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sp00kworm · 3 years ago

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Black Oak (Part 2)

Pairing: Alcott Glyn (Headless Horseman) x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Body Horror, Murder

PART 1

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The police arrived about an hour after you had woke-up the whole village screaming. Peswick was far away from the nearest city’s response, and you sat shivering, wrapped in a blanket from the house, clutching it close as Mrs Shaw rushed to bring you a hot drink. She and her husband were dressed, but neither went into your house. They rushed back home, bringing you a cup of tea from their own kitchen along with a foil blanket for the shock. You weren’t allowed to touch the body, and you tried to ignore the swinging noise of the corpse as you sat perched on the front doorstep to your home, sniffling into the cup of tea. The police took off their hats as they stepped past your gate, and you watched as the crime scene investigation and forensic van pulled up behind them. The two officers nodded at Mr and Mrs Shaw before smiling as best they could.

“Would you like to come with us, please?” The male officer asked gently, “Lets go inside and we’ll get your statement of events, okay?” The female officer with him looked back at the tree and swallowed hard as Forensics suited up to remove the body and take evidence.

“Come on, Sully.” He ushered his companion as he helped you to your feet and nodded to your neighbours. He whistled and smiled as he opened the door for you, “Nice old place you’ve got here.” He complimented kindly, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with crows’ feet, “Mrs Finch used to live here. Are you a relative?”

You shook as the officer led you gently into the front room, “It…She was my aunty, distantly.” You whispered as you eased yourself back onto the sofa, clutching the lukewarm tea tightly, as though it was a lifeline in your grasp.

“She was a kind woman. Made a lot of oils out of her garden, but she had nothing but trouble and vandalism with this place. Kids used to make a mess of the sides of the house regularly.” He tipped his head to the wall where the fireplace was, “It was always on the chimney. She never did anything, but the kids called her a witch and all that trollop.” He shook his head.

“You haven’t introduced yourself.” Sue gave him a lopsided smile as she pulled out the clipboards full of paperwork to be completed.

“Ah, so I haven’t!” The officer dipped his head, “I’m Officer Perks.” He pointed to the blond woman with him, “And this is my partner Officer Sullivan.”

You nodded shakily licked your lips, “It was nice to meet you. Thank you for coming. I know...Its far.” A breathy sigh left you as Sullivan took out her pens from her vest and smiled.

“We just need an account of what you did this morning and if you knew the victim.” Percy offered as he sat on your couch, “Spare no details. Even something small to you might be important to us.”

Conflict burned in your throat and gut as you thought about what had happened, “I don’t remember anything of relevance from last night. I spent the night in bed. I’ve only just moved in, so I was exhausted.” You took a shuddering breath and continued, “I went out this morning to the tree and…and I looked up… and he was hanging there, without his head.” You looked into the tea in your hands, noting that it was now ice cold.

“How long have you been here?” Sullivan asked as she shorthand filled in the details on the paperwork, “You said you moved in recently?” Perks looked from the paper to you and smiled reassuringly.

“I moved in yesterday afternoon.” You whispered and Sullivan gave you a pitying look.

Perks shifted against the cushions, “Did you have anyone with a grudge against you or motive from where you used to live?” He asked.

“No one that I know of.” You answered as you put down the cup of tea, fighting the tears and upset.

“Okay so what time did you find the body?” Perks asked. You took a deep sigh and continued to answer the police officer’s questions well into the afternoon.

Perks and Sullivan could drink their weight in tea, it turned out, and you offered them many drinks over the course of the few hours. They had a couple each, pens scratching papers as they took notes and an official account of the events for the records. You looked out of the window as Sue and Percy signed the bottom of the page. Crime Scene Investigations were hoisting the body down from the thick black branch of the oak, working to preserve the noose he was swinging by. Three people held the corpse up as they cut the rope carefully, keeping the knot intact and bagging the rope before they got the body down into the bag on the stretcher.

“He’ll need to go to pathology to determine cause of death…though I think I have a pretty good idea.” Sullivan whispered, trying not to be heard as she eyed you sat across from them. Perks rolled his eyes and elbowed his colleague.

“Here. Let me draw the curtains.” Perks stood and reached for the curtains before drawing them over the forensics team dragging the body into the bag, impassive to the blood that stained their tunics and gloves.

“I think we have everything.” Sullivan announced as she stood up and took hold of both their mugs, “I’ll put these in the kitchen for you.” She offered with a small, pathetic smile.

Perks nodded his head as Sullivan as she left towards the kitchen. You heard her bang the cup on the countertop before you tugged the blanket closer and shifted uncomfortably.

“Thank you for your cooperation today.” Perks took his hat and tucked it under his arm, “I know these kinds of cases are very difficult to talk about. I have this card for you.” He held you out a green printed business card, “That’s the helpline for a couple of organisations and the other side has someone you can seek out if you would like some help talking through all this.”

You looked at the numbers vaguely before nodding and placing the card on the coffee table, “Thank you.” You replied quietly before Perks replaced his hat on his head.

“We’ll see ourselves out. Thank you once again and good afternoon.” He looked at his watch before he opened the lounge door and quietly exited.

Sue scoffed at him in the hall, “Come on. We’ve got these reports to write up.”

“Coming, coming.” Perks grumbled, “Nothing wrong with being nice. They just witnessed a damn corpse…” The voices trailed off as the front door closed behind the two of them with a bang.

Silence.

You looked to the curtains and stood up, letting the blankets finally fall from your shoulders as you fisted each side of the heavy curtains. They were old and embroidered with curling leaves. You tugged them open with a heave and watched the police vans trundle away back down the old stone roads, back towards the hills where they had come from this morning. With a deep breath, you tied the curtains back before taking one last long look at the gnarled, black oak in the garden, and heading towards the stairs for a shower and to get dressed. You hoped that a shower would wash away the sticky feeling of malaise on your skin and mind. Hot water usually purged bad thoughts, or so you hoped as you tried to erase the memory of the swinging corpse from the shrivelled branches of the old oak tree.

You shivered through the house after your shower, wrapped in a jumper and heavy jeans as you tried to navigate the halls without looking out into the garden. The memory of the body lingered with the burning feeling of the heavy box in the other room, filled with an old skull. It was a skull inside. A perfectly preserved ivory skull. The teeth were yellow with age on the enamel, and you looked to the table where the muddy box sat with the key in the lock. The headless creature had moaned and groaned as its head screamed from the other room. You turned and looked at the ornate metal decorations before daring to turn the key again. The lid popped open and flew back to reveal the skull again.

It sat perfectly still on the cushion, staring at you with empty eyes. With a deep breath, you dared to reach out and touch the skulls surface. It didn’t move. No magical energies tore out of the eye holes. It was perfectly still. It was just a skull. But the memory of it screaming and cursing inside the box was burned into your memory and you carefully picked the skull up, cushioning the bottom of its jaw before your strokes over the place where the eyebrows had once been when it was a man. It had to belong to the headless horseman, but why your aunt had it locked away in her home was another question entirely. You held the skull up to your eyes and peered into the bone of the eye sockets as you pondered your decision. There was a glimmer of gold inside the mouth which caught your eyes, and you dared to open the jaw wide enough to snatch at the shiny object. It was a single heavy golden coin which had been wedge between the back teeth. You looked at the old print and then quickly replaced it, wedging the jaw back shut as you placed the skull away on its pillow.

It sat and stared at you, and you stared at it, wondering what happened last night as you clutched at your head and sighed. You slammed the lid closed and snapped the lock closed before you placed the box in the centre of the table.

“What the fuck were you up to aunty?” You asked the air as you rushed to the kitchen to make yourself another drink. As you set the water to boil you continued to curse, thinking about the headless man who what invaded your home chasing the poor man who had ended up hanging from the tree in your front yard. The head had screamed ‘witch’ from its confines, but you had no knowledge about what it could mean. You took the hot water and made a drink before looking at the last few boxes of unpacking and scoffing, deciding that the day would be better spent researching what had slaughtered the man and hung him from your tree.

The village library was barely a few bookshelves put together and you sighed looking at the poor collection of books before you dated to approach the old librarian sat next to the desk. She had her own book open, some trashy romance novel set in the Victorian era, and she looked engrossed as she flipped the page and took another bite of her current tea cake.

“Hello?” You asked quietly in front of her.

The librarian jumped in her seat before she clutched at her chest and adjusted her glasses, “Dearie me! You scared the soul right out of me, love.” she took a moment to take a breath and close her book before she stood with a small wince and smiled, “What can I do for you?”

You could see the questions burning in her eyes. She no doubt knew you were the new person in town, and about what had happened at your home.

“I’m looking for some history books about the town. I wanted to try and get to know the place, but I don’t think there’s anything on the shelves.”

Her face pursed a little before she smiled again and pointed to the last one of the small walls of shelves, “There isn’t a lot but there’s a couple of books on the bottom shelf of the end one. For the records and such I’m afraid you will have to ask at the village hall. Rose keeps them in good nick there, lovely woman she is.”

“Ah, thank you.” You returned her smile and left her to her book as you went to the last set of shelves in the wall and started to rummage through the folklore and history books.

There wasn’t a lot, she was right, and you sighed after about twenty minutes of pulling out books. You tugged the last, thick history book from the shelf and dusted the cover to reveal a history of the local mines and hills. It wasn’t what you were looking for. You peered at the shelf again and huffed before there was a glimmer of silver lining at the back of the bookcase. You squirmed your hand to the back and plucked the small book from behind the tattered paperbacks. It was a pocketbook, stencilled with an old name in cursive, faded and marred with cage.

‘Maria Theresa Glyn’

You dusted the front and followed the name before looking around and tucking the book into your bag. You felt bad just taking it, but obviously the Librarian had no idea it was there, and the name was familiar to you. You remembered the coat of arms on the old teapot. If this was the diary of someone with the same name it might have clues, or so you reasoned as you plucked a few books from the shelf and took them to the counter after replacing the rest.

“Did you find what you were looking for, pet?” The librarian asked as you placed the books on the counter. She smiled and pulled out an old paper ticket to write your name onto. She poised the pen over the paper, and you told her your name before she copied it onto another for you and jotted the book codes down. She tutted at the date stamper and fiddled with it to get it to the correct date. Obviously not many people used the library.

“Yes, I found a few interesting things to have a flick through.” You told her as she stamped the tickets inside the books and stacked them in front of you.

“Well, you have fun...and be careful, huh? There’s a lot of weird and wonderful things that go on around here. It would be a shame if you forgot that, and something happened.” She smiled sweetly, but it sent shivers down your spine.

“Thanks. I’ll try.” You smiled awkwardly back at her before you took your arm full of books and made a quick exit back into the chilly air.

The village seemed to watch you as you wove between the avenue of trees, crunching autumn orange and brown leaves underfoot. The chill in the air mimicked their icy feelings. You were the outsider among them, and soon enough they’d come to hound you out of their home. You only hoped to solve what you had seen. There was no way a headless man was riding around taking heads...right? You tried to console yourself as you made it to your home, and past the gnarled black tree in the front garden. It was twisted and old, and the branches seemed to creak as a greeting on your return. A glare silenced it, or so it seemed, perhaps it was just the wind dying, but the tree went silent as you walked up to the door with your keys in hand. The door swung open when you unlocked it and you clutched at your books as the wind howled into the mouth of the house, screaming down the hall like a ghost before you kicked the front door shut, shivering. The old back boiler chugged in the background as you kicked off your boots and placed the books in the lounge on the small table by the chest.

When the chest remained still and silent you left to place away your bags and get a drink. You returned, rubbing your eyes as you opened the little journal you had found. It was penned with ink and quill, that much was obvious, and you ran your fingers over the woman’s name again before you touched the crest and went to find the teapot. You grabbed the porcelain handle and placed the two together over your lap. They were the same. The Glyn coat of arms. You placed the teapot down and opened the diary to look at the first passage. It was dated back three centuries ago, back when the alliance was beginning to form between the different races, monsters and humans alike, though you could tell this village hadn’t had such luxury. The entire populace was human, apart from the dairy farmers four miles outside the walls of the village. They were large goblins of some kind, cave dwelling and gangly limbed from years in the dark, but you had only seen them.

The first passage was written in neat, printed cursive, echoing the care the woman had taken to write her feelings and events down.

‘Today is the day of my birth. My birthday rather. I was given this journal by the kind Mister Glynn, as a gift, and so I find myself beginning to write down the events of my daily life, so perhaps I can look back on it and reminisce when I am old and grey.

Mister Glyn is a kind soul. He is part of the King’s Royal Entourage and the Commander of a large cavalry unit. Why he is in this small village is unknown to us all, but my father suspects it is because of the Wood Witch. Perhaps he has been tasked with taking her head? It is rumoured the armour he has is enchanted against such magic, but I feel as though those are rumours made about a dangerous and powerful man to excite fear.

He is nothing but polite to me. I suppose my father will want to marry me off to this one as well.’

The passages were perhaps a couple of pages maximum, and you flicked through the dates quickly, watching her words change from cold and indifferent to soft and loving of the man see always called Mister Glyn. It wasn’t until a year later in the diary that you saw his true name.

‘Alcott escorted me to the capital atop Mallor, his beast of a horse, though the creature seems to like me now that I bring him sugar lumps. Alcott wished to show me the city and its fruits though there is rather less fruit and more muck and grime. I am used to mud on my shoes, but I despised the odour of the place, much to his amusement. As I write, I can hear him snickering at me across the table.’

There was a few blotches of ink and another set of handwriting.

‘She stood in a man’s excrement.’

Their trip seemed peaceful, and Maria even attended a gathering at court. It seemed well until you found the final page in the diary, written across a page in shaky ink.

‘They took his head.’

There was no fond farewell at the bottom of the page or a cursive signature. It was stark and naked on the yellowed paper, like a bad omen forever preserved. You ran your fingers over the words before you flicked through the last pages seeing nothing but blood splodges and blackened dark blood at the corners. It smelt faintly of rot, and you recoiled from the smell as you looked at the empty bare pages. The back of the book was burned across the inside of the cover. It was mysterious but it seemed like Alcott Glyn had been killed. But by who? You had no idea but as you looked at the chest again and thought of the head inside you shuddered.

Alcott Glyn. There had to be a grave. You tugged your bag open and stuffed the book inside before you rushed out of the door, locking it quickly as you rushed towards the little church. It was at the top of the hill, sat in a mound of earth, subsiding on one side with props and scaffolding to try and hold it up. It wasn’t used anymore, the town hall was used to any religious needs, but it was haunting. The stained glass was dirty, and the front doors bolted and chained to prevent anyone entering. You rushed around the side of the church and looked at the dates on the graves and the dates in the diary. It had to be the 1700s. You thought back to your history lessons and tried to recall the date of the alliance war. 1774. You rushed around the small paths and glanced at the years, 1770, 1772, 1773... you looked at the gap where the 1774 stone should have stood. There was nothing, just unchurned earth and a set of roses growing from the floor. A troubling feeling settled in your gut as you meandered down the path to the back of the overgrown graveyard. There were old stones, crumbling and forgotten under blackberry vines and leaves. It was chance that you leaned down next to a short stone and looked at the faded name.

Alcott Glyn.

The name was chipped and faded, like the memory of the man. Vines grew in wild abandon over the grave, and the blackberry vines had taken over the base, winding around the whole stone with wide dying leaves. It was perfectly hidden and forgotten about. The village’s little secret in the secluded corner of the graveyard, forgotten and buried. Or apparently, not buried completely. The earth was turned over, like something had ruptured from the ground and burst free. It was a long patch of upturned soil, as long as you were tall, or even longer, and the earth and stones were wet, fresh with the rain from the evening and being upturned, as though someone had run a plower through it. Carefully, you ran your fingers through the earth, feeling the soil between your fingers before you took a steadying breath.

“Someone came out of this…” You breathed into the chilly air, your breath making mist with the cold as you stood and looked over the grave. You said it again before turning and bolting from the graveyard before the night could fall over the village.

When you reached home, you threw your bag onto the couch and grabbed the chest, prising the lock open to peer at the skull inside. It was sat, still as a statue, on the cushion, with the glimmer of gold between its jaws. You lifted it from the cushion, carefully, pulling it up to your face level as the sun set over the horizon, bathing you in a golden glow with the skull clasped between your hands. There was nothing but the distant hum of the hot water pipes in the old house to answer your stare. The skull did nothing. It sat in your hands as the sunlight died over the horizon and the night began to settle in. In your gut, disappointment settled with the cold reminder that you were holding a dead man’s skull. A real human skull. Carefully, you placed it back down on the cushion and sighed as you went to draw the curtains, ignoring the creaking of the gnarled oak tree outside your door.

The wind blew as you looked back at the head in the chest, positioned slightly skewed on the cushion. You chewed your lip and sighed before you stood over it again.

“Alcott Glyn.” You whispered to the skull. Nothing. The old electrics flickered for a moment, dimming before they brightened again. Silence, except for the hum of the back boiler. The breath you had been holding escaped and you turned away with a grumble before the lights surged bright and yellow, like the sun, before the bulbs exploded in a sudden thunder of noise. Glass shattered and flew across the carpet in a shower, and you gasped, covering your ears before you looked back at the cushion.

