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lady-divine-writes · 5 years ago

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A Change in the Weather AU (inspired by Cacophonylights's A Change in the Weather) - Chapter 30

Read on AO3.

(Author’s note - the above cover gives hint about this chapter, and chapter 31 :D)

Kurt appreciates drama.

He appreciates it to a degree rivaled only by his dad’s love of NASCAR and Finn’s obsession with grilled cheese sandwiches.

It might even be said, by a select few, that he possesses a flair for the dramatic.

Kurt isn’t, however, a fan of the fact that drama seems to follow him wherever he goes, comes courtesy of big ticket items, and hangs over his head like a sword held aloft by a single thread of red rope licorice.

That he doesn’t appreciate.

The drama Kurt does enjoy happens to be genre-specific, goes hand-in-hand with sweeping, over-the-top, romantic gestures, and maybe a dance number or two.

Like the situation he’s currently in, preparing to perch atop a magnificent red roan mare. Kurt has never been up close and personal with a horse before. The first thing he notices is they’re so much taller - and wider - in real life than they seem on screen. He also didn’t know he’d have to be introduced to his horse before he could mount it (though when you use a word like mount, the need for an introduction makes sense).

Their groom teaches Kurt how to brush his mare’s mane (which he is determined to braid somewhere along the way, get it out of her eyes). Then he earns her favor by feeding her sugar cubes. She plucks them one by one from his outstretched palm, and Kurt falls instantly in love.

If his future as a Broadway phenom ever hits the skids, equestrian sports are beginning to look like an acceptable replacement.

But there is a problem.

Everything about potentially riding this horse terrifies him.

Sebastian rented the horses from a stable nearby, one the Smythe family frequents whenever they’re in town. The horses don’t belong to the Smythes, but according to the man who saddled them, they might as well, as Sebastian’s family reserves the exact same beasts every summer.

Sebastian mounts his own mare with the skill of an accomplished equestrian because of course he does. Kurt, on the other hand, requires the assistance of two bubbly blond stable hands (who remind him enough of Brittany and Sam that he has to do a double take) and a large wooden block. Sebastian watches the calamity go down from his own saddle with intense interest and a twinkle in his eye. Between trying to maintain balance and not roll his ankle, Kurt spots Sebastian sporting his signature smirk and braces for the taunts guaranteed to come, which he plans to volley with comebacks he’s already preparing in his head. But when Kurt finally finds his seat, Sebastian gives him a smile that appears to have nothing devious hiding behind it.

“All set?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Kurt manages, panting from the exertion of pulling himself up and throwing a leg over, doing both so enthusiastically he nearly propelled himself clear over the other side of his horse. “All set.”

“Everyone’s first time goes like that,” Sebastian reassures him with a dismissive wave and only a sliver of innuendo.

“Even Julian’s?” Kurt asks bitterly, his ego stinging. He imagines the older Smythe boy launching himself onto a stallion’s muscular back from the ground using only the saddle horn to boost him up, then galloping off into the sunset, leaving the rest of his family in the dust.

But Sebastian dashes that image with a nod. “Yup. Julian excels at a great many things. But for some reason, horseback riding isn’t one of them.”

“A-ha. Somehow I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve got no reason to lie, babe. And besides - I have videos.” Sebastian bounces his eyebrows, apparently relishing the fact. “Lots of them.”

Kurt’s left eyebrow bobs up. “So you gather blackmail material on your brother, too?”

“I don’t see why you’d assume he’d be immune.” Sebastian’s horse, itching to get on the trail, shifts her weight underneath him. He strokes her neck, shushing her to keep her still. It’s such an endearing gesture, so unlike the Sebastian Kurt once despised … but so much like the Sebastian he’s grown to love. “It’s tit for tat, really. Lord knows he’s got tons of stuff on me. I’ve got stuff on Liv, too, but I’m smarter than to use it.”

“Why’s that?”

Sebastian barks out a laugh that, underneath the surface, is laced with genuine fear. “Are you kidding? She’d murder me in my sleep!”

“Then why have it?”

“As leverage against Julian.”

“And that works how exactly?”

“If I let something I have on Livvie slip but I can convince her that Julian is responsible …” Sebastian sucks a breath in through his teeth, his eyes going distant, like he’s imagining the outcome of such an act, the gruesome devastation that would ensue. “But I’d only do that as a last resort. Julian would have to do something particularly heinous for me to go that far.”

Kurt shakes his head disapprovingly. Poor Olivia. Kurt wonders if she knows that she’s Sebastian’s nuclear option. Sebastian and Julian must be rubbing off on Kurt more than he knows because he also wonders how much that information might be worth. “Oh what a twisted life you lead. You are truly a criminal mastermind.”

“You know it,” Sebastian says, throwing Kurt a wink. He clicks his tongue and leads his horse away, Kurt’s mare following behind as if she knew that was the plan all along.

Sebastian takes them to a rise overlooking the beach, the trail to get there narrower than Kurt likes. He’s sure his horse knows what she’s doing. This isn’t her first time walking this trail, after all. But again, Kurt’s mare is a big animal, and she lists from side to side. This trail, flush up against the cliff side, is one Kurt would think twice about taking on foot before calling it quits, doing an about face, and going off in search of the nearest coffee shop. Since there are no seat belts, the only thing keeping him from sliding off and falling to his death is the strength of his thighs.

Kurt thought his thighs were strong. Only now does he see that cutting the 30 Minute Buns and Thighs video he used to do religiously from his cardio rotation was a huge mistake.

Fear for his life aside, the view from the overlook is spectacular, but the height vomit inducing. Kurt leans forward, barely budging in his saddle to peek over the edge, and his stomach lurches up into his throat.

He has to trust his horse. She wouldn’t go running off this cliff for no reason. She wouldn’t do anything to hurt herself. But what about him? Would she buck him off? What motivation would she have to do so? Horses, like dogs, can sense the good in people, can’t they? Not just the shallow good like, “I put a dollar in a Salvation Army bucket once,” but the deep down, selfless good. Kurt isn’t a bad person, but he can be a bit inconsiderate at times, especially with wait staff.

If this horse decides to judge him, his inability to stop snapping at waiters will be the hill he ends up dying on, he just knows it.

The path takes his mare nauseatingly close to the edge for a brief second, and Kurt bites his tongue to keep from screaming.

“Whoa, Nellie,” he says in a wobbly voice, pulling up beside Sebastian’s mare, stopped on a ledge wide enough to accommodate both animals … and the two of them should Kurt decide to crawl off his horse, lay flat on his stomach, and hug the ground.

Sebastian, watching Kurt’s silent crisis run its course, points out, “You do know your horse’s name is Desiree, right?”

“I do. And by the way, I have questions about that. But whoa, Desiree doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Sebastian shrugs. “You’re not wrong.”

“So,” Kurt starts, swallowing half a dozen times to stop his voice from shaking, “does your exceptional riding proclivity qualify you as a ‘horse boy’ then?”

Sebastian chuckles. “No. No, Livvie is the horse person in our family. Always has been”

“That’s right,” Kurt says, wrapping the reins around his hand for security so tightly he’s afraid his fingers might turn purple. “She got the pony.”

“Mm-hmm. Pony, private riding lessons, the whole bit. The trails around the beach are perfect for horseback riding. So when we’d come out here, my dad and mom would take her, and Julian and I were forced to tag along. To teach us important life lessons, they said. I think they just didn’t want to leave us alone, afraid of the trouble we’d get into unsupervised. Needless to say, Molly here and I have a special relationship.”

Kurt eyes Sebastian coyly through lowered lashes. “Should I be jealous?”

Sebastian eyes him back, wearing a way-too-suggestive smile considering the subject matter. “Tremendously.”

“I’ve always wanted to learn to ride a horse,” Kurt admits. “I think a lot of kids do.”

“Did you picture yourself as Liz Taylor in National Velvet? Or Robert Redford in The Electric Horseman?”

“More like Viggo Mortensen in Hidalgo.”

Sebastian gives that some thought before commenting, green eyes aimed at the sky, peering at strings of clouds overhead. “I can see that. I think you’d look rather distinguished in a Stetson Diamante.”

“I’ve always thought so,” Kurt says, pulling himself up in his stirrups, a proud expression on his face.

Sebastian’s eyes, tracing the clouds, find the ocean, stare off into the sunset as the tide rolls up the sand. “Julian teased her endlessly for it.”

“Julian did?” Kurt asks with a dubious tilt of his head.

“Yup. Just Jules. I didn’t.”

“Why not?” It sounds like an odd question after Kurt asks it, grilling his boyfriend to find out why he didn’t cut down his older sister over one of her favorite hobbies.

“I envied her her love of riding,” Sebastian replies without turning to look Kurt’s way, the way Kurt had expected. “You know, when kids ask their parents for a pony, it’s usually because they think it’s going to be fun and exciting, make them look cool, turn them into a superhero or something. Not her. She loved riding for the sake of riding and for no other reason. She loved horses simply because she wanted to take care of a horse, even before she ever sat on one … or so my parents tell me.” He looks at the reins pooled in his hands, the horse’s mane beneath them chocolate brown, close to the shade of his own hair. Sebastian sniffs … or Kurt thinks he does. He only sees the subtle movement, doesn’t hear from where he and his horse are standing. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything that way.”

Kurt nudges his horse closer, feeling too far away with the few feet of space between them. “Not even your car?”

“Oh, well, cut me to the quick, I guess.” Sebastian throws his head back and laughs. This time Kurt definitely hears him sniffle, sees him wipe a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. But there must only be the one because when he turns to look at Kurt, his cheeks are dry. “No, Olivia is special. When you take riding lessons, the first thing your instructor tells you is that riding is less about getting on a horse’s back and flying down the straightaway and more about taking care of something other than yourself. You put your horse first at all times. Its comfort is paramount.” Sebastian looks back at the ocean, clears a catch from his throat. “To ride a horse is to put your trust in someone else, and have someone else trust you back. Whatever you do, you do to bring out the best in the animal you choose to ride. If you hate horses, you’re going to be a lousy horse person. Olivia doesn’t see things the way they are,” he says after a pause. “She sees things the way they could be. People, too. Always finding the best in everyone. She’s not a cynic like me and my brother. She inherited the lion’s share of my parents’ optimism and goodwill. She didn’t leave any for the rest of us. And she knows what she wants, has since she was little. She launches into life with both feet. So does Julian, though, in his case, he doesn’t always land on them.”

“What about you?”

A hint of the cynicism Sebastian mentioned comes to rest in the corners of his mouth, pushing it into a half-grin. “I’m not quite as brave as they are.”

“I think you are.”

“Reckless isn’t the same as brave, babe.”

“I think it depends on how you look at it, on how you define reckless. But you have so many opportunities available to you. And a built in safety net. You can afford to be reckless.”

Sebastian chews his lower lip, seems to contemplate his next words carefully. “Because I have money, right?”

“Right,” Kurt answers quickly, then suddenly feels like he’s taken a wrong turn down a one-way street.

“Money doesn’t help when you don’t have a path.”

“Yes it does!” Kurt says, wondering why it is that Sebastian doesn’t see his wealth as a boon when it’s as clear as day to Kurt. Enjoy all the things his wealth can buy him. Sebastian had repeated that sentiment last night when they were talking about Kurt going to NYADA, and taking that $10,000 check so he could get there. Which proves that wealth can definitely buy a future. A good one, even if Sebastian might be on the fence about which way to go. “It can help you build your own path. It can build you a dozen paths!”

“But where would they lead?” It’s a rhetorical question, but one that sounds like he’s pleading with Kurt to give him an answer. Not in general terms, but a specific destination. “If I don’t know which direction I want to go, what good does a path do me?”

“It gets you started going somewhere! Anywhere!”

“And what’s wrong with staying where you are when you don’t know where to go?” Sebastian asks, his voice so thick under the weight of his emotions, it cracks. This isn’t just a friendly discussion they’re having anymore, Kurt realizes. This is something else. Something Kurt doesn’t fully understand. “Isn’t that what they teach you in wilderness survival? Stay where you are until someone finds you? Hug a tree and shit?”

That remark strikes Kurt as so absurd considering the context of their conversation, he almost bursts out laughing. “Do I look like I would know the answer to a wilderness survival question?” But then that context becomes clearer, and Sebastian’s remark even more absurd. Wait … is he thinking about … staying in Ohio!?!?

“Do you think money solves everything, Kurt? Do you think those rich people on the Titanic could buy their way off that sinking ship?”

“They kinda did,” Kurt says sheepishly, face scrunching apologetically knowing that’s not the answer Sebastian wants to hear. “They were the only ones allowed on the lifeboats, so …

“Yeah. Right. Okay,” Sebastian says, each word clipped within an inch of its life. He turns away in frustration, focusing on the sunset as if he has to watch every last minute of it or suffer dire consequences.

“But you’re not on a sinking ship,” Kurt continues, watching his step with every word. “You can literally choose any direction and go. You wouldn’t have to know what’s there or even have a reason why. Just pack a bag and start walking.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Sebastian mutters grimly, followed by something else Kurt doesn’t catch, although he does hear the words know what you want to do.

“It sounds to me like you’re making excuses,” Kurt counters but not unkindly, “and I don’t know what for. To tell you the truth, I feel like I’ve entered an argument already in progress.”

Sebastian bristles, his back going rigid. Kurt holds his breath, unsure what he’s about to do. Would he turn his horse around and leave without a word, abandon Kurt there on the top of this rise in the dark?

No. Kurt is confident he wouldn’t. Sebastian isn’t that person. Not anymore. He wouldn’t do that.

Besides, Kurt’s mare would simply follow his. He’s really in no danger unless Sebastian comes up to him and shoves him off his horse.

Kurt isn’t convinced his thighs would protect him.

Kurt’s words seem to take the steam out of Sebastian. When he turns around to face Kurt, he looks tired. Worn down. “I’m sorry. Kurt. I’m not trying to start a fight. And don’t think I don’t understand where you’re coming from. I do. I really do. Maybe not from first hand experience but I get it. And you’re absolutely right. When you don’t have money, when you have to worry about where your next meal is coming from or how you’re going to pay your rent, it sucks. Money greases so many wheels, can take you to so many places. I’m fortunate. So fucking fortunate. But there’s something to be said about having an identity that doesn’t revolve around money.”

“I don’t … I don’t think I understand.” Kurt says it, but then he realizes that’s not entirely true. On some level, he does. For a good portion of his high school career, he had to contend with being known as the one out-and-proud gay kid. To most people, it was his sole descriptor. But there’s so much more to him.

Just like there’s so much about Sebastian’s situation that Kurt doesn’t understand.

“No matter where I am, if I’ve been there longer than a week and you ask someone about me, ask them to describe who I am, they’ll tell you I’m some rich douche. That’s it. That’s what I am. That’s who I was at Dalton. It doesn’t matter that I was a straight A student, 5.0 GPA, on the lacrosse team, that I was a Warbler, or any of that. I’m an asshole and I have money. That’s it. That’s my identity. But not you,” Sebastian says, his voice becoming hard and soft at the same time. “You’re Kurt Hummel. You’re a trail blazer. You’re compassionate and brave and talented ...”

“Who told you that?” Kurt interjects, squashing uncomfortable laughter with disbelief.

“Blaine for one,” Sebastian admits, though from his expression, he would rather pry up his fingernails than say that name. “The Warblers, your friends at that public school you went to, your teacher Will Schuester, your father, your stepmother, Finn and Puck. You do your own thing no matter what other people say. And even if they knock you down, you stick up for them. You ran for student body president on a platform of stopping bullying. I would never do that!”

“You don’t want to stop bullying?” Kurt asks, appalled enough to overlook the fact that Sebastian knows any of that. But when Sebastian shoots him a You have got to be kidding me! look, Kurt is immediately confronted with the reality of who he’s talking to. Sebastian was a bully! He blackmailed and schemed. He photoshopped vulgar pictures of Kurt’s stepbrother, and tried to steal his boyfriend. He’s only recently redeemed himself for any of that. There are people who would still consider him a bully - Kurt’s friends, people he loves - who haven’t had the opportunity Kurt has to get to know him.

But it’s also an unfair question. From what Kurt has learned, Sebastian wasn’t always that way. The person he was while he was at Dalton - that person was created, and by someone other than himself.

“I would never run for student body president in the first place!” Sebastian yells. “I don’t care about other people’s problems! I can’t be bothered! If I went to your school God forbid and people bullied me, I wouldn’t want to help them! I’d want to watch the place burn to the ground!”

“That … that’s not true!”

Sebastian leans towards him threateningly. But not threatening to hurt him. Threatening to make him see the truth. “Isn’t it!?”

“I …” Kurt puts a hand to his head and closes his eyes. Sebastian’s words pound in his brain. They connect a bunch of dots, but they also leave other sections of the overall picture blank. “I’m sorry, I … I don’t know what’s going on. We’ve gone from horses to your sister to student body president to arson and I … I think … I may have missed the point somewhere.”

“The point I’ve been trying to make,” Sebastian says slowly, bringing his mare closer to Kurt’s, “and very badly is that money is a wonderful thing to have. But it shouldn’t be your identity. You need to be something more. Money will never make you a whole person if you can’t be one without it.”

Kurt nods, relieved to have it summed up so nicely before either one of them accidentally says something they’ll both regret. With his own deadline of NYADA looming, Kurt forgot that Sebastian said he hasn’t chosen a college yet. What if that’s not the entire story?

What if he doesn’t know what he wants to do with the rest of his life? And what if that scares him?

“Okay,” Kurt says, accepting Sebastian’s hand when it finds his. “I … I think I get it. That makes sense.”

“I’m glad. Because believe it or don’t, I didn’t bring you up here to start an argument. I just wanted to watch the sun set. Show you one of my favorite thinking spots. To be honest …” Sebastian shakes his head “… I don’t know where half of that came from.”

Kurt gives Sebastian’s hand a comforting squeeze. He hopes that Sebastian might be willing to bring this subject up again at the beach house when they’re both a little more level-headed, better equipped to handle it. “Where would you say you fall on that spectrum? Between being whole and being not?”

“I’d have to say I’m extensively ventilated …” Sebastian brings Kurt’s hand to his mouth for a kiss, disarming smile locked back in place. “But on the mend.”

Kurt watches Sebastian run his thumb over his knuckles, hesitant to give his hand back, even with the darkness settling in around them. “You know,” Kurt says, “this picture you’re painting of who you are … if I wasn’t here, seeing it for myself, I don’t think I would ever believe any of this about you.”

