his human form for an entire year. And as it turns out, she looked at him when there was only one day left. Oops. And the monster who cursed him knows she looked, so they're coming right now immediately to take him to a palace "east of the sun and west of the moon" to marry their monster daughter. Double oops.

Fortunately he manages to tell the young woman where to find him (vague as it is) right before he's spirited away, and the second half of the story involves her finding the palace to bust him out. And this is already getting a little long so I'll let you read the rest on your own.

But yeah. That's the fairy tale - just made Red Son a bull instead of a bear. =p

[novaiya]

Love below 0°C - Arthur x Reader

Summary: You’ve just escaped from Blackwater, barely ducking from bullets that were shot your way. Your trusted horse, however, wasn’t so lucky. Stuck in Colter with no stables to buy a horse from, Arthur decides to go out and get you one, but not just any one, a White Arabian. Is the horse the only thing he's bringing back?

Words: 2.8k

Tags: Established Relationship, FLUFF, 

A/N: I think the last line in this piece is the best line I’ve ever wrote simply because oh the image it evokes :(

Based on this request: Could you please do a fic set during the prologue of rdr2 in Colter, that Arthur tries to tame the white Arabian for the reader because their horse died instead of Boedecia, it takes hours to do it and when he brings it back to camp he starts sneezing and catches a cold so the reader thanks him by taking care of him :D

If you prefer to read on AO3, click here.

The wind was brutal, hitting your body with such force that you were wondering how the horses were able to keep going. If it wasn’t for you holding onto Arthur, you were sure that the wind would’ve taken you away.

Having escaped from Blackwater, the entire gang have found themselves up in the mountains, caught in a snowstorm. Although the weather was cruel and you could already feel your limbs go numb, it beat being captured by the Pinkertons and the lawmen that would surely kill you more painful than the weather would.

As everybody rode on, thinking about the next move or the weather, you were thinking about your horse. From the East to the West and back to the East, he was with you through it all. A gift from Arthur, he was the first, and only, horse you’ve had since joining the Van Der Linde gang. He was loyal to you from the start, patient as you learned how to properly ride and take care of him, and he deserved more than to be killed by a stray bullet from a Blackwater lawman. Tears pricked your eyes as you remembered the image of him laying on the ground, taking his last breath right before Arthur ran up and scooped you away, putting you on his horse and riding away from the damned town.

Your head was laying on Arthur’s back as he rode through the snow, following the light of Dutch’s lantern. You were starting to doze off, Arthur’s back, warm and soft, being as good as any pillow. The voices of Dutch and the rest of the gang were fading into the foreground as you fell asleep, the sound of wind howling accompanying you into the dream world.

When you woke up the next morning, you found yourself in a bed, with a blanket over you and Arthur snuggled behind you. Despite the snow outside making the windows of the cabin tremble, you were as warm and cozy as you could be. You turned around in Arthur’s hold, facing him; he was so cute when he slept, with his mouth slightly open. His nose and cheeks were a bit red, indicating that he was probably out in the cold last night. You had to make sure to keep him warm and safe while you were in this weather, you thought, otherwise he was bound to catch a cold. You knew how reckless he could get, forgetting to take care of himself and putting others first. It was one of the best and at the same time worst traits of his.

As if he felt you watching him, he gradually opened his eyes.

“Mornin’,” he said.

“Morning,” you returned. “Were you out last night?” you said, running a hand through his hair and down to his reddened cheek.

“I was. Me, Micah and Dutch went to check out a homestead Micah found. The O'Driscolls got there first. Found a woman there, brought her back.”

“What about the homestead? Can we go back and stay there?”

“Unfortunately, Micah got to it first, burned the whole thing to the ground.”

“Jesus…” you drew, shaking your head.

The two of you were silent for a moment before Arthur spoke again.

“How are you feeling?” he said, eyeing you with a bit of worry. The two of you didn’t have time to discuss the situation till now.

“I’m okay,” you said, shuffling a bit and rising up so you could sit against the headboard. “Just sad about Happy. He didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, following you and sitting against the headboard as well. He smiled as he remembered the day when he gifted you your horse. Since joining the gang, you would either ride one of the unused horses kept by the hitching post, or ride on the back of Boadicea with Arthur. Despite never being without a ride, you felt that you were ready to have one you could properly call your own, and shared that with Arthur. Being the gentleman he was, Arthur quickly took you to the nearest stable and bought you your new horse (an act for which he got a kiss and which started your relationship) “I remember when the two of you first met, you didn’t even have to break him in. He practically wanted you to mount him,” he said with a laugh.

