#memories of her childhood from before the outbreak the one she hardly remembers for she was young then!

[thedeadthree]

♫ for vharion and ♫ for olga!

HI RHYS DEAR ty ty so much and i hope your doing well! AHH MY ANGRY BABY BOY AND MY SWEET SWAN GIRL ! 🥀🥹

OCS AND SHIPS + SONG ASKS

🗡 — VHARION

ANTI LIFE — health, tyler bates, chino moreno

so no one remembers you, but me // the last we spoke // was i so hard to trust? // those years turned black // but i gave all i had

⚕️ — OLGA LITVINCHUCK

ONCE UPON A DECEMBER — the hound + the fox

glowing dim as an ember // things my heart used to know // things it yearns to remember // and a song someone sings // once upon a december

[ncfan-1]

Three Houses: Where Are All the Mothers? Part 2, Dimitri’s Mother and Maternal Family

Welcome to Part Two of ‘Three Houses: Where Are All the Mothers?” In Part One, I discussed the widespread absence of mother characters in Three Houses and how, given that mother-child relationship is central in driving so much of the overarching narrative, the lack of that theme being replicated, analyzed, and explored at the descending levels of the narrative hurts the story as a whole. In Part Two, I’m going to be talking about the snowballing effects of neglecting a mother character—namely, how in certain cases it can lead to also neglecting her natal family, which can open up some big holes in the narrative. Actually, Part Three covers this, too, but while in Part Three we’ll be traveling down to Enbarr, in Part Two, we’re heading north to the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.

That Dimitri rarely ever mentions his birth mother makes somewhat more sense than someone like Ingrid never talking about her mother at all. Sylvain mentions pre-timeskip that she died during an outbreak of plague “around twenty years ago,” and while it was certainly not actually twenty years ago, the fact that Sylvain named such a figure indicates that Dimitri’s mother likely died while he was still in his infancy. He has no memory of her, Patricia is likely who he thinks of when he thinks of ‘Mother,’ and it’s unclear whether the people around Patricia in the royal court did or did not bring up her predecessor all that much, the better to try to make Patricia’s life a little easier, and keep her out of another woman’s shadow.

That Dimitri hardly ever talks about his birth mother (and to be honest, I can’t remember if he ever mentions her specifically, or if we’re just meant to infer her existence from the negative space of Dimitri always referring to Patricia as his stepmother) is understandable. What is considerably less understandable is the narrative neglecting her so thoroughly as it does, especially when that also snowballs into neglecting her natal family.

Just to get this out of the way, oh, look, here’s another mother character who apparently didn’t merit a name. Why not just have Sylvain call her ‘the late Queen [insert name here]’ instead of the queen consort when he dropped that exposition about her death, the plague, and Cornelia on us? Calling her the queen consort is actually more awkward than just calling her ‘the late Queen [insert name here]’, so it looks like, as with Byleth’s mother, the writers have gone out of their way to avoid giving her a name. Just… why?

And we know nothing about this woman, or her accomplishments, whatever they might be. We don’t know if she opened any churches, or patronized any scholars or universities, or oversaw any public works projects, or regularly delivered alms to the poor, or any of the other things a high Medieval queen might be expected to do with her power and influence. This game likes its flavor text; it wouldn’t have been hard to drop us a few lines here and there. No, it doesn’t seem like Patricia did any of that—Dimitri mentions that she mostly just embroidered all day, and didn’t seem “present” enough to really be involved in the goings-on of Faerghus (with the obvious and somewhat large caveat that he’s remembering her through the eyes of a child)—but Patricia also didn’t have the advantage of a pre-existing network of influence in the form of a powerful natal family within the Kingdom. Her predecessor, almost certainly a noblewoman by birth, thanks to the Faerghus nobility’s obsession with Crests, would have had such a family, and such a network.

So, where are they?

Even after Dimitri’s mother died, her family still should have been a huge presence both in his life and in the political landscape of Faerghus. Even after Lambert remarried, these people should still have had a huge presence in Dimitri’s life, because they’re the maternal family of the future King of Faerghus. Whether their interest in him is altruistic or self-serving—Volkhard von Arundel went from being a minor lord in Adrestia to shooting up in power and influence after Patricia became one of Ionius’s consorts by capitalizing on this newfound connection to the emperor—they should have been a fixture in Dimitri’s life growing up, and a fixture in the royal court. But instead, we have nothing.