Sebastian frowns, looks like he’s about to rush to his own defense, but he stops. “I guess I didn’t really give you the chance to find out for yourself.”

“Why isn’t this the foot you put forward all the time?”

“Because … I don’t like being vulnerable with people.”

“You don’t have to be vulnerable. But nice would be …” Kurt searches his head for the perfect word, but only comes up with “… nice. You know what they say - more flies with honey and all that.”

Sebastian sputters. “There you go again with those archaic expressions! Who on earth wants to be surrounded by flies? Being this version of me is too much work for too little pay off most of the time. For what I usually want, my methods get me results quicker.”

“So … what does that say about me?” Kurt asks. “You and I have been at this for months. And it’s not as if I rolled over for you the first chance I got.”

Sebastian tugs Kurt’s hand, brings him close enough to give him the whisper of a kiss against his cheek. “That says you’re worth the effort.”

***

It’s been well over a week since the Smythes descended on the beach house, and as much fun as it is having them there, Kurt is steadily becoming paranoid. He wouldn’t have had Olivia not made that remark about keeping an eye out for her mother. Now he’s convinced that every look Charlotte tosses his way holds significance.

A silent warning.

That she knows about him and Sebastian, and that the two of them are royally screwed - Sebastian more so than he, of course. Only she’s too nice to shred him to pieces in front of the family, so she’s waiting to do it in private.

He won’t know for certain until she corners him and they talk.

So he does the mature thing.

He avoids being alone with her at all costs.

He doesn’t hide behind curtains or vault over furniture when he sees her approach. He simply makes certain he’s never by himself for longer than a few minutes. That amounts to trips to the bathroom and any time he needs to change clothes, which (and he’s not proud of this) he’s done twice as an excuse not to talk to her. With Sebastian’s new found need to be with Kurt every conceivable second, that takes care of every time else. Still, in the confines of the beach house, Kurt knows it’s impossible to dodge Charlotte forever. He just hopes he can figure out what he’s going to say when the time comes, how he’s going to defend his and Sebastian’s actions.

How he’s going to make being a boyfriend-for-hire in order to deceive her in specific sound not so bad.

Sitting on Sebastian’s lap on the porch swing, Kurt’s favorite place in the house to be hands down, he’s finding it difficult to relax. Even though she’s nowhere where she can see them, Kurt feels her eyes on him. Several times he pops his head up and scans the beach to see if she’s walking along the shore, but no. She’s not there.

This is all in his head. He knows it. He’s building it up to something bigger than it needs to be. But if he doesn’t deal with things soon, he’s going to give himself a nervous condition.

“Hey, babe. I have to run to the bathroom,” Sebastian says, sliding his hands underneath Kurt’s rear and relocating him to the far side of the swing.

“O-okay,” Kurt says, a knot starting in his stomach, like a stop watch zeroing out before a tie-breaker race. “Don’t take too long.”

“Yeah, alright. I … won’t,” Sebastian says, giving Kurt an odd look before heading towards the door to his room. Kurt watches him go, crossing every finger on both hands and his toes in his socks, praying Sebastian returns before Charlotte discovers he’s alone and swoops in. Kurt doesn’t see her, hasn’t seen her for most of the day actually. He’d be hard pressed to say whether or not she’s even there.

Kurt and Sebastian ate dinner on the porch, intend on sleeping out there, too, in the tent still set up in the far corner. Did he see her before dinner? Or did Greg take her out to eat? They’d been discussing an Italian place not too far from the beach. They could be there, enjoying a romantic evening alone, with not a single thought to the deceptive practices of her son and his boyfriend. Or did she go shopping with Olivia? Olivia mentioned wanting to hit Yankee Candle for apple pie scented wax melts after stumbling across one of Kurt and Sebastian’s vanilla scented votives. That’s a possibility.

Unfortunately, there’s only one way for him to inconspicuously check. He’d have to go inside and take a peek for himself. If he texts Olivia, he runs the risk of her coming out to ask him what’s up with her mother in tow.

Kurt gets so wrapped up in thinking about where Charlotte could be that he misses her sweeping through the door right as Sebastian leaves, stopping her son to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey, Kurt!” she says brightly, striding across the porch toward him, wrapped in the coziest looking, camel-colored, cashmere duster. He’s been looking for one just like it - not super chunky the way knitted dusters tend to be. This one looks soft, and clingy in all the right places. And that color - super complementary. Once she’s done verbally disemboweling him, he’ll have to ask her where she got it. “I was hoping I’d get you alone! You and my son seem to be locked together at the hip lately! I’d need a crowbar to separate you two!”

“That seems to be the consensus,” Kurt says, banishing the image of sweet matriarch Charlotte Smythe wielding a crowbar. He shouldn’t be this nervous around her. She’s never given him reason to be. She treats him like he’s part of the family. Besides, Sebastian and Julian both agree that Olivia is the scary one. Not their mother.

Then again, where do they think Olivia gets it from?

“That’s not a bad thing. I remember being your age, locked at the hip with my boyfriend,” she reveals, a speck of wickedness coloring her smile. “But as much as I adore my son, I was hoping I could talk to you - one on one.”

Kurt’s stomach flip-flops the way it did during his NYADA audition. The only difference is, at his audition, he had a pair of gold pants to give him strength. He loves borrowing Sebastian’s Ralph Lauren lounge pants, but it’s not the same. “Absolutely. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, I feel like you may be avoiding me … just a little,” she says, bringing a hand up, putting her thumb and forefinger together for emphasis.

“Oh, uh … no. No I haven’t. Not … consciously,” he fibs, but she stares him down. Even if she doesn’t know about him and Sebastian pretending to be boyfriends, she knows that Kurt has been lying about something. Charlotte is an intelligent woman. Kurt is not about to disrespect her. “I’m sorry if it seems that way. That wasn’t my intention.”

She stays silent a moment longer, scrutinizing him the same way Carole does him and Finn when her motherly instincts tell her not to trust them. And Carole’s instincts are pretty much consistently on the nose. But Charlotte may not feel comfortable scolding her son’s boyfriend.

She may have decided to let the guilt eat Kurt away for her.

“Sebastian says you have quite a fondness for this old swing,” she says. “But before you came along, he’d never come out here. Ever. You would think he was afraid of heights or something the way he avoided it, and my son is definitely not afraid of heights. In fact, if someone were to ask me what Sebastian is afraid of, I’d have to say there isn’t a thing … except losing you. And your good opinion of him.”

Kurt goes temporarily speechless. He wants to say he knew that, but he can’t. Because he didn’t. “Really?”

“A-ha. So imagine my surprise when I found out that the two of you weren’t actually an item.”

Kurt’s eyes pop open. He hopes he looks stunned, hurt, maybe even a little too scandalized for words. But he knows he’s not that good an actor. Not yet. Give him a couple of semesters, maybe a year abroad …

But right now, he probably looks exactly the way he feels.

Busted.

“That’s … that’s not …” Kurt tries, but he can’t get the rest of the words out. They physically refuse to leave his tongue.

“It’s not what?” Charlotte asks in that stern way mothers do when weeding out the truth.

When they know for a fact that they’re being duped.

“You’re … you’re right.” Those words are a bit harder to say but at least they come out. “We weren’t a couple. B-but we are now,” he adds, praying that makes everything right, that he didn’t inadvertently toss Sebastian under the bus and lose him everything.

“As of …?” she presses.

Oh God, Kurt thinks, losing the feeling in his entire body. Even his tongue goes numb. Nope. He didn’t lose Sebastian everything before. But he may right now. God, he wishes he’d thought to talk to Sebastian about this! Gotten some sort of story straight. “A…after the gala?” More like after they got to North Carolina, but Kurt is not about to split hairs.

Charlotte, who had been sitting with her legs crossed, an elbow resting comfortably on one knee and her chin cradled in the palm of her hand, straightens in surprise.

Oh no! Kurt panics, knowing by the look in her eyes that she’s putting two and two together, time lines readjusting, figuring out just how long they haven’t been a couple.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry for lying to you! It’s … it’s all my fault!” he says, hoping that if he keeps her attention locked on himself, that if he can somehow spin it so he’s the perpetrator here and not Sebastian, she’ll forget that they were going to empty out his bank account and take back his tuition money. They can’t do that! Not after what Sebastian told him today! Not after everything he might be afraid of! “Are you angry? Disappointed? I’ll make it up to you somehow! I swear!”

“Calm down, dear.” She has an exquisite poker face. Kurt has to give her that. He doesn’t have a clue what she’s thinking. But the parts of her expression that aren’t blank are slightly sad. “I’m not disappointed. Or angry.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Kurt says, feeling like he’s walking on eggshells made of plate glass and battery acid, “how did you figure us out?”

Charlotte smirks. “Well, whether they like it or not, I know my children. And to be honest, because he’s my youngest, I probably know Sebastian best of all. Which is how I know this arrangement the two of you had …” She wiggles her forefinger between Kurt and an invisible placeholder that represents Sebastian “… whatever it entailed, wasn’t your idea. But I can appreciate you throwing yourself on that grenade, and don’t think I don’t know why.” Kurt is about to launch into a new line of disagreeing, but Charlotte sighs uncomfortably, and that makes him hold back. “Kurt, I’ve walked in on my son mid-coitus more times than any mother should, and what I saw when I walked in on the two of you … that wasn’t Sebastian. Not the one I’ve seen torturing himself with different sexual partners for years. The giggling, the smiling - that was different. It was honest. It’s what I’ve wanted for him for longer than I can tell you. And I was so happy to see it. But in a way, because of that, I knew it wasn’t real.”

“But … why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“Because of all the boys my son knows, he chose you. So he had to have a reason. And aside from that, I like you, Kurt. My husband husband likes you. We think that you’re good for our son. So I thought that, given enough time, what you two were pretending to be might become real.” Charlotte smiles. “As it turns out, it did.”

“Yes, it did,” Kurt agrees shyly.

“And I don’t want you to worry. Sebastian is safe. And that’s not contingent on you or on anything the two of you do. Gregory and I, we both bear some responsibility for Sebastian hatching this little scheme. Ultimatums don’t always work the way you intend them to.” That should sound like she’s admitting defeat, but the wink she gives Kurt admits anything but. “Just make sure you get what he promised you.”

“I did,” Kurt assures her. “It and a lot more.”

“Good,” she says. “Very good. You know, being a parent, you raise your kids the best way you know how, in the hopes that they grow into adults that can make good decisions on their own. I may not agree with all of the decisions my children have made, but they are their decisions to make. I can’t micromanage their lives. I have to trust them.”

“I think my dad would agree with you,” Kurt says, thinking back on all the times his father stressed that Kurt was an adult, that he’d be out of the house soon, and that his decisions were his own. And as much as Kurt appreciated the sentiment, the look in his father’s eye when he said it, one he probably thought he was covering so well, gutted him.

“Your father is a good man,” Charlotte says, giving Kurt’s hand a pat. “And from what I can see, he did a wonderful job raising you.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says, feeling way more at ease now than he did when this conversation started. “For what it’s worth, I think you guys did an amazing job as parents, too.”

Charlotte’s smile dips, wobbles at the corners, and Kurt wonders if he said something wrong. She sits back in the swing, turns her head slightly away. She gazes down the beach, the same way Sebastian does when he thinks about something sad, watching the water rush in to meet the shore, then out to join the waves. “Thank you, Kurt,” she says finally. “That does mean a lot.”

***

Julian’s demeanor has been changing in increments.

Kurt thinks he may be the only one who notices since he’s spent time alone with every member of the Smythe family and no one else has mentioned it. But Julian has become sullen.

Downright sulky.

He hasn’t gotten on Sebastian’s case recently half as much as when he got there, hasn’t flirted with Kurt in the past few days other than to tell him he looks good wearing his clothes (a black Henley Kurt thought was Sebastian’s, which had found itself in Sebastian’s room due to an unfortunate dry cleaning mishap).

The change started about the same time Kurt began to notice that the long phone conversations Julian had been having with Cooper - the ones that started in the family room or in the kitchen after dinner but eventually sent Julian outside searching for privacy - seemed to happen less and less, and with no estimated time of Cooper’s arrival in sight. Kurt reminds himself that Julian and Cooper’s relationship has always been a volatile one, so maybe this is just the way things go between them.

But it’s still heartbreaking.

Julian seemed so happy when he first arrived, first told them about Cooper spending the summer with him, and now ...

Kurt hopes that their flame hasn’t burned out so quickly, the way he feared his with Sebastian would, the thrill of the chase gone, the shine of the taboo beginning to take on a matte finish.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Julian says, catching Kurt off guard and staring as he makes his way up to their towels spread out on the beach. Kurt wasn’t staring at Julian, even though he’d been looking in the man’s direction. He was just staring, lost in his own thoughts. But he’ll never convince Julian of that. “Why don’t you take a picture? It lasts longer. In fact, I have a few I can text you, save you the trouble. They’re organized by various states of undress …”

“That’s a surefire way to end up with a broken screen,” Olivia says while Sebastian scoots his towel over, scoops up his boyfriend.

“Happen to have any of you in a Franciscan robe?” Kurt counters. “Maybe even a kaftan?”

Julian smirks, and even though it makes him look as handsome as ever, it doesn’t brighten his face, doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know, I might.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Olivia snickers, “so be careful what you ask for. Even if he does, nothing says it’ll be PG.”

“Speaking of, what are you two gentlemen doing tomorrow night?” he asks. “I mean, between the sex, sex, and more sex.”

“Have they been having a lot of sex?” Olivia asks offhandedly while she scrolls through her phone.

“As far as I can tell. I don’t know one hundred percent. They haven’t invited me to join in.”

“We don’t have any hard and fast plans,” Sebastian says, diverting the topic of conversation away from his and Kurt’s sex life. “Why do you ask? And before you say anything, threesomes are out.”

“Airiel Down is playing at Red Hat,” Julian says, reaching into the pocket of his shorts for his phone. “I got two tickets. I was going to take Cooper, but he hasn’t …” Julian’s voice waffles, goes minutely hoarse.

Olivia’s eyes dart his way.

No. That didn’t go unnoticed, Kurt thinks when her gaze shifts to Sebastian, and then Sebastian looks at Kurt. All three of them had heard the same thing.

“Anyway, anyway,” Julian says, pushing past it, “no reason for them to go to waste.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you could still go. Scalp the other ticket,” Sebastian suggests, but from the tone of his voice, it sounds like he’s asking another question entirely.

“I’m sure, little bro. No worries.” Julian chuckles, but it’s as dry as the sand they’re sitting on. They watch in silence as Julian types out a text and attaches the electronic tickets. A second later, Sebastian’s phone in his pocket beeps. “Your boyfriend here needs a night out, and exposure to some of our fine North Carolina culture.” Julian grins. For a moment, he’s closer to normal than he’s been in days. “Besides, you two need to give that beautiful ass of his a break.”

#acitw #acitw au #kurtbastian #sekurt

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dopescotlandwarrior · 5 years ago

Text

Bluegrass-Chapter Sixteen

Special thanks to @statell for all your help and wisdom

Previous chapters at AO3

Chapter Sixteen

Claire leaned her back against the wall and applied her bright red lipstick with a small mirror. Jason whistled at her and made a joke about lipstick for a horse race. Already in her silks, she waited to be called to interview. She would rather be reviewing video of this race with Michael, but he too was pulled away to talk to reporters about their super horse Runner. She saw Jamie wave as she started walking toward the entrance to the track. She was totally focused on the race, but Jamie could steal her thoughts with just a look. He kissed her.

“I need to prepare ye, lass. Ye have a lot of fans in the stands today. Ready?”

She nodded and held Jamie’s hand as the bright Florida sun made it hard to see at first. People were cheering and calling her name. She turned and smiled giving big waves.

“Jesus Jamie, the fans have doubled during the break.”

Jamie introduced her to a reporter for a horse racing magazine and they both sat down for the agreed five questions. She would do a round-robin with reporters before the race. As the hour wore on Claire was getting antsy to be with Runner for a pre-race pep-talk. She had shown him pictures of the horses to beat during the previous week and he was excited, asking everyone to race him.

Jamie walked her back asking if she felt okay, she seemed quiet today. He would never be comfortable with the element of danger in this sport, but he was very proud of her. Runner was in top condition and had even put on some weight over the winter which Michael was very happy about. He hoped they would do well but deep inside he had the same doubts he always did.

Jason walked Runner to the track and the stands went crazy. Runner’s head jerked up from the loud shouting and then looked at the crowd. Jason couldn’t see Claire yet, so he walked the Horse of The Year to the end of the stands and back to the delight of his fans.

Jamie kissed Claire before launching her into the saddle. One more wave at the crowd and her final twist in the saddle to look at Jamie and smile. Runner loaded into the gate like a perfect gentleman and then told Claire over and over to watch him beat each horse. He was pawing the ground with his hoof. The first race in three months and he was ready.

When the gate slammed open, eleven horses made a mad dash for the track. Horse number twelve was not out of the gate and Claire rolled her eyes.

“I think now is a fine time to start running.”

Like an afterthought, Runner trotted out of the gate looking ridiculous. Claire was afraid he might just stop or go the other way.

“Runner they are nearing the first turn!”

He told her to grab his mane and took off at a hard gallop. Compared to the bunched-up horses coming out of the turn Runner looked like a black streak as he thundered up behind the pack on the outside. He lowered his head and stretched with every stride, had the perfect lead going into the second turn but still had five horses to pass before the finish line. Claire tucked in and yelled for him to hurry. When she sent images of them flying across the finish line, he turned the power on and Claire saw horses falling away on the left side. For a split second, it seemed Runner was just playing with the other horses and Claire wondered how fast he really was. They won by one length and Claire stood in her stirrups, crop held proudly over her head and her victory smile shined for all to see.

Michael clocked them in and looked at the track record, Runner was a fraction of a second from taking it for himself. It was time to have a hard conversation with Claire. He ran down to the track for the winner’s circle picture and to congratulate them.

Michael walked into Runner’s wing hearing the conversation between Claire and Jason. They were talking about the previous weekend race and how Runner stood still at the gate for an extra-long time.

“Do you ever wonder if he just won’t break out one of these days?”

“Him? Never. He wants to win too much. In fact, I think part of that is some kind of psych joke with the other horses. Hi, Michael, we’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Claire, I need to ask you about something, ah, well this is awkward. Ah, there’s a difference between passing the other horses and running as fast as he can. Right? Does Runner know the difference? I mean, could you tell him to run his fastest?”