The head was sat, jaw agape, with two lights in the blackened sockets, rolling side to side. The little lights rolled like stoned before they settled on you and the open jaw began to jitter, chattering the yellowed teeth together loudly. The skull didn’t move, just snapped it’s teeth like a scared dog before it stopped, and the eyes dimmed. It was only a moment of silence before there were three heavy pounds on your door. With a gasp you rushed to draw the curtains, and gazed upon the creature stood on your doorstep, his steed kicking and throwing it’s head by the twisted roots of the black tree. The body stood there, breathing, its undead chest moving as though it needed the air.

“Alcott Glyn.” You whispered again with a dry mouth. All the moisture dried up from you and you tried not to shake as the skull slammed against the side of the box, it’s eyes glowing.

It shook and chattered its teeth before a voice screamed from between the open jaw, “Let me in, witch!”

Fear twisted your guts as you rushed to slam the chest shut on the screaming skull. It chanted inside the decorative metal, hollering about burning you at the stake before you took it to the front door. The horseman slammed his fist on the door again, repeatedly, as though he was going to tear it open, and you shivered as your fingers shook by the latch and keys.

The horseman began to bang repeatedly and the head in the chest slammed around, shaking your arms as you struggled to keep hold of it. You took a stuttering breath and unlatched the door, turning the keys before you wrenched it open. The headless horseman heaved puffs of misty breath up from the stump of his neck, his trachea flexing with the movement as the nerves of his spinal cord twitched and thrummed behind it, imitating life in his corpse body.

“Witch!” the skull screamed again, his head you realised as you stepped back, and the creature followed. His boots left muddy smeared marks on the wooden floors, and you looked down to see the crushed blackberries over the soles. Your heart pounded as you realised, he had crawled from the grave you had sat by earlier.

“I saw you by my grave. I will not do business with you again.” His voice came from his body this time, contorted and dark as it leaked from his lungs like a wisp.

“Business? What business have you?” You asked, voice shaking with fear.

The skull laughed in its box, a malicious and evil noise, dark and tempting, as though you were truly stupid for asking, “What business did we not have? Have you forgotten in your age, crone? Death and blood, that’s what you wanted, and I delivered it.”

“Who did you have the deal with?” You steeled yourself.

“You, you pathetic soothsayer.” He droned before his dead fist slammed the door closed, “Now give me my head. Our bargain is met.”

“I am not my aunty.” You tried, “I have no deal with you.”

The horseman stopped, his body stiffening as his horse brayed and screamed outside, kicking its hooves at the black oak with a great smash. The tree shook, shedding twigs, but didn’t fall. He stalked closer, the bulk of his frame blocking out the light from the moon and the electric fitting overhead.

“But you have my head.” The skull whispered from inside the box before he grabbed for the chest. He touched the metal of the latch and screamed, the noise escaping the corpse before you and the skull inside the box. It was an ear piercing, unholy noise which burned your ears and made your head swim in agony. The horseman clutched at his chest and the stump of his neck, his gloved fingers pressing into the gored wound of his neck as he wobbled towards the wall and grasped at it for balance.

“Fuck.” You cursed before you whipped the chest open and grabbed his skull by its eye sockets, hanging it over him as he slid down the wall and screamed again in agony, twitching against the wood.

“If I give you your head, horseman, will you indebt yourself to me? Your previous contract will be null, and you will only serve me.” You announced.

The horseman writhed before going deathly still. He laid like a corpse for a moment or two before shakily he braced his arm against the floor and pushed himself up. With a shudder he got onto his knees and kneeled before you, his neck dipped to expose the sore, congealed wound of his decapitation.

“I... I will serve.” The horseman gurgled.

“Then I give you your head to end your torment, Alcott Glyn.” You promised before you held his skull between your palms and lowered it to the spinal column of his body.

There was a great groan as the spine extended from Alcott’s body and snapped to the skull, holding it in place as the eyes burned bright with purple light, the colour of blackberries, rolling in his skull as he reached and clasped at the bone, howling as light burned from the base of his neck and enveloped his skull with a whoosh of purple fire. The fire abated quickly as the moonlight disappeared behind the curtains and the skull shimmered as muscle and tendons swarmed the bone, linking and covering the surface before the he howled, and skin crept from his neck to his face, covering the surface in a perfect alabaster coating. His eyes however, remained voids of black, the centres beautiful blackberry lights in the dimness of your home. Black waves of hair grew from his head, dripping over his shoulders like ink as he howled, leaned against the old wallpaper. They finished growing with a crackle of fire, purple flames licking at the ends before it disappeared, leaving a heaving, black eyed creature curled against the wooden floor.

Your mouth hung open as you watched the horseman shake against the wood, heaving as he reached to clutch at the hair that draped from his previously naked skull. The inky waves slid through his gloved hands and was quickly marred with dirt and blood before he peered at you through the curtain, looking at you with the purple lights in his irises which were sunken back into his skull. His lips parted before he took a deep breath, wheezing out dust and muck, coughing like a goose before he kicked the chapped skin and crawled closer to your feet. He only looked at you, staring before one gloved hand whipped out and snatched your ankle, holding it tightly in an iron grip.

“Bound to your bloodline again...” he growled, “Humiliating.” Before he pushed himself back and stood, swaying on his legs like a new-born deer as his balance came back to him. Having a head was a heavy burden.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” You breathed as Alcott slammed the side of his head and beat dirt out of his ears.

“Of course, you don’t. None of you ever do. Now I’m bound here to you until the day you drop dead and rot. Why can you never let me die?” He growled in a worked-up fury, flinging his hands to the windows before he stalked to the door, his boots slamming against the wood. He swung it open, and his mount brayed in greeting, throwing its giant head back before it caught sight of you and snorted, bowing it’s neck like a graceful Swan.

“You are all the same!” The horseman shouted before the moon was revealed, a cloud moving away from its white surface. He shuddered and you watched the skin on his face disappear with the muscle, revealing the purple lights in a bare, burning skull. As the cloud recovered the moon, the base of his neck flared with purple smoke and fire, revealing the scar where he was decapitated, and his face reappeared.

“I gave you your head back, Alcott!” You shouted after him.

The horseman shivered and turned back to you, looking at you with his haunting eyes, both hands gripping the pommel and stand of the saddle, “How do you know my name?” He whispered in questioning.

With a small breath, you locked your lips nervously and ducked back to the table, grabbing the little diary from you bag before you stood on your porch and held it out to the wraith, “Maria wrote about you.”

He growled and snatched at the book, and you let him take it with a painful smile, “I know the townspeople killed you. They betrayed you. I don’t know what happened to Maria.” You confessed.

Alcott opened the diary and flicked through it before he looked at the night sky, “She lived in mourning the rest of her life. They institutionalised her after they found her carrying my head, wailing through the town. She died, high on cocktails of medicines, with her head buried in the soft soil of a flower bed.”

The revelation was something of a shock and you looked at the undead man in front of you with a bitter, pitying look.

“You watched her die, didn’t you?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

The horseman scoffed, “That was the curse after all. To terrorise the town for their betrayal. But not her. I used to try call to her from the window, but she never could bare to look at me. Eventually they gave her more cocktails and she stopped coming to the window all together.”

“Jesus Christ.” You cursed.

“Such foul language.” Alcott sneered as he snapped the diary shut in his gloved hand, “She died from the madness and grief. That is the fault of the town and its yet another reason to run into each of these homes and tear their heads from their bodies.” Alcott spat furiously. As fury overtook him you could see the white scarred seem of where his head had been replaced burning with smoke the purple fumes puffing from it like a new wound before his neck popped and cracked, sending his head to the left, hanging on by a thread of flesh to the other side. You let out a screech and clasped your mouth as the horseman gurgled and reached for his head, grasping it by the hair before he groaned and dragged it back into place, snapping the vertebrae back into place with a twist and a squelch of bloodied tissue. It cracked again quickly, and Alcott held the top of his hair tightly with a groan as the smoke poured from his mouth and his head twisted backwards like a ghoul, spinning on his neck before it snapped again and came free, rolling over the floor to your feet as a skull. The flesh and hair melted in waves of muck from its surface, and you shakily took hold of the skull again.

The horseman stumbled left and right as he reached towards you for his head.

“MY HEAD, WITCH!” He howled at you, but you dashed back up the porch steps and held it protectively.

“You are under my command. Anything against my wishes is against our contract...so you lose your head. Do you hear me horseman?” You blagged, hoping you were right, “So there will be no killing.”

“Evil, corrupt creature. I'll hang you by your feet and bleed you from the neck!” Alcott threatened as fire and smoke poured from his throbbing trachea. The smoke puffed before he went sent to the floor in agony, the black oak behind him creaking and swaying left and right as though the roots were snaking towards him. Sure enough, the ground rumbled, and the black oak’s roots exploded from the ground, snagging the horseman by his wrists and ankles hoisting him into the air as the branches hissed and his mount, Mallor, brayed and screamed, blood spraying over the fence from the horses broken throat.

It was a curse. You should have expected as much, but you shook as the tree cinched the man’s limbs, holding them tight before it pulled, making him scream in agony as his joints were pulled tight.

“Stop!” You screamed, and the tree stopped pulling, holding the horseman aloft still as it swayed and bent towards you, its branches touching your head as though trying to figure out who you were.

“He is mine.” You told the tree, “He will obey and submit to the laws of his contract.”

The tree groaned, it’s roots wiggling in the cold, hard earth for a moment before it dropped Alcott like a sack of grain and settled down quietly, smacking at the horse inching closer to its trunk.

Alcott touched at his neck as he rose, swaying as he cracked and snapped his joints back into place like a disjointed puppet.

“Are you going to play nice now?” You asked as the man wheezed in front of you. When he nodded you offered him his skull back and watched the skin and flesh cover its surface again before he snarled behind his curtain of overgrown hair, blackberry-coloured lights burning the void of his eyes.

“You truly are her kin if that disgusting thing listens to you.” He snapped as he headed for his horse and mounted the saddle with a quick bounce on one powerful leg, his thighs locking tight around the beast’s sides as it bucked and brayed. Alcott turned his horse and tipped his head with a wave of purple smoke and fire, “Call on me then, witch, and see what havoc I can wreak for you.” Alcott laughed bitterly as he turned Mallor onto the cobbled drive and rode onto the road, his face becoming bone and flesh intermittently as the clouds passed overhead.

“I’m not a witch!” You screamed after the horseman, but he was gone into the mist and the trees, unlikely to have heard you cursing against the stairs of the porch as you collapsed.

#headless horseman x reader #alcott glyn x reader #headless horseman x gender neutral reader #headless horseman #alcott glyn #dullahan x reader #dullahan #dullahan x gender neutral reader #monster x reader #monster boyfriend #monster boy #monster bf #monster boyfriend x reader #monster reader inserts #reader inserts #my writing #original works

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ashasmonsters · 3 years ago

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ah hello! i was wondering if i could request a lemon (( or a citrus, i don’t mind either one ! )) between a fish person — i’m talkin abe from hellboy d&d triton kind of fish person — and a fem!reader who appears intimidating but is quite jumpy? it’s okay if not, thank you!!

For the record, anon and future anons: if you're okay with a lemon, you're probably getting a lemon 😉. I hope you're satisfied with my version of a Mer; I saw The Shape of Water years ago, but hopefully my rendition is to your liking. Enjoy!

Del Toro M!Fishman x Intimidating Jumpy F!Reader - Lemon

The cove had been your secret hideout ever since you were little. Even now, decades later, the gentle crashing of the waves and the glimmer of the moon set your mind at ease. No matter what new problems or worries had arisen that day, the sea and sand were always the same… until a few months ago.

Though this region of the coast was allegedly frequented by Mer, you hadn’t seen much of them. One night, when the moon was naught but a sliver, something disturbed the sea foam. The tide was high, and the rocks you sat on had become islands. With your heart pounding, you drew your phone and turned on its flashlight.

The weak beam barely illuminated the wet rocks in the pitch darkness. Turning your head, you searched for the dark shape in the darker water. You weren’t sure what to expect. The crashing of waves mixed with the thrumming of your heartbeat.

Then, behind a rock only feet from you: dim red eyes, reflecting your phone’s flashlight and staring dead at you.

You flinched instinctively. The phone in your hand went flying. You jumped and caught yourself on the rock. Your phone didn’t stand a chance, the saltwater swallowing it up and extinguishing its light. You cursed and scrambled back to the shore. The adrenaline didn’t leave your veins until hours later.

When you returned to your usual spot (in broad daylight this time), you found a woven kelp pouch waiting for you, still wet and smelling strongly of the sea. Inside was a hefty sum of iridescent coins: currency of the Mer, minted from mollusk shells. It took traveling to a neighboring town to find a bank that would take them, but the sum equaled the exact market price of the phone you had lost to the sea.

A few days later, you learned your watery beneficiary was a Mer named Cato. He made himself known to you by breaching the surface a good distance away and sheepishly waving at you. You waved back, an awkward smile on your face. With how secret your cove had been, there was no doubt those eyes that spooked you belonged to him.

“You looked mad enough to kill me,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. Flowing, deep orange gill flaps started at his collarbone and ended behind his ears like a pleated ruff.

“Angry? I was spooked, but I wasn’t mad… not at you, anyway. We’re good now,” you explained, the two of you cross-legged on adjacent rocks.

“Well, good,” he looked at you and smiled, revealing welcoming rows of razor-sharp teeth. “I’m glad I was able to make it up to you.”

You simply smiled in response, allowing the ocean to speak over you. While he gazed at the distant harbor, you gazed at him. He, unsurprisingly, had a swimmer’s build: he was slender with muscles that caught your eye once you noticed them. His scales were so fine you assumed he was rubbery, like an octopus, until you saw him up close. Translucent fins protruded from his sinewy forearms and calves and caught the light like sea glass.

You shared the cove with him from then on. While the company of the sea and moon had been fine before, they didn’t have his sense of humor… or his smile. Or his body.

Mer didn’t wear clothes, obviously.

The first time he crawled up on a rock to sit next to you, the lack of dangly bits caught you off-guard; there was an understated slit there instead, and he didn’t seem to mind letting you see it. He never crossed his legs like you did in skirts, anyway.

One night, you sat together on a beach towel with a finished platter of sashimi and seaweed salad between you. The moon was full, his eyes shining the color of burning amber.

“Thanks for sharing the cove with me.” He placed his hand on yours, his claw tips gently raking your skin. You shivered.

“Thanks for being with me, Cato,” you whispered back. He closed the distance and pressed his forehead to yours, a substitute for kissing you two devised to work around his lack of lips and serrated teeth. You reached behind his head and gently stroked his gills, eliciting purrs from him.

“You’re going to destroy my modesty if you keep doing that,” he warned, a little playful and a little nervous.

“That’s okay,” you whispered back. True to his word, his slit had grown puffy and pronounced. In the moonlight, you saw one—no, two— pink protuberances begin to reveal themselves. Aside from their duplicity, each one seemed proportional to the rest of him once fully emerged.

“Can I touch you?”

“Please,” he said, his voice dry with the beginnings of a rasp. “Before I have to get back in the water.”

You reached between your bodies. He was desperate; you felt the slickness on his cocks and each touch made his hips jump. He always got this way when he spent time on land. You loved the urgency. He did too.

“I won’t keep you waiting, Cato,” you giggled, lying down on the beach towel as he kneeled between your knees. You hiked up your dress and pushed aside your underwear.

“Good, I’m—” you both gasped as one of his cocks entered you, “—pressed for time,” he grunted, his voice rough. His other slick rod nudged against your thigh. You grabbed it, holding it to your mound. As he slowly worked himself within you, the cock outside you ground into your clit. The feeling of fullness from inside and pressure from outside drew squeals from you into the night.

His pace quickened, making you gasp. The friction, the fullness; you felt the pleasure mounting already. His hands met yours atop the member outside you and pressed it into your sensitive nub even harder.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day,” he growled, panting and pumping, “you better be close!” You only cried out in response. His hips rocked into yours like his life depended on it. You pulled him deeper into you, desperate to reach your peak.

Your orgasm swept through you like a riptide. You ground yourself into him, your clit and mound sandwiched between his two cocks, crying out and clinging to his rod with your hands. He fell forward and braced himself against the ground as he came with a growl, his voice strained. You felt him pulse several times, his liquid warmth spreading within you and spurting hot streaks across your belly. You both caught your breaths together, your faces close.

“I’m sorry about the mess... let me clean you up,” Cato rasped, clearly exhausted.

“No, don’t. I don’t want you to dry up on my account,” you commanded, idly running a hand across his defined chest.

“I don’t…” he trailed off as you gave him a stare.

“Cato,” you said sternly. His eyes met yours. He looked sheepish and a little scared... like the first time you met.