We have no information on how Lambert’s in-laws might have influenced the reforms he intended to carry out, if they opposed or supported them. We’ve no information on how they might have used their connection to Lambert to try to advance at court. Were they councilors, ambassadors, generals? Were they a help to Lambert’s goals or a constant thorn in his side? And here’s something else we don’t hear about: were any of them killed in the Tragedy of Duscur?

Dimitri never talks about his maternal family. Never talks about the cousins whose parents would almost certainly sent them to court to act as his companions, or about the aunts or uncles who must surely have been a part of his life, or the grandparents who, if still living when he was growing up, must surely have also been a part of his life. Even if their interest in him was purely self-serving, even if the relationship was trouble, surely Dimitri would have mentioned at least one of them at least once.

When Dimitri was “executed” during the timeskip in three out of the four routes, there is no word as to how his maternal family responded to the news. Did they join with Houses Fraldarius and Gautier in fighting the Empire, or did they cave to Cornelia in the hopes of being able to salvage something from the situation they were now in? When, in Azure Moon, Faerghus as a whole discovered that Dimitri was still alive, did they rush to send support, or did they wait and see if he would be able to take back Fhirdiad before pledging their support?

Dimitri’s mother certainly had a family. She almost certainly had a noble family, a noble house whose presence should have been felt in some way or another in the game. If they all died in the plague that took her life, if they all died in the Tragedy of Duscur, if some died in the first and the rest in the second, the game needs to tell us—or, at least, hint at—that. As I said earlier, this game likes its flavor text; a little tidbit here and there, bits of information we’re left to string together on our own, would have gone a long way. And if Dimitri’s mother was from a cadet branch of House Blaiddyd, same deal as above; give us enough information that we can figure that out.

And the reason I keep assuming that Dimitri’s mother is from a Kingdom noble house yet to be introduced is because none of the six we have any level of insight into—Gaspard, Dominic, Charon, Gautier, Galatea, and Fraldarius—make sense as Dimitri’s maternal family.

House Gaspard? It would likely have come up during Lonato’s chapter, and certainly during Dimitri and Ashe’s support chain. Given that Dimitri’s trying to get Ashe to relax around him, if he could have pulled out the “But we’re closely related (by adoption)” card, he would have.

House Dominic? It would have come up in Dimitri’s supports with Gilbert or especially Annette, Annette not being the kind of person who’d keep on calling Dimitri ‘Your Highness’ if she was closely related to him.

House Charon? Same deal as the two above; it would have come up during Dimitri’s support chain with Catherine. Moreover, if Catherine was closely related to Dimitri, she would likely have known him since very early in his life, and would have recognized him as a child, long hair or no long hair.

House Gautier? No. Sylvain never includes ‘related to the future King of Faerghus’ in the spiels he uses to lure in his latest conquest; he would if he could.

House Galatea? Count Galatea is desperately trying to marry Ingrid off to the richest man (provided he’s not a scumbag) he can find. Being able to claim that she’s closely related to the future King of Faerghus would absolutely be something he’d use to make her more attractive to potential suitors, if he could claim it with any degree of truth.

House Fraldarius? This is the only one that halfway makes sense, given Rodrigue’s closeness to Lambert and Dimitri both, Glenn serving as a royal knight from the ripe old age of fifteen, and Felix having apparently been a close companion of Dimitri’s from early childhood. However, it only makes halfway sense, not total sense. If Dimitri’s mother was from House Fraldarius, how come it’s never mentioned? How come Rodrigue never brings up the blood relation? If Rodrigue was, say, Dimitri’s maternal uncle, he probably wouldn’t call him by name, especially not pre-timeskip, where he is meticulously polite and wouldn’t be calling his own uncle by just his given name. In the end, I’ve got to give a no on House Fraldarius being where Dimitri’s mother came from, as well.