“As I’ve said before to you Michael, that would require a gift to understand and talk to animals.”

“C’mon Claire, I know you communicate somehow, I’ve seen too much not to believe that. However, you do it, I want you to teach him that it’s more than passing all the horses. I think he has more, a lot more power than we know.”

Claire smiled at Michael, feeling a bit victorious, remembering how Michael accursed them all of being crazy in the beginning. So, he was a believer now.

“Of course I will. I have had a thought about the same thing from time to time. I will let him know we want the full power, but it will have to wait for the race in two weeks.”

As the morning training was almost over Jamie walked outside to watch Runner for a bit. Just breezing he was so fast, he wondered what it must feel like to ride him over the finish line going twice that speed. Claire looked like a spec of something on his back, making Jamie realized how much Runner had grown in the past year. They only had two races scheduled and then the derby. Jamie wondered if he actually had a chance to run for the roses, then shook his head to clear his mind. He was a loving advocate for Claire. Her health, her mental happiness, her willingness. Runner had a team of people to watch out for him and Claire had Jamie.

With their win last weekend in Florida, they were sure to have enough points to be contenders in the Derby. He was willing to let that record stand and retire them both but what if they actually ran in the race? It would be their toughest and most dangerous race yet. They were accustomed to the stakes races, which are rarely more than twelve horses. For the Derby, there would be twenty of America’s best Thoroughbreds, one from Japan and one from Europe. Twenty-two horses busting out of the gate together was absolutely terrifying to think about.

Jason ambled out of the barn, ready to take Runner when Claire jumped off. He walked toward Jamie and silently watched for a few minutes.

“Michael thinks she talks to animals now too, did you know that? It feels like the whole world has gone crazy.”

Jamie laughed, “I suppose it would feel like that because it’s just the team ye see every day. Maybe ye’ll feel better going to town now and then, where the normal people are.”

Jamie kept laughing as he caught Claire jumping into his arms. He tossed her over his shoulder and walked away with a wiggling female protesting amid giggles. Once inside the shade of the barn, he set her on her feet and kissed her before unsnapping her helmet and pulling it off. His huge hands slid down her back and squeezed her ample rump.

“Ye started somethin this mornin that’s been brewin for the last few hours. Suppose ye come back to the house with me and finish it.”

“I can’t, I have to help Jason.”

“Do ye now. I can bend ye over right here if ye want.” The teasing continued.

“God, I love it when you do that, just like that, a little more, yes like that.”

Jamie grabbed her hand and ran with her to his office and locked the door where he could tease her until she agreed to the midday tryst. There were five mares ready to foal, so he always anticipated being interrupted, but it was worth the gamble. Jamie prevailed and when Claire was naked in his arms the whole world vanished and it was just him and her, delighting each other with a well-practiced dance.

Claire fell to Jamie’s side panting for her life and reached out to hold him. They curled up together for a blissful minute before his cell phone started ringing. He shook his head no, but she promptly grabbed it and held it to his ear laughing at his pout. While he talked, he flicked on the monitor in their room and saw a mare down in her stall. He handed the phone to his veterinarian to ask the pertinent questions.

“We’ll be right there Jason.”

That afternoon and evening brought a filly and a colt into the world and the barn was upbeat and full of happiness. Claire had given Jason enough instruction to adequately help her with foaling dams. He reminded her of Dustin with his enthusiasm and readiness and it warmed her inside to have his help.

Jamie was beaming with his first two successful births of the year. In truth, each dam had a proven history of producing two-turn winners making the value of these tiny babies upwards of a million dollars as yearlings. The value, won or lost with birth made the process unnerving and tense, especially for Jamie, who gambled huge sums on stud fees and maintenance of the mares for their eleven-month pregnancy. The second foal dropped at midnight. It was a long day for Claire and Jason and they both stuck to their task taking birth records and checking the dam and foal until two in the morning.

“Jason, you are my miracle. Thank you so much for your help. Be sure and tell Molly all about what you did today, she will be thrilled. Get home and to bed or you will be sleeping through chores in a few hours. Do you want to stay in the guest room tonight? It has a private bath and it’s next to the kitchen?”

Jason blushed crimson at the compliment. “Thanks Claire, but I don’t have any clothes, and these are hopelessly gross. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

While Claire was finishing up, Jamie went to Runner’s stall and stroked his neck, speaking softly to him in Gaelic. His relief and joy with two births today made him remember Claire and Dusty pulling this colt out of his dam. He remembered feeding him around the clock and sleeping with him at night. When Angus or Rupert tried to relieve him for a night, something would happen to bring him back. He didn’t mind all that much. He fell in love with the colt and it was less time laying next to Isobel. The baby would whinny for him during the half-hour trip home to shower and dress, but he always came back with a warm bottle to soothe his shattered nerves.

Runner was weaned from the bottle, and the overnight sleepovers stopped, causing four months of distress in the big colt. It was a difficult time for Runner as his duress caused weight loss and hoof problems. Jamie worried about him constantly and a morning hug was first on his list every day. They made it through those terrible months of forced autonomy and the colt thrived finally on weight gainer supplements and the most nutritious food. It was always Jamie who calmed him when thunder rolled above their heads, walked him out to the pasture each day, and held him for vet checks. When Runner saw Jamie, even at a distance, it was time for some love and the colt would practically crash through his bars to get to him. Jamie smiled at the memory of hiding in the equipment barn when Claire first came to work with him. It was the only way to keep the colt focused on her.

“Look at ye now. Yer grown and fierce on the track, just like ye were supposed to be. She made ye understand ye were born to race and yer all that and more. She’s right about what makes ye happy, it’s racin and winnin. Do me one favor Runner, protect her from harm, please.”

Runner was sound asleep from Jamie’s soft voice and stroking. He closed the stall door quietly so it wouldn’t wake up either horse and went to find his love. Claire held him close and told him the likely timing of the other three dams before she kissed him goodnight and drove home to sleep for a couple of hours. Jamie pulled out the cot and laid close to the stalls where he could see the babies suckling their exhausted mothers. He dozed until something brought him up in a hurry. He blinked at the darkness and heard it again, a horse in distress. Reaching for the overhead lights he found another dam down and it looked like she was pushing.

Claire heard the ringing in her sleep and it worked its way into her dream of chasing someone, holding her phone out to them. When the ringing started again, she opened her eyes and reached for the phone, then reached to turn on the monitor. She could see the dam down in her stall and didn’t like her position, something was wrong, it wasn’t natural. She threw her clothes on as fast as she could and sped down to the barn. Jamie was pacing outside the entrance. Yes, something was very wrong.

“She’s in duress lass, I don’t see anything comin and its been fifteen minutes of hard labor.”

Claire ran into the dam’s wing and examined the mare who had successfully pushed out one leg and the muzzle of the tiny baby.

“Jamie get her up on her feet, help me get her up!”

When the mare was standing, Claire put her hands on its cheeks and told her to be calm, she was there to help. Letting go she turned toward the stall door and saw Jason standing there watching with wide eyes. The sun was coming up and he was here to get Runner ready.

“Jason I need the sterile rope in my truck and the ventilation kit, on the double.” She pulled on sterile gloves and gently pushed the foal back in down the birthing canal. Jamie stroked the mare and spoke softly to calm her.

“I brought the long gloves too.”

“You are good! No, you are a great assistant Jason, you remind me of someone I used to work with. Thank you. One of the foal’s legs is folded back so it’s impossible to deliver it. I pushed it back and I will find the bent leg and tie the rope to it. We will pull a bit to right the legs, and hopefully, get this foal out in the next five minutes. God willing.”

Claire was moving very fast while she spoke and Jamie’s worry shot up, fearing the foal would be born dead. Claire reached into the mare as carefully as possible searching for the legs. It took several minutes to tie the limb one-handed with a very slippery glove. Once secure she pulled the limb into place and pulled the rope lightly to rid the slack. The mare was obviously in pain and fell to her knees as soon as Claire pulled her arm out. This was the tricky part as she kept tension on the rope to keep the front legs together. If birth did not happen in the next several minutes the foal wouldn’t survive.

“Come here Jason, put your hand around mine, feel how taught the rope is, you have to do this part. Keep it taught as she pushes the baby out. If you see two front legs we’re good, if you see anything else let me know asap.”

Claire put the rope in Jason’s hand and he moved into her position. Claire ran to the front of the horse and on hands and knees, she touched her head and cried. What started out silent gave way to Claire telling the mare it was time to push with all her might. Through Claire’s tears, Jason heard the impossible.

“I know you’re scared and I know you hurt. Get it out then, push, you have to push.”

Claire forced herself to stop crying. It broke her heart to know how scared the dam was, but she needed to be the hero right now. The mare was resisting her instinct from her fear so she kept talking to her, encouraging her to not to fight it. Claire ran back to Jason and took his place again. She looked at Jamie,

“Which one Jamie?”

He looked stricken with the question. If it came down to saving one or the other, which one?

“The mare.”

Claire snapped on the two fresh long gloves and reached into the birth canal gently holding the foal behind the front legs and pulling slowly while she talked to the mare. When the front legs emerged, then the tiny muzzle of the head, the mare shifted her position and pushed the baby out into Claire’s arms.

Claire was tearing the sac from the baby and Jason held out the instruments she would need at exactly the right time. Jamie watched them work and had a memory of her and Dustin working with the same practiced coordination.

“Sassenach, is it alive?”

“Yes, he’s alive, for now.” Jason rubbed the foal with a large towel pressing into his sides hoping to stimulate the breathing response. The mare stood up and inspected her baby as Jason worked.

“Let’s start resuscitation. Press into the esophagus right here to prevent the air from going to the stomach.”

Claire pressed the ventilation tube over the colt’s mouth and squeezed the bag then released it. Five times she repeated this as Jason pressed into the baby’s esophagus and Jamie looked on, praying in Gaelic. Claire pulled the tube and listened to the colt’s chest. She heard a weak breath and saw the sides flare slightly.

“Thank God, he’s breathing on his own. Let’s get all this to the side so he can stand up.”

The colt still looked dead to Jason and he looked up at Claire like she was crazy. Before he could speak the tiny head popped up looking for its mother who was right there to lick his face.

Claire cleared everyone out of the stall so the mare could do her job enticing the baby to get up. They were observant and hopeful as the colt made several attempts to stand up, and then he was exhausted. The mare continued to lick him and after several minutes of rest she pushed him with her nose, hard enough to provide a head start and the colt stood up. She positioned her body so he could suckle, and Claire exhaled in relief while her tears left wet tracks on her cheeks. Jason stood absolutely still. He was still holding all their equipment and the towels under his arms because he couldn’t look away. They watched until the colt laid down in the straw and went to sleep.

The mare walked to the front of the stall where Claire was standing and pushed her nose into her neck. Claire put her hands on her head and said: “you’re welcome, I’m so proud of you.”

Jason felt the hair on his arms and neck stand up and a shiver go through him. He stared at Claire pressing her face into the mare’s cheek. The impossible beckoned, persistently banging into his brain requesting admittance. He opened his mind to the evidence of a miracle in play. He looked up at her sharply.

“You can talk to animals, Claire,” said with awe and reverence.

Claire looked at Jason with a sleepy smile, “yes, I can.”

Jason’s eyes reflected the knowledge of magic as he hurried to catch up with his chores. He told Michael that Claire can speak to animals and got an “I know” back. What a glorious day, he thought, they saved the colt and Claire can speak to animals! Wait until his friends at home hear about this.

Jamie hugged Claire close and thanked her for saving the foal. “I’m indebted to ye lass, again. Pick yer favorite restaurant, maybe a bit of rest this afternoon and then we celebrate a bit.”

Michael passed by them with a saddle over his arm and asked why she was so late this morning, followed by “I’m just kidding Claire, but seriously, get on your horse for an hour of breezing please.”

Claire rolled her eyes and gave Jamie a quick kiss before walking to Runner’s wing. Michael was getting a bit nervous about the approaching races and wanted every minute of training they had agreed on. Claire’s rest was not a consideration when they were this close to glory.

Michael and Jason had pieced together the reason for Jamie and Claire’s split and it left Michael steaming mad. He almost quit and went home but they were back together by the time he returned so he stowed the argument that raged to come out, and kept the peace. He had not drawn a salary in the months he had been working for them. Jamie had offered but it was almost embarrassing with the wealth he had. They did owe him though, after promising him first rights to Runner’s story, which was now a story about Claire and Runner, and the magic they made.

Runner was looking spry this morning and Michael allowed himself to fantasize about watching them break out of the gate at Churchill Downs in a month. It made him so excited he forgot to watch Runner’s lead around the turn until Claire barreled up on him, snapping him out of his daydreams. He looked up at her stern face and smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry, Claire.”

Later that afternoon, Claire asked Jamie for a rain check on dinner because she wanted to stay close to the newborn colt. She realized that someone had to stay the next weekend to monitor the two remaining mares. She estimated they had another week or two at least but wondered if Jamie wanted to risk being away. She would talk to him later when they were home and relaxed.

Jamie leaned back in his chair and smiled his gratitude to Claire who was carrying dishes away and wrapping leftovers. He replaced her at the sink, and she sat down for their much loved evening conversation. Sometimes Jamie hardly let a word out of her mouth before he captured it for his own lusty purposes, other times the conversation was deeply philosophical, but tonight it was planning for the upcoming race and deciding who would stay back to watch the mares. Claire assumed Jamie would stay until he reminded her that first, he would never miss a race, and second, the owner was required to check-in and pay all the fees.

“Who then?”

“Rupert or Angus will stay and Doc Anderson is on call if one of the dams starts to foal. It will be fine Sassenach, and I will watch ye cross the finish line at breakneck speed like ye always do. I’m sure it’s burned in yer brain that the Derby is in one month and ye have two races in between.

“Yes, Michael has already increased Runner’s fat supplement and upped the carbohydrate calories to help him with fatigue. He started the diet change at the beginning of the week, so we’ll see how hot it makes him. As long as he uses the excess energy to go forward instead of up, I’m good.”

“Are ye worried, love?”

Claire looked like she didn’t understand the word. “No, not worried, I just don’t want any cuts of broken bones loading him into the gate.”

“Ye look dead on yer feet lass. How does a hot bath with bubbles sound?”

“Okay bubbles, let’s go.”

Claire laughed at her joke all the way upstairs and into the tub where Jamie held her close and whispered his love into her ear. The bubbles were luxurious and six inches deep allowing them to play and relax through two additions of hot water.

Jamie wrapped Claire in thick towels and chuckled at her eyes closing while she fought to keep them open.

“Get into bed mo chridhe, and I will check the babies and be right back.”

When Claire’s face felt the soft cotton pillowcase her eyes closed and she hardly moved when Jamie slipped in next to her. No dreams, no waking, just restorative sleep.

Jason pulled up to the barn in the pre-dawn darkness to help Jamie pack up their gear and get Runner ready for transport. An hour later they were walking him into the trailer, and then off to the airport.

Runner’s flight took longer than a flight for humans because the captain took very wide turns which added air space, and a very long approach to the runway to keep the plane as level as possible and avoid an abrupt change in altitude. The handlers sometimes outnumbered the horses so there were plenty of people to attend to their every need. It was quite a production and at five-thousand dollars each way, it better be.

The two men stood on the tarmac and watched the plane take off, as they always did. The walk back to the truck caught Jamie off guard like it always did. There was a natural buffer of people and horses that existed between Jamie and Jason. Alone together on the tarmac, anything was possible.

“Michael sure was pissed when he found out you tried to pull Runner from the track after the first race in March. I thought he was gonna box you. Man, he was pissed.”

“Why? I can’t imagine he is dependent on a job that pays nothin.”

“No, you promised him he could write a book about Runner winning the Triple Crown.”

“The trip…” Jamie couldn’t hold it in, the laughter burst out of him until he was doubled over and holding his stomach.

“I swear I did not promise him a Triple Crown. That is ridiculous Jason. There hasn’t been a Triple Crown winner in thirty-seven years. There’s a reason for that, it’s impossible. C’mon Jason. He’s really fast and a local hero on the track, but he’s not good enough to win the Derby, let alone all three races for the crown. I’m surprised Michael could think such a thing, I thought he was smart.”

Jamie kept laughing until they got to the truck and trailer. Jason was quiet but Jamie was having too much fun with the topic to notice. When they were on the road again, and Jamie was lost in traffic and his own thoughts, Jason spoke up.

“Do me a favor, Jamie? Don’t talk like that in front of Runner, or Claire. They believe in miracles and you should let them.”

Jason had a deep blush on his face for standing up to Jamie that way and turned his gaze out the window to avoid his contempt. Jamie tried to fill his mind with other thoughts, but he was unsuccessful. He couldn’t believe Claire had such aspirations and he wasn’t the one to bring it up with her. He promised his support of any race she wanted, and he would keep his word.

Claire made a last phone call to Doc Anderson to update the condition of the last two mares and promise there would be a manager sleeping with them that night. It would be a fast trip, just one night away. Jamie was tense about leaving and Claire soothed him with her latest exam findings, they weren’t ready to drop yet.

Flying to New Jersey and the chaos of greeting Runner at the track, getting work out time tomorrow before the race, registering, weighing in, and a vet check for Runner was exhausting. One thing that put wind in Claire’s sails was each person she spoke to knew about Runner and gave an extra helping of respect during the process.

Claire was in her silks, bent over the track program the next day, studying the other horses. Runner was favored to win and had drawn a crowd of fans even in New Jersey. The morning workout had gone very well because he was ready to race. Jamie launched her into the saddle in front of screaming well-wishers and Claire laughed at the curious look Runner gave them. As she was led away to the gate she turned and smiled at Jamie. The bile coming up from his stomach felt like his insides were melting from acid, but he managed a smile.

Runner was quiet, no boasting or looking for other horses this time. Claire didn’t know what to make of that. When the gate slammed open and the other horses were away, Runner gave an impressive gallop to catch up but was soon surrounded by the pack. There were two horses, one on each side of him getting dangerously close as the jockey’s boots were within a foot of each other. Claire was getting scared from the aggressive posturing of the jockeys and wondered if they were trying to unnerve her. The jockey on her left brushed her boot and scared her half to death. Runner was pinned down in the pack with no opening. Claire knew if she collided with either horse it would be deadly and she screamed at Runner.

“Get me out of here Runner, please help me!”

Runner threw his head in the air to get away from the bit and slowed his speed by lifting his upper body. He told Claire to hold his mane and tuck. When he was free of the pack he took off on the outside and passed half of them by the second turn. A hush fell over the spectators before they erupted in shouts. True to his nature, he sped past each of the three horses in front of him running neck and neck with the lead horse before he pulled away and won the race by three lengths.