“Fine, but I’ll be right back. I promise.” You closed your eyes as he pressed his forehead to yours. You felt him withdraw, followed by the sound of his feet walking to the surf. You knew he’d be back, but for the moment, you were once again alone with the moon and the tide.

#exophilia #monster x reader #monster x human #female reader #fishman #male fishman x female reader #monster love #lemon #monster fic #requests

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valhallanrose · 5 years ago

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I’m not sure I’ll get all the days, but here’s day one of the @lovelikeyoursfest prompts: first meetings!

Alt title: How Zelda met Asra.

Zelda had fallen in love not once, but twice.

And she didn’t fall so much as she did stumble and slam her face into the nearest surface on the way down the first time.

The first time, long before the days of devils and deals, Zelda had slipped out onto the streets of Vesuvia to join the Masquerade festivities. She was nervous and excited all at once - she hadn’t been in Vesuvia a year yet - but the air was heavy with music and laughter, thick with exotic scents that drove her curiosity to exploration.

She’d spent hours circling the stalls, following her nose and stomach to try things she’d never tasted before. Only when her belly was full and exhaustion pulled at her shoulders did she make her way home, waving to the other merchants on her street and giggling when one in particular caught her attention.

Greta, the aging seamstress who had embroidered the orchids on the neckline of her blouse, had beckoned her over with a withered hand.

“Zelda, are you going home?” She pulled out a linen wrapped bundle and offered it to the girl with a smile, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deep from many years of such an expression. “I just finished an order for your aunt, if you don’t mind bringing it to her. Though I was sorry to see there wasn’t a dress in all these clothes! Why won’t you let me fit you for something? A young girl like you would love the Masquerade!”

Snorting, Zelda accepted the bundle and held it close to her chest. “I’m not going to that dance, Greta. It’d be like a mouse among vipers - I’d be so out of place. And what would I do with a dress I can only wear once?”

Greta placed a hand over her heart with a dramatic gasp. “Oh, you wound me! It’s not about the dress, darling, it’s about the experience while wearing it. “Just a dress’ - your aunt would disagree, too. She even had a plan for getting you in one…”

Zelda raised a brow and laughed, starting to step backwards away from the booth. “Yeah, I know, she wasn’t at all stealthy about having me try on some of her old ones. And I overheard you and her plotting when you came by for tea.” She waved, grinning at the disgruntled look the older woman wore, and was halfway through turning to walk up the steps to the door of the Honeypot when she slammed into someone’s side.

Her hand flew up to her nose, where it had hit something hard, grumbling as she rubbed the tip of it before she fully processed she had hit a person, not an object. She quickly looked up, mortified as her hand still held her nose and her wide eyes watered.

“I’m so sorry.” She rushed out, blinking past the tears that had welled up to try and meet the person’s eyes. “I wasn’t paying attention, it’s my fault -”

Zelda felt hands on her face and heard quiet laughter, sweet on her ears before the person spoke.

“Hey, you just busted your nose on my shoulder. I think I should be apologizing to you.” The hands on her face gently nudged her own away, then gently pressed against the sides of her nose. “Thankfully you didn’t break it. I think that would make me feel somehow worse.”

She managed a slight snort of laughter, blinking away the tears that blurred her vision as she adjusted the bundle in her arms. “If I managed to break my nose on your arm, I’d be both frightened and impressed by your bone structure.”

And then her vision cleared, and she got a real good look at him.

Soft looking white curls swept across high cheekbones, framing glittering amethyst eyes that held just a little too much amusement at her predicament. His clothes, though patched, were vibrant and colorful, with a fox-faced mask pushed down to hang around his neck. His palms were warm against her cheeks, touch gentle as his gaze held hers. This close, she could smell something warm and spicy on his skin, like a tea blend she couldn’t name but would absolutely be hunting down on the shelves as soon as she was inside.

Gods, he was lovely. So much so it made her heart ache.

Before she could tamp it down, magic fizzed around her ears, gardenias blooming vibrantly against the dark of her hair as they sparked into existence.

Her face burned as his eyes widened with clear delight, the brunette quickly stepping back to try and pull the blossoms free and shove them out of sight. His hand came up and took one of them for himself, bringing it carefully to his nose and breathing in the scent.

“Well, thank you.” He murmured, a smile playing on his lips as he tucked the flower behind his ear. “I happen to find you quite lovely myself.”

Well, if she wasn’t blushing before, she was on fire now.

This was mortifying.

Her arms wrapped around the bundle as if it was a shield that could protect her from her own embarrassment. Her gaze lowered to the ground, toe of her shoe scraping the cobblestones for a moment before she nodded to the shop door.

“I should go.” She whispered, lip caught between her teeth. “Sorry again about bumping into you.”

She turned, ready to flee up the stairs inside, but the gentle hand on her arm made her pause and turn back to look at him.

“Hey...why don’t you come pick something out?” He gestured to the display of masks and trinkets laid out on the worn rug beneath his feet, which she’d missed in her efforts to flee before she made a bigger fool of herself. “I’m sure you’ll find something you like.”

Zelda hesitated, looking between him and the door before she gave in to those beautiful eyes of his.

Gods, she was already so fucking weak.

“Okay.” She breathed, her lips turning up at the broad smile that graced his face. His hand stayed on her arm until she came down from the steps, circling to look over the items laid out before her.

Zelda’s fingertips trailed over the surface of hand painted masks, a variety of animal faces peering back up at her as she looked over each one. She could feel his eyes watching her as she looked but kept her own down, still feeling somewhat nervous under his rapt attention. She picked up a mask, intending to look at the painted doe’s face a little more closely - only to jump and laugh when it revealed a coiled up snake hidden beneath.

“Oh, hello!” Zelda smiled as it lifted its head, vibrant red eyes gleaming and its tongue flicking into the air at the loss of its hiding place. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing. How’d you get under there?”

“I was wondering where you went!” He slipped in a golden hand to scoop the snake up, letting it coil around his wrist and fingers before lifting her to Zelda’s eye level. “This is Faust. You can pet her, if you like.”

She eagerly reached forward, stroking the tips of her fingers over the snake’s head and smiling when her nose pressed back into her fingers. Her hand slipped under Faust’s jaw, gently scratching underneath her chin and watching as her tongue darted faster into the open air.

“She’s beautiful.” Zelda said after a moment, relaxed enough to meet his gaze and offer him a bright smile. “You’re very lucky to have her.”

He smiled and moved his hand, letting Faust coil around his shoulders. “Oh, I am. She’s a very good friend.” Her head peeked out over his shoulder, and he kissed the side of her head before he looked back to Zelda. “Find something you like?”

Zelda looked down to the mask in her hand and quickly nodded, smoothing her thumbs over the spots on the fawn-shaped mask. In moments, it was gently plucked from her hands, and he was leaning in to carefully tie the sage ribbon behind her head. Once it was affixed, he smiled, tweaking the carefully carved nose to adjust it on her face.

“Perfect.” He murmured, and she blushed, letting him carefully untuck bits of her hair to better frame the mask.

“Thank you.” Zelda whispered, then started to reach for her bag. “How much do I owe you?”

Before she could pull out her coin purse, he had taken her hand in his, wrapping carefully around her fingers. “I’ll trade you for it.” He said softly, a slight smile on his face as his eyes flickered over the mask. “I’d like your name. You got Faust’s, and I still don’t know yours.”

She managed a smile as he brought her hand to his lips, the touch featherlight as he met her eyes over her knuckles.

“Zelda.” She whispered, watching the smile spread wider over his lips. “But it’s quite rude that you gave me your friend’s name and not your own.”

He laughed, and the sound was music to her ears as he released her hand and ran his fingers through his curls. “I’m Asra. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s mine.” Zelda smiled before she nodded to the door, hefting the bundle up carefully. “I should go bring this in…”

Hesitating for a moment, she balled up her courage, following the fluttering in her chest that begged her not to let him go just yet. This person...something about him felt right, something in her heart ached at the idea of missing out on the chance to know him and see where this went.

“Would you like to maybe join me? For tea?” She blurted out, feeling her face flame under the cover of the mask. “My aunt has some lovely blends, and...I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Asra seemed startled for a moment before his face broke into a smile, one that made even his eyes shine with visible delight. “I suppose I can.” He drawled, shoving a hand into his pocket. “After all...the festivities don’t pick up until evening.”

Relief settled on Zelda’s shoulders, and she smiled at him, stepping backwards again to reach the steps. “I’m glad. I’ll...I’ll meet you here? I live upstairs, so...I’ll be around.”

She didn’t wait for an answer before she fled, heart pounding in her ears as she slipped inside the Honeypot Herbalist and pressed her back flat against the door. Slowly, she sank to the floor, a dopey smile on her face and her face warm as she settled a palm over her heart.

She was so, so done for.

Note: Gardenias, among other things, mean ‘you are lovely’ in the language of flowers.

#apprentice zelda #zelda hollyheart #asra #asra alnazar #asra x mc #the arcana #the arcana game #lovelikeyours2020 #lovelikeyoursfest

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aquilaofarkham · 6 years ago

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title: judith & holofernes rating: teen and up (canon-typical violence, blood, coarse language, child harm) word count: 5,829 summary: a long one-shot detailing Trevor’s life following the destruction of his home and how he learned to fight from a retired, disgraced swordswoman.

For a boy so determined to face his own death, Trevor has always been good at running. Whether down the stone corridors of his home or throughout the dense forests surrounding the Belmont grounds. He’s won competitions against his friends and outran vengeful cooks after he stole their pastries from the manor kitchen. He even outran the fire that consumed everything and everyone he knew for twelve years. Everyone he loved.

Now Trevor runs from a man who wants nothing more than to slit his throat.

He pulls himself up a steep hill overlooking the riverside city of Pitesti. It’s a nice place to visit when you’re not an orphan with a temper that far outweighs his own stature and body mass. Trevor looks over his shoulder and sees the same merchant who chased him through the streets, still heavily armed, still red faced with anger.

“Get back here, thief! I said get back here!” Trevor didn’t listen the first dozen times so why should he listen now?

“Fuck off! I said I didn’t steal anything!” It’s true, he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. And said all the wrong things. Mistakes that could cost him his short, tragic life. The two of them make it up the hill, short of breath yet neither willing to stop. Before Trevor can gain his second wind, something hard and fast hits the back of his skull. He falls to the ground, cursing while holding the throbbing, bleeding wound. There’s no time to recover or crawl away. The merchant turns the boy around, pushing him against the dirt with his hand gripping his collar.

“Listen you shit stain...” Trevor spits in his eye before he can say another word. Another mistake. The first punch hurts. It leaves him with a thin stream of blood dripping out the corner of his mouth. Trevor grits his teeth, kicking and throwing his own punches even when he receives much harder ones. The merchant has had enough. Holding him down by his neck, he withdraws a dagger from his belt.

“No one will come looking for a rat like you.”

“Let the boy go.” A third, unknown voice commands. Trevor raises his head and tries looking at whoever decided to stand up for a runt like him. A few feet away stands a woman with thick black hair and eyes darker than night wearing a man’s tunic, trousers, and boots. She keeps one hand on her horses’ reins and the other on her belt, where Trevor notices the hilt of a sword and the shine of a large ring.

“Let him go.” She repeats, staring down at the merchant with distain. “And leave. You’re in my way.”

He sneers, standing to face her. “Why should I? Are you his mother?”

“Why should it matter whether I know him or not?”

“Then leave this criminal to me.”

“He’s proclaimed innocence. Or do fair trials still not exist in Wallachia?”

“You’d believe a brat like him?”

“I’d believe him over a man like yourself. Go back to your home and your precious bags of coin. Leave the boy to me. I’ll deal with him.” She walks towards Trevor while hoping the merchant will cooperate.

“Don’t turn your back to me! We’re-!”

The woman’s calm demeanour turns furious as she whips around and backhands him across the face. No hesitation, no second thought. Falling to his knees, he holds his cheek as his eyes go wide with shock and pain. Trevor sees the ring dripping with blood.

“I was going to let you walk away. I was willing to settle this peacefully. But now that you keep pissing me off...”

“You... you bitch...” The merchant weakly lunges at her but the woman throws him back down before bringing the heel of her boot onto his arm. Trevor’s interest in all of this deepens the moment she unsheathes her longsword. When she places the tip in the grass and swipes it across his fingers, the merchant is given something far more than a slap across the cheek to scream about. Dark red mixes with green as what’s left of his hand bleeds out.

“I think I’ve made myself clear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He’s lost a fair amount of blood and the world keeps spinning, but the merchant has more than learned his lesson. After tripping over himself, he manages to flee back to the gates of Pitesti. The swordswoman watches until he’s out of sight and glances at Trevor. There’s still blood on his lip and a hardened look in his eyes.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m not a little boy. I can look after myself.”

“Yes, I can clearly see that.” She begins tending to her horse.

“So, is this what you do all day? Travel around, looking to be a hero to people who can already fight for themselves?”

“Do you go from city to city trying to get yourself killed by the next merchant or lord you come across?” Trevor’s far too stubborn to agree or even answer her question. “And you don’t know how to fight.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fuck you.”

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“If I don’t know how to fight then teach me. You look like you know better than anyone how to fight.”

“You’re pushing your luck, boy.”

“Just teach me what you know. Then I’ll leave and you never have to see me again.”

“A moment ago, you were telling me to fuck off.”

“I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry. Please!”

“Why should I train you?”

“I’ll do anything you want. Whatever I can do to earn my keep.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I can cook my own meals and wash my own clothes.” She says, lifting herself up onto the horse. “Now go back to your mother and try explaining to her that bloody lip of yours.”

“I have no one!” Trevor suddenly blurts. Thankfully, the swordswoman doesn’t get very far. “You probably have no one either.”

“… you’re a perceptive little shit, aren’t you?”

Tense silence passes. The boy is rude, violent, and has a rotten mouth. He reminds her of someone she knew a long, long time ago. A person she tried burying when it was time to grow up. She looks closer and notices a raveled rope attached to his loose-fitting belt – or is it a whip? Why a simple whip and not a sword of his own? She then sees the curve of a silver chain peeking out from underneath his tunic collar. She still believes his innocence, but there’s no doubt about it; heirlooms made from that material aren’t so easy to stumble upon. He must have come from a noble family then.

The swordswoman lets out an exhausted sigh; a silent way of saying “damn your softening heart”. That little niggling conversation will have to be saved for another time. “What’s your name?”

“Trevor.”

“That’s it? Just Trevor?”

No answer. It seems he might reveal a family name, that something might roll off his tongue, but decides against it. “Alright, just Trevor. My name is Judith. There’s enough room on my horse for two. Don’t fall off and for all that is holy, keep quiet. Think you can do that for me?”

“Yes.”

Her stern expression cracks. “Good.”

ONE WEEK LATER

“Dead.”

Trevor holds his quarterstaff so tightly; his nails leave scratch marks on the wood. He attacks Judith only for her to dodge each one of his blows before striking the side of his stomach.

“Dead.”

The sound of his heart pounding in his ears fuels Trevor with more adrenaline, but it doesn’t make him a better opponent. Judith knocks him to the rain drenched ground in one swift movement. He grabs something around his neck and quickly tucks it under his shirt. “Very dead.”

This has been going on for quite some time now. Judith believes she’s teaching him valuable lessons. The student thinks he’s learned nothing except how to fall down and get smacked around with the tip of a blunt object. Much can be gained from mistakes and better Trevor makes them here behind her house instead of on the battlefield. She hopes he’ll realize this. Eventually.

“Enough of this. Try defending yourself.” Judith waits as Trevor gets back on his feet. He raises the staff, his frustration near its limit. He does well at first, blocking her assaults, dodging at the right moments albeit slowly, and protecting himself. She can tell that every muscle is aching for him to strike back, but Trevor resists. It’s an improvement. If they weren’t in the middle of sparring, she would congratulate him.

That is until Judith’s staff bruises his cheek and his defensive facade breaks. Rage boils back up towards the surface with no incentive to control it. Control is the last thing on Trevor’s mind. As his weapon is easily struck out of his hands, falling against the ground followed by himself, Judith wonders if he even knows the meaning of the word. Either way, she’ll make sure the boy learns.

“Well, today was better than the others.” She offers her hand only for Trevor to strike it away. Once again, she notices him clutching something close to his chest.

“Just say exactly what you’re thinking.”

“And what am I thinking according to you?”

“I’m weak. Weak, stupid, and a disappointment.”

Judith is caught off guard by these bold statements. There’s little trace of Trevor’s spiteful or vicious fury in his tone. He doesn’t shout or curse up a storm. Instead there’s apathy and disheartenment above all. Laying her staff in the grass, she sits down in front of him.

“True, I was disappointed but only because I saw a glimpse of your potential before it was gone.”

“What potential? All I did was fall on my ass over and over again. That’s the only thing you’ve been teaching me.”

“You managed to defend yourself for a little while.”

“How am I expected to win that way? What good will it do me in a real fight?”

“A lot, actually. If you’d listen to me for once you would understand that.” Judith can feel her own temper rising but catches it and gently pushes the mounting emotions down. It won’t do either of them any good. She takes a deep breath and continues.