The sheer absence of Dimitri’s maternal family is a gaping hole in a narrative already filled with holes where mother characters should be. In a game with thinner world-building, it might be easier to overlook. However, given that Three Houses takes so much time to establish the land of Fódlan and the complicated networks of influence and enmity that connect its noble houses, that the maternal families of one of the continent’s future rulers never gets so much as a mention, when this house would be undeniably an influential one (and if no longer extant, that deserves mention as well), is a glaring oversight. In Part Three, I’ll be talking about the situation in Adrestia, specifically a situation that takes this problem and multiplies it.

Part Three: The Imperial consorts (and their children) and their families

[secret-engima]

Yo, my friend! Headcanons for the Kiddos(Miko, Jack, Raf, Maybe June and Fowler) learning about the bots celebrating their version of 'Christmas'?

Oooh, a CHALLENGE. Keep in mind that these might not stay canon, considering I don’t know what in the world my plot notes are doing ever right now.

-Nobody notices at first that the Autobots prep for Christmas without any prompting or suggestions from the humans in their lives. It’s December and there’s just- a giant metal tree in the corner of the main base room. It’s kinda crooked, and honestly looks like it’s been through a few dozen wars, but one of the bots gives it a new green coat and nobody needs any prompting to start hanging goofy little ornaments made of cobbled together junk on the thing. There’s something so natural about the way the bots start tucking little boxes under the thing as presents and stringing up the Christmas lights. Something about the way one or the other bots will suddenly start humming a Christmas carol (”It Feels Like Christmas” from Muppet’s Christmas Carol is a particular fav) and then minutes later any bot in the nearby vicinity is humming or singing along. Even the Decepticon attacks and mishaps are mysteriously absent the closer it gets to the actual day, and Fowler just about falls over when he catches Optimus very softly singing Bobby Helms version of Jingle Bell Rock to himself while working through his paperwork.

-It’s probably Raf who notices the oddity of it first. Jack just kinda rolls with everything at this point and Miko is too excited helping with decorating to wonder why, out of all the things on Earth that usually confuse the Autobots, Christmas isn’t one of them. He asks about it and all three kids are just- stunned when one of the bots mentions that this is a normal holiday for them. Has been for literal centuries. That’s when all the questions start, but not too many answers are forthcoming.

-Bulkhead gives a wish-washy answer that it started up in Iacon during the latter days of the war when everyone really needed something to cheer them up. He can’t really say how that celebration was Christmas when none of the Autobots knew what Earth was yet (and it is Christmas, it’s the ornaments and presents and a metal tree for crying aloud, they sing Christmas carols and things from Christmas musicals, it can’t be anything else). Whether Bulkhead doesn’t remember of is just afraid of saying, the kids turn their attention on the other bots for answers, curiosity eating at all three now that Raf has unveiled the mystery.

-It’s Miko who finally tracks down Hardwire, since he’s one of the few bots who always just- seems to know Earth culture without prompting. She’s surprised when he goes very, very quiet. Sad quiet. He tells her that this was a holiday his guardians used to celebrate every year, that some of his fondest memories are of decorating the tree and telling those stories and singing those songs. He doesn’t say how his guardians knew about it and for once Miko is kind enough to let it drop. Instead, she hauls out her guitar to teach the Autobots some new “properly metal” Christmas songs (which makes Hardwire laugh because Jingle Bells is hardly “metal” by any sense of the word).

-Fowler, who has never actually seen this before because he always took pains to avoid the autobots as much as possible before now, really doesn’t get how Autobots understand the concept of Christmas when they have so much trouble understanding basic idioms and slang, but he honestly doesn’t mind it. The Autobots have a good choral thing going on and he’s pretty sure that teeny box under the tree has his name on it (he’s genuinely touched, but also suspicious of what it is, because what if it explodes).

-June, who is still new to the “sentient robots from space” thing is a little wary at first, because sure they celebrate the holiday but what if they add something dangerous to it? Those presents are huge and could hurt somebody if they fall over, and the bristles on that metal tree don’t exactly scream “safe”. But ... Jack is probably the happiest he’s been in a while as he rides on Arcee’s shoulders singing along to the latest random outbreak of musical Christmas cheer or getting glue all over his hands as he, Bumblebee, and Raf make new ornaments to replace the ones that have been lost or broken over the “vorns” (whatever those are, she doesn’t really get alien time terms). Plus, there’s something incredibly endearing watching the kids cuddled up on the couch with hot cocoa Ratchet downloaded the recipe for (with much grumbling and “This is so unhealthy do you even know what this could do to your systems? Clogging, hyper-activity, tank corrosion- okay maybe not that last one”) while the rest of the Autobot base (Optimus included!) crowd around to watch Christmas movies using a giant wall projector Jazz “acquired” from somewhere. It turns out, for all the Autobots can sing a ton of songs from movies and musicals, they’ve never actually ... seen most of them. The kids set about fixing this ASAP, and Fowler pretends to look innocent and oblivious when a few of the really old Christmas movies and musicals from his childhood end up in the Watch pile