“Oh my God Runner, that was incredible! You are amazing!” Claire stood in her stirrups for a brief moment and came back down to slow Runner. It felt like he was still in the race until she sent him lovely pictures of a job well done. When she passed the guys on the rail she laughed at their stunned faces. Why are they always so surprised she wondered?

When Jamie saw Claire get pinned into the pack by those other two horses, he almost had a heart attack. His field glasses were pressed into his eyeballs and his breath was held until he almost passed out. What Runner did to get away from them is something Jamie had never seen. When he knew Claire was safe, he looked at Michael with a questioning face.

“What the hell was that Michael?”

Michael was shaking his head from side to side. “Looks like he picked Claire over winning. It’s only a guess because I’ve never seen a horse purposely decelerate during a race. I’m going to find out who those jockeys are and the owners. I have a bad feeling about how they pinned her in. The jockey on her right had a clear opening and he didn’t take it. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Jamie transformed into a snarling, deadly beast in the blink of an eye. “Do me a favor, find out before they get away and tell me first. When the winner’s circle picture was taken Claire slid off Runner to jump into Jamie’s arms like always, but he had vanished and so had Michael. She looked at Jason like she was shocked, and he opened his arms pretending he would catch her like Jamie always did. Claire laughed at him as they walked back to the clamoring crowd where Claire signed autographs and talked with fans while Jason held Runner close to the safety bars so people could pet him.

Claire looked for Jamie and Michael feeling worry creep into her happiness. Jason pushed her along and told her to wave before he led them both under the shade to the stalls.

Runner was stripped of his tack while Claire held his head and thanked him over and over for saving her.

“Thank you Runner for saving me from those two horses, God I was scared but you saw me to safety.”

“And I still won!” he shouted into her consciousness and she laughed at his bragging.

Michael found a track steward to file a complaint against the two horses that boxed Runner in. The steward handed him a form and Jamie almost pulled the man off his feet.

“We need to see the video playback now before they can leave the track, where do we go for that?”

The steward looked at Jamie with boiling anger in his eyes for the audacity of holding him against his will. Jamie growled NOW at the man and they were directed to an office where they could watch the playback with another official. The men crowded around the monitor and the official closed in on the three horses, watching the two jockeys make a beeline for her and crowd her into the pack coming dangerously close. Jamie watched the terror on Claire’s face and saw her screaming at Runner right before his upper body came up and his haunches bulged with his effort to slow down. The rapid deceleration almost unseated Claire and Jamie felt his legs go weak. He knew the jockeys and he vaporized from the office.

Michael was telling the official they would file a complaint against the owners of the two horses before running after Jamie.

The jockey on Claire’s right walked into the bathroom to call the owner who had disappeared during the race, the piece of shit.

“You left too soon to see that fuckin powerhouse of a horse pull an incredible deceleration mid-race and break out to the outside to win the race. I didn’t like doing what you demanded and I quit your horse, fuck you, I could have killed that girl with what you told me to do. You can’t stop that horse, even with chicken shit moves like you made me do. Send my check to my home address and pray they don’t question my motives today.”

The jockey drove his fist into the mirror when he clicked off and then ran his hand under cold water for five minutes before leaving. Unfortunately, the exit was blocked by one huge, pissed off Scot, who wrapped an arm under his chin, physically escorting him out to find the officials. The jockey was practically dragged toward the stairs with Jamie paying no mind to his ability to breathe. Michael ran up behind him.

“Whoa, whoa there buddy, the dudes got to breathe. C’mon Jamie, he’s not goin anywhere with us on either side of him. Let him go man.”

Jamie looked down at the jockey like he was not human, just a specimen being taken for identification before extermination. He loosened his hold and the jockey fell to his knees taking huge breaths of air. The small man raised his hand above his head like he was warding off further assault. Michael helped him to his feet and kept Jamie away until he caught his breath.

“You have one chance to make it right dude. I can let Jamie strangle you to death or you can tell the stewards what you did and why.”

The jockey relented and a report was taken by track officials that would heavily penalize the owner of the two horses and the jockeys. Runner was well known around the world, especially after winning Horse of the Year, and it was bringing out the ruthless, jealous, hateful, nature of some people in horse racing. The bile thickened inside Jamie’s esophagus and suddenly he had to find Claire.

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saidelia-draconis · 4 years ago

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✖ - a repressed memory

A strange, guttural retch. The searing light. The promise of new opportunity and a new day. The man recoiled as sunlight crept into the room and flooded his vision. It made him ill. As did everything at this hour. He could hear the chirp of birds and the whirring of insects deep within his skull. The sounds rattled through him, leaving an uncomfortable buzzing sensation. The pillow beneath him that smells of sweat was especially pungent. He felt unsettled. He felt like retching.

With the delicacy of a wounded man, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbling to the washroom. The basin laid out the night before still held the tepid waters within. He cast a nervous glance down at it. He cupped his hands, bringing the cool water up to his face, attempting to wash away the events of the night before. The water was tinged slightly red as it ran down his wrists, giving him pause. He allowed the bowl to steady, examining himself in the reflection of the small pool. Shrewd and glowering, beady little eyes stared back at him. A broad, and high forehead. What little hair he had left was thinning, and disheveled. Wide, rosy cheeks, and a bulbous red nose. A visage he hardly recognized any longer. Barely a man in his early thirties, he had aged years in a short span.

What drew his attention this morning was the unusual turn his nose took. Black blood dried on his upper lip. He hadn’t the faintest idea who, or what had been so cross with him as to knock him across the face. He only knew it was likely justified. A wave of shame washed over him. For a time, it almost distracted him from his splitting headache. He finished washing, no longer interested in the face staring back at him. When he had finished, he clasped the neck of a bottle, gazing down at the soft, amber liquid inside. ‘Next week,’ he told himself with a resigned sigh. He would have time to prepare that way.

He raised the bottle to his lips, choking back several mouthfuls of the acrid liquid, wiping his mouth. He also dashed a bit of the liquid over his nose. He nearly dropped the bottle. Tears welled up in his eyes. He clutched his nose, stopping short of touching the injured tissue. He balled up a fist, pounding the wall to distract himself from the pain. With slow, measured breaths, he recovered from the ordeal to find a figure standing half in, half out of the doorway. A wave of guilt washed over him. No doubt she had thought his fist in the wall was him trying to summon her.

“Papa? I heard you knocking. Are we going to the stable?”

He crouched down to her level, his eyes trying to meet hers. Her gaze remained downcast. The resentment she carried was almost palpable, though she would never voice it. She was six, maybe seven. He had lost count. The vibrant red hair that framed her face made him sad, bitter and, nostalgic all at once. Still, he quashed the ill feelings in favor of magnanimity. Or at least, as much as he was capable. He dropped his hand from his nose, holding his arms open. She did not approach.

“No, Sadie, I’m sorry. That wasn’t to you, I was...”

He stopped short, having no excuse.

“Never mind, I’m sorry, Sadie. I’ll be ready in a minute. Are you ready to get to the stables with me?”

“Yes, papa.”

He hardly stopped to dress. The clothes from the previous night hadn’t many more stains on them than the rest of his wardrobe. He threw on his drab overcoat, slipping the bottle into a sewn pocket inside. Just enough to carry him to the day’s end. He tried to take the girl’s hand as the two left the semi-dilapidated shack. She recoiled from his touch. He did not pursue.

The pair trod the dirt path towards the stable in silence, Oreyn still left with a gutted feeling. Worse still that he had none other to blame than himself. The bottle kept hitting him in the belly as he walked, a near-constant reminder. They were heralded with the stench of horses shortly before their arrival. The pair changed their boots in silence, stepping into the stable. The smell of horses only caused Oreyn’s stomach to turn. He handed Saidelia her shovel, nodding stiffly.

“You start with the new arrivals. I’ll start in the back.”

He left the girl to tend to half of his work. The easier half, he told himself. It did little to make him feel better. She should have started schooling recently. But it was a worry for times more plentiful. Holing himself up in the pen with the mare, he fidgeted with his coat, choking back more of the bottle in secret before starting. It did little to help his work, but the disquiet in his stomach was stilled for at least another few moments. Though it’d be back. It always was.

He worked in silence, the bottle stowed in a netting with nearby equipment. He took nips throughout his work as needed. Little by little, his troubles seemed less poignant. He felt better, less worried by his surroundings and his situation. He smelled the stables less. Instead, that sour, sterile smell that hissed in vapors up from his mouth to his nose. Before long, he was back in stride.

Without the little distractions, he worked tirelessly. Perhaps not efficiently, though he could muck the stables adeptly enough not to draw the ire of the stablemaster. He doubled back, checking the girl’s progress. Less than halfway done, he found her in the midst of trying to push the last of the soiled sawdust out of a pen. He felt a twinge of anger. What had she been doing all this time? He worked nearly half as fast as her, and she hadn’t woken up in any state similar to hers. He hit the head of his muckrake against the stone floor to get her attention. She jumped, dropping hers. It was several times taller than her. He tried patients, ultimately failing. His eyes scrutinizing her.

“Saidelia. I’ve gotten all my pens done by now, what the fuck is the holdup?”

“Sorry, papa. I--”

“You what? They’re either done, or they’re not. Are they done, or are they not?”

“Not, papa...”

“We’ve got shit to get done after this, pick up the pace.”

He shook his head, wandering down the rows of pens. He revisited his first stable, retrieving his bottle and taking another hearty slug before pocketing it. On his way back, he was approached by a lanky, tired-looking man in a tailored suit. He had wispy grey hair and a semi-permanent scowl. His face was contorted into a look of disgust as he surveyed the stablehand. His bloodied shirt, the various other stains that decorated his clothes.

“Draconis.”

“Mister Harrington. You need something?”

“I take it you didn’t receive my note, then.”

“I got shit to do, Harrington. Spit it out, or let me get back to it, yeah?”

“Very well. Since you evidently can’t work it out on your own, pepper was to be saddled and hitched prior to my arrival.”

He reached towards Oreyn, snapping his fingers inches away from the man’s face.

“That means get off of your pickled ass and get to work before I have words with Mr. Tember about the discrepancy of your instructions and your work.”

The rage within Oreyn roiled once again as he was ordered about by the domineering man. Unlike the child, Harrington posed a threat to him. He settled for sloppily applying the saddle, leading the horse to the post and handing the reins off to the scowling man. He thrust the bridle into the man’s chest with a venomous glare. Harrington smirked, starting the process of mounting his horse. Oreyn elected not to help.

“You know what I find so amusing about you, Draconis?”

He did not answer.

“You seem insistent that you’re above your station. Your... Noble heritage, as it was. Myself? I was the son of a cheesemonger. You were the son of some Grand Alliance general. Now I have business to tend to that involves more gold than you make in a year. And you? You stink of cheap bourbon when you wake up late in the morning. Not to mention your business with that fisherman last night... What is his name, Francis? You don’t even fight like you used to be a guard. But I suppose that’s hard when you’re piss drunk. Have a good day, Oreyn. Give my best to that little one of yours. Light knows she doesn’t deserve to have you.”

Harrington departed before Oreyn could retaliate. Just as well. He ran after the man, shouting curses that seemed to go either unheeded or unheard. He was left alone in the road, feeling foolish. He turned back to the stables, finishing his day with little more than a few murmurs of discontentment. It seemed that the girl was actively avoiding him now, not that he cared at this point.

The setting of the sun was sign enough that the day was over, the two of them walking back home together at a distance. The door swung open and shut with a loud clatter, almost threatening to fall off its hinges. The man ignored it, shaking his head. Instead, he rummaged about in the cupboards, pulling out anything he could make for dinner. Saidelia glanced up at him nervously, stepping out of arm’s reach. Her voice was uncertain. He paid her little mind, having given up on dinner, sitting at the table.

“Papa? Do we have dinner tonight?”

“No. Get your shit and go see Esther and Francis. I’ll figure it out tonight.”

He took a pull from his bottle as he waved her away. She didn’t need to be told twice. The sound of the door opening, and clattering against the frame once again. He didn’t bother to check for her, finally content with his solitude.

“Fuck sakes... Why’d you do this to me, Candice? Out in the boondocks, and I have to raise a kid by myself. I didn’t ask for this shit. I never even wanted the girl.”

The door opened once again. Saidelia had forgotten to grab the grubby blanket off of her bed. The man turned, realizing his error. Saidelia was already gone. The door clattered against the frame once again leaving the man sitting alone at the table with a fresh wave of guilt. Even in his haze, it managed to sting. He took another swig off of the bottle. He could only hope that the girl wouldn’t remember his remark. Neither of them would.

(Thanks for the ask, @kevyn-thornrough-deactivated202! I hope you come back to us soon.)

#Asks #Backstory #Prompts #Writing

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swaps55 · 5 years ago

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Sweetheart O'Connor, May 25, 1990 - May 8, 2020.

You were once in a lifetime, kiddo. What a gift, to have had someone like her for so long.

No one has to read this - I just needed to put it somewhere.

It was dumb luck I ever found her at all. The right question to the right person at the right time led me to this copper red filly with a pinwheel on her forehead, a black sheep in a stable full of polo ponies.

She was three. I was twelve.

First time I sat on her was a near disaster. Straight line? Forget it. Turning? What’s that? She was all over the map and had two speeds: run and stop. I had no business being on a mare that green, and she probably needed someone a lot smarter than me to teach her anything. Fortunately, there wasn’t anyone around to tell me this was a mistake. I doubt I would have listened if they had.

She was perfect.

She had the smarts of an Irish pony with the attitude of a thoroughbred. You couldn’t really tell her to do anything - she was either willing or she wasn’t. We discovered really quickly she could jump, but if there were any thoughts of being a patient, pretty hunter they were immediately dashed. She ran with her ears pinned, tail swishing, with high knee action that you’d never forget once you saw her go.That was fine by me. I was a far cry from a pretty rider, and I had no patience.

Besides, Sweetie didn’t just jump - she flew, often a good foot or two higher than necessary just out of spite.

The trainer we landed with in Texas figured out pretty quick that the best solution was to pit us against a clock and see how fast we could go. She could turn on a dime and give you nine cents change. There wasn’t anything you could put in front of her that she was intimidated by. If she didn’t like the look of something, she’d just jump that much higher. Eventually she had a type of fence she’d refuse to go over if she felt contrary, but that was just...her.

You could do anything to her on the ground. Swarm her with kids. Drop her lead rope and let her wander around to graze. I spent many an afternoon following her around with a book in my hand while she dried off from a bath. I did a photo shoot once sitting underneath her, pointing the camera at her front legs.

I was always fascinated by how intimidated people were to ride her. She never once in her life tried to get anyone off. All you ever had to do was hang on, and she’d do the rest.

Usually when you jump, you work with your horse to set the right pace, judge the distance between you and the jump and set them up with a comfortable place to take off. Not Sweetie. You couldn’t tell her anything. Your best bet was to point and get out of her way. If you tried to do anything more, her response was usually along the lines of, “fuck off.” Sometimes that meant taking off two strides out from a jump. Sometimes it meant taking off practically underneath it. Just hang on. Either way she’d get you there and it would be a hell of a show.

I accidentally taught her vocal transitions. Bought a sidesaddle on a whim one day and off we went. That one time I was cruising around on her bareback, I wondered out loud what would happen if we jumped off the bank, an upward slope in our arena that you would canter up and jump off of. Well. She ran up it just fine, but instead of jump off, she jumped up and off, which put probably three feet between my butt and her back.

I jumped her without stirrups. Without reins. We chased goats. Peacocks. Whipped through giant, open fields with grass taller than her knees at whatever speed she felt like going. My best friend and I rode double. I spent more time grooming her, hanging out by her stall and getting her to take a carrot out of my mouth than I probably ever spent on her back.

She came with me from Missouri, to Texas, to Virginia, and then Kentucky. She was with me through high school. College. Marriage. Divorce. There is no major milestone I can think of that she wasn’t there for.

When I left Kentucky in 2014, it was the lowest point in my life. In addition to everything else that had gone wrong, I had to make the decision not to bring her with me one more time. She was 24. Arthritic. And at the time, I didn’t know where I was going to land. It wasn’t fair to haul her across the country again. Not when she was happy, sound and healthy.

So she was something else I was forced to say goodbye to. We’ve been apart ever since, but it was the right thing to do for her. So I did it. It was the least I could do.

In the last five and a half years I’ve seen her twice. The most recent was a year ago, when that photo was taken. We celebrated her 29th birthday. I knew then it might be the last time. I took my time in the field as the sun was going down. Fed her an entire bag of carrots. Ran a brush over her. Followed her around. Cried into her neck.

Just this past week I’ve been missing those trips to the barn with a fierce ache in my heart. The smell of hay, leather and dust. The whuffle of her nose in my palm. The feel of her mane in my fingers. I wanted one more chance to go back so badly. I knew it would mostly likely end this way. With me far away, unable to be there and give her the same comfort she’s always given me. I hoped it wouldn’t be like that. But we don’t always get what we want. She gave me so much. I could never ask her to wait around for me.

Even though you know it’s not true, you think in the back of your mind they’ll live forever. In a way, they do. I’ll be telling stories about her for the rest of my life.

She changed my life in everlasting ways. How rare is it to have a friendship last so long?

This isn’t the post I wanted to write. I’ll never be able to write what I need to write. She’s so much more than what I’ve said here. I can’t distill her down into something as pedantic as a few words. But I’ll probably always try.

#adventures with swaps #write your way out

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7deadlycinderellas · 5 years ago

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in the dark of the moon I planted, but there came an early snow 1/4

Ao3 link

It hadn’t been hard, really.

The Hound had been far too distracted by filling his gut with his coveted chicken that he hadn’t realized she’d slipped away. With Needle clutched tightly in one hand and blood still rushing under her skin from killing Polliver, it had been easy. The stout gray mare tied up outside had shown no distress at her untying and mounting her. She moved surprisingly fast for an old nag.

The day after she leaves, it begins to rain. She doesn’t feel the cold or the wet. She’s just pleased it’s covering her trail.

That day the hunger begins to get at her. All she manages to find is a handful of berries, and she barely checks to see if they appear to look edible before shoveling them down. Might that be better, if they gave her stomach cramps and shakes and she died out here, alone.

She has no idea where she’s going. Is she still in the Riverlands? She thinks about finding a village, it’s dangerous out here for a lone girl.