You smiled and chuckled a bit, remembering how quickly you formed a bond with your horse. That smile quickly faded as you realized you were never going to see Happy again. You shook your head, trying to push away the thoughts.

The two of you got ready before going out of your room and into a dining room-kitchen area of the little cabin you stayed in. Molly was standing by the counter, looking out of the window and sipping on a coffee. Hosea was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, warming up his hands. You went to the counter to make a cup of coffee for yourself and Arthur.

“I know it might be too soon,” Arthur said, coming up to you and taking the coffee you offered. “But we need to get you a new horse.”

His words stung you a bit; you felt bad for replacing Happy so soon, but you knew that you had to. If you had no horse, you couldn’t be a productive member of the gang.

“I know,” you said, looking down into your cup of coffee. “But how are we supposed to do that? We can’t just go out to buy one now, it might be too dangerous.”

“I’ve heard stories of an Arabian horse roaming in the mountains not far from here.” Hosea’s voice made both of you look at him.

Arthur turned around to face him. “Do you know where exactly?”

“Well, no one is sure for certain, and they are just that, stories, but people said they’ve seen it around Lake Isabella.”

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“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” you said, standing next to Arthur’s horse as he mounted it, getting ready to make the trip to Lake Isabella.

“You know me darlin’,” Arthur said with a smile. “I’m always careful.”

You chuckled, slapping his leg playfully.

He bent down slightly, and you stood on your tiptoes, meeting him halfway and kissing him. His lips were cold, and so were yours, but neither of you minded. When you broke apart, he gave you a smile before spurring Boadicea and disappearing into the snowy plain.

You stood in the snow for a few more minutes, looking out into the distance where Arthur rode away to. You hoped he would be careful and take care of himself like he promised. He had a tendency of neglecting himself, being careless and letting himself get hurt or sick. On more than one occasion you had to make sure he wore warm clothes when you were in colder climates, or wore his hat when the sun was especially brutal. Despite being a one of the leaders of the Van Der Linde gang, stepping in for Dutch or Hosea when he had to, he could be so silly when it came to trivial things.  You chuckled to yourself. Good thing he had you, you thought, a thought that Arthur often had himself.

__________________________

The snowstorm was getting more brutal the further he went into the mountains. At some points, he couldn’t even see in front of him, everything hidden by the white of the snow. From time to time, the storm would get so brutal, Boedecia could barely move through it. Finally, after a few hours he could see the frozen Lake Isabella. Everything was covered in white; the trees, the rocks, the lake itself. All the animals that were able to withstand the harsh weather and roamed around too wore coats of white, blending in with the surroundings. In this scenery, Arthur stood out like a sore thumb with his dark blue coat and his black hat.

He hitched Boedecia to one of the trees that lined the shore of the lake before venturing out, trying to get a feel for the surrounding area.

He should get a fire started, he thought, warm himself up before getting to work. That’s what you would’ve done, at least, if you were here. He promised you that he would take care of himself. He felt bad for not doing that, but he hoped he would be in and out within an hour, so forth he went.

It was hours before he finally found her, having missed her white coat in the equally white snow a countless times. Finding her, however, wasn’t even the hardest part, breaking her in, that was. She bucked him off for what he felt like a dozen times. He could barely feel his face in the end, having been thrown off face first in the snow far too many times. Finally, as if the horse was just as tired of bucking off Arthur as Arthur was tired of being bucked off, she gave in, relaxing under him.

Despite being cold, tired and hungry, he forwent setting up camp to rest, already planning the route back to Colter. Being the completionism that he was, he didn’t feel that his mission was over until you had the horse’s reins in your hand.

“Let’s get you to your new owner,” he said, patting the mare’s platinum mane.

He whistled for Boedecia, and when she came, the three of them started their journey back to Colter. The snow storm still blew, but it was not as rough as it was before, and Arthur could see the path in front of him. He noticed how serene and quiet the area was, and if it wasn’t for his occasional sneezes cutting through the silence, there would be nothing heard. When his nose started to run, he cursed himself, using the cuff of his coat to wipe at it.

__________________________

You were standing by the window, sipping on your coffee and looking outside when you saw Arthur make his way up the path on a horse that was as white as a fresh winter snow. “Arthur!” you exclaimed and ran outside.