“Trevor… you have promise and I know it, but during a fight you let your frustrations bury it. I want to know why this happens. What is making you so damn pissed off? Is it me, your own skills, that merchant from Pitesti, what?”

“Everything. If you want to know so badly, it’s everything.”

Well, that narrows it down. She stares at Trevor, his face battered and his gaze avoidant. Then Judith sees it again – the subtle gleam of the silver chain. She wants to find the root of it all; the reason for his anger, how he lost his family, and why he keeps hiding that chain. But Judith doesn’t exorcise personal demons while Trevor never asked her to. She’s here as a teacher passing down her skills and whatever might be considered wisdom. That’s all he expects from her, that’s all she can give him.

“Fine then. Keep that anger. Use it. You can be in an absolute fucking rage and focused at the same time. Control all that spitefulness, use it to your advantage. Even if you’re out of a fight and just trying to survive one day to the next. But don’t let it control you.”

“That sounds hard.”

“It is. Everything is hard, but you already know that. You said it yourself.” Taking both staffs, Judith makes her way back to the house. “Come. You’re weak because you don’t have any food in you.”

Trevor doesn’t dispute this. His stomach heaves with every movement not because of the lesson or any oncoming sickness, but because of emptiness. He’s too defeated, too exhausted to deny it any longer. He follows Judith into their small shack that always smells like smoke and fresh meat. It’s big enough for the two of them, but the fur pelts and half-skinned rabbit carcasses hanging from the rafters turn the cozy space claustrophobic. At least it’s warm.

Supper is the same as it was since Trevor arrived here: meat stew with root vegetables. Yet he hasn’t grown tired of it, better some food than nothing at all. And he’s in no position to complain about his current living conditions. He sits on the floor, legs crossed with a hot steaming bowl in his lap while Judith sits across from him. Like the food, every evening is the same; they eat in silence before retiring to their ratty beds. They could talk about anything. Their thoughts, pasts, things that normal households talk about over dinner. Most of all, Trevor could tell the truth about who he really is. But no one needs to know about that.

“Stop playing with that thing and eat your food.”

Trevor’s head perks up. He’s so lost in his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice how cold his stew has become. All his attention is on fiddling around with the necklace like a nervous tick. His protective wall goes up as he hides it from Judith’s view. “It’s not a toy.”

“Then can I see it?” Her request is immediately greeted with more suspicion and slight hostility. “I’m not going to keep it. You’ve had that thing since the moment I met you and I just want to see what it is.”

The boy’s tense shoulders gradually relax. Finally, after all her curious glances and personal assumptions, Trevor removes the chain, slowly dropping it into Judith’s palm. Now she’ll see for herself the one thing he keeps so far away from the outside world. It’s lighter than she thought and easily tangled. As for its pendant, it’s no family crest or jewel or lucky rabbit’s foot (though lord knows the boy needs something like that). What Judith is presented with instead is a silver six-pointed star compounded from two interlaced triangles – a Magen David.

She knew Trevor would surprise her sooner than later. She never thought it would be through a revelation like this. “Where did you get this?”

“I’ve had it since I was a baby.” Trevor responds, his tone just as defensive as it was during their sparring match. “My mother gave it to me.”

“Then your family was Jewish.” Whoever they really were. Judith keeps this thought to herself. Trevor sits up and suddenly grabs the necklace out of her open hand.

“Half.”

“Half or full, doesn’t make you any less.”

“How would you know about that?”

Judith places her bowl off to the side. If Trevor won’t tell her more about his past, then she won’t tell him about hers. What she can do on the other hand is tell him a story, one that might help him understand. “Do you know the tale of Judith and Holofernes?”

“… not really.”

Her gaze wanders off. “Supposedly a thousand years ago, a Jewish widow named Judith tricked an enemy general named Holofernes who was terrorizing her people and land. She snuck into his tent and sliced his head off then paraded it around as proof of her victory. She did the one thing that so many armies and soldiers couldn’t do. Guess my mother thought I was going to become someone great just because she named me after some fairy tale.” Judith brings her attention back to Trevor. “But now we at least have one thing in common, don’t we?”

The look on Trevor’s face softens; subtly and easily missed, but it’s there. Even if it takes time, he might grow used to living here. He may even like it now that they’ve finally found some common ground.

SIXTEEN

Trevor sits in front of the crowded fireplace, warmed by the dancing, crackling flames. Draped over one hand is his old shirt. Once far too big for his scrawny back, looking more like a nightgown, but is now a close enough fit. In the other hand, he holds a needle and yellow thread, weaving them in and out through the beige fabric. He’s gotten better at it; he pricks his finger only on occasion as opposed to every single time the needle emerges.

This homely, smoke-filled shack feels so much smaller than it did when he was twelve. Trevor notices the change more than ever, but he doesn’t leave even when remembering what he said all those years ago. Judith would teach him how to fight and he would go, never to bother her again. Here he stays, carefully and patiently embroidering a symbol into the breast of his tunic. His strength has improved, his focus grown keener, and his mouth fouler. Judith is grateful for two out of those three developments. He’s grateful – perhaps even surprised – that she’s still willing to put up with him.

Once the needle tip leaves its last prick, Trevor examines his handy work, moving his palm over the elaborate design. The Magen David dangles off his neck as he lowers his head in order to get a closer look. Half or full, doesn’t make you any less. It’s been so long since he heard those words from Judith, but they still ring loud and true. Years since Trevor decided to take them seriously, now he can hold both halves of himself close to his heart.

His attention is broken when he hears the front door open. Judith walks in, her heavy boots thumping loudly against the wooden floor, while bundles of rabbit and wild goose hang from her belts. “Ah. Right where I left you.” She huffs, dropping her coat, crossbow, and bounty on a nearby table. “God’s sake put something on boy. You’ll catch your death.”

“Fire’s been keeping me warm enough while I work.”

“And can I ask what it is you’re working on?”

Trevor hesitates, understandably. There’s the possibility that Judith won’t know where the symbol originated from but even if she doesn’t, she’ll still pester him about it. And what if she does know? What will she say? Will there be sympathy, revulsion, or indifference? Trevor’s tired of all the what ifs and his own paranoid assumptions. It’s been long enough, he can’t hide it forever. Not from anyone, including himself.

“I should tell you the truth about my family.”

“Well, this is a surprise. Especially since you’ve waited this long to tell me.” Judith smiles in anticipation as she pulls up a stool. “Go on then.”

Trevor pauses before showing her his shirt. “This was… is my family’s crest.” She stares at it with more careful thought than he expected.

“So you really were from a noble family.”

“Do you recognize it?”

“… the Belmont crest.”

He feels his chest tighten at the sound of someone else saying his name out loud. A name he tried erasing only because of his need to self-preserve and survive. “What do you know of them?”

“I know that they were a family of warriors who hunted vampires but were accused of dealing in black magic. Then the church and witchfinders all but wiped them out.”

“Do you believe it?”

“In vampires? Certainly. As for whether your family actually dealt in black magic? I don’t believe anything that comes out of the church’s mouth. Neither should you.” Trevor can’t help but let out a chuckle. Judith needn’t worry about that; he never did to begin with. “Is that why you didn’t say anything after all this time?”

“I’m still just Trevor. Same as when you picked me up. A family name doesn’t change that.”

“Why not? If your family was wrongly persecuted, then why be ashamed of the name?”

“There are no ifs. We were wrongly persecuted.” Trevor snaps before reverting back to his quiet demeanor. “And it’s not what I think, it’s what others think.”

“Fuck what they think. They don’t get to define the Belmont name, only you do.”

Like with everything, there’s truth in what Judith says. Whether Trevor accepts it or not, it’s always been up to him. He’s still young, maybe there’s enough time for him to clear his family name. Wipe the slate clean and bring the Belmonts back to their former glory. It would have been far too much pressure to place on a lost, wandering child. Trevor might have more of a chance now.

Or maybe he’s being a fool. Maybe time is running out. Too many maybes for one day. Too many for one short lifetime.

“What about you?” He asks, deflecting as quick as he can. “You still haven’t told me about where you came from.”

Judith stands up and walks into the kitchen. When she speaks, she doesn’t look at Trevor. “I came from a backwoods shithole village. That’s all you need to know.”

“What about how you learned to fight? Where you got all your weapons and pieces of armor.”

“Can’t remember. Must have picked those off a dead soldier I found lying by the side of the road years ago.” She’s as good at deflecting as he is.

“You’re such a bullshit liar.”

“Respect your elders, boy.” Another laugh escapes her lips. “Now put on that shirt and help me skin these.”

EIGHTEEN

The Wallachian countryside can be a beautiful place; it can also be miserable. Especially during the coldest, dullest winter months. Trevor can’t help but notice this while he and Judith ride through a farming village. Both their horses are heavy with newly acquired goods that should last them until the first thaw of spring. He buries his mouth and nose into the thick fur collar of his cloak in an attempt to warm himself. His teacher keeps her head up, seemingly unfazed as the falling snow blends with the grey in her dark hair. While her eyes remain focused on the road, Trevor’s attention wanders from house to house, frozen field after frozen field. It must be hard for the people who work them.

“Wait…” Judith holds her arm out, stopping both horses. “Shit, not this again.” Down the road not too far from them are two shepherds yelling at each other, one on either side of a crowd of sheep and goats. Every time they try to clear the way for other travelers, their corrals dissolve into more insults as the two herds grow more chaotic.

A common occurrence, but an annoying one nonetheless. “Might as well go help,” Judith groans. “Stay here with the horses. This shouldn’t take long.” While she heads off to lend her assistance (or her own strong words), Trevor waits, his thin patience soon giving way to boredom. The cold wind and lonely silence don’t help. His eyes continue to stray before they settle on a nearby farmhouse. Quaint, humble, like all the rest. Standing by the front door are two women, one clearly older than the other, and a man. Among them, their expressions range from frantic, to scared, to furious. Trevor assumes they’re just another family arguing about the state of their crops. Until they begin to shout things that should never be said within a family.

“It’s been weeks already and I still don’t have the full amount!”

“Please, just calm down.” The eldest woman tries telling the man as she holds onto her daughter. “We’ll have the rest once it’s easier to farm.”

“Stop making excuses!”

“The grounds are too hard, nothing can be grown!”

“I’m not waiting until spring to get the rent!”

Trevor furrows his brow. Not a father, but a landlord. All the more reason to intervene. After making sure Judith is still busy with the shepherds, he begins his trek towards the house. He keeps his whip and sword at the ready, though he hopes he won’t be needing those. Strong words, that’s all he needs.

“We’ve already sold as much as we could.”

“You knew the conditions when I sold you and your fatherless brat this plot of land. Now pay what you owe, or I’ll take it back and give it to someone who knows how to pay their rent on time!”

“Keep screaming like that and soon only dogs will hear you.” Trevor stands behind the landlord, arms crossed while trying to seem much older than he actually is; a trait he’s held onto since the very beginning. “Leave them alone. They’re right, the soil’s too cold for anyone to farm anything. You’ll get your money eventually.”

As the mother and daughter gaze in confusion, the landlord spits next to Trevor’s feet. “This doesn’t concern you. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and learn to mind yourself.”

“If it’s pissing you off so much, then let me pay the rest of their rent. Just stop harassing them.”

The women’s eyes go wide, thinking this is too good to really be happening. They expect the young man to take back his word or waver from it, but Trevor remains firm in his proposal. If only the landlord were just as willing to take it.

“You’ll pay the rest? You take me for a blithering fool?”

“Yes, but the word I have in mind is a lot harsher than just fool.”

The landlord ignores his quip and carries on with his tirade. “Have you even looked at yourself? You’re a filthy loud-mouthed boy trying desperately to be a man. You probably haven’t got a single coin on you. What makes you think you have the gall to stick your ratty little nose into other people’s goddamn business?”

Years ago, Trevor wanted a chance to dig the Belmont name out of the dirt. He always thought of it as another fleeing wish, a hope that would never come to fruition. But he’s waited long enough. No more second guesses or worries of what others might say. Staring the landlord dead in his eyes, Trevor reveals the symbol upon his breast. “Does this answer your question?”

“… so you’re a Belmont. Is that supposed to impress me?”

“You asked why I stick my nose into other people’s business. This is why.” Despite his composure, there’s anger in every syllable Trevor utters. This man who screams about money, land, and everything else that keeps his pockets heavy will only make it worse.

“Isn’t that the very reason why all your kin are gone? Belmonts shoving themselves into places where they aren’t wanted, causing a big noise about make believe creatures when they’re the real monsters.”

“Bold words coming from a man threatening a mother and her daughter’s livelihood.”

“What about my livelihood? What about how I make a living? And you? You’re nothing but a back sore with a noble family’s crest. Nobility that was only achieved through murder, fear, and dark magic. What makes you think I should listen to you?”

One terrible, hateful statement after another. The landlord quickly pays for it with Trevor’s fist ramming against his cheek. The blow is hard enough to draw a stream of blood and the rearrangement of a few teeth. “You’ll do as I say because I’m the only one in this shithole of a country that knows how to protect arses like yourself.”

Both women shriek and back away as the daughter clings to her mother’s dress. Grabbing the man’s collar decorated with spots of red, Trevor pays them no attention. Not even when he drags him behind the house. They’ve seen enough already. Before the landlord has a chance to stand up on trembling legs, he punches him twice again. The last Belmont, no longer a boy but barely a man, ignores the pain shooting through his knuckles.

“For centuries, my family defended you from creatures that would make you piss yourself to death in fear, and this is how you repay us?” Trevor’s fist collides with his gut.

“By telling lies?” Then again.

“Chasing us out of our homelands?”

And again.

“Burning down our homes?!”

Again.

“Trevor, what the fuck are you doing?!” The one thing that can stop him is the sudden sound of Judith’s voice and her arms pulling him away from the violent scene he created. “Stop! Goddamn it, stop!” He wrestles out of her grip and turns with wild, rage filled eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Only when Trevor sees his handiwork does he find the strength to calm down. The landlord, cowering against the stone wall. Trevor’s hands covered with splatters of blood, shaking in the cold. A revelation hits him harder than any of his punches were. He did exactly what Judith taught him; used his anger to his advantage. But did the man deserve it? That merchant from so long ago did. Are they the same?

“Let’s go.”

“Trevor, wait-”

“I said we’re going!” He rushes back to the horses, his hands so cold and so bloody. The things he said about himself all those years past echo in his head. Weak. Stupid. Disappointment. Is this how he reclaims the Belmont name? Is this how he makes his teacher proud?

TWENTY

“I’m leaving.”

Judith thinks about the last thing Trevor said before walking out the door, not too long following his incident at the farmhouse. After two years, it’s the one thing her failing mind refuses to let her forget. Lying in bed, her frail body deteriorating with every ragged breath, what else can she do? Perhaps it was time. Whatever made Trevor stay had finally worn out. She remembers waking up every morning wondering the same thing – will today be the day that boy grows tired of me? That day did come, but Judith felt no relief as she watched Trevor disappear from her long, raging life. Only a sense of emptiness that spread throughout like the twisted roots of a tree.

It’s a shame, really. He never did find out who she really was.

Judith tries focusing her blurry vision with little success. Even the walls of her own home seem like a strange, foreign place. There are no other sounds apart from her gasps and coughs; she can’t stand it. She always knew that eventually she would die alone; it was expected of people like her. Then why is it so unbearable? What cruel force is forcing her to stay in this world?

The front door opens with a loud, drawn out creak. All Judith can see is a large hazy figure making its way towards her bed. “What do you want?” She croaks out. “I’m a sick, old woman. I have nothing of value for you to take.”

“Judith? Judith, it’s me.”

Her head stops turning from side to side in a frantic motion. Though the voice is deep and soft, she recognizes it. Her eyes blink in disbelief until they at last come into focus. “Trevor? Is that really you?” Judith reaches out until someone grabs her hand and squeezes it. Trevor gives her a tired smile; his hair is longer and now wears upon his jawline something that can barely be considered stubble, but it’s him. She’d know those ice blue eyes and silver Magen David anywhere.

“I’m right here.”

“Where have you been? Kill any vampires while you were gone?”

“Some. Also been drinking more than I really should.”

Judith lets out a violent cough mixed in with a laugh. “What the hell are you doing here then?”

“I came to say I’m sorry… though I think it might be too late for that.”

“Apologize for what?”

“For why I left. After what I did out there on that field, I…” Trevor pauses, thinking about his next words very carefully. “I knew I let you down. That’s why I left like a coward. That’s why I think it’s too late for apologies.”

“Boy…” Another coughing fit. Trevor holds a cloth next to Judith’s mouth and winces when he sees the drops of blood.

“What’s happening?”

“What happens to everyone when they grow older. They grow sicker. Now listen to me – you’re the first person I’ve ever known to say the words I’m sorry… but the fault should be on me. I shouldn’t have pulled you away and screamed at you like that.”

“You would have let me brutalize him?”

“Well, only one or two punches would have done the job better. But you were defending those women, just as I was defending you from that merchant.”