She finds one one day, and stares from out in the trees. The people look blessedly ordinary. They push their carts and smile and laugh. Their buildings are still in shambles. The war has not stopped here. Arya sees several crying.

Arya turns her back to them and leaves.

She wonders if the Hound is still following her.

The rain continues, and the air becomes colder.

The hunger pit in her stomach gets stronger the further she rides. It grows and grows and threatens to swallow her alive. To burst forth from her gut, a demon all it’s own.

She steals a loaf of bread off a windowsill. The beast abates, enough for the girl to feel guilt.

She’s getting closer to the sea, she thinks at least. The smell of salt is on the air, the way it was on the Kingsroad when they passed through the Riverlands. She guesses that she’s heading southeast, she’d tried so hard to turn away from the Eyrie, and away from wherever it was the Hound wanted to take her. Her Aunt Lysa. She might be her only remaining family, but Arya has never met her.

At night, as she recites her list, her mind cycles through their faces.

Her father, she is glad Yoren stopped her from seeing him. Her mother, throat slit from ear to ear like that Frey man had laughed about. Robb and Grey Wind, defiled even in death.There are rumours out of Winterfell, about Bran and Rickon that she can’t even contemplate.

Who knew what had even become of Jon, at the wall?

Sansa, wed to a Lannister, rumor had it. Though Arya mused, the Imp was far superior to Joffrey. Lost to her either way.

She doesn’t let herself think of Gendry, of his face as they dragged him off tied like a hog, sold for coin like one too.

Afterwards, she goes through her list of names again, before passing out with Needle on her lap.

She keeps her ears perked up, and at the tiniest hint of voices in the distance, she and the old nag will flee.

One night, she hears men laughing. Even without hearing their words she feels the rage ball up in her chest and has to press her head into the ground to try and block it out. They’re probably only laughing at a fart.

Though most days she prefers the rage to the numbness.

She tries to exhaust herself, so that the dreams won’t plague her. Even the wolf dreams, where she runs through the underbrush, the scent of blood on her nose, don’t please her the way they used to. If she ran into Nymeria, would she even let her see her? Or had she gone wild again?

The smell of salt leaves the air, and Arya’s less sure of where she’s going. Eventually, she finds another village, but to call it a village seems wrong. It’s a corpse. Buildings are crumbled, destroyed, burned. The fields too. The people too, walk around as though dead themselves.

Arya remembers vaguely hearing about the rampage committed by Lannister men led by the Mountain. That had been near Pinkmaiden. Clearly she was further west than she had first thought.

It was easy enough to tie Nan (she’d decided sometime before Nan was a good enough name for a horse) to a tree and begin helping the men and boys who were clearing debris. They don’t ask questions.

She’s not sure how long she’s been here, fetching and carrying, sleeping in the woods, eating the gruel they all share when they have it, not talking to people. Maybe a sennight or two. It rains the whole time.

It helps. She still feels cold and angry inside, but now she’s too tired to dwell on it, and in the freezing rain she supposes no one else can tell.

Sometime past the third sennight, one of the women who brings them food twice a day shoves a bowl of gruel into her hands and tells her to take it to the smithy.

“We need more nails, and he don’t come outside for nothing it seems.”

The forge could barely be called a building anymore, half of it’s roof has been caved in and smoke billows from it. But it is still being worked.

She didn’t give it any sort of thought. There were thousands of blacksmiths across all of Westeros, every keep and every town and every village had one.

She had absolutely no reason to think that when she came in and called out, “the men need more nails”, the smith would turn to her voice and she would meet a pair of blue eyes she was certain belonged to a dead man.

She drops the bowl.

Sometime later, over the remains of the gruel, she asks.

“What did the Red Woman want with you?”

Gendry wipes his mouth and says, as slowly as possible.

“My blood. She would have killed me, but one of Stannis’s men put me in a boat and set me free.”

Arya is skeptical.

“You got here from a boat?”

Gendry shrugs.

“I can’t row, or swim. I tried to follow Ser Davos’s directions….but I got lost. Got out as soon as I saw dry land. Meant to head back to King’s Landing, got lost again. People here needed help, seemed a good enough place. Better than King’s Landing. No kings and queens.”

No kings and queens to help them rebuild from the rampage of the king’s man, Arya thought.

They’ve finished up, and Arya plans to leave to sleep beside Nan again, when Gendry asks.

“What about you?”

Arya had been hoping he wouldn’t ask.

“I ran from the Brotherhood, got grabbed by the Hound. Immediately. Made it to the Twins, then we left. He let his guard down and I ran again.”

Gendry’s face goes cold. It’s not been warm before, not even like it had been when she’d seen him last.

“There-there have been stories making their way here about the Twins…”

Arya’s voice is even, dead.

“They’re true. I was there. I was outside. They killed my mother, my brother, his wife, their child, most of their men. Many men I’ve known since I was a child. They slit my mother’s throat and threw her body in the river. They killed my brother’s wolf too, cut off his head and sewed it to Robb’s body…”

Her words are pointed. Saying them makes the ice in her gut begin to burn again. It’s something more than the nothing that it’s been.

Gendry, to his credit, lets her talk.

When night falls, Arya looks him up and down.

“Where have you been sleeping?”

He points to a blanket in the corner, in the part of the forge that still has a roof.

He has a blanket, she has a horse. They’ll get soaked either way, so when she tilts her head out the door, he follows her without comment.

Her stomach swoops slightly, when she realizes that in the handful of moons since she’d seen him, she’s already gotten a bit taller.

The first night, overcome by the memories of the nights on the road to Harrenhal, she rolls onto her side and lays a hand across his shoulder.

His muscles tense up underneath her fingers.

“Please don’t touch me.”

His voice is rough, rougher than she’s heard him before. She obeys, rolling to lay in the opposite direction, heart a little more of a hole than before.

In the morning, she shows him Needle.

“The Hound and I found Polliver. A fight ensued, I got this back and stabbed him through the throat.”

“Just like Lommy,” Gendry says, with understanding. He doesn’t flinch. Maybe someday she’ll even tell him about the stable boy.

It’s while they’re still in Pinkmaiden that they hear what happened to Joffrey.

As soon as they’re away from the others, Arya doubles over in laughter. It’s hollow laughter.

“I wanted to be the one to do it,” she admits, “I thought I’d slit his throat with Needle, or poison him, or choke him on a chicken bone if I had to.”

She giggles more at the thought of Joffrey’s beautiful golden face purple with lack of air.

“At least that’s one name off your list.”

She still recites the list every night, without fail. She leaves on the Red Woman and the others, and she feels Gendry shift at her back every time. His breathing is rough, even in sleep, and some nights he tosses and turns. Bad dreams, Arya imagines, much like her.

After maybe two or three moons, Arya’s feet feel the need to shift underneath her.

“I don’t think we should stay here,” she tells Gendry, “As things get better here, people will start to talk, to ask questions. Especially if they see me with Needle.”

A girl wearing trousers was unusual enough, a girl with trousers and a sword would definitely be remembered. And though she knows she’s no beauty, she has felt her arms and legs lengthening and suspects her years of disguising herself as a boy are coming to an end.

The first days in Pinkmaiden, Arya had tucked Needle carefully away under a rock near where Nan was tied. Once she’d found Gendry, she’d taken to leaving it in the forge.

Gendry’s face is grave.

“Where can we go?”

Arya sighs, tucking her knees up to her chest.

“I don’t know. Winterfell has been taken, Riverrun’s under control of the Freys. The Hound is probably still in the Vale trying to find me. I’m not going back to King’s Landing. I don’t know enough about the Stormlands or the Reach to risk it…”

Gendry’s quiet for a long time.

“We could just pick a direction and go. If something happens, we’ll pick up and move again. We’re getting good at it.”

She looks at him, a touch of longing in her eyes. He doesn’t want to leave her again. And she supposes that that’s something.

They set off in the night, with little more than the clothes on their backs and some of Gendry’s tools. They still have Nan though, and that’s something too.

Despite their plan, Arya deliberately does not guide them west. The Westerlands are Lannister lands and if they end up there Arya does not think she will be able to keep a lid on her rage. These days, she mostly settles for level instead of dead. She would have thought rage would keep her warm, but most nights it just threatens to help her freeze.

It’s in a tavern, somewhere in the Riverlands that they hear of King Tommen’s coronation.

Arya shoves her last bite of her pie down. Gendry had a tiny bit of coin left from what Davos had given him, but they didn’t want to waste it. That day, they had found the tiny tavern, off the beaten path, and they were just too hungry to resist. They forage some, hunt and trap with their miniscule knowledge, but it barely keeps them fed.

“Looks like a babe he does,” the man swears, “Not even a hint of a beard.”

“Babe or not, he still the spawn of incest-”

The innkeep comes over and cuts him off with the slap of a wooden spoon to the head.

“There will be no talk of that here. I won’t be bringing the king’s men down on this place.”

And Arya and Gendry slink off to their spot in the woods.

“I remember Tommen,” she admits, “He was really shy, always off playing with his kittens. Joffrey was horrid to him as well.”

“Do you think he’ll make a better king than his brother?”

Arya shakes her head slowly.

“They’re right, he’s basically a babe. He’ll be under one thumb of his mother and one of his Hand, Tywin.”

Gendry can’t keep the distaste at the name of Tywin Lannister off of his face. Arya thinks grimly, that he had somehow seemed to like her.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll kill each other.”

And Arya laughs, again.

After a day or two of hitting water, with a sinking feeling Arya realizes they’ve hit the God’s Eye. It’s a decent spot, good fishing as long as winter hasn’t set in. But up, directly north of the God’s Eye lies Harrenhal.

Sometimes at night, Arya wakes up early in the dark, and thinks she’s still there.

Sometimes she stares off into the lake, where the isle of faces lies. Maybe they could swim out there, live among the weirwoods, like the children of the forest did.

It’s by the shores by the God’s Eye that Gendry wakes one morning to Arya rustling through their belongings, her breeches unlaced and halfway down her legs.

“Arya, what are you-”

“Do you have any bandages, extra stockings, an old shirt maybe?”

Her voice is almost panicked. He almost joins her when he notices the dark red stains on her smallclothes, before his mind catches up with the situation.

She eventually finds an empty burlap sack that she slices with Needle and folds thick. It would do until they could reach a village and she could trade for some lambswool.

She spends most of the morning in the lake, nude from the waist down, trying to scrub her small clothes clean. She can’t fight the feeling that the blood might attract predators, even though part of her brain insists that that’s stupid.

When she returns to camp, Gendry can’t look at her.

“Don’t be stupid,” she chides him, sitting and eating from their pitiful stash of nuts and berries. She’s the same as yesterday, just now bleeding from the cunt.

Later that day, she admits.

“Know what I keep thinking of? If I hadn’t ran when I did, I might have been with the Hound when this happened.”

She wonders if the Hound knew anything about how women’s bodies worked. Would he have let her ride her own horse now?

She laughs roughly, though Gendry remains silent.

Later that night, with her stomach aching, she wishes Gendry would rest a hand on her middle, just for the hint of warmth. Arya remembers the stories her septa told her, of lost maidenheads and childbirth. It wasn’t fair. Did every part of womanhood involve pain?

And quietly, a few moons later, she confides to Gendry.

“I’ve flowered. If I had gone back to my family, they could marry me off now. Might have already betrothed me to someone, for all I know.”

But they’re dead now, she doesn’t say. They’re dead, and she can’t know. Can’t be angry at them, even if they had done it, because they’re dead and she’s grieving. She continues though,

“That’s all a highborn girl is. A tool for her family to use for their benefit, no input from her required.”

She’s needling him, because after all of this, sometimes he still slips up and calls her “milady.” The last time had been in a tavern, in front of people. People who might hear him.

Sometimes she catches him looking at her now. Looking at her in a way. It doesn’t bother her, the way she often thought it might. In fact, secretly she might admit she likes it. But she hates what comes after, the look of self-loathing that always seems to follow. She hates that he still thinks of himself as less than her.

And he still won’t touch her.

One early morning, Arya twitches awake to the sounds of leaves rustling. She smells the man’s breath, heavy with ale, before she feels the hand even reaches to cover her mouth.

Her heart hammers itself to life. She still sleeps with Needle under her.

The man is alone, and drunk. It is easy enough to slice up the arm that’s grabbing her, splitting the artery that bleeds heavily. He screams and falls half on top of her, his weight trapping her, pressing her into the ground.

She hadn’t even realized Gendry had woken, but the man clearly hadn’t either. Had he just seen a young girl asleep in the grass, ignoring the lad and horse along with her? Arya’s mouth tastes of bile as Gendry pulls the man off her, and she crawls to her feet and slashes his throat. He howls as he dies.

Gendry is breathing as heavily as the bull he was often accused of being, and looking at Arya like she was a creature from one of Old Nan’s stories.

The dead man has a dagger in his belt, and Arya feels a fresh rush of bile at the thought that he could have used it. He could have gutted her before she could even grasp for Needle.

“Take it,” she tells Gendry, “You’re not armed. What if you had been on your own?”

She thinks on the man’s throat gaping open, and retches, remembering what had become of her mother. She imagines Walder Frey meeting his end in the same way, skin sagging open as the life drained from him.

The rains start again. They’ve managed to avoid Harrenhal, but Arya still often notices patches of land that ring familiar to her mind. The rain stops this, leaves them wandering.

There’s no water to fish in, they can’t forage as easily in the rain. The hunger begins to get to them, and so it’s unspoken between them. They must find an inn, somewhere to both fill their bellies and rest their bones. They’re down to the very last of Gendry’s coin, miraculously having not lost it to robbers.

It’s raining too heavily, so they don’t recognize it. They tie Nan up as best as they can, and push through the front door against the wailing wind.

The inside isn’t large, but it is blessedly dry, and a girl about Arya’s age approaches them, her feet skidding.

“Are you lookin’ for a room or just a meal?”

Arya barely opens her mouth when a head sticks out from where the kitchen is and yells.

“Willow! The soup’s done!”

Arya freezes. She feels Gendry go tense beside her. Not a sound will escape.

Except from the cook.

“Arry? Gendry?” Hot Pie says, abandoning his soup to come out and embrace the both of them. He’s somehow gotten both taller and rounder since the last time they’ve seen him, and Arya watches as Gendry’s face pinches and winces at the touch.

Sickness slides into Arya’s gut like an oil slick when she recognizes where they are.

“Sit, come on,” Hot Pie insists, “It’s been what, nearly two years? WIllow, bring us some bread and ale.”

“No,” Arya says firmly, and Gendry agrees.

“We won’t be staying.”

“What, why not?” Hot Pie asks, confused.

“Because this was the inn where those Brotherhood fucks brought us, and if they find us again, we’re fucked,” Gendry explains.

There’s a harsh laugh from behind them, coming from a woman who looks like Willow, but older.

“As if those fucks would come back here, now that winter’s coming. Bridge out over the hill stopping most of our business. Used to come by all the time they did, buying our ale and brings us more orphans to protect, but where are they now that they need food?”

“That’s Jeyne,” Hot Pie explains. “Masha Heddle died a bit back. She runs this place now. And she’s right, the men of the Brotherhood don’t come here anymore.”

“They probably stay near Acorn Hall now that the bridge is out,” Willow interjects, “There’s always whores over that side.”

Hot Pie’s voice quiets a bit before his next comment.

“There’s stories come from a couple of the younger boys about the lot of them now...but we don’t know for sure. It’s been moons since we seen any of them.”

The food they are served is more than adequate at least. Throughout supper, a group of young children make their way into the walls, soaking wet. Most of them are thin, but obviously not starved. One of the older girls, maybe Arya’s age, but looking far more Sansa, hands a bag of flour to Hot Pie.

“Miller says use it slow. With winter on the way, the wheel won’t turn if the river freezes.”

A couple of the children approach Arya and Gendry throughout the meal, most out of curiosity, some of suspicion. They answer questions in vagaries. Some of the younger children try to touch Gendry affectionately, as Arya once had. He still scoots away.

One of the older girls tries to touch him a little less innocently. She’s the one that sort of looks like Sansa, like she’s used to boys acting a certain way around her. Gendry jerks so violently at her touch and her coquettish voice that he falls off the end of the bench, and quickly excuses himself.

“Are you and him, like,” The girl, her name is Elinor, later asks Arya when they’re alone, “Or is he one of those men who just doesn’t like girls?”

Arya sighs. Once she would have felt a glimmer of pride to be considered on the same level as the Gendry, that ordinary people might think they went together.

“No. Someone’s hurt him.”

The room they are given is the size of a pantry, but the roof doesn’t leak, and if the door only sticks instead of closing, that’s fine enough too.

Tossing the bag of their meager possessions at the foot of the narrow bed, Arya mentions.

“One of the older girls asked me if I was yours.”

Gendry’s expression is gruff.

“Should have said you were my sister again.”

Arya sighs and sits beside him.

“That isn’t going to work anymore, we’re too old and we don’t look anything alike. I don’t think it will be an issue here. This place is full of orphans, we’re just two more.”

Arya swallows the sob that surges up in her throat at her own words. She’s an orphan now.

Gendry nods.

“Hot Pie says we can probably stay as long as we’re willing to work. If we hear anything from the Brotherhood, we’ll leave, no questions asked.”

They’re both silent. Neither of them are ready to sleep yet, it’s too early and they’re too warm and too full. And there’s too much between them.

“What did the Red Woman do to you?” Arya finally asks.

Gendry turns away.

“I already told you, she wanted my blood-”

Arya cuts him off.

“No. I asked what she wanted you for before. I want to know what she did to you to get it.”

Gendry stares at the floor, but eventually begins to talk.

“On the way to Dragonstone, she asked me if I knew who my father was. She insists it was the former king.”

Arya pauses before commenting.

“You do look like him, in a way Joffrey and Tommen certainly don’t.”

That’s not to say she sees a bit of fat, drunken, lecherous Robert Baratheon in his though.

Gendry nods.

“When we got there, she sent me to my rooms, and then came up alone. Started telling me all kinds of big words, things about king’s blood, and how important I could be. And then she started taking off her clothes, and mine too...at that point, I would have done anything she said, I couldn’t think. I barely remember any of it, until the point I realized I was chained down and couldn’t move, and then Stannis was there, and she was dropping leeches on my cock, and there was fire and chanting...I cried and screamed, and no one cared. Then they left me alone in a cell for days. Davos let me out when he realized they intended to sacrifice me to their Red God.”