-None of this is to say that the Autobots don’t have some ... really weird variations of Christmas celebrations they’ve created over the vorns. Miko tries her absolutely hardest to win at the Wrench Throwing competition, but considering she can’t throw that far and June throws a fit after catching her trying to lift one of Ratchet’s rather than a normal one... that doesn’t go too far. There are other things too, odd phrases and customs (instead of mistletoe in the doorways, someone strings a little Autobot sigil. Any two people, bot or otherwise, who are caught underneath it must exchange a hug or a compliment). There’s also the tendency of the more silly mechs (read, Bulkhead and Bumblebee) to try to use their engines to rev out a carol’s melody rather than their vocalizers (or radio in Bee’s case). It drives Ratchet up the wall, which seems to be the point (when asked about it, Bulkhead just shrugs and says that it’s the Twins fault for starting that tradition, as if that explains everything).

-Also, it is apparently mandatory for mechs and femmes to take turns telling Christmas stories, either their own memories of previous Christmas’s or classic tales they shouldn’t know, and nothing quite beats Optimus, the famed leader of the Autobot Faction, patiently rumbling his way through a retelling of “A Night Before Christmas” (except maybe the Jingle Bell Rock thing, but Fowler keeps that moment to himself).

-So overall, the humans are pretty baffled how two unknown guardians of Hardwire knew about Christmas, or how from there it became a holiday for the entire Autobot faction, but none of them mind. It’s warm and happy and honestly pretty awesome (Miko tries to institute a Christmas Derby Race, her request is denied by Fowler on the grounds that he knows these idiots, they’d get over competitive and probably blow their cover).

[rekozo]

If Only

Word Count: 929

Chapter(s): One

Pairings: two OC's, I named them Naomi and Ally but feel free to call them whatever as it doesn't actually say their names

Summary: Naomi reflects on her past before the outbreak, still in shock after a traumatic event occurred.

Status: Completed

———

Humans were scarce these days. Their mindset was to survive, to not be wiped out by the anomaly that was slowly crushing their world with a terrifying fist.

The only knowledge of survival skills I had was from my childhood, faded memories that were too vague to clearly recall, of my father teaching me to shoot a gun. He was a hunter my papa, as was his father before him. The male lineage, if one could track back far enough, could see that all men in my family were taught the ways of the wood. By a certain age they knew how to track an animal through the thick undergrowth of a forest for miles, their aim steady and never missing. My father, wanting only one child and for that one to be male, was disappointed when his unborn read the opposite gender he wished for. But it didn't stop him from making an effort to try and turn this mistake into the hunting buddy he desired.

At the age of nine, when I was strong enough to hold the giant .44 Magnum Handi rifle, I was taken deep into the forest where the quiet was loud. Waiting was hardly the worst part. Keeping alert, finger on the trigger, while staying still was an egregious task for a nine year old with an abundance of energy. If I had been allowed to talk things would have gone more smoothly, but papa said I would scare them off. And so silently, and unmoving, we waited.

The first deer appeared when the sun's rays were a hard light in the sky, the beams illuminating the leaves high in the canopy. It was alone, eating at a bushel of berries, it stood unguarded, unaware of the fate that would soon befall it. The way papa whispered in my ear, like a devil on my shoulder, telling me where to aim to kill it, to move quietly — slowly — so it wouldn't notice us. I had asked isn't this murder, papa? He gave me a strange look, and shook his head.

Animals aren't humans. Animals we hunt for sport, for food and clothing. If you don't kill this one, it’ll die soon anyways.