Trevor looks down in a contemplative manner. Has he further sullied the family name of Belmont? Perhaps so, and he’s accepted that possibility. The greater population of Wallachia certainly has. He can try and fail as much as he pleases, but Trevor knows that it will take far more than one decent act to bring about redemption.

“You know…” Judith begins, her voice hoarser than before. “I always wanted children of my own.”

“What stopped you?”

“I knew I would be a shit mother. After what I did… killing and fighting other people’s wars for money with all the other mercenaries… no child deserves a mother like that.”

Trevor gives Judith’s hand another soft squeeze. Under his breath he whispers, “you were never a shit mother”. Too quiet for her to hear.

“There’s one last thing I need you to do.”

“What?”

“Stay with me. Stay until I close my eyes and never open them again. Don’t let me die alone. Then leave this place a little better than you found it.”

He wants to dispute everything she’s saying. Tell her that she won’t die, not for a long time. Trevor can’t deny the truth; it’s useless to even try. The only thing he can do is agree to stay.

THE NEXT MORNING

He buries Judith behind the shack beneath a patch of grass where they always held their sparring lessons. Wrapping her body in blankets, Trevor carries her outside and gently places her inside the hole. He doesn’t cry, not even when he says a small prayer and begins covering the body with dirt. He shed enough tears when he found her in bed, still as the autumn winds outside.

The last Belmont has never been afraid of death. It is natural, inevitable, and inescapable. There’s some comfort in knowing that Judith left this world peacefully, unlike so many others he grew to care for. He feels no regret in knowing her; she was his mentor, his friend. The only regret is now that he’s alone in the world, he might disappoint her once again.

Trevor holds his fur cloak tightly around his shoulders as he saunters away. Before he can leave, he looks back at the front door of a home that will in time eventually crumble and give itself over to the elements. Thinking, he touches the Magen David resting against his chest.

Leave this place better than you found it, he tells himself. Walking forward, Trevor removes the necklace and hangs it on the door.

#castlevania #trevor belmont #castlevania fanfiction #castlevania fic #my writing #*cvfic #ok for non jews to like/reblog #this can also be read @aquilaofarkham on ao3 #jewish trevor #i am on the verge of death bc of this fic

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setoangel01-fanfiction · 7 years ago

Text

Abeyance

Set Me Free - Chapter 15 (Previous Chapters)

Fandom: Sing 2016

Pairing: Johnny x Ash

Rated: T

Chapter Summary: Ash makes another major alteration to her life as she struggles to move forward…but will an unexpected phone call change it forever?

Fanfiction.net

A03

Another week slowly came and went. This one seemingly longer than the last and Ash was certain she was going to lose whatever remained of her sanity.

Fingers pressing firmly to the frets of her guitar; the smell of black spray paint giving her a slight headache that was getting very hard to ignore even after giving it, what she believed, more than enough time to air out. The chemical paint smell was cloying and burnt her nostrils whenever she inhaled but she chose to keep playing anyway…

The black surface greeting her rather than the red it was previously. Ash stared at the shiny black and white guitar she held; mind subconsciously recalling when the random decision came about soon after Johnny dropped her back off at her apartment last week.

The second Johnny's truck drove off with the roar of an engine, Ash hadn't felt right.

Buster's refusal to hear them out coupled with the fact her dream was dead and she'd never see these animals again made her more upset than she cared to admit. Stomach in knots and it wasn't even alleviated after she had stuffed her face with the rest of the cookies from Rosita's place. If anything, it just intensified the uneasy sensation in her gut and fervent pounding of her battered heart.

Hours later, she still found herself slumped on her couch; holding her queasy stomach and staring at the ceiling and the fine cracks adorning its dusty white surface for what seemed like years.

Questions as to what to do next and where to turn flitting around in her mind like a nest of pissed-off killer bees. Struggling to drum up the courage to either try and book another gig, get a lame ass retail job, or the final choice of calling her father to beg for college tuition money. Neither options were tempting and she dreaded the time she'd have to make one. Ash would much rather just lay here and sleep forever but that was sadly not an option.

When a nagging headache began forming, Ash grunted and pulled her eyes away from the ceiling and the hopeless spiral downfall her life was taking was when her eyes fell on her treasured Fender leaning up against a wall nearby. Mind inexplicably (and rather reluctantly) wandering to the last person she ever cared to think about again.

The red paint, green star sticker, and especially the messy script of "Lance' scrawled in black ink over its surface…all of it annoyed her to no end.

Every damn time she was tempted to pick it up, she ended up looking down at it in disdain, hatred, and the burn of betrayal resting like a molten stone in her gut. The first thought was to burn it, break it, shatter the instrument into a million pieces like the bastard had done to her heart - but she stopped herself. It was the only guitar she had and the only one she could afford right now considering she currently had no job and seemingly no future career before her now.

Yet over this past month, aside from writing her song on it, Ash had steadily been coming to hate it and all the memories associated with the shiny red paint...

Lance giving it to her for her 16th birthday (the only decent present he ever bothered to give her); teaching her notes, chords, and the barest hints of her first song before he got tired and impatient. Leaving her to figure out the rest in her own and she did. Recalled so many hours, days, weeks, and months she spent on YouTube and countless instructional sites watching tutorials and learning to play random songs she enjoyed before slowly learning the notes, chords, and finally figuring out how to read music.

A tireless effort that finally paid off…

Ash had learned to play the guitar; mostly accomplished the feat on her own but still, the thoughts of Lance tainted her beloved guitar…and lately, it had become too much to stomach. Every time she even glanced at the red paint, her gut would clench; painfully fill up with regret, anger, and the white-hot hatred she had for Lance and what he'd done to her. The red paint made her see anger, frustration, and blaming him for turning her world upside-down and inside-out.

How DARE he cheat on her with some dime-store slut while she worked her ass off providing for them both throughout the past five years with nary a complaint. All the times she worked her fingers to the bone just to make their next rent payment by working dead-end jobs she hated. Lance never once uttered a simple "thank you", didn't bother helping her with the everyday chores around the house, and kept her down by feeding her lies which she believed for too damn long…

It was time to put an end to all of the pain of her past…

With nothing else holding her back, Ash jumped off the couch and left her apartment with a slam of the front door.

A quick trip to the local hardware store and she had returned home with a bag containing a can of black spray paint, small anti-dust mask, and a roll of blue masking tape before setting to work. Finding a bare spot in her house with wooden floors, she spread out an old comforter from her closet as to not make too much of a mess. Removing her guitar strings before using masking tape to seal off the white portions which was a meticulous and frustrating endeavor but paid off when she shook that can and sprayed over the scratched off sticker and sticky residue; the bright red that once mocked her was now a gorgeous shiny black.

The most satisfying was still yet to come...

Glaring at that sprawl from her former asshole ex, Ash stopped for a moment to recall when he did it.

The smug smirk on his face as he pressed the permanent felt-tip black marker to her guitar and wrote his name in messy script.

Ash bewilderingly stared at him when he did it; thought perhaps he did it so she could return the favor and write her name on his (Yet another one of her naive, ridiculous thoughts of them being together forever type of shit…) but instead of handing over his guitar and the pen like she expected, he just laughed.

Refusing for her to get near his precious guitar and "degrading the value" as he coined it with a cruel chuckle.

It hurt at the time and it hurt even worse now as she remembered how flippantly he disregarded the situation - his lame-ass excuses afterward and kissing and touching her to get her mind off of his harsh words…

Now all the memory did was fill her stomach with molten coals of anger and burning betrayal. Coming to the terms with just how little Lance ever cared about her was a hard pill to swallow - but now, she was changing that for good. With a forceful press of her index upon the button of the spray paint, the black inky substance cascaded out and effectively covered his signature until it was no more than a bad memory.

Looking down at her changed guitar now, it was as if a physical weight had been lifted. Throughout the day, she added a few more layers and finally a top coat before finally allowing it to dry for a full day near an open window. Once completed, Ash gently peeled off the tape and what was revealed underneath made her feel as if she was looking at a brand new guitar.

The shiny black and white face beckoned to her to play it and Ash heeded that silent call; reattached the strings and re-tuned it as she'd done countless times before... Without even needing to look at the written music or lyrics, Ash played and sang the song she wrote on this new guitar; voice powerful and strong as she ran through the verses and choruses without even thinking.

It was akin to her lifesong - her anthem - it was hers and hers alone…and now her guitar was too...

...That was a week ago.

The smell of spray pain sticking a bit in her nostrils but slowly and steadily dissipating with the passage of time. Much like her frayed beating heart; the pain that was once so intense and earth-shattering by Lance's betrayal was already waning. Mainly a dull bitterness now that lay like a heavy rock in her gut. Ash tried her hardest to try and put it behind her now for what good did drumming up the past have for anyone?

While that chapter of her life was over, Ash knew she'd be dealing with the repercussions for quite some time.

The last five years of her life felt so pointless now. Feeling more like a fool than anything for she was the one who believed it - all of Lance's lies and letdowns. How she let him walk all over her since the first date they ever had; the naivety she displayed throughout it all was what bothered her the most. To think of how she labeled herself as determined and independent and yet was under his thumb like his little slave the whole damn time. These past years were nothing but a waste…

All Ash wanted now was to put it behind her; to one day move on from all of this and just hope to learn something from it. Whatever lesson that was - whether it was to not be so easily trusting, to see the signs she ignored so easily before, or to finally put herself first - whatever it was, she planned to find out sooner rather than later.

Allowing a soft sigh to leave her throat, she played a few familiar chords before her tired hands stilled over the frets and strings. Icy blue eyes flitting to her laptop nearby and it appeared as if time itself seemingly stopped; dragging at a snail's pace since the confrontation with Buster and everything that happened since. Longest damn week of her life. Placing her guitar to the side, Ash picked up her laptop and went about a few errands online; paying bills and whatnot - doing so to waste time more than anything.

Overall, it had been a quiet week of much needed reflection.

A past she was ready to be rid of except for a few things that kept beckoning her back to this past month. Having to face a present and future Ash never would believed she'd have. Throughout her time with Lance, it was always trying to find their big break - open a recording studio to make songs and of course getting rich and famous - all that wishful thinking shit. Really believing it would happen for them one day; getting a recording contract and be this well-known band touring the world…just him and her.

How damn stupid it all sounded now…

A very different future (an unsure one at that) was what Ash was currently facing.

Lance wasn't much a subject weighing on her heart and mind much anymore (aside from those few bitter moments of betrayal that haunted her before she fell into a troubled sleep) - but others were. Thoughts inevitably flitting back to Moon Theater and the place she almost had her big break and well as met these animals she was having a hard time forgetting.

The Moon Theater crumbling to the ground had a profound effect on all involved - more so than she ever thought it would. Now she was left to brave the choppy waves in this sea of doubt and let-downs; trying her damnedest to keep her head above water and resist the temptation of letting go and being pulled under its icy depths. The only salvation and comfort she felt in these moments was that she really wasn't alone…

Buster, Miss Crawly, Rosita, Gunter, Meena…

Each of their smiling faces appearing in her head from time to time without her consent but still remaining regardless. Reminiscing about the animated Moon running around the theater in his excited voice as he tried coercing her to sing the nauseating teeny-bop song, "Call Me Maybe" or Miss Crawly and her strangely soothing droning voice and eyes facing two different directions. The sympathetic words of Rosita and Gunter always encouraging even as her world was falling apart underneath her feet. Meena with her quiet voice and meek demeanor but the kindest soul you could hope to meet.

…and Johnny…

Ash's eyes lowered to the phone that lay nearby - remembering the few texts he'd sent sporadically this past week; all differently worded but basically ended with him simply asking her how she was doing and hoping she was well. A partial smirk flitted over her mouth at how strangely…sweet it all was. How something so simple as asking about her well-being showcased perfectly what kind of animal he was. Gentle and giving soul she had no business to have the pleasure of knowing. He was far too pure for this world that seemed far too cruel for a bright a soul as he; probably just as naive as she had once been…but with him, it was much more genuine if that made sense.

Yet, Johnny perhaps was not as naive as she believed for he knew well of the cruelness that exited in this world. Experienced it with the imprisonment of his father and what no doubt was a stifling loneliness and crumbling sense of hopelessness about the entire situation he had little control over…but Johnny didn't show it. Instead the gorilla was rarely seen without a smile or an encouraging word; not allowing these harsh realities bring him down…

Perhaps that's one of the many reasons Ash believed it was so difficult for her to put the memories of Moon Theater fade. All of them had the dream to sing - to make something of themselves even if it was in slightly different capacities. Dream they all shared and lost on the same day - it was a familiarity she shared with all of them and it made moving on more of a possibility. They all had to move on and if they could make it happen - she knew she could as well.

Life went on - the world was still spinning even if hers had come to a brutal stop. It wasn't fair and she didn't want to face an unsure future that lied straight ahead of her - but like all those she met at the theater - she no other choice.

Small furry finger flitting about the touch-pad of her laptop, Ash flitted the blinking arrow over to a tab she had left open for the past two weeks. Going back to it to either just take in a glance or have this strong desire to close and just forget its existence. How easy it would be to ignore her problems but she just couldn't do it anymore.

The slightest bit of hesitation later, she opened the web-page was for the Institute of Music and Theater - a college right here on the outskirts of the city.

A college she used to dream of attending way back when in middle school; the times she dreamed of attending and graduating as a qualified Broadway singer or recording artist. A time before she wore mostly black clothes or ever picked up a guitar and had aspirations of becoming a world-renowned rockstar.

A life that seemed nothing more than a strange dream at times.

Yet this was cold, harsh reality - bills and rent incoming without anything to stop them and without a job to support herself, all Ash knew was she needed to do something before her house of cards fell. Moon Theater wasn't magically going to re-appear and her dream fulfilled - no music producer was going to attend a sleazy bar where she could possibly book a gig, and she'd be damned before going back to retail-hell.

It took a week of research and soul-searching before Ash had come to the conclusion that thought perhaps college was a good start.

College would at least give her time to know what she wanted to do with her life because even with a freshened guitar and all the amount of confidence in the world couldn't promise gigs or pay her bills. It was one place she could go and perhaps learn a skill where she could at least do more than retail or lame-ass gigs. Perhaps become a respected guitarist for a successful recording artist, a producer of some kind - a spot to get her foot in the door at least; to network and get to know people in the industry. Attending college would open more doors and now that Lance was out of her life for good, her dad would be more than willing to foot the bill…

Mind made up, Ash stared at her phone and prepared herself to call her dad.

Little did she know what would happen as she moved her hand over the screen - her father's number just a brush of her thumb away. About to touch the small green icon to contact her father, her phone suddenly buzzed and rang loudly. Ash shook at the jolt but her heart hammered for a totally different reason when she saw the name of the one who was calling her…

#sing #sing movie #sing 2016 #sing johnny #sing ash #sing fanfiction #fanfiction #set me free #johnny x ash #ash x johnny #jash #jash fanfiction #ash #johnny

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pleaseconfiscateourkeyboard-blog · 7 years ago

Text

The Good, The Bad and The Boats

Tony walked towards the boatshed, skin dripping with sweat. He knew what he must do.

Tony gripped the rusty shovel in his hands as he stood at the door. "I fucking hate boats," he thought to himself as he reached out towards the door handle.

The handle was slick from the early morning sea breeze, and it filled his nostrils with a pungently nostalgic scent of salt and brine. With a firm twist and push, the salt encrusted door swung inwards, the new musky odour from the room slapping him unceremoniously in the face. The faint light of morning silhouetted his back against the dark interior and he held the rusty shovel aloft, before letting it rest upon his shoulder. At his feet, a large, lumpy burlap sack.

He kicked it with gentle force. "Get up," he told the sack. "Get up, you sack pile of shit."

The sack shifted, grunting. "That's no way to wake up a friend, Tone."

"Enough of that, Scott. We've, ah, work to do, on this here boat."

The sack then did what the sack-equivalent might be of standing up straight, which I suppose is sort of like propping it so the tied end faced upward. "So what are we going to do to this waste of wood then?"

"That's, ah, no way to talk to your Prime Minister," Tone reprimanded his sack-bound friend for his lack of manners. "I demand to, ah, be addressed properly, Scott." "Tone, you haven't been prime minister for almost three years." "I'll get that Malcolm. He's ah... a right bloody tosspot, that one," Tone gripped his shovel tightly. He took a moment to compose himself, lowering his shovel and rubbing his hand through his thinning hair. "No matter. We've ah... we've a job to do today, Scott. No doubt you've, ah, heard the news."

Scott the burlap sack scoffed, wiggling the tie at the top of its head in a sardonic fashion, "What? Do you think I live under a bloody rock? Of course I have heard the news!" The sack strutted forward with some charisma, despite the fact it had no legs, just bulbous lumps near the floor. It stretched, wiggling to and fro in an almost too gelatinous fashion, "How about a spot of breakfast first, Tone? You had me hiding out here all night! I mean, I am a sack, you could have left me anywhere and no one would have been suspicious. A fine hotel by the beachside... next to a burlesque, maybe?" Scott wiggled his eyebrows, well, two lumps in the sack that one could assume to be eyebrows, at his salt and sweat soaked companion.