Arya watches his face. There’s shame there, shame and fear and violation. In his face, she sees ghosts. Ghosts of the girls Lannister soldiers would drag into bushes along the road. She feels the ghost of the man by the road, and his ale soaked breath.

“I’ll kill her,” she says, even and low. “She promised we would meet again. When we do I’ll split her down the middle and let her entrails spill out on the road.”

Gendry’s avoiding her eye.

“If all she needed was your blood, there’s a thousand ways she could have done that. She didn’t need to…”

Gendry’s eyes are squeezed shut now.

“I fall asleep and she pops up in my dreams. When people touch me, I remember her touching me. Fuck, whenever I see a pretty girl, I remember her and suddenly I’m disgusted at myself and want to retch.”

Arya shifts, moving so that she’s kneeling on the end of the bed between Gendry’s knees. She looks him in the eye.

“I’m going to hug you. But first, open your eyes.”

He obeys.

“This is just me. We’re not in Dragonstone, we’re in the Riverlands, at the Inn. Both of us have our clothes on. I’m not the red woman. I’m not that tall, I don’t have red hair, I don’t use big words when little ones will do. And lets be real, my tits are tiny.”

Gendry’s laugh is rough.

“I’m going to hug you, and that’s it. I think we both need it. If you tell me to stop, I will.”

Gendry waits, his eyes trailing shut. But then, there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Her arms fit more easily around him, than they ever did before, and she rests her chin on his shoulder. After a long moment, she feels his arms come up around her too. Before Hot Pie today, she can’t remember the last time anyone hugged her.

“You were right,” he admits, “We did both need this.”

He doesn’t let go.

“Don’t talk about killing her anymore though. I don’t like knowing you had so many demons that needed killin’ even before you took mine upon you..”

Arya sighs, breathing in the scent of his neck.

“Alright, I won’t talk about it. I will do it though, I have to. She tried to take you away from me and nearly succeeded. They’ve already taken my family, they won’t get the rest of my pack.”

Eventually they part. They sleep back to back that night, still not touching, but Arya hears Gendry’s breathing much more evenly than on the road. She waits to recite her list until she’s sure he’s asleep.

And outside the window, she swears she hears a wolf howl.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #gendrya #fic

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king-finnigan · 5 years ago

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I Found Something In The Woods Somewhere - Chapter 2

You can also read this on AO3! M A S T E R L I S T

A/n: Special thanks to @panlesters for being my beta! This is chapter 2 of 3, btw. I’m working on part 2 of my Wasteland, Baby series at the moment, which will start posting about a week (or so) after I’ve posted chapter 3 of this fic, so follow me on tumblr or on AO3 @smol_squish if you want to get notifications for that! As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don’t hesitate to leave a like and a comment if you feel like it!

He closed his eyes, tiredness weighing him down, and he considered climbing a tree and sleeping in it, when he heard a small, pained noise behind him. He had forgotten about the fox.

He turned around, sheathing his bloodied sword, and walked over to where the creature was still laying on the fallen leaves. He kneeled down next to it, hand resting against the side, right above its quick heartbeat, fingers threading through the soft fur. He regarded the wound in its hind leg, still seeping blood, bone exposed. He could only imagine the pain it was in.

Slowly, quietly, he unsheathed his dagger. It was still dirty, dried flakes of week-old Kikimora blood clinging to the blade, but it would do the job of releasing the animal from its suffering well enough. He sighed. “I’m sorry it had to go like this, you deserved better.”

He raised the knife, pressing the sharp tip against the pelt poking out beneath his fingers, still curled in the soft fur. The heaving ribcage threatened to impale itself, and the fox made a pained sound. Geralt looked to its head, his yellow eyes meeting those of a striking colour, like the sky on a clear summer’s day, like the ocean in the south, like cornflowers in a spring field. It was a blue he had only ever seen once before.

He sighed, and the fox lay his head back down on the fallen leaves. “I’m sorry,” he said once again, his voice barely more than a whisper. He pushed the blade down, piercing the fur easily, stabbing the creature in its heart. The fox shuddered one last breath, before stilling, the blue eyes staring ahead, unseeing.

The Witcher sat there for a few seconds, quietly mourning the loss of an innocent life, one hand still in the red fur, the other around the dagger, sticking out between the ribs. He looked up again as the clouds drew back, sunlight shining on him. He frowned, when he realized the sky above was just as grey as before, and looked down to the fox, as the light grew in intensity, blinding him.

He raised an arm to shield his face, blinking furiously to clear his vision from the black spots the brightness had caused. He felt the heat on the lower half of his face subside, and he lowered his arm again, still barely able to see anything. He rubbed his eyes, a headache starting to form behind his forehead.

He opened his eyes again, and they widened as he took in the sight before him. His breath stopped in his throat, face growing pale, and he started to tremble uncontrollably.

There, in the dead leaves in front of him, lay Jaskier’s body.

His shaking hands reached up to ghost over the Bard’s bare side, one of them eventually settling on the pale face, skin still warm underneath his fingers. His cornflower eyes stared ahead, to the edge of the clearing, blue and unseeing, the usual spark in them gone, forever. Geralt closed them softly, his hands moving of their own accord.

He felt numb, out of touch with reality as he looked to his right, seeing a gaping wound in Jaskier’s left leg, bone exposed, still seeping a bit of blood. His eyes travelled up to the face again, but stopped as he saw a familiar, silver glint. It was his dagger, still sticking out from between the Bard’s ribcage, where Geralt had pierced his heart.

It felt as though a dam broke inside him, feelings suddenly overwhelming him to the point where he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He had done this. He had murdered Jaskier.

For the first time in his very long life, the Witcher screamed in agony.

҉ ҉ ҉

He awoke with a start, and realized he had fallen asleep while riding Roach. He heard a soft squeak and looked down at the bundle in his hands, blue eyes staring up at him questioningly. “It’s fine, just a dream,” he muttered and looked ahead again. They were on their way to the town of Kirekwall, which wasn’t far from the village that had requested his help with the Kikimora.

He had rushed his way down the hillside, Jaskier wrapped in an old shirt, the wound in his hind leg bandaged. He had asked for a healer in the nameless village, and they had pointed him to Kirekwall, where a Mage supposedly lived. He could see the silhouette of the town, dark against the purple and pink of dawn.

He leaned forward, careful not to hurt the Bard, and thanked Roach quietly for letting him sleep. He leaned back again, slowing the mare down as they entered the town. It was medium-sized, next to a major trading route, which had made the inhabitants rich. Their wealth showed in the clean cobblestone streets, the big, sturdy houses, and their fancy clothes, vain expressions on their faces as they looked at him disapprovingly from clear windows.

He paid no mind to it, instead steering Roach to the first inn he saw. He dismounted carefully, making sure not to hurt Jaskier. He pointed to his mare. “Stay.” She obliged, as always, and he went inside, walking straight to the innkeeper.

“Where can I find the Mage?” His voice was low, demanding, and the pot-bellied man behind the counter cowered a bit, pointing behind him.

“She lives down the street, sir. Purple door, can’t miss it.” The innkeeper winced as Geralt slammed a coin on the bar, sighing loudly in relief as the Witcher went back outside, hushed whispers and lingering stares following him.

He took Roach’s reigns, striding deeper into the town. The innkeeper had spoken true, and Geralt soon found himself in front of a cottage, squeezed between the two-story houses around it. He slammed his fist against the purple-painted door, as he held Jaskier softly to his chest.

No reaction could be heard from inside, and he looked down at the Bard, who cocked his head, squeaking lightly. “Try again maybe?” He seemed to say, though there could be a million different ways to interpret the squeak. A small part in the back of his mind noted the fact that the edges of Jaskier’s irises seemed to rust, an orange-y brown creeping in on the bright blue.

He pushed the thought away, looking at the door once again, knocking it loudly once, twice. This time, he could hear stumbling inside, and the door was swung open wildly.

“What do you w-“ Yennefer’s sentence was cut short by her surprise, as she saw Geralt. She groaned and the Witcher shuffled a bit in place.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, but it’s urgent.” He hated the way his voice sounded awkward, but Yennefer just rolled her eyes, and stepped aside, purple eyes following him intently as he walked past her, into the cottage.

He found himself in the living room, that doubled as her study. In the middle of the floor stood a large wooden table, littered with books and all sorts of herbs and vials. The shelves on the walls were overflowing with books and potions as well.

With one swoop of her arm, she cleared the table, and looked at him expectantly. “Well go on, lay the Bard down.” He did as she had demanded, looking at her in surprise. She rolled her eyes at him again. “Yes, I know it’s him.”

Geralt shrugged in response, lifting a stack of papers from a chair and putting it on the ground, pulling the chair to the table, and sitting down. Jaskier seemed angered as Yennefer bent over him, poking at his head with one curious finger. The Bard batted a paw at her, growling in warning.

“Well, he still seems to hate me.” She looked up at Geralt. “You sure you want him changed back? I mean he’s a lot less loud right now, and a lot cuter.” That earned her another snarl from the Bard, and she chuckled.

Geralt sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please, can you help him? At least with the wound?”

She lifted her hands up in defeat. “Fine, fine. I’ll see what I can do to heal him, and then I’ll find a way to break the curse, I guess.” She pointed at him. “But you better leave me the hell alone after this.”

He sighed again, sagging in his chair, as she unwrapped the bandages from Jaskier’s leg. There was no use in telling her this was all a big coincidence, some cruel twist of fate designed by Destiny herself. He tried to ignore Jaskier’s squeaks of pain, sharp, tiny nails burying themselves in the wood of the table as Yennefer cleaned the wound and cast a healing spell.

She pulled up another chair, sitting down next to the Bard, compass in her hands. “Alright, I will make a tracking spell that will lead you to whoever made the curse. Though, for some reason I doubt they’ll be of much help. The spell on Jaskier doesn’t feel hostile, more… pure, good.” Geralt cocked his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jaskier swivelled his head between the pair, blue eyes curious.

She sighed, rubbing her forehead a bit. “I don’t think whoever made this had bad intentions. I just… don’t know why they did this, if that’s really the case.” She shrugged, sitting up straight, holding the compass in her flat palms.

She gazed at it intently, muttering a few words in Elder, and the object lit up, a soft light surrounding it. Jaskier looked at it, then at her, cocking his head, ears perked up. A small squeak, and Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“Yes, it works, Bard.” Another squeak, this time lower, more decisive. “Yes, I know it’s still pointing to the north, I can see that. Just trust me, it works.” She all but slammed the compass on the table, and stood up, stalking into her bedroom.

She returned a few moments later with a large piece of cloth. “Here, you’ll need this,” she said as she threw it in Geralt’s lap. He looked at her questioningly. “It’s a baby sling. You can use it to carry the Bard without having to use your hands.” The Witcher decided not to question why she had it in the first place.

Jaskier squeaked indignantly, and she looked at him. “What? Do you seriously think you’re going to be able to keep up with Roach with that wound?” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Absolutely not. This is the safest way.”

Jaskier let out a whine, laying his head on his front paws, and Yennefer shrugged, looking at Geralt once again. “Now, go, you need to hurry.” She shot a look at the Bard, lowering her voice. “I don’t know what long-term effects this spell might have on him.”

Jaskier’s head shot up, letting out a long whine, and Geralt swore he could hear panic in the sound. He looked down at the Bard, then back into Yennefer’s purple eyes. He stood up, taking the baby sling, managing to fasten it properly around himself. Jaskier let out a small squeak as the Witcher picked him up by the waist, safely depositing him in the cloth, against his chest.

“Don’t worry,” he half spoke to the Bard, half to the Mage. “I won’t let anything happen.”

҉ ҉ ҉

He had to admit, carrying Jaskier in the sling wasn’t as uncomfortable as he had expected. They were riding north, and once in a while he made a passing comment to the Bard, earning him a squeak or a nudge with the wet, black nose in return. He stared intently at the compass, and after a few hours it started to point to the northeast.

He smiled. She had been right, as always. Her tracking spell had worked. Soft fur tickled his chin as Jaskier looked at the view, head moving from side to side. Another squeak, as the Bard looked at the forest. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He seemed to ask, and Geralt hummed in agreement. He couldn’t really explain it, but some part of him always found some sort of translation for the squeaks and whines. He had no way of knowing his interpretation was right, of course, but so far Jaskier hadn’t seemed to complain about his responses, so he figured he was pretty spot-on.

More than once he found himself smiling at the Bard’s soft noises, at the warmth on his chest, at the knowledge that Jaskier was safe, for now. He realized he had missed Jaskier, more than he would’ve liked to admit, and his mind flashed back to their painful separation, now over a year ago.

He cleared his throat, and blue eyes looked up at him. “I uh…” He had no idea what to say, but he tried anyways. “I’m sorry, for what happened. On the mountain. I shouldn’t have said those things, I was wrong, and you deserve better.” He stared ahead, not daring to look down at the Bard.

A wet nose touched his chin, and he finally tore his gaze away from the horizon. Jaskier whined softly, voice hopeful somehow. “It’s okay, I forgive you,” he seemed to say. Geralt smiled, relief flooding through him as he saw the familiar twinkle in those blue eyes, rusty brown at the edges of the irises.

҉ ҉ ҉

They rode on for five more days, barely resting, trekking across half the Continent, before ending up in the mountains near Kaer Morhen. The days were growing shorter, wet snow starting to fall as they struggled their way up a mountain path. Jaskier shivered, burying himself deeper into the sling, in search of Geralt’s warmth.

The Witcher worried as they went up the slippery slope. The Bard seemed to have… changed somewhat in the past few days. He had seemed different three times, to be exact. His blue eyes had lost their familiar sparkle, and he had clawed and scratched at Geralt’s armour, hissing as he did so. He had even tried to jump out of the sling once, biting at the Witcher’s hand as it held him in place.

Afterwards, he had acted normal again, all inquisitive squeaks and huffs, blue eyes sparkling and curious as to what had angered Geralt, rust around the irises. The Witcher had just shaken his head, deciding not to worry the Bard with the suspicion that had started to form in the back of his mind.

The compass now shone brightly in his hand as they stopped in front of a small opening in the mountain side, a curtain of vines shielding the cave. He frowned, as the vines usually only grew in the south, and definitely not in this time of year. Surely, some kind of magic is happening here.

He dismounted, pausing for a second before pushing the vines to the side, walking into the cave, hand on his sword. It was warm inside, a firepit in the middle of the stone floor, finely carved wooden furniture around it. Flowers were painted all over the walls, and leaves were drawn on the floor.

A young woman stood at a cupboard, her back turned towards them. Golden curls hung down the back of her forest green dress, and she was about five feet tall. Geralt stood there for a few seconds, unsure of what to do, but her voice rang out, clear as a silver bell. “I’ll be right with you, Witcher!”

She rummaged some more, the rustling of paper and the crackling of fire the only sounds filling the cave. Eventually, she turned around to face the pair, broad smile on her features, light green eyes twinkling in delight. She looked young, around twenty years old, though she was undoubtedly a lot older than that, as almost all Mages were.

Yet, she seemed youthful in another way, as well. Her features were bright with hope, a fundamental belief in the goodness of this world. It wasn’t naivety, as Geralt had seen that many times before. This was a genuine goodness, a truthful kindness, like there wasn’t much left of these days. Somehow, it made him feel lighter, as if he had just stepped on a cloud.

“How can I help you?” Her voice was high and joyful, her features shining like the sun.

“I uh…” He had expected a lot of things, but certainly not this. He couldn’t exactly fight his way out of this situation, demand the spell to be broken. He just had to ask nicely. “My friend here is under some sort of spell, can you help him?” He pointed awkwardly at Jaskier.

The Mage approached, cocking her head at the Bard. She ran a small finger over Jaskier’s cheek softly, and he closed his eyes contentedly, sighing a bit. “I can see that, Geralt of Rivia.” She frowned, the displeased look strange on her young face. “And I can sense that the spell is from my hand.”

She looked up at him, worry in her eyes. He held up the compass. “A tracking spell led us here.”

She frowned again, looking at Jaskier, bright blue eyes meeting green ones. She sighed. “I remember now. I sold a transformation potion to a man who was passing through here, a few weeks ago.”

Geralt struggled to hold back a groan. Great, more searching.

She continued, though: “I told him he needed to put something in the potion, a part of the animal he wanted to turn into, and then create a safe-word.”

His ears perked up at that, and he looked at her curiously. “A safe-word?”

She nodded absentmindedly, a faraway look in her eyes, as though she had been transported back to the day in question, and barely registered the Witcher in front of her anymore. “Yes… Something someone close to you can say, that will make you turn back into a human.” She furrowed her brow, voice turning weak, talking to herself more than to Geralt, tears forming in her eyes. “He told me he wanted to turn into a bird…”

She looked back up at him, her eyes suddenly and surprisingly clear, her voice strong. “He used my magic to hurt someone.” Her hand shot up to grab his arm, her grip vice-like, fire in her eyes. “Find him, Witcher. Make him pay.”

He nodded, eyes wide, and she let go of him, turning on her heel to rummage through the cupboard she had been searching earlier. She returned, yellow potion in hand. She took the compass from his hands, pouring the liquid over it. The object shimmered, the needle spinning around wildly a few times before stopping at south.

“It’s another tracking spell,” she said as she returned the compass to Geralt, “it will show you who did this to your friend.” She took a step back, suddenly, and extended her hand. The Witcher took it, shaking it once or twice, fingers curling around the piece of paper she had left in his palm as she retrieved her hand.

“Good luck, Geralt of Rivia. I really hope your friend becomes human again.” He nodded at her, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone. The cave had become empty, the fire had died out, and the stone walls and floor were barren, bleak in their greyness.

He looked down at Jaskier, who cocked his head. “I don’t know, don’t ask me where she went,” he seemed to say. Geralt shrugged, and left the cave, mounting Roach and setting out to the valley below, tiny piece of paper still clutched in his hand.

҉ ҉ ҉

That evening, by the fire, Jaskier fell asleep next to him, head in Geralt’s lap as he sat there, cross legged, waiting for the moment the Bard’s breathing deepened sufficiently. Carefully, as to not wake the other up, he opened the piece of folded paper he had held in his hand most of the day. The handwriting was neat and round.

“A warning I didn’t want your friend to hear. After ten days the spell becomes permanent. Your friend will lose his humanity and remain an animal forever. You may have already seen changes in his behaviour. Hurry.”

Geralt felt his breath stop in his throat, his heart skipping a painful beat. He hid the note in his sleeve, shaking Jaskier slightly. The Bard squeaked tiredly, and looked up at him.