“Got a present for ya,” he said as he dismounted the horse.

As you looked over your new ride, taking notice of her beautiful, platinum hair and her equally platinum body, you couldn’t help but be distracted by the sneezes and sniffles that came from Arthur. Oh, Arthur! Of course he didn’t listen to you, you thought, probably didn’t set up a fire and most likely spent too much time in the snow. His selfless act, as much as it meant to you, came at a cost that you would now have to help him pay.

“Oh, Arthur,” you said after he sneezed again.

“I’m alright,” he said like he always did, waving away with his hand.

“C’mon,” you said, taking Arthur’s hand in yours and leading him into the house and your room. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Darlin’, I told you, I’m all right.”

He would not have been Arthur Morgan if he didn’t try to reject your help at least once. He hated being a burden to you or to anyone, especially when he was at fault. You, however, after being in a relationship with him for the past few years, learned to not pay attention to his rejections, simply continuing on with what you were doing. With your help, after a few minutes, he was down to his union suit, his clothes, heavy and wet, laying in the corner of the room to be hanged up to dry later. You fished out a fresh set of clothes from your unpacked bags, a pair of pants, a shirt and a warm jacket made of sheepskin, and gave it to him before leaving the room to get a hot cup of coffee and a meal for Arthur.

The room was quiet while you were outside, and Arthur had a moment to let his thoughts travel freely in his mind. He looked at his arms and his legs, clothed in fresh, dry clothes. He looked at the door where on the other side you, his love, were preparing food for him. The warmth that the clothes provided could not rival the warmth he felt in his heart through all your acts of love. He never imagined that someone could love him as much as you did. Not only that, he didn’t think he deserved it, after everything he has done in his life. The words were no match for what he felt for you as you opened the door, balancing a cup of coffee and a bowl of stew as you held the doorknob, your cheeks red from the cold, your eyes full of love as you looked at him.

__________________________

“You silly, silly man,” you said as you sat on a chair next to the bed, looking over Arthur. It has been a few days since Arthur brought back the white Arabian and with her, the cold he caught. He was sneezing, coughing, blowing his nose, the whole nine yards, yet despite all that, he still wanted to get back on his horse and to work. You had to all but tie him to the bed to keep him from going out.

“I need to go out with Dutch,” he would say between sneezes, trying to get up and go.

“They'll have to manage without you,” you would return, pushing him back on the bed and covering him with blankets. “I’m not gonna let you get any more sicker.”

The next few days were mostly spent in the confines of the four walls of your room, with you taking care of Arthur. Surprising yourself, he didn’t fight too much, giving in almost right away and letting you nurse him to health. He could get used to it, he thought, as you kept taking care of him, tucking him under blankets, bringing hot bowls of stew. On a couple of occasions, he caught himself imagining that he wasn’t in some broken down cabin in Colter, hiding from Pinkertons and lawmen, but in his own house, on his own land. The image warmed him up more than any bowl of stew or cup of coffee could.

As you were laying in the bed with Arthur, you could hear the snow storm playing outside, threatening to break the windows and invade the room. Although the walls were cold, with Arthur’s body and a blanket over the two of you, you were warm. By now, Arthur has almost completely recovered, the only trace of the sickness being a sneeze here and there, but it too was almost completely gone.

“You know,” Arthur started, making you look up at him from where your head was on his chest. “It’s in moments like these, when I can see us bein’ somewhere else. Just the two of us.”

He imagined the two of you on your own ranch or a farm. No bounties to hunt, no debts to collect. He could see himself as a rancher, not carrying his gun belt every waking hour, a dog by his side. He imagined you, in a light, flow-y dress, taking care of the house, bringing love and light to it just as you did to every tent the two of you have shared. Maybe the cold has made his mind delirious, but he could even see the two of you grow old together, sitting on a rocking chair on the porch of your house, your hair gray, your face littered with wrinkles, each one telling a story.

“Me too,” you said, imagining a similar scenery in your mind. The mess that had just gone down in Blackwater had shaken your trust in Dutch just as it had for Arthur. Something has changed, and despite continuing following Dutch, the two of you realized you could only rely on one another. It’s a realization, so crucial, which would come to play strongly in the next few months, a lifeline that would lead you to your happy ever after in the end, with you, in a flow-y dress on the porch of your ranch, watching as Arthur tended to the herd, no gun on his hip, only sweat on his forehead from an honest day of work.