Tone shook his head and let out a light chuckle. "Still, you are nothing but a sack of shit to me." He patted Scott and gently wrapped his right hand around his pony-tail (y'know the top of the sack where it's knitted) as he gripped his shovel with the other, then left the shack, bringing his long-time companion with him.

Tony walked towards the harbour. From afar he could see it: the S.S. Gob-Sandgroe Thé. A shining vessel on the outside, with a fine white hull and proud blue rims. Above, a conspicuous blue flag, fastened tightly to the mast. As Tony finally approached the G.S.T. in all its might, he winced, muttering something incomprehensible, before throwing Scott on-board.

'Oof! I say, what was that for, Tony?!' riled Scott, outraged at the brutality of his comrade. Meanwhile Tony, a skilful but generally underappreciated athlete, clambered aboard with only the faintest of grunts. 'And stop calling me a sack of shit! I have feelings you know!' Scott continued, struggling to right himself from the fall. Tony, smiled as he approached Scott. He crept closer, without as much as a sound. 'Well? Are you going to say anything for yourself' and then, Tony cut the tie on the burlap sack, killing his dear, but ultimately clueless, friend. The sack spread open, and bounty of particularly vile-smelling manure could be seen within. Tony repeated himself. 'Bloody labor.'

Tone looked at the open sack of manure on the deck in front of him. He snickered to himself. "Haha, I guess that's why they, ah, call it a poop deck," Tone chuckled. His chuckling drew to a close before he let out a sigh. "Ah Scott... you would've loved that one. Alright, let's see what we've got here..." Tone muttered, fumbling around in the pocket of his suit pants. He pulled out a crumpled pamphlet. "Ah, here it is," he said, cheerfully. He opened the pamphlet, revealing an instructional guide titled 'What To Do In Case Of Boat People' and carefully perused the pamphlet's contents.

Tony scratched the side of his nose, squinting as he read his pamphlet a second time, just for good measure, before tipping the dead body of his once dear friend to the side. The manure tumbled out, the grotesque inner contents of his friend's corpse fizzling Tony's nose hairs and making his thinning, combed over hair shrivel. He arranged the droppings in an ornate and intricate pentagram, as detailed in his pamphlet, and took five small tea candles from his pocket; the pamphlet called for blood and five slender black candles, but his friend's 'guts" and dollar store tea lights should hopefully work just fine. With his ritual in place, he took out a small, half folded match tab from his pocket and lit each of the candles. All he had to do now was read the rights detailed in the 'What To Do In Case Of Boat People' pamphlet.

Tony Elizaer Hamburgth the Fifth tilted his head back and cackled only a person whose name has been passed five generations down can. He then squinted his eyes and focused on the pamphlet. "Nice," he said under his breath.

It was at that moment that the pentagram lit aflame, and a column of sickly brown and green light arose from the fecal inscription. The boat rocked violently, as a bellowing roar could be heard from the very centre of the ship itself. 'Whom do I serve?' growled the voice.

"You, ah..." Tone stammered, "You serve your Prime Minister! Just like the rest of the, ah, people of this, ah, good nation!" The boat ceased its rocking. A deep hum emanated from the depths of the ship, as if the ship itself was in deep thought. "Tony..." the boat muttered. Its deep, gravelly voice unnerved Tone a bit. "You have not been Prime Minister... for two years."

"I'll always be Prime Minister in my, ah, heart," Tone said, keeping his resolve strong. Tone was always lauded by his peers for his nerves of steel and dedication to his principles. "I'm not here to play games, Tony," the boat growled, "state your business or disembark my vessel."

"I, Colonpholomous, all powerful Lord of Irritable Bowel Movements, require your pathetic request, Tony, so I may return to my important business back at Taco Bell ™ ," the, large, menacing voice grumbled, vibrating the boat's deck under Tony's feet. "Your payment of my blood kin will only suffice you a meagre one wish, mortal, choose wisely." Tony stared indignantly at the rumbling linoleum floor of the boat, now besmirched by foul smelling, brown smears and spilt candle wax from the dollar tea lights. He whipped a bead of sweat from his eyebrow and stared with determined eyes at the waterproof plastic bellow him. He curtly tittered with much determination at the presence, fixing his tie and taking a deep breath. "I, ah, would have you grant me an, ah, army! There is, uhm, important, ah, yes, work to be done!"

"An army! Why, of course. I assume you've also brought the most important tool of all in order to accomplish this?" The boat asked, tilting back and forth.

Tony's face stiffened. He took a sharp breath. '...Y-yes. Of course,' he said, pulling out his wallet. The boat was at once perplexed by Tony's indecisive stutter. 'Surely, you have no issue with payment, now?' it asked. Tony's face contorted, as if in pain. A scowl eventually settled, as Tony pulled out a combination of dollar bills and coins equal to the current-day minimum wage. 'No problem at all.' He then placed the money in the centre of the pentagram, where it too grew a sickly green glow, before fading away into nothing. 'Excellent,' replied the boat, 'let's begin.'

The vessel began to rock violently, and Tone found himself being thrown from bow to bow. "G- Goodness," Tone said, "this, ah, reminds me of that one Hues Corporation song!" Tone had begun to sing the 1974 Hues Corporation hit "Rock the Boat" quietly to himself before he was thrown into the ship's mast, smacking his large, shiny forehead against the mast's metal surface. Slowly, but surely, the boat's rocking came to a halt. Tone stumbled around for a bit before falling face first into the smeared pentagram he hastily scribbled onto the deck moments prior. He noticed a low humming noise emanating from the centre of the pentagram, along with a small green glowing ball suspended in the air, not too far above the deck's surface. The ball grew bigger, and as the ball grew, the humming sound swelled and grew louder. Larger and larger and louder and louder, the ball amassed the diameter of a truck tire, and the humming noise had swelled into an unnerving crescendo. Tone covered his ears, closed his eyes, and turned away as the demonic cacophony echoed throughout the harbour, growing louder and louder, until... Silence. The sound stopped abruptly. The ball almost immediately disappeared, spitting out a final parting gift as it went. It was a three-day-old Quarter Pounder from McDonald's. "Go..." the boat bellowed, "and take this with you. You know what to do."

Tony straightened his tie and refastened his once well ironed suit pants, brushed his thinning, sad mop hair to the side where it belonged and bent down to pick up his newfound power. The three-day-old Quarter Pounder buzzed with fervour in his hand, shaking with absolute, unfathomable dark energies, bequeathed unto him by a greater god of true destruction and evil. Placing it in the safety of his pocket, he awkwardly thanked the boat possessed, gave it a good whack with his shovel for good measure, and dismounted down the side of the ship, legs wiggling, grunting profusely.

Tony, with his hands both gripping the shovel tightly, twirled around and did a victory dance. Hurray for tone!

Tony trudged back to his house, draped in various pictures of the queen across all surfaces. He emptied his pocket into a large glass bowl, then quickly showered to remove the various forms of filth that caked his face, before flopping face-first onto his... queen-sized bed. As he drifted out of consciousness, he thought he detected the faint aroma of... thousands of defrosted burgers...

"Tony." "Ay, Tony! Wake up!" Tone was jolted awake by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. "Goodness!" Tone shouted, "Who, ah... who dares wake their prime minister!?" Tone glared at the hand on his shoulder and led his gaze along the arm attached to the disruptor of his royal slumber. A rotund man was attached to that arm. He looked to be in his 50s, and had the face of an Italian gangster. His suit was well-kempt, his grey hair short and combed, and his complexion quite tanned.

"It's real bad, boss!" The man said, still shaking his shoulder.

"Oh goodness, Joe," Tone said, irritated. "What is it this time? How bad can it be?" Joe tugged at his collar, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. "It's uh... you better come see for yourself, boss."

Tony rolled out of bed like a lazy, blob of molasses on a cold winter day, though since this is set in Australia, I suppose the molasses would still be running rather fast. He hobbled, blanket wrapped about his shoulders like a makeshift, My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic patterned cape, gracefully plodding after his heavy footsteps. He followed Joe who scampered like a frightened rabbit towards the window, still covered in the Walmart Great Value brand drapes he bought to replace his original ones that were destroyed when Joe became frightened by fireworks one summer evening. Joe's hand trembled as he pointed dramatically out the window, and Tony let loose a belligerent sigh and rolled his eyes as he pulled back the curtains. Bellow in the yard, strewn about his well-groomed hedges, lay a vast, squirming battalion of one-eyed, two-tentacled, three-day-old Quarter Pounders, no larger than the usual sort, but would probably give a consumer at least 140% the amount of heartburn and 160% the diabetes.

"By the great Lord Howard" exclaimed Tony. "What am I looking at Joe?"

"I'm not entirely sure Tony" the former treasurer whimpered, "They just showed up"

“Do you think The Boats sent them?"

"Boats aren’t sentient beings"

"Get my budgie smugglers we got some boats to shirt front!" Before Joe could interject further Tony was off like a bucket of raw prawns in the sun quickly trying to assemble his ikea cabinet but was missing an important screw that was, unbeknownst to him, lost in Joe's cereal

Joe continued to sweat like a bucket of hay. Should he tell Tony, the scrambling former prime minister, his superior, his boss, that one of his screws are in his cereal? Or should he not tell him in order to save himself from any backlashes? He bat his eyelashes to flick off the dripping sweat.

'Tony, I-' a clean right hook to the ribs came before he even finished the sentence. Joe doubled over in pain.

'Joe.'

'WHAT, Tony?'

'Ya screwed up.' Joe groaned. The pain from Tony's sheltered sense of humour toppled him, and he lay defeated on the floor. At this, Tony pivoted on his heel and strode out the front door. A makeshift staircase of burger rose to meet his foot. Tony walked onto his carpet of burger, and was carried into the morning sunrise.

The meaty door closed behind Tony as he walked further into the giant floating burger palace. As he made his way through this colossal castle of processed meat, Tony took a moment to think to himself about what a modern marvel this was. About how privileged he was to be allowed into what is truly one of the greatest feats of mankind, and how extraordinary a person it must take to bring such a project to fruition. Tony did not let this moment linger though, as he had business. Business with the particularly extraordinary person behind the airship upon which he travelled. A man who could make things happen, and Tony needed him to make things happen for him. Tony made his way to a pair of giant, golden doors, surrounded by a large Victorian-styled arch. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a packet of Tim Tams - he knew he'd need them. A small sign was bolted to the door at Tony's eye-level. 'Knock once to enter,' the sign read. Tony made sure his suit looked as presentable as it could after having slept in it, and did as the sign instructed. A series of loud clunks followed, and the doors slowly, but steadily, opened before him. Apprehensively, Tony entered the spacious white room on the other side of the doors. There, in the middle of the room, was a throne. Atop that throne, was perched a large, but rather graceful man who Tony knew well. "Good morning, Tony." "Ah, g- good morning," Tony stuttered, "Clive."

The undulating mass of burgers swarmed at Tony's feet as he stood before a great whale of a man, sitting in a relaxed pose upon a large throne of iron and metals. The man's portly face was half hidden by his protuberant second chin that glistened with an otherworldly aura of power. Clive licked his lips in a sinister fashion, the scent of tim-tams heady in the air, his natural prey, a proper offering brought before the great beasts hunger. His jowls rustled into a grin, his face churning expression like a vat of butter. "You must be rather desperate to have come to me, Tony," Clive chuckled, wiggling in a gelatinous way as he waved the stuttering Tony into his throne room.

"Ahh well- y'see- I'm more confused meself Clive." Tony mumbled as he gazed upon the swollen figure before him "I've not encountered such ah sentient food products before."

Clive winked at Tony as if he were a sex line operator "You've come to marvel at my Burgerbois have you? No. Infact it was them who brought you here... Can you keep a secret Abbot?"

"Ah… Well... I think perhaps..." "The mines are empty Tony. The workers are growing restless. They're growing..." Clive reaches down and swallows a burger whole "Hungry..."

"Well I don’t..."

"Tony do you know who'd behind this? The reason the reserves disappeared overnight?" "I can’t say I ah do Clive" Clive leaned forward with a stern expression "The Boats, Tony. The Boats have returned"

Tony's undergarments moistened. "But Joe said..."

"HOCKEY IS A FOOL WHO BELIEVES TAMATO SAUCE COMES FROM FRESHLY SQUEEZED LASAGNA" Palmer thundered belly bouncing off the walls as it moved. "He's not to be trusted with anything of importance, Tony. Best put him back onto the budget. Believe me. The Boats are coming and my Burgerbois are unprepared. They need a general Tony. One who knows our enemy."

"But... ah... Clive..." "Tony. Only you can stop The Boats."

Tony's threat suddenly felt dry. Too dry. So dry, he gasped for the air, his hand clutching the chest of his shirt tightly. The caterpillar brows on Clive's furrowed. "Tony! I will not pass for this again. You cannot keep doing this." Tony stopped his "I'm so scared" act and cleared his throat. He smoothed back his hair. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

Clive beckoned a burger guardsman, who approached Tony. 'What's all this about then, ah, Clive?' Tony began, and the armoured burgerman stood over the liberal backbencher. The burgerman extended a hand, and placed a ring of keys in Tony's palm. Tony inspected the keys, which had the engraving 'T H I C' on one side. 'And what am I driving, exactly?' He continued. 'Not driving, Tone,' replied the burgerman, 'but piloting.'

Tony continued to sweat. Clive's ire had already struck fear into him, but the vague directives he received only served to uproot his presence of mind even further. "Why, ah, C- Clive..." Tony stammered, forcing a nervous chuckle in a thinly-veiled bid to hide his nerves, "I c- can't say for sure that I know what you mean when you... ah... w- when you say... 'Piloting...'"

"You will," Clive said abruptly, bringing Tony's nervous rambling to a halt. Clive carefully tore open the packet of tim tams on his lap, lifted the first chocolatey treat from the packaging and took a bite into it, savouring its delicious malt flavour. Tony could only fidget with his tie as the Lord of the Lard enjoyed his offerings in front of him. The silence left him completely unsure if he should maintain eye contact or avert his gaze, resulting in an awkward routine in which he ultimately ended up doing both.

"Tony." The silence shattered. Startled, Tony stood to attention, his ears opened, all three of them. "I am placing my faith in you one final time, Tony," Clive boomed. "My assistance comes with expectations and conditions, Tony, and those conditions do not involve failure."

"A- ah, yes..."

"Our meeting has drawn to a close, but before I send you on your way, I have one last demand of you. You will listen, and listen well," Clive said, sternly. He pulled himself forward on his throne, and leaned as far down as his round biological prison allowed him to. Tony edged backwards ever so slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the distance created between himself and Clive, or rather, the lack thereof. "You are to tell no one of our meeting. Not Hockey, not Bishop, not even Howard. Nobody. Goodbye, Tony."

"B- But wait a minute! How will I know-" Before Tony could finish his question, a panel in the floor opened underneath his feet, and he began his plummet back down to Earth.

Tony hit the floor in a jiggling fashion, his knee caps taking a vacation up into his throat for a moment. As he resettled into his skin, he looked on over the horizon, standing uncomfortably at the precipice of battle. He stood on the shoreline, his best work shoes sinking into the warm morning sand, overlooking a beautiful soft pink and blue sky, lemon yellow sun rising over the washing and waning currents, but all of this lovely scene besmirched by the dotted, intimidating silhouettes on the horizon. The Boats were coming, and faster than Tony had expected! Curse him taking Scott's advice, he felt like he had been used by the sack of shit, uh, literally. He scanned the beach side for the machine for which he would lead the Burgerbois to battle with the boats, it had to be somewhere around here right? In the glare of the rising sunlight, he barely stopped himself before he walked straight into the object of his search. Standing before him, in all of its Parliamentary Glory, was the M18S-C, the Prime Ministerator, a grand, enormous bipedal mecha, gleaning with the Australian Flag emblazoned upon it's chest piece, standing tall and proud in the soft, creamy light. He looked on it in awe, he had only heard tales of its use in the great wars before, and never had he dreamed that he would pilot it. What a blessing he was given by Clive, he would have to send him more tim-tams later.

Tony prepped himself to climb inside when he heard a voice from behind him

"Excuse me dear Tony but my lustrous eyes can’t help but notice you're clambering into my car? What's the meaning of this oh honourable minister?"

Tony recognised that pompous voice anywhere. A voice that could only belong to the most 18th century of aristocrats. "G'day ah... Malcolm didn’t know this was yours..."

Malcom breathed in as only an owner of such an 18th century aristocratic nose can breathe. "Of all days, Tony. Of allll days." His heels clacked loudly against the floor towards Tony. "What are you doing, fool?" He demanded.

Tony's eyes widened - partially in rage at the sight of his usurper, but also partially in awe of such a faithful preservation of conservative values. 'Malcolm, ah, what a surprise,' Tony began. Malcolm snatched the keys right from Tony's hand and strode towards the mech.

So... parliamentary, Tony thought to himself.