Reluctantly I faced the deer again, my eyes traced its form, admired it's beautiful fur untouched by the splotches of blood. Something, be it another animal or it sensed a predator had already entrapped it in its web, caused the animal to snap its head in our direction. My breath stopped, frozen in my chest, as I stared into the deer’s eyes. It was alive, like me, it was simply going about it's day and I would viciously interrupt it with death. Overwhelming sadness and shame overtook me and I bowed my head, ignoring the elbow nudging from papa. I knew I wouldn't be able to kill it.

My hands relaxed on the gun, quietly setting it on the ground. The deer still stood alert and wasn't spooked until I myself stood and ran back to the truck.

Henceforth the very idea of killing repulsed me; my hands, almost, never touched another weapon again.

My conviction on guns was soon thrown out the window and I found myself shakily loading a revolver years later. It was funny how despite the fact that I barely remembered the correct way to use a gun, when put into a situation when someone else's life was at risk, the lessons I was taught so long ago resurfaced like instincts that were ingrained into my very soul.

To protect her, I knew I had to dissolve those rules I built my foundation on; to not kill, to avoid violence. After the outbreak it was the two of us against the world, living one day at a time. I found myself committing atrocities which haunt me, weaseling into my mind whenever I'm alone, making my stomach churn, my mouth dry and feel full of cotton.

Whenever we decided to move, I was the one who made the decisions. There were only two of us yet I became the unassigned assigned leader, and she never questioned it. With a map and radio transmissions that were spoken long ago, I chose to head south.

During our ordeal, the bond we had only strengthened. Never did I think there would be a time that I would feel that hollow, petrifying, feeling of her absence until it smacked me head on, swallowing me whole like a dinghy on a tempestuous sea.

Wandering the woodland that grew vaster every day now that humans weren't here to curb its growth, my heart ached. It grieved the loss of a best friend, a lover, my reason to continue on in this godforsaken world. Recalling the memory, acid rose in my throat and I clenched my jaw shut, willing my body to keep its insides where they belonged.

It was my fault, that was factual, I never should have left her alone. She was weak and defenseless. Even if she needed it I should've insisted that she came with me, forced her on her feet despite her feeble state. But I gave in, listened to her gentle assurances that she would be fine.

Arm me with a gun, she said. Three bullets in the chamber, I'll make them count.

None of them had been shot.

I choked back a sob, throwing a hand over my mouth to stifle the noise. If only I'd gotten there sooner. If only I hadn't gone on the run.

If only, then she would still be alive.

[kyndaris]

Unseen

I actually posted this first on my FictionPress account. It’s another short story that got a little out of hand but I thought it helped encapsulate the feeling of being overlooked in the busy lives that we lead. Even more difficult was trying to make the language more ‘Americanized’ than I was used to. Here’s hoping I succeeded.

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When I was young, I discovered I had a magic power. This was just after I had entered middle school and everyone had learned about puberty. It was a strange time, sprinkled with talks from teachers about the physical changes that we were expected to go through. From unwanted hair to monthly bleeds to a sizable development in the chest area. That, coupled with hormones and the outbreak of acne, was the general 'teenager' experience with its mixture of angst, confusion and rebellion.

But none of that mattered to me.

I mean, why would it when I could make myself invisible?

For years, I enjoyed the freedom that this power gave me. While others began to excel academically or at sports, I was far too busy trying to concoct the latest pranks. My marks had never been the best and while I could, perhaps toss a ball around if called upon, I was not one to put my hand up for anything competitive. I had seen the injuries sported by some of my friends when they had tried out for football and baseball.

No. My mission in life was to have fun and to annoy the living hell out of those around me. And I was good at it. The best even.

Only once was I caught. Mom was called in. Frazzled from a shift at the diner, her hair still in a messy bun, she had timidly knocked at the entrance when she arrived. I was pouting, desperately trying to mount up a feasible defense that would see mom take my side.

I was fourteen. Desperate, a little, for approval. With mom being so busy and my little sister just starting school, it had been a difficult year. And while I was enjoying my newfound ability, I was also grappling with hormones and mood swings. The one advantage I had over my peers was that I could make it all go away. Whether it was directing my invincibility to only certain parts of my body. Or simply disappearing altogether and finding a quiet place to clear my head of the mountain of thoughts.