The Witcher tried to keep his voice steady as he asked: “How long were you a fox before I found you?” Jaskier blinked at him, before gently scratching Geralt’s leg three times. Three days.

Geralt nodded, and tried to keep the panic from his face. Eight days had passed since the spell had been cast on Jaskier. They didn’t have long.

The Bard yawned, and drifted back into sleep, eyes blinking closed, the colour of rust taking up half the irises, closing in on the blue.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #gerlion #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #i found something in the woods somewhere #chapter 2 #mine

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myssamyss · 5 years ago

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Everything Stays, Part 4 of 6

Featuring Jojo’s comic, “Malink past” Part 4: When You Turn It Around

The next morning, Link woke before the sun, readied his gear, and crept out the door. He made his way to the stable as dim light began to color the ranch. A mercifully cool wind swept in from the fields; the heat had finally broken. Link reached the large stable door and pulled at the latch, only to haul the door open and freeze in surprise.

Malon stood in the middle of the stable, running a coarse brush through a spotted mare’s mane.

She turned and gave him an accusing glare that made his limbs turn ice-cold. They stood there, still and staring, neither speaking. Link swallowed in the back of his throat, but he didn’t back down. Malon broke the silence first.

“You’re up early,” she told him dryly.

“So are you.”

Malon gave him a strange look and he sucked in a breath, but then she turned back to the mare and continued brushing. The stable was quiet but for the slow, rhythmic rustling of brush against mane.

Taking her silence as understanding, Link exhaled and strode into the stable. Straw crunched beneath his boots, and the sound of Malon’s brushstrokes was drowned out by his swift steps. He began readying Epona’s tack.

“So you’re just leaving?” she asked him after several long minutes. A half-hidden hurt laced her words.

He turned back to her. Her hands gently stroked the mare’s muzzle, but her blue-eyed gaze was sharper than any sword.

“I’m not ‘just leaving’,” he replied, taken aback.

She shook her head and her bangs went flying. “Really? Because it seems to me that you were fixing to leave here before we had a chance to talk.”

Link felt stunned. He’d been trying his best to do right by her. At least, he thought he was.

“We did talk. And I even stayed for dinner. I came here to give a proper goodbye, like you deserve.” And I didn’t have to, Link thought to himself bitterly as he mounted Epona. Maybe coming to the ranch had been a mistake. Maybe this was the problem with long goodbyes and explanations. Maybe they only made things worse. Just leave, he told himself.

Her voice rose. “Why though? Why are you leaving now? I thought we were finally getting, well... close.” She glanced away with her last word.

“I don’t get close to people,” he said sharply. She winced.

“But if there’s anything I’ve learned,” he continued, “it’s that there’s always a parting. Nothing ever lasts.”

Malon stared past him to the open stable door with a silent frown. Link nudged Epona’s side with the heel of his boot, spurring the horse to a walk.

“You’re right.” Malon’s quiet voice cut through the air. “We’ve been friends since childhood, yet there’s very little I know about you, or even the world. What does a dumb farm girl know?”

What? He pulled back on Epona’s reigns and turned back to Malon, shocked. “Malon, no, I-I didn’t mean…”

Her face softened and her voice grew sincere. “But I’d like to,” she said with a small, hopeful smile. “I’d like to know... Ever since that day you played my mother’s song, I’ve wondered.”

She stared at him with deep blue eyes full of such care and longing. His resolve melted away. Because anything was worth this—the way she was staring at him now, shoulders squared with passionate hope and her bottom lip held half-open in plea. His chest ached at the few meters of distance already between them. Maybe... he could turn back. Maybe he could explain things and let her in. Her honest, fierce need for him was worth abandoning his self-imposed rules.

He nodded to her slowly and her face brightened with joy, encouraging him. He swung a leg over Epona and dismounted. The aching in his chest faded, and an intoxicating warmth rose to take its place.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” he admitted. He sat down on a nearby hay bale.

Malon waited a few quiet moments, then she came to sit by his side. She smoothed her long purple skirt over her knees, tucked her red bangs behind a delicately pointed ear, then met Link’s eyes with a disarming stare.

“Why does nothing ever last?” she asked simply.

“Well…everyone leaves...even you…” he murmured.

Malon’s brows drew together in confusion.

“Well, not you,” he backtracked. “Another you. And I suppose I’m the one who left then... I’m sorry. I’ve never really tried to explain it all before, to someone on the outside.”

She placed her hand against his arm just beneath the sleeve of his green tunic. Link started. He knew she was trying to comfort him, but her gentle touch felt like an electric shock. Though unlike real-life electrocution (which Link was too familiar with), the feeling was admittedly pleasant, and the memory of danger primed his mind, emboldening him. He looked down at the straw-covered floor and gathered his thoughts.

“You remember the first time we met? I was going to the castle?” he asked.

She nodded, enthralled.

“Well,” he began. “I broke into the castle, and there was this prophecy…”

***

Wild trailed behind the other heroes as they walked along a wooded path. He didn’t often take up the rear, as he was well-accustomed to walking long distances (unlike poor Wind). But today he craved the familiar comfort of solitude.

He kept a handful of pleasant memories in relief to fall back on when he felt overwhelmed, a collection built before the Calamity’s defeat when thoughts of failure and Zelda’s long-suffering threatened to overwhelm him. As he walked, he shuffled through the series of memories, imagining himself darting after little Cottla through cool grass above the hills near Kakariko, trading iridescent insects with a wide-eyed Beedle in a warm stable, or standing in the golden Tarry Town sunshine during Hudson and Rhondson’s wedding. He enjoyed escaping to these moments when he’d been nothing more than himself, without expectation or prophecy.

Wild’s thoughts were interrupted as he noticed Time falling back in their group’s walking order. It wasn’t unusual for him to double back to chat with Twilight, but Time didn’t pause beside the fur-clad hero now. Instead, he kept his pace suspiciously slow, until he was nearly even with Wild. His armor clanked with each step.

Wild fixed his eyes just above Wind’s crop of bright blonde hair ahead of them.

“Wild,” Time began, his voice quiet. He slowed his pace even further, widening the gap between Wind and the two of them. Wild matched him, but said nothing.

“I wanted to apologize,” Time said. He sounded sincere. Wild turned his head to show he was listening.

“I’m sorry for coming down on you at the pond, over the kid. I was just…worried. Lately you’ve been…” Time searched for a word, but seemed to think better of it. “Anyways. I know you can handle yourself. And if you want to talk, about anything...” Time shrugged.

Wild nodded. He wasn’t angry with Time. The man just made him uneasy, and Wild wanted to be left alone. Still, he appreciated Time’s willingness to humbly apologize, even if it took clear effort. Wild pushed back against his own annoyance and resolved to make an effort, too. Besides, Wild thought, if he couldn’t be alone, then maybe he ought to face his simmering unease head-on instead. He was good at throwing himself into the thick of things.

“Why’d you get married?” Wild blurted, hurling himself into the very subject he felt so keen on avoiding. He didn’t dare look over at Time. But the older man surprised him by taking the seemingly random question in stride. From the corner of Wild’s eye, he saw Time cocking his head and considering his answer carefully.

“Hm,” Time mused. He gave a small, uncharacteristic smile. “I guess… I got married… to share trust with someone.” He paused. “It wasn’t easy, at first. I mean, none of us are big on talking.” Time threw a glance toward the rest of their party. “Well, maybe Legend. But never about anything real.”

Wild nodded, listening guardedly.

“But having someone to listen? It keeps you sane.”

He heard a bite in Time’s voice. Wild’s gaze flicked to the red and blue marks that flanked the ruined eye.

Time caught the quick glance. “She knows about all of it.”

Wild let his head fall down toward the ground in minor embarrassment. He of all people knew the discomfort of a curious gaze. He resisted the urge to scratch at his scarred ear.

He kicked a rock instead and thought about Time’s answer. True openness sounded very difficult to put into practice. Wild might have once shared that kind of trust, that kind of love with another. ‘Might’ being the key word, as he could never be completely sure. A vision of Mipha’s delicate face swam in his mind. They might have been planning a life together...

Hard to share my honest thoughts when I can’t even remember them, Wild thought coldly.

“It wasn’t easy,” Time added softly, breaking the silence. Wild had barely noticed the long pause between them. Damn, still rusty at carrying on a conversation. Monologuing in his mind certainly didn’t help. He focused in on Time’s words.

“And there were bumps, she isn’t perfect. And I’m not either. I wasn’t sure it would last,” Time said. “But she hasn’t left yet.”

Wild nodded. “Thank you,” he told the older man.

Time clapped him on the shoulder, then began humming a vaguely familiar song as he picked up his pace and made his way to the front of the group, leaving a relieved Wild behind. The older man respected solitude, and seemed to understand Wild’s own need for it.

***

Malon knocked twice on the door to Link’s room, but there was no answer. Maybe he was sleeping again? He’d been taking on more than his fair share of ranch chores lately, she figured he was bound to be exhausted. Didn’t he know that his work ethic already far outstripped her father’s expectations without any of the added effort? She knew her father was already impressed. Link didn’t need to prove himself further. He was easily their best ranch hand, and he fit well in their little family. Besides, Talon had apparently already given Link his blessing years ago. Link needn’t be nervous now.

She pushed the door open quietly, but was met with an empty, neatly made bed. No sign of her Link.

Her eyes fell to something lying on the bedside table, an item that she had only seen a handful of times before: the ocarina. The ocarina whose notes had first sown the seeds of adoration deep in Malon’s heart as Link had impossibly played Malon’s most treasured song. For years she’d believed that Link’s unexplainable knowledge of the song was a sign from above, perhaps even from her own mother, that she and Link had a future together. Now she knew his true past, and the instrument had taken on an entirely different legendary nature in her mind. She crossed the room and ran her fingers across its glazed surface without thinking. It was smooth and cool to the touch. She gathered it in her hands—

“What are you doing?”

She spun around to see Link standing in the doorway. For the first time in many months, his face was a closed door. A painful lump caught in Malon’s throat as she realized her grave mistake. She carefully returned the ocarina to the bedside table with a small clink and stepped away as hot embarrassment rose in her chest.

“Link, I’m sorry...” she began. Link crossed the room to place himself between her and the ocarina. She glanced up into his eyes and found deep pain staring back. The few inches of space separating their chests felt like a vast distance.

“Please go,” he told her quietly. She nodded solemnly and left his room, easing the door shut behind her. As the latch clicked, despair welled up inside her heart. She had repaid his trust with unchecked curiosity, and all the sorries in the world wouldn’t take back her trespass. --------------------------------- Author’s Note: thanks as always to @clumsydarknut for beta-reading.

#Linked Universe #linkeduniverse #LU #Time #Wild #Malon #MaLink #Breath of the Wild #Ocarina of Time #Majora's Mask #Legend of Zelda #LoZ #Hero of Time #Hero of the Wild #Everything Stays

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ecotone99 · 5 years ago

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[FN] The lost prince and his bodyguard

"Sleep is unbeknownst to me, has been for awhile." The warrior thought to himself. Kyoto takes up the giant blade named Kison and points it at the sky. Cloudy, yet rays of warm light pour in through the distant curtains of rain. The young man sits up dusting off the pollen from his leather armor. He reattaches the white cloak he wears around his shoulders and down the last of what is in his waterskin. Kyoto rubs his eyes clean picking an apple from the tree he slept beneath and walks towards Milo road.

"Hmmm...if im this close to the orchard i must be but two days from Shinewell. I better get going the prince will be waiting for me." He puts his map away and breaks into a jog.

"Master Cleo we must think about your decision! Taking the Warp scrolls to the library of Durin is mad! Your too young for a journey without escourt, as well as your request to let some mercenary take you there is perposterous!" The old councilman pleaded with the young boy beside him as they walked the halls of Castle Shinewell.

"Master Cl.."

"Councilman Syris i head your warning and i hear your plea but my decision is final! The mercenary is a friend. Very trustworthy and more suitable than any guard you could provide!" The small blonde haired prince brushed hair from his blue eyes and scrunched his nose.

"Who is this mercenary anyway master Cleo?"

The prince with a sharp grin spoke slowly so the old man could hear correctly "The Ghost-Touched swordsman."

In a burst of outrage Syris twice cleos elder and twice his stature blurted out "you mean the Cursed swordsman the one without eyes!?"

"He can see twice as much as any seer and fight the Drakes of Kings Mountain. His weapon unbreakable and his skill unmatched when it comes to fighting beasts and bandits." Cleo warmly smiled and walked away from Syris.

Syris boiled heading streight to the council hall. He had words to share with his fellow makers.

Kyoto crested a hill overlooking the massive walls of the outter city. His home is here though he finds more comfort on the lonely roads. His friends a young wizard and a noble his only companions. Kyoto's eyes shrouded in a fog revealed to him the path safest to the city, yet before him not two hundred yards was a bandit ambush laying in wait for an oncoming merchant.

"My eyes tire me but i will not let this happen".

Kyoto sprints toward the merchant waving his arms like a lunatic "stop!". The merchant a small gnome shifted his glasses on his wrinkled face. "My boy your appearance is startling to say the least why stop me here? Do you need a ride?" The merchant motioned for the warrior to sit next to him on his driving bench. The mares winnied as the merchant snapped the reins.

"do you mind if i ask what is in the cart?"

The gnome looked at the warriors stark white hair and massive sword hanging from his shoulders "if you mean to rob me i only have feed for the lords horses".

"I do not mean to rob you but to warn you. Ahead in a thicket of bramble bushes lay ten or so men waiting to rob this very cart." The gnome looked startled but cocked his head to hear more. Kyoto continued "i posess enough skill to stop the attack. I only ask one thing in compenstation". The gnome worriedly looked at his miniscule coin bag. "That you spread the word that the ghost of shinewell seeks knowlege of the veil. Can you do that for me?" The small man nodded quizicly looking puzzeled by the title the man before him gave. As they approached the overgrown path a man stumbles out holding a wound on his stomach.

"Please...there are b b beasts in the hills. Can you spare me a ride to the great city?"

Kyoto scoffed "tell the other nine to show themselves!"

The man dressed in rags slowly produced a dagger from behind his belt "alright men this one saw us through. Now we will run em through. Sack the cart!"

Cleo hastily packed a travel bag as well as paid off a stablemaster to get him a descreet carriage to house himself. The trip to Durin would be long but no doubt in his mind did he pick a better companion than Kio.

"Uhmm" a small feminen voice cleared their throat. "Master cleo i do belive you are a danger to many by possessing the void scrolls or at least a piece. The council made it seem like you had all seven in your hands."

"You spied mrs. Luna?" Cleo turned to face the skyblue robbed girl. She has long black hair and piercing green eyes. Her nails dipped in an oily liquid only to better produce a current. She enters cleos room and closes the double doors then electricfying the handles.

"There isnt much time and the sage warned of troubles ahead. I took it upon myself to decide...im joining you master cleo" she removes the pointed wide brimmed hat she wears and bows before the prince.

"Jay luna the mage of clouds. Impressive what youve done at our age."

Jay giggles pulling back hair from her pointed ears "our age? I am 200 years old but i guess that is equivalent to yours at 16".

"So what of the council?"

Jay sighs "they mean to stop you peacefully if possible but syris' plans are more sinister i belive. No matter the guards you bring will suffice especially if they are the wardens?" She waves her hand in a motion to get cleo to speak.

"I have but one guard cloud mage. I have The ghost of shinewell. The veil walker. The spirit touched swordsman. Kyoto Amory."

Jay raised her brows in intrest. "Heard he was quite violent and unruly in the farlands".

"Thats the farlands. Filled with beasts and murderers!".

"Isnt he too a murderer".

"A warrior not a murderer. And one that possess unqiue powers only few have ever lived to see."

Fifteen men burst from the undergrowth rushing the cart from all sides. Kyoto in a quick motion pulls himself and the gnome up onto the roof of the cart. "Stay here" the warrior ordered unshouldering Kison, his blade. A few of the bandits all different races wielding many weapon types surrounded the cart. Blackened veins raised to the surface around kyotos eyes as they fogged over. He could now see their heartbeats, every little twitch of motion, and if any had aquired magic abilitys. Doing even this quick scan of the men tired the warrior greatly, but it had to be done. One man an orc stood far away from the cart whispering to himself and twitching his fingers in hand signs.

"He is casting a long spell fire based" kyoto observed. Kyoto grinned. Maybe a challenge awaited.

Bandits loaded crossbows and aimed to down the defender and merchant. Six bolts screamed through the air and in one swift twirl kyoto deflected the bolts with his sword. The others rushed to climb up the cart. The gnome desperatly kicks at the mens hands. Two men reach the top as kyoto closes his eyes. In silence, peace of mind kyoto bends his kness and slides around full swing cleaving the two bandits in half. He then jumps on top of a falling torso to the men below. The men back up but then rush hapazardly swinging blades and hammers at the ghost.

Six heart beats. Three upward motion. Two downward motion. One diagnal motion.

using the power of his eyes kyoto deflect the first three blows then pushes energy through himself and blasting them backward thirty paces. The next two swings are caught on the swordsman' blade. With a push down and slice across two fall to the warrior. The last kyoto just leans back letting the blade wash past him. He grips the mans face with one hand and rips his eyesight reducing stress on his own eyes. The bandit screams in pain as his own eyes now share the blindness of kyotos. The three before begin to pick themselves up. The ghost sensing danger turns and rips the gnome from the roof of the cart by his foot as a cone of flame engulfs the cart and the mares.

"Are you not done yet!" Kyoto screams out in a two toned voice.

The orc leader grins his tusks caked in dried food "i do think i have the upper hand. Orc mage stronger than puny human warrior with...uhh..with magic items!".

Stupid orc

Kyoto places the gnome on his shoulders. "They intend to kill us or slave us. The cart wasnt their goal". The gnome holds on tight closing his tearing eyes shut.

Four bandits approach from behind as well as three more from the front.

Damn it.

kyoto again flashes his eyes but this time phases out of exsistance and stepping out of the swings of the bandits weapons. The world flashes greys and blacks. Returning to the world with a bloody nose and bleeding eyes kyoto slams his sword into the ground and grips forward. Contorting the bandits bodies violently but breifly. He damages them enough to cripple but not enough power left to kill. The ghosts eye sight diminishes leaving him with the view of the world in blackness. His body heaving up and down in exhaustion the gnome taps his shoulder "mr. Theres more bandits more bandits!" Kyoto focuses on the samantic chanting of a spell coming from the orcs lips. In darkness he lets his hearing do the next part. Swing after swing kyoto ducks, sidesteps, and rolls dogging the attacks. When the final word of the spell releases the warmth of the flame signals kyoto to phase backwards into it a mere fifty steps.