As Malcolm struggled to lift his atrophied body into the mech, Tony piped up with an uncharacteristic display of forethought: 'it might be best for you to wait until we've finished cleaning the wares for your use, Malcolm.' Malcolm froze mid-climb. 'If a member of parliament were to be seen in something not... presentable...' he continued. Malcolm gasped, and momentarily lost balance, nearly falling. '...Well, ah, imagine labor's response.' Malcolm's skin somehow managed to turn a shade lighter. He clamoured down immediately, and thrust the keys to Tony's chest. 'Have it cleaned at once, then, you unscrupulous vagrant!' he squeaked.

'At once, Mal-'

'And another thing, Tony,' Malcolm continued, as he strode away with that slight hip wiggle he was known for, 'call me Prime Minster.'

'Ah, r-righto.' Tony grimaced.

Tony waited until Malcolm was out of sight. "Call me prime minister," Tony mumbled under his breath. "Why that... that man..." He fumed as he climbed into the Prime Ministerator. He had half a mind to crash it, just to spite Malcolm. After all, Malcolm had already forcibly removed a throne from Tony himself, it would only be an eye for an eye, right? No, Tony thought, I have a job to do. Petty squabbles come later. That he would be stealing the Prime Ministerator and using it for his own, non-Malcolm-approved agenda was enough of a consolation prize anyway. Tony strapped himself into the cockpit and fumbled with the keys. "Ah, cock it," Tony said to himself, realising he didn't actually know where the ignition was. Tony fumbled around the dashboard in front of him and searched the console next to him thoroughly. After a few minutes of man-looking, he found a cluster of five holes under the steering unit, each of which looked roughly the same size as the key he was given. He had no idea which hole was the ignition. Hell, he didn't even know if any of these holes were the ignition. Maybe two or three of them were the ignition and he needed two or three keys. Maybe he needed to put the key in one hole and then put it in another hole really quickly? Tony was driving himself mental trying to unravel the mystery in front of him. Come on Tony, he thought, get it together! Clive's not giving you anymore chances after this! The real prime minister wouldn't struggle nearly as much! Hold on. Tony's train of thought came to a complete halt. Yes... that's it. "I'm the prime minister..." Tony said, sinisterly.

Tony was never a man to assess his risks, risk assessment is for the cowardly! Act first, think later, that's how we do things in God's Australia, he thought. He felt his passion grow stronger with every musing. This is just another obstacle to overcome! I'm ashamed of myself that I nearly allowed it to work! Australia didn't get to where it is now by sitting around and assessing risks! It got here through good old-fashioned gumption! Courage! Moxie! Heteronormativity! Tony lifted his arm high, key in hand, and locked on to a hole in the cluster.

"They didn't call me Mad Cunt Abbott for nothing!" Tony screamed at the top of his lungs. Something awakened inside Tony. No longer was he just the former prime minister, he was the Minister for Fearless Warriors, and he was going to prove himself. To Clive. To Malcolm. To Australia. Without a moment's hesitation, he brought his arm crashing down, and slammed the key into a random slot.

There was a loud thunk, ka-chunk, a small, subtle humming noise of lights coming on inside of the cockpit, a loud whir and a sudden, authoritative roar as the engines galloped, screamed and settled into a ferocious growl. The entire machine grumbled and trembled with robust vigour, bumbling Tony around in the seat, vibrating his butt-cheeks and chattering he teeth. Two long armed iron snakelike seat-belts coiled around his torso snugly, and four brightly coloured monitor displays flickered into view around Tony's face and peripheral vision. Three small, simple tones played near his ear, and a gurgling, sputtering noise started and stopped, like a sink drain sucking up the remaining water. A small, iron plate extended near Tony's right hand, carrying upon it a small, delicate tea-cup, covered in ornate wee paintings of roses, a gentle curved handle and a matching plate. Steam rose from the top in a wistful fashion, and as Tony peered inside, there was a detailed rendition of Malcolm's face, skilfully created in the foam of the cappuccino that sat before him. Wrong key slot. Tasted fine though.

Tony cursed as he looked around for something that resembled an ignition, furious that the blasted contraption had ruined his momentum. "now where is this thing god damn bloody- ah here it is" The mecha roared to life "MINI—STATO-O-OOOR PRIME A-IVE PLEASE INPUT DIREC-EC-EC-EC-TI-TIVE" it stuttered at its pilot like a Tasmanian on skype.

"Well that’s more like it" Tony mumbled to himself. "Now ah I suppose the best place to start looking is at the scene of the crime... Ah Mr robot please make your way to Kalgoorlie... wait no that’s been empty for years, best go to Karratha." "DIR-R-R-R-RECTIVE UNDERSTOO-O--O-OOO-O-O-OD LAUNCHCHCING NOW" Tony barely had time to adjust his seatbelt as the machine took off blasting high into orbit before plummeting towards the desert shithole its occupant had requested to visit. Meanwhile inside the nearby building a shockwave knocked a certain powdered wig into some awaiting scones. "By Jove, I appear to have been had"

After Malcolm finished stamping his foot on the ground in protest of his ruined afternoon tea, he shamefully eyed the wig that had fled from his perfectly reflective noggin. (Dentists often talked about employing the science of such a head to replace the metallic mirrors they used during dental practices.) Malcolm was well aware of the 10 second rule, an absolute truth that had swept nationwide and settled in the hearts of the Australian youth. Malcolm always found himself seeking the company of toddlers in the day-care directly across the street from Parliament after a long, hard day of ministering, so he found himself placing utmost faith in these rituals. Malcolm glanced around his room composed of entirely stale fairy bread to make sure the coast was clear before lifting the soiled wig off the scones and back atop his magnificent head. "Mama always said not to waste my food..." Malcolm muttered into a scone he had tucked into. After scoffing down the remaining scones in a manner far removed from his lower-class ancestors, Malcolm decided he, the Prime Minister of Australia, deserved a little joy ride in his M18S-C Prime Ministerator, or as he likes to call it, Shirley. Malcolm made his way to the nearest dial phone to contact one of his loyal followers to pick him up in his private TigerAir jet back to ACT where his mech was waiting for him, untouched and entirely his. Upon his arrival.

He tripped over a frog. Malcom landed smack on his face. "OW!" the onomatopoeia rang in his head, but he could not yell it, let alone say it due to his mouth stuck in an awkward position. He tried to get up, but he needed a minute.

'Mmmnn! Hrmmffffffmmmmtmmmmfffffrrrt!' Malcolm exclaimed, which probably translated to 'Slaves! Assist me at once!' Malcolm liked to think that his security personnel were in servitude to his Ministership. The rest of his party had opted not to explain the nature of minimum wage to Malcolm, and instead decided to secretly pay the staff extra to not pay too much heed to it. Malcolm again tried to lift himself off the floor, but due to the extreme fatigue induced by his action-packed day of trying to climb into a mech, and then later falling over, he resigned himself to laying there until help arrived. After all, who wouldn't want to help the famous and unanimously likable Prince Malcolm? He thought. Malcolm wasn't a prince, but his mother once called him one in his youth, and he never really decided to question it.

Meanwhile, in the Kimberley, the Prime Ministerator touched down in Karratha, WA. The doors opened, and Tony awkwardly fumbled his way out and scrambled to the ground. "Goodness," Tony said, surveying the dirt-ridden landscape, "where are we?" "KARRA-RA-RA-RA-RA-RATHA, WESTERN AUSTRALIA" "Western what now? I, ah, didn't know the country even had a western side!"

Tony squinted over that mellow yellow horizon once more, peering through his tangled eyelashes those menacing forms that haunted his footsteps to this very day. The boats, like black, wretched nightmares slinking over the azure waves, crawling with undulating and singularly disgusting purpose. They lurked, smattered against where sky met sea, and Tony could feel that Malcom cappuccino churning in his belly like a roiling child on a roller coaster. He cleared his throat, swallowing down his nerves and also a good bit of coffee bile, and readjusted his clothing, now soaked with sweat from the hot fly over Australia's girdle. From behind him he heard a noise, the rumbling of thousands of crinkling McDonald's wrappers, rolling judiciously over the beach line.

"Right. Where to start?" Tony started to wander his way around the city looking for anything loosely resembling a porthole when his phone started to ring. "Ah... Hello you've reached Tony. Who's this?" "Ay Tony it’s me." Tony recognised that thick Brooklyn accent immediately "Oh Joe. How are ya? What's the issue?" "Where'd ya go? You said you were goin out and all of a sudden you aint come back. You get whacked or something?" "No... Ah I'm still here." "Anyway not important. What is important is the member for Hughes got stuck in the dryer and I can’t get him out!" "Oh bloody... ok look... I can’t. Just call Julia and she can sort it.”

Over the dirt road horizon (they couldn’t afford 21st century remodelling), Tony could hear a faint "bzzzzzzt RRRRRRRRR" speeding towards him. Tony opened his big ugly mug and screamed when the source of the noise came into view. "RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrzzzzzzZZZZZZZZ! SALAAM ALAIKUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMRRR" screamed a hoard of motor boats at the now flabbergasted Tony. "Crickey! The Boats, they've, ah, evolved!"

The Boats have two cats now instead of one. And they are coming at the speed of sound. What will our dear Tony do?!

Tony took a poorly placed step in retreat to his mech and staggered. The townscape seemed to spin in front of him, twirling into something not of this world. He glanced back to the cat-headed aboatminations and noted they had spawned a third cat head while he wasn't looking. He blinked. The Boats grew another head. As handling perception-dependent mutation had been sorely glossed over in his brief Prime Minister training experience, Tony decided that the only honourable action would be to run piss-scared back to his metallic powersuit. As he neared the titanium goliath, the screams of The Boats became impossibly loud, and seemingly from all directions. Tony gulped, and tasted blood.

Tony clambered into the Prime Ministerator. He fumbled with the keys in his desperate bid to power it on. Eventually, the Prime Ministerator whirred into life, and with it so did Tony's resolve. He knew what he had to do.

"This is it, ah, my boys," Tony stuttered, wiping the spit from his lips that had accumulated there from his intense screaming. He looked out over towards those horrifying, boat behemoths, cat heads bubbling and rumbling on the bow like beating, gurgling exposed organs. The Burgerbois were around the mech's feet, in all shapes and sizes, various toppings, but all with that similar, old McyD's smell; you know the one, as if you had brought it home in the car and the scent lingered. Tony choked back a gag as he caught a whiff, but now was not the time to have a delicate stomach. The boats were closing in on him with a gallop; some literally as they took to the shore down the way and sprouted large, feline, double jointed legs. The early day seagulls cawed and nattered, eyeing his burger army with hunger, but they dare not descend close enough to the ungodly hamburger beasts. The 'vultures' were already prepared to feast upon the coming dead. Tony's heart trembled. He popped an antacid into his mouth from his suit shirt pocket and cleared his throat. A large mechanical arm swung forward, glistening in the hot dessert sun, accompanied with a twinkle from Tony's brow as his sweat caught the glare from that all too unforgiving summer heat. Tony puffed up his chest like a bird impressing a mate and hollered with all of his might:

"I know we have only known-uh, ah, each other for a short time, but blimey, you good tinfoil wrapped, lettuce faced, ground cow sandwiches are my countrymen! My, ahhhh, Brothers! Yes! Together, we will fight, uhmm, yes, good, right, YES, FIGHT BACK THE BOAT HOARD! They shall rrrrrue the day they stepped foot on good Australian soil! We will triumph in this battle, and cr----crush!!! Uhm! OUR ENEMIES BENEATH OUR BOOTS! ON-- ah..... ONWARD, GOOD BURGERBOIS! TO VICTORY OR DEATH!!!" The Prime Ministrator lurched forward with gusto, Tony jamming his hands on buttons and squishing throttled between his soaking palms, stepping on paddles and swinging his fingers wildly through tough screens. The mech extended its palm and from it a huge metal object shimmered into being. The Prime Ministrator and Tony had become of one mind, and it summoned a weapon in dramatic anime fashion for its new rider to strike fear into the hearts of his foes.

The armies clashed together as a bunch of people looked on very confused as to what was happening, but they were of no concern to the Boats. They had been compromised, their enemy was before them and outnumbered them 10 to 1. Thankfully 10 of the burgers didn’t really make up the size of one boat. However, their leader was a gigantic robot who very conveniently for the boats was the same size as 5 very carefully stacked boats. Tony lurched his mecha around slaying boat after boat "You'd ah best remember that you dastardly dinghy " he cried out in his best war voice. Burgers and Boats fell in the dozens before Tony spotted them. The most intimidating boats he'd ever seen. Large enough to fit hundreds of refugees and stable enough to probably only lose 2% of them on the journey. Tony locked eyes with the Red Boat, the clear leader of the 5 generals, and rushed forward. "BOATRON ASSEMBLE" Tony only made it half way before the boats started transforming. They appeared to turn into various appendages and then joined together with the aid of some duct tape

Tony muttered under his breath. "Holy, ah, shit..." as the final piece of the boatron, the taint, assimilated to the rest of its parts. The Prime Ministerator could be seen wiping its mechanic brow in tandem with its little heroic pilot. "Ah... I-I think this calls for the a-ah, secret menu..." Tony uttered as he began fingering the build-in dial phone located in the mech's cockpit. After a few muffled whispers into the phone, not even a moment later could rumbling be heard from the ground behind the Burger Bois...

Out came three beans, the size of two tea bags. "There they are," muttered Tony under his breath. He could feel another round of adrenaline pumping in his body. The three beans hopped on one another and formed...

...a ball. And a large one at that, comparable in size to, well, a Boat. The mech-suited Tony fought his way back towards the bean ball, and clasped it in his metallic hands. He gave it a heave, and, with some effort, managed to lift it from the ground. The ball began to tick.

Tony froze. The hands of the Prime Ministerator remained clasped onto the ticking ball. He couldn't move. His fear left him paralysed. All he could do was watch this ticking ball, envisioning all the different ways it could lead to his untimely demise.

Tony's mind fumbled, his brain stumbling over his own fear, he could barely force himself to move, he was too close, the explosion would get him, or the boats would. Neither option was particularly pleasant. Both meant he met a grizzly fate, either blown to Tony chunks or devoured by the three cat headed boat mecha monstrosity. Wait... That was it! He shouted to rally the Burgerbois, as they clambered over the mechanical legs of the boat-beast, and with his last ounce of courage, he shoved the mech's hand into the maw of the great, salivating creature, ticking bean bomb and all. He quickly unstrapped his seat-belt, the computer complaining that he no longer had his seat belt on, making annoying beeping noises and speaking in an annoyingly condescending toned robotic female voice, and he thrust himself out the emergency butt hatch like an overly excited turd leaving the rear of a horse. He flopped like a beached whale as he hit the sad, and scampered like a cockroach as far as he could away from the Prime Ministrator and the main boat menace, keeping his face away from the all too quickly coming explosion of boat bits & Malcolm's ego, burnt burger pellets, and singed cat faces.

Tony found himself flying forward into the sand at high velocity as the shockwave from the explosion tore through the area. Screams from innocent bystanders, as they were caught in the blast because they had come to film the shenanigans for later upload onto YouTube, were drowned out by the clanks and cries of Boats and Burgerbois alike as the flames swallowed them.

"Crikey... that’s ah quite the effect" said the former Prime Minister turned ostrich impersonator as he picked himself up and surveyed the carnage.

"GOOD WORK TONY MY LAD" The voice rang out from seemingly nowhere. Tony looked around wildly who was talking to him? Then the answer was clear as Clive himself descended on his burger throne. "You've done it you've saved conservatism!"

"Ah thanks... Clive... I ah-"

"Please Tony, no thanks are needed I did nothing. You are the true hero. The land is saved for now. We owe you a great debt, but of course nobody can know."

"Oh well..."

"So instead," Clive reached into his pocket, "Have these. As a gift"

Tony was presented with the most magnificent gift he'd ever seen. A golden pair of budgie smugglers with the words "TRU" and "BLU" on each cheek. "Clive... I don’t know what to say-"

Clive put up his hand in protest "Tony, nothing needs to be said. Farewell, until the next catastrophe. Give Joe my regards." With that Clive ascended and Tony went to the beach in his new swim gear knowing that The Boats were stopped and the job was done.

#auspol #tonezone #somebody stop us

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templarhalo · 7 years ago

Text

Endryd Haar:The Riven Hound Chapter 3

“So how long do I have?” Danek asked.

“Six Terran months.” Apothecary-Captain Asclepias Phoebus Reticulus said.

“You really need to work on your bedside manner Custodes.” Danek said with a laugh.

“You are an Astartes, not a mortal, and not a Ligo aetos going through accelerated aging and enhancement. “ Asclepias said dryly.

Asclepias’ was quite different from Danek. He was pale and blond with sea-green eyes. He was quite handsome.

Danek knew Asclepias’ dry tone was his way of coming to terms with the fact that his closest friend was going to be dead in less than a year.

He grunted in pain as Asclepias injected him with another shot. Everytime he visited Asclepias, he needed more shots. Fresh Larraman’s cells, antibiotics, stimulants and more.

He grunted again as he fel t soft but calloused hands gently remove the covering of the bionics that made up half of his chest .

“At least the bionics are holding up.” Asclepias said.

“That’s not the only thing holding up.” Danek said with a smile.

Danek’s bionic eye had been modified to assess medical data, It reported that Asclepias’ heart rate had increased.

“ I should get you fitted for that augmetic leg first.” The Custodes replied.

“And how long will that take?”

“Not long. And Aella won’t back for an hour.” Asclepias said.

Danek smiled.

The Petitioner’s City was huge .

Vesta felt like she could spend days here and only scratch the surface of the city. The architecture was so diverse, the people were so varied. Different skin tones, different clothing. It was like nothing she had seen, not even on Byzas Longa,a world that had been on the crossroads between Segmentum Obscurus and Segmentum Solar.

She saw vendors peddling their wares. Stands selling food, spices, clothing, books.

A man shoved a tray of chocolates in her face . Another held up a piece of green silk so sheer she could make out the man’s acne from behind it.

She saw an ogryn hammering at a piece of Adamantium. She saw a team of Caucasian broadbacks hawling stone.

In the distance she could see the Himalazia mountains.

“It’s good to be home.” Boian said.

“You’re from Terra?” Vesta asked.

“Aye, Haar, Danek and I were part of the first recruits for the Twelfth. Before we were World Eaters, before we were the War Hounds, were the just the Twelfth. Haar,Danek and I are the last of the Old Grey Legions. I was from Slavia. Haar was from Europa and I have no idea where Danek was from.” Boian said.

The crowds were thick. Lucifer Blacks, Administratum scribes, tech priests. Haar even saw a pair of Imperial Fists on patrol.

The stands and tightly packed streets soon gave way to the residential area. Two story houses and small stores dominated the area.

Boian paused near one of them. Vesta smelled grilling meat and freshly baked bread.

Boian returned with a paper wrapped fresh off the grill steak in one hand and a jar of black olives in another. Vesta saw six more crammed in his ammo pouches.

“Kal Jakar may be armored physically and spiritually against corruption,but he loves olives. “ Boian said.

He took a bite of steak. Meat juice dribbled onto his gorget. Vesta saw Haar conversing with a man in ragged clothing. He handed him a red coin with the lightening and Eagle symbol of Unity.

“What’s that coin for?’ Vesta asked.

“Identification, the Administratum can’t identify every citizen on Terra, let alone alone the refugees that have been pouring in. That coin will get him to the Tyrannis without any Bureaucratic delay.” Boian said. The Blackshield finished his steak and chucked the paper wrapper in an already overflowing waste receptacle. He opened a jar of olives and popped a few in his mouth.

Vesta held out her hand, and Boian dropped a handful into her awaiting palm.

They continued to walk for a block and that entered a two story store.

Its sign read:

Alessander Graves: Rogue Trader and collector.

Haar opened the door. A bell chimed.

The store was rather small, with a counter of dark wood and

“ Endryd! It’s been too long my friend! How can I be of service?”

Haar actually smiled.

“Any Astartes wargear you’ve managed to scavenge. And anything else that might catch our eyes.”

Alessander Graves was an older man with slicked back silver hair and wild blue eyes. He wore a red and gold longcoat over a plain white dress shirt and blue pants with ornate silver shinguards. A Charnabal saber was sheathed at his hip and a plasma pistol in his shoulder holster.

“And you brought a young lady this time! I would have preferred Lady Philone, but I love meeting new people!” Graves said with a hearty laugh.

“My name is Vesta Augustus.” she said.

Graves bowed.

“Alessander Graves, Rogue Trader and scoundrel of Segmentum Obscurus at your service.”

He shook Vesta’s hand.

“You have a firm handshake my dear.” Graves said.

“Thank you sir.” Vesta said.

Graves laughed like a melodic horse. She found his laugh annoying,but she liked him much better than many of the Rogue Traders who had come into her father’s court.

“In terms of Astartes wargear I don’t have much. I recovered some suits of MKIII power armor from one of the Corpse Grinders Destroyers. A few Bolters and Chainswords, some autocannons, and a couple of Plasma guns.”

“What kind of condition are they in?”

“It varies. Some are just worth their weight in scrap, others look fresh from Mars.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Boian asked.

“It’s your coin old friend.” Alessander said.

Boian nodded and strode to a room in the back of a store.

Alessander stared at Vesta.

“Oh! Before I forget.“ He led Vesta to a stasis field.

Inside was a suit of Power Armor. The chest and shoulders was clearly from a suit of MK1 Thunder Power Armor that were adapted for a regular sized human. The legs pieces were Carapace armor. The gauntlets were smooth grey Ceramite, untouched by war. A purple cloak woven th gold with threads of gold was draped over the armor shoulders.

It was the most beautiful thing Vesta had ever seen.

Haar felt his breath hitch,

“Is that-”

“A voidsheen cloak, aye.”

Alessander looked at Vesta.

“Well put it on lass! You’re gonna be wearing it! For throne’s sake you’re running around with a Blackshield! You’re going to need more protection than that pretty sword of yours.”

Before Vesta moved to deactivate the stasis field, she had to ask one question.

“Do you sell black paint?”

Refugee Camp TK57-1128-117-2224-A was just one of many refugee camps that had sprung up on Terra when the galaxy caught fire. The Emperor in his infinite wisdom had guided Kal Jakar here.

Laden with Rucksacks full of food that wasn’t nutrient paste and liquid electrolyte packets, toys and clothing, Kal Jakar strode into the camp.

Many of the refugees wore tattered clothing and had thin faces.

Kar Jakar wordlessly began distributing the supplies.

There was fear on some of the faces. An Astartes, one in blackened armor was handing out food and supplies. In what universe did that happen? Astartes were gene-forged killers, murderers conquers. They burned worlds with a smile beneath the helms.

When did Astartes show such compassion?

When did an Astartes act Human?

Once the supplies was distributed he walked among the camp, blessing the refugees. He taught children how to read. He helped clean the camp to prevent disease spreading.

As he was leading a small group of refugees in prayer, Kal heard the clanking of Ceramite on rough dirt.

It was an Imperial Fist. The heraldic cross on his right shoulder pad identified him as a veteran. He bore the insignia of a breacher legionnaire, as if the boarding shield and modified Tigrus pattern bolter didn’t distinguish it. A Two handed Power Sword with a silver cross hilt rested in a scabbard of black Inwit leather. Judging by his unit markings and laurel insignia the legionnaire was the sergeant of the 5th Breacher Siege Squad of the 30th company, 7th Battalion of the Second Shield Corp of the First Sphere.

The Legionnaire removed his Mark III helm ,revealing a scarred face with close cropped black hair and eyes the color of Terra’s drained oceans.

He reached into a bolt pistol magazine and removed a tattered Lectio Divinitatus chapbook.

“My Wall Brother believed in this faith. He prayed to the Emperor as he dyed to the poisoned blade of an Alpha Legionnaire. “

The Legionnaire’s face curled.

“I wish to know more, I need guidance. Horus draws closer to Terra. I need to know Chaplain. Does He protect. Does the Emperor Protect?!”

Tears streaked down his face and great sobs racked the Space Marine’s body. A little girl no more than eight Terran years put a hand on his shoulder pad. She had the same blue eyes as him and long messy blond hair. She wore a blue dress and had a blue bow in her hair.

The Imperial Fist looked at the child, than at Kal Jakar.

“He does protect. In ways you cannot possibly imagine. Tell me brother, what is your name?’

“It is Emetris, I am stationed at Daylight Wall.”

“Will you pray with us Emetris?” Kal Jakar asked.

Emetris looked around at the refugees, than at Kal Jakar.

“ I will Chaplain.”

Danek felt something burrowing under the sheets. His eyes snapped open.

Asclepius was snuggled next to him . His breathing was steady.

Danek felt a cough in his throat and forced it down. He reached for the glass of water and the pills on a small bronze tray.

After he got the water and pills down his burned throat he looked at the sheets and then held a hand under his nose. No blood on the clean white sheets or the furs. That was some improvement.

He turned and his diminishing eyesight picked out little Aella laying next to Asclepius.

“How’d you get in here little one?” Danek asked

“Picked the lock. I learned to do that yesterday.”

“And how was today?” he layed back down. Aella snuggled next to him and engulfed herself in the pile of furs and cotton sheets.

“Paperwork, classes, The Emperor set his hair on fire again. Valdor and Lady Arlette were bickering again, Amon gave us some cake from the palace kitchens, We got to practice with our Guardian Spears again, but it wasn’t as fun because we weren’t shooting at Tribune Ra. ”

“Maybe tomorrow you’ll shoot at Prefect Diocletian.” Danek rasped. He’d have to get his augmetics checked tomorrow.

“ Maybe.” She said with a yawn.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

Danek felt warmth blossom in what was left of his chest.

“I am now.”

#endryd haar #horus heresy #warhammer 40k #fanfiction #legio custodes #baby custodes are best custodes. vesta is getting gifts left and right. she's going to make good use of her weapons next chapter.#haar will too.#noblebright

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templarhalo · 7 years ago

Text

Endryd Haar: The Riven Hound Chapter 3

This is chapter 3 unbolded and with some minor editing here and there Chapter 4 is coming soon.

“So how long do I have?” Danek asked.

“Six Terran months.” Apothecary-Captain Asclepias Phoebus Reticulus said.

“You really need to work on your bedside manner Custodes.” Danek said with a laugh.

“You are an Astartes, not a mortal, and not a Ligo aetos going through accelerated aging and enhancement. “ Asclepias said dryly.

Asclepias’ was quite different from Danek. He was pale and blond with sea-green eyes. He was quite handsome.

Danek knew Asclepias’ dry tone was his way of coming to terms with the fact that his closest friend was going to be dead in less than a year.

He grunted in pain as Asclepias injected him with another shot. Everytime he visited Asclepias,he needed more shots. Fresh Larraman’s cells, antibiotics, stimulants and more.

He grunted again as he felt soft but calloused hands gently remove the covering of the bionics that made up half of his chest .

“At least the bionics are holding up.” Asclepias said.

“That’s not the only thing holding up.” Danek said with a smile.

Danek’s bionic eye had been modified to assess medical data,and Asclepias’ heart rate had increased.

“ I should get you fitted for that augmetic leg first.” The Custodes replied.

“And how long will that take?”

“Not long. And Aella won't back for an hour.” Asclepias said.

Danek smiled.

The Petitioner’s City was huge .

She saw vendors peddling their wares. Stands selling food, spices, clothing, books.

A man shoved a tray of chocolates in her face . Another held up a piece of green silk so sheer she could make out the man's acne from behind it.

She saw an ogryn hammering at a piece of Adamantium. She saw a team of Caucasian broadbacks hawling stone.

In the distance she could see the Himalazia mountains.

“It’s good to be home.” Boian said.

“You’re from Terra?” Vesta asked.

The crowds were thick. Lucifer Blacks, Administratum scribes, tech priests. Haar even saw a pair of Imperial Fists on patrol.

The stands and tightly packed streets soon gave way to the residential area. Two story houses and small stores dominated the area.

Boian paused near one of them. Vesta smelled grilling meat and freshly baked bread.

Boian returned with a paper wrapped fresh off the grill steak in one hand and a jar of black olives in another. Vesta saw six more crammed in his ammo pouches.

“Kal Jakar may be armored physically and spiritually against corruption,but he loves olives. “ Boian said.

He took a bite of steak. Meat juice dribbled onto his gorget. Vesta saw Haar conversing with a man in ragged clothing. He handed him a red coin with the lightening and Eagle symbol of Unity.

“What’s that coin for?’ Vesta asked.

Vesta held out her hand, and Boian dropped a handful into her awaiting palm.

They continued to walk for a block and that entered a two story store.

Its sign read

Alessander Graves: Rogue Trader and collector.

Haar opened the door. A bell chimed.

The store was rather small, with a counter of dark wood and

“ Endryd! It's been too long my friend! How can I be of service?”

Haar actually smiled.

“Any Astartes wargear you've managed to scavenge. And anything else that might catch our eyes.”

“And you brought a young lady this time! I would have preferred Lady Philone, but I love meeting new people!” Graves said with a hearty laugh.

“My name is Vesta Augustus.” she said.

Graves bowed.

“Alessander Graves, Rogue Trader and scounderal of Segmentum Obscurus at your service.”

He shook Vesta’s hand.

“You have a firm handshake my dear.” Graves said.

“Thank you sir.” Vesta said.

Graves laughed like a melodic horse. She found his laugh annoying,but she liked him much better than many of the Rogue Traders who had come into her father's court.

“What kind of condition are they in?”

“It varies. Some are just worth their weight in scrap, others look fresh from Mars.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Boian asked.

“It’s your coin old friend.” Alessander said.

Boian nodded and strode to a room in the back of a store.

Alessander stared at Vesta.

“Oh! Before I forget, “ He led Vesta to a stasis field.

Inside was a suit of Power Armor. The chest and shoulders was clearly from a suit MK1 Thunder power that were adapted for a regular sized human. The legs pieces were Carapace armor. The gauntlets were smooth grey Ceramite, untouched by war. A purple cloak woven th gold with threads of gold was draped over the armor shoulders.

It was the most beautiful thing Vesta had ever seen.

Haar felt his breath hitch,

“Is that-”

“A voidsheen cloak, aye.”

Alessander looked at Vesta.

“Well put it on lass! You're gonna be wearing it! For throne's sake you're running around with a Blackshield! You're going to need more protection than that pretty sword of yours.”

Before Vesta moved to deactivate the stasis field, she had to ask one question.

“Do you sell black paint?”

Refugee Camp TK57-1128-117-2224-A was just one of many refugee camps that had sprung up on Terra when the galaxy caught fire. The Emperor in his infinite wisdom had guided Kal Jakar here.

Laden with Rucksacks full of food that wasn't nutrient paste and liquid electrolyte packets, toys and clothing, Kal Jakar strode into the camp.

Many of the refugees wore tattered clothing and had thin faces.

Kar Jakar wordlessly began distributing the supplies.

There was fear on some of the faces. An Astartes, one in blackened armor distributing supplies ? In what universe did that happen? Astartes were gene-forged killers, murderers conquers. They burned worlds with a smile beneath the helms.

When did Astartes show such compassion?

When did an Astartes act Human?

Once the supplies was distributed he walked among the camp, blessing the refugees. He taught children how to read. He helped clean the camp to prevent disease spreading.

As he was leading a small group of refugees in prayer, Kal heard the clanking of Ceramite on rough dirt.

It was an Imperial Fist. A veteran judging by the heraldic cross on his right shoulder pad. He bore the insignia of a breacher legionnaire, as if the boarding shield and modified Tigrus pattern bolter didn’t distinguish it. A Two handed Power Sword with a silver cross hilt rested in a scabbard of black Inwit leather Judging by his unit markings and laurel insignia the legionnaire was the sergeant of the 5th Breacher Siege Squad of the 30th company, 7th Battalion of the Second Shield Corp of the First Sphere.

The Legionnaire removed his Mark III helm ,revealing a scarred face with close cropped black hair and eyes the color of Terra’s drained oceans.

He reached into a bolt pistol magazine and removed a tattered Lectio Divinitatus chapbook.

“My Wall Brother believed in this faith. He prayed to the Emperor as he dyed to the poisoned blade of an Alpha Legionnaire. “

The Legionnaire's face curled.

“I wish to know more, I need guidance. Horus draws closer to Terra. I need to know Chaplain. Does He protect? Does the Emperor Protect?!”

The Imperial Fist looked at the child than at Kal Jakar.

“He does protect. In ways you cannot possibly imagine. Tell me brother, what is your name?’

“It is Emetris, I am stationed at Daylight Wall.”

“Will you pray with us Emetris?” Kal Jakar asked.

Emetris looked around at the refugees, than at Kal Jakar.

“ I will Chaplain.”

Danek felt something burrowing under the sheets. His eyes snapped open.

Asclepius was snuggled next to him . His breathing was steady.

Danek felt a cough in his throat and forced it down. He reached for the glass of water and the pills on a small bronze tray.

After, he got the water and pills down his burned throat he looked at the sheets and then held a hand under his nose. No blood on the clean white sheets or the furs. That was some improvement.

He turned and his diminishing eyesight picked out little Aella laying next to Asclepius.

“How’d you get in here little one?” Danek asked

“Picked the lock. I learned to do that yesterday.”

“And how was today?” he layed back down. Aella snuggled next to him and engulfed herself in the pile of furs and cotton sheets.

“Maybe tomorrow you’ll shoot at Prefect Diocletian.” Danek rasped. He’d half to get his augmetics checked tomorrow.

“ Maybe.” She said with a yawn.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

Danek felt warmth blossom in what was left of his chest.

“I am now.”

#endryd haar #Blackshields #Horus #warhammer 40k #baby custodes are best custodes. Vesta is getting gifts left and right. She's going to make good use of her weapons next chapter.

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