The flame burns the remaining bandits to ash as kyoto appears behind the orc mage with his hand to his face and one inside his chest.

"Kesh tin ver kel eye!"

Kyoto rips the orcs eyesight and strips him of his magical core. The orcs cavity gushes blood as the core is removed.

Kyoto stares at his bloody hand intill his eyesight returns. Laying in his hand a small flame spirit in the shape of a snake dances a circle charring the leather of his glove.

"Go now my friend. Why you bonded to such a beast i will not know for you are to young to answer. But you are chaotic and must be free from the sins of man" kyotos voice splits in two as he bids farewell releasing the spirit into a small hole in the veil.

submitted by /u/ApolloAmory [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2Rz8oJp

#Blogger #Story

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bet4causes-blog · 8 years ago

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Yahoo Sport UK horse racing Lucky 15 – Wednesday’s top selections

Yahoo Sport UK has teamed up with Bet4Causes to bring you a preview of the day’s British racing – and The Night Hawk marks your card.

Each day we will mark your card, providing a preview of the day’s racing and offering what the experts feel will be the value bets of the day.

Our NAP and Next Best both won on Tuesday, so take a look at our Lucky 15 selections (four singles, six doubles, four trebles and a four-fold) for the British meetings on Wednesday, January 18, 2017.

LUCKY 15 SELECTIONS

THEATRE TERRITORY (Newbury 3.25) looked good in easily landing the odds in a mares’ maiden hurdle for Nicky Henderson at Uttoxeter in early December when returning from an eight-month break. She had previously won an Irish point-to-point and while she failed to score in three bumpers, they were high-class affairs and she was placed twice. He latest run was in a Listed mares’ novices’ hurdle at Taunton, where she was beaten around nine lengths by Coillte Lass, but she lost no caste in defeat as it looked hot form. Back down to a more realistic level for a six-runner 2m4½f novices’ event, she is expected to regain the winning thread.

DUTCH GOLDEN AGE (Lingfield Park 12.50) appears better at Kempton than he does anywhere else, but Gary Moore’s runner may be able to follow up his recent success at the Sunbury track off a 5lb higher mark. While it would represent a career best, the five-year-old is in good heart at present and has won twice and been placed in four runs since late October. There are not too many miles on the clock (just 15 runs) and if he is allowed to dominate like he did at Kempton, he may well find the necessary improvement in this competitive 13-runner 7f handicap.

FINAL CHOICE (Newbury 1.15) appears to hold a bright chance of making it three wins in four starts for Warren Greatrix, having scored by eight lengths in a 2m½f juvenile hurdle here in December. His jumping was slick and while he looked a sitting duck in front between the last two flights, he found plenty and finished off his race nicely. His trainer was half thinking about going for the Triumph Hurdle after his latest success, so if that plan is to hatch, he will probably have to win today’s 2m event. The issue could be a lack of pace with only five runners.

POET’S SOCIETY (Lingfield 3.05) landed a reasonably well-contested nursery at Chelmsford in September, getting a soft lead and keeping on for pressure. That was over 6f and he was subsequently held by Spin Doctor at Newcastle the following month off a career-high mark of 89. Having had 11 weeks off, he returned and finished second to Visionary in a 5f conditions race at Wolverhampton earlier this month, with stablemate Chupalla (who re-opposes today) held. While he would appear to be better over 6f than today’s 5f, he may well frank that form, although Mark Johnston’s other runner was having his first run since May and should be fitter.

OTHER SELECTIONS:

NEWBURY: 1.15 Final Choice, 1.50 Shantou Rock, 2.20 Champagne At Tara, 2.55 Monbeg Gold, 3.25 THEATRE TERRITORY (NAP), 3.55 Bang On Frankie

MARKET RASEN: 1.00 Master Of Irony, 1.35 Brian Borahna, 2.10 Viking Mistress, 2.40 King’s Odyssey, 3.15 Attimo, 3.45 Movie Legend

LINGFIELD PARK: 12.50 Dutch Golden Age (nb), 1.25 Hathfa, 2.00 Darebin, 2.30 Thomas Blossom, 3.05 Poet’s Society, 3.35 Global Revival, 4.05 Encapsulated

KEMPTON PARK: 4.20 Frivolous Prince, 4.50 Henry Grace, 5.20 Persistence, 5.50 My Lady Marie, 6.20 Absolute Blast, 6.50 Pivotal Flame

Bet via Bet4Causes, where 20% of net revenue goes to sporting charities, who include Greatwood and World Horse Welfare.

You must be 18+ in order to bet. Please gamble responsibly http://www.gambleaware.co.uk

#Newbury #Market Rasen #Lingfield Park #Kempton Park #Bet4Causes #MyClubBetting

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ask-de-writer · 7 years ago

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NORE’S CHOICE : Origin of the Rom: MLP Fan Fiction : (Part 2 of 10)

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Return to NORE’S CHOICE

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

NORE’S CHOICE

Part ONE of the Origins of the Rom

ORIGIN OF THE ROM SERIES in reading order. (will be completed as the stories are posted in linked form)

Part One : NORE’S CHOICE, which starts HERE

Part Two : WELCOME TO EQUESTRIA! which starts HERE

Part Three : FAIR AND UN-FAIR, which starts HERE

Part Four : ON THE ROADS OF EQUESTRIA, which starts HERE

Part Five : THE FIRST ROM HEARTHWARMING, which starts HERE

Part Six : SANDO’S LAKE, which starts HERE

Part Seven : A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE ROM, which starts HERE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

29000 words

Cover art by @wind-the-mama-cat

Writing begun 08/09/15

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As quietly as they could, the whole band left the farm. They turned out, away from town, following the road, seeking another empty farm, another abandoned well that might give them some life giving water. Nore optimistically carried along the digging stick and ropes.

Rom approved, “That is wise, Nore. We might find another bucket.”

Nore grinned and pointed to the dust of the road. “Nobody much uses this road! Besides the Godolphin’s Guard tracks, there are only the old traces of the caravan that old donkey brought across the Anvil. Look! You can even see that he came and went twice!”

Rom did look. As his own hooves raised little plops of dust, he said thoughtfully, “One has to wonder where he came from. Those loads of the finest hay, grains, dried fruits and nuts did not come out of thin air.”

Maina observed sarcastically, “We know where they went though! The fat guts of the Godolphin and his noble cronies.”

Malit, with a snicker, said, “While totally true, it is unwise to say things like that!

“Oh! Look! There is a gate and lane. It looks to be empty!” Pausing a moment, she added more softly, “No wonder. I see the turnaround at the end of the road too. This is the very last farm out to the east of town.”

Phapa added, “There is a patrol of the Godolphin’s Guard coming up the road behind us, too.”

They cleared the way, going off the road, as was only proper for Slaveborn, making way for Freeborn.

The Guard halted and the Sargent in charge of this lot snickered at their plight. “Going to try your luck on Celestia’s Anvil? Just because that old donkey has managed to get caravans of sweet hay, dried fruit, nuts and water across the Anvil to sell to the Godolphin and his court doesn’t mean that you can cross it too!”

He reared with laughter and added, “Just because you were lucky enough find a little seep of water in a dead well won’t save you out there! We won’t come for your bones if you are dumb enough to try it!

“Come, fellow troopers! We have shade and a water ration awaiting us at the patrol’s end!” They passed on, leaving only dust and laughter to mark their passing.

Rom watched them go. All that he said was, “Rude of them, wasn’t it? They found the seep that you dug out, Nore.”

They turned up the lane to the abandoned farm, their hooves making the only marks there.

A furtive figure followed them, hiding whenever any of them even glanced back.

They found the farm’s abandoned wells easily enough. Wooden safety covers were fallen in. At least one looked broken nearly on purpose. Boards were broken across and some still dangled from their pegs. Their noses provided the answer to that question.

The stench of rotting flesh floated up from the bottom, where the overhead sun let them see it. The horse had died of broken bones, thirst and starvation. They were turning away from the morbid sight when Sarel’s keen sighted eyes popped open.

“He had a bucket! It is down there with him. It looks intact!”

Nore shuddered. Swallowing hard, she volunteered, “If we can keep the carrion flies out of my eyes and nose, I will get us the bucket.”

They all scattered to look for some sort of cloth or other thing that might work.

Sarel came soberly back to the well. “I don’t think that this family left.” She gave several dry heaving sobs. “There are mares in the house. They have all been dead a long time.”

Rom nodded sadly, “I feared as much. The horse in the well is slaveborn or his headstall lies. What of the mares?”

Steadying herself, Sarel replied, “Two freeborn, three slaveborn. I did not see the Master.”

Rom nodded to himself as he thought deeply. “I must see them. What of cloth to shield Nore’s eyes and nose?”

“It is there. There is a stall hanging of gauze in pretty good shape. It has been shielded from the weather and sun.”

Phappa and Malit returned from the tumbledown barn, empty hooved. Malit was trying unsuccessfully to hold down her gorge. She vomited a little fluid but nothing else.

Phapa held her head. She looked up at Rom. “We found little of any use. I believe that the Master of the farm died in there. He has no headstall.”

Rom soberly looked about at the farm with new eyes. “I must see him too. Sarel found what seems to be the rest of the family that was here, slave and freeborn alike.”

Big Phapa seemed to shrink. In a shaking voice she asked, “Do you mean what I fear that you mean?”

Solid, dependable Rom nodded. “I fear a massacre. They may have been killed for food, water or both. I pray to the Night Horse that I am wrong.”

He went to the barn first. He spent only a little time there. Then to the house. He returned with the gauze neatly folded.

“We must be most careful. The Watch Sargent who was so rude did leave a watcher. I have seen him twice. He is napping down in the bottom of the old kitchen garden now.”

His shoulders finally slumped. “They were all killed. The whole family was murdered. May the Night Horse take them to the Garden of Dreams.”

Young Nore looked puzzled by the last statement but was holding still while Sarel carefully wrapped her head and face in the old hanging. The mares got busy securing her into the improvised lowering harness fashioned of ropes.

It took them all to get her down safely. The old windlass was wrecked. Now that they knew what they were seeing, the signs of vandalism were obvious. The mares lowered Nore slowly while Rom kept the rope from rubbing and chafing on the stone well coping.

They were just getting her out of the well with the bucket when they heard an all too familiar voice demanding, “Give me that bucket! I want some water, NOW!”

Nore, with a saccharine smile turned the bucket up, tipping out about a thousand squirming maggots. “We all want water, Sando. We had it, too. You took it away from all of us by breaking our bucket. Now, the Watch has found the seep that WE made. We can no longer get that water.”

Sando snapped, “If you weren’t getting water, what were you doing down that well? Why did you bring up those maggots?”

“I wanted away from the murdered horse in the bottom of the well as quickly as I could. The maggots were already in the bucket. If we are very lucky, we might find something in one of the other two wells here. I doubt it, though.

“If there was any water, the murderers from the Godolphin’s Guard would not have thrown the bucket down on top of the corpse.”

Sando sneered, “How do you know anyhorse was murdered by the Godolphin’s Guard?”

Rom nodded approvingly at Nore. Heartened, she stated, “By using my eyes and brain. Every Guard Patrol has two pike horses for breaking charging attacks, three with short stabbing spears and the leader of the patrol has a sword.

“Every horse here was murdered by pike or spear. Even the dead slaveborn down there in the well was stabbed before he was cast down to die of his injuries. Those pikes and stabbing spears are military weapons. Only the Guard and Army can have them.”

Rom gently got between Sando and the bucket. “No, Sando. You may not have the bucket. We need it. You cost us both the bucket we had and the water that we had.

“Before you ask, NO, we do not trust you at all. You do no thing to help us but try to act the Master to us. You are no Master.”

Sando stamped in anger. “You aren’t any Master, either!”

Big, solid, blacksmith Phapa shouldered between them. “The difference is that Rom does not pretend that he is due any special treatment. He is no bully and he takes responsibility for what he does.”

Sarel entered the fray, pointing out, “The Guard Troop that was on the road out front, a bit ago, found our seep and bragged of it. They did not enter this farm and its wells. They knew them for dry. That means that they were likely the murderers.

“One other thing. They left a watcher to keep an eye on us. He is asleep in the shade of a wall in the kitchen garden. We need to keep our voices down.”

They all turned their backs to him and conferred with Rom about removing the safety covers from the remaining two wells.

Sando watched with resentment as the mares, with Rom directing and helping, shifted the cover from the nearest of the wells. They looked down and signaled for Nore to look too. She shook her head.

“Not except as a last resort. I see no trace of a damp spot. Let us try the other one first.”

Rom nodded and began to direct the replacement of the cover over the dry well. Sando barged in demanding, “Forget this nonsense! Get the cover off the other well, NOW!”

Phapa did not even let go of the part she was holding with her jaws. She double bucked Sando hard enough to blast him off his feet. The band continued to replace the cover safely before going to the last well.

The cover jammed several times before they got it loose and clear. Rom led Nore over and asked, “What do you think, Nore? Is this one worth our effort? We have seen what looks like it is possibly damp but that may be a trick of the light.”

Nore studied the well from several angles, staring intently and sniffing too. She nodded at last.

“This one is our best bet.” She marked a spot. “Lower me down from here. There is something odd about the well side just below this but not at the bottom.”

Rom accepted that and got the mares busy with the preparations to lower Nore where she wanted.

Soon she was on her way down, meter by careful meter. Near the bottom, they heard her call up, “Hold me here! I found it! We will have water in just a little!”

Sando heard it too. He charged in, nipping the flanks of the mares, causing them to drop Nore the rest of the way. He shouted, “Water! Now that little idiot is at the bottom! Dig there! WELL! Got it? WATER at the BOTTOM!”

Nore’s voice came plaintively up from the well, “The water is up some on the side of the well! I can’t reach it now! Why did you drop me?”

Sando yelled down the well, “Dig, you stupid filly! If I don’t get that water in a few minutes, we will leave you there!”

Spinning about, Sando reared to his impressive height, pawing the air with forehooves.

“I challenge you for the leadership of this band, Rom!”

Malit and Maina simply nodded to each other. They each put a hoof in front of one of his hind hooves and high signed Phapa.

The big powerful blacksmith let drive with a double kick that did not stop until nearly 10 cm after a rising impact with Sando’s rear. The shocked Sando literally flew forward and crashed to the dust a mare’s length away. Sarel slammed the side of his neck, dazing him.

She hissed in his ear, “You have killed us all, you idiot! You woke up the Guard watcher and he is on the run to get the rest of the patrol!

“Being a leader is more than just being strong or big. You need both intelligence and wisdom too. You have no sign of any brains! This is TWO wells that you have cost us. You have the same water that we have! NONE! And ALL YOUR FAULT!

“Stay out of our way. We are saving Nore. YOU ARE NOT WORTH SAVING!”

She left the shocked and stunned Sando and joined the mares recovering Nore from the well. She was weeping.

“Why? We had it there, up on the side. There was lots of water. Up close, I could smell it! It would only have taken a little digging to get it to flow out.”

Sarel pointed insultingly with a hind hoof. “There is the reason. Sando. What else could you expect from that fool? Wisdom? Thought for anyhorse but himself?” She brayed a sarcastic laugh.

Laying bruised and sore in the dust, Sando slowly realized that he had not been beaten by Rom. All of the mares had ganged up to protect Rom by a cooperative attack. He could NEVER lead these mares. They would not follow.

He saw a commotion at the well coping. Nore was limping on one hind leg. It hit him that he had injured her. He didn’t really want to hurt any horse. He was so thirsty that he had failed to think straight.

Nore limped over and snapped, “You want water so bad that you will kill is all to get it? Here have mine!” She pissed a pitifully small amount. On his face.

Rom looked on, troubled by all that he had seen. The mares gathered and asked him trustingly, “What can we do now, Rom?”

He thought carefully and replied, “We must dare the Anvil of Celestia. The Guard Troop knows us and will kill us to keep the well, so we cannot go back to Tadast’s Wells.

“Sando’s foolish actions have robbed us of water, choices, and likely, life itself.

“If we just follow the donkey’s caravan tracks, the Guards will find us. We must go wide of them for at least a day. Then, perhaps we can follow him to safety. I fear not, though.

“It is the only choice left to us. I can see the dust of the Watch Patrol coming now.”

They all nodded unhappy understanding and followed Rom from the farm, going across sere dead fields. They spared not a glance for Sando. The last that he was aware of them was the sound of hooves breaking dry, brittle stalks of the failed crop.

He struggled to his feet to await the Guards. It was not long at all. Proudly, he pointed to the well. “There is water in that one!”

Turning, he saw a Guardshorse staring intently down. “Don’t see anything. Possibly a dampish spot… Not really water.”

Sando puffed out his chest and replied, “The water is up on the side of the well. The filly that we were using to lower and dig, said that she could smell it really strongly.”

The guard by the well looked up and changed position. “Yes, I see it now. Pity that there isn’t enough well reward to share it with a turned out slaveborn.”

The change in his voice and his words caused Sando to panic and dodge. The searing pain of the near miss on his windpipe and heart, as the spear sliced his shoulder, brought many things clear to Sando at once!

First among them was FLEE! Wheeling, he ran through the dry rustling stalks of the dead crop. Where he passed was a trail of ruin, the dry dead stalks shattered under hoof! Before he had gone far, he realized that he needed to follow the others to conceal his trail!

Crossing a ditch and low wall, he raced out onto the Anvil itself. The sand pockets among the stones were treacherous. It was easy to slip in them.

The crushing weight of his bungles was falling in on him as blood rilled from his shoulder. His guilt ridden thoughts ran, “That was no mere dominance thing. They meant to actually murder me, like the family back there! I did them a good turn and they tried to kill me for it!”

His breath laboring, hooves slipping in the slithering sand and gravels, it hit him, “The band did me nothing but good and I may have killed them all! I will never question Rom again, if they will let me rejoin them. Perhaps I can help some of them to survive to the other side of the desert.”

That thought actually stopped Sando in his tracks. “The other side of Celestia’s Anvil? I’ve never even considered such a thing! That old donkey has pulled two caravan loads of luxury provisions to the Godolphin’s Court. There has to be another side! I never questioned the Anvil as a boundary before!”

While stopped, he actually saw the tracks that he was following. Nore, as smallest, was easy to see. With a lump in his throat, he saw that she was limping. There, on that sloped sand and gravel, she had fallen.

“My fault! I was the one who made her fall!”

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