The principal, a man of many years, judging from his balding pate the crow's feet at his eyes, had first tried to cajole my mom into enrolling me into one of those fancy boarding schools for troubled children. Over the years, I had made a name for myself as a rabble-rouser. A common disruption in class. And occasional truant.

It was also a well-known fact among the faculty that I had a hand in the mischief that had spoiled the opening night of the Christmas Play the year before. While they could not provide any concrete proof, I had put myself in their sights and any wrongdoing I did – no matter how minute – was scrutinized.

Mom was skeptical.

Of course, she had every right to be. As a single mother with two young daughters, there was hardly any money to purchase new shoes, let alone afford the fees for a private boarding school.

In the end, she chose to keep me in a public school. Though I was 'gifted' individual, she thought it best that I remain with my friends. Familiarity would ground me. That had been her key argument with the principal that day. In her eyes, whatever talents I possessed would flourish regardless of which institution I was in. Besides, there was no telling what I might do if in some boarding school halfway across the country. No. Better to keep me close at hand.

Knowing defeat, the principal relented and gave me a three-day suspension. Mom wasn't pleased. The entire walk to the car was made in complete silence. Nor did she look at me. Even the drive home was heavy with disappointment. When I tried to give my side of the story, she would interrupt with a sigh.

It was the first time that I felt truly and completely alone. Unseen and unheard.

                                                             --

In the summer just before high school, mom met someone. He was an investment banker that wanted more beyond the small town that we lived. Beguiled, perhaps, by his honeyed words, we packed up and moved to Connecticut. By then, I had met him numerous times and he was all but incorporated himself into our family dynamics. Both my sister and mom were enamored.

Mom, because she had a new man. And my sister, because we now had a new dad. One who doted upon her every wish. Only I was a little hesitant about this stranger in our house. Still, if he made mom happy and our lives a little easier, I could live with it.

Besides, it had been a good twelve years since dad had left us for his new family and he had never bothered with child support.

Perhaps I should have seen the signs then but at the time I was starting in a new school without any of my old friends. Having grown out of being the class clown, I was a little unsure of how to ingratiate myself into this new environment where I knew no-one. My grades had never been the best and I was decidedly average when it came to P.E. Nor was I talented at the creative arts.

The only thing special about me was my power of invisibility. But entering high school, I found out that having it was more of a liability than a gift. People were less amazed and more bemused. Everyone had seen it all before. And it didn't help that there were others who also had it attending my school.

I had to redefine who I was. Fast.

In those four years of high school, I was as like a social chameleon as I tried to befriend the numerous clichés. One week I would dye my hair black. The next, I would be trying my hand at a musical instrument. A third week and I would be in the library, desperately looking up a slew of made-up words that I had never heard of before.

Each day, I would come home exhausted. Mom was so busy that she didn't care how late I returned. Besides, with my abilities, there was no telling if I had come home early and had simply refused to leave the bed. Invisibility was both a blessing and a curse.

I often thought that was why Artemis never tried to reach out to me. She knew that I was struggling and had thought not to burden me with all her troubles. Artemis had always been thoughtful like that. And that had been her greatest power. The kindness, patience and resilience she had brought to our dysfunctional family.

                                                          --

When I finally graduated and applied for college, our finances were in the black. With his income, our stepdad could afford to send us to a decent university. It might not have been Ivy League, but it was enough to give me the peace of mind to experiment and try different things. Besides, while I had participated in a range of extracurricular activities, I had never stayed long enough in any of the clubs to positively contribute and my grades were scattershot, at best.

Still, I was able to make the best of it and moved onto campus. It was a day of heartache and exhilaration. We had moved so much but this was the first time I would be 'leaving the nest,' so to speak.

Everything was so new and I felt like I was out of my depth when I found my dorm room and settled myself in.

My roommate was a girl named Lauren. She was only four foot eleven but she could demolish three full servings of steak and could drink a sailor under the table. Lauren, though, was one of those rare honor students. She had a plan already set out before her and woe betide anyone that stood in her way.

Work hard. Play hard.

It had been her motto since the day she was born. Or so she told me.

I liked her from the start but our conflicting schedules meant that I hardly saw her even though we shared a dorm room. On the rare occasion that we both had an afternoon or a morning together, Lauren and I would take our time to explore every nook and cranny on campus. It took a couple of months but we managed to narrow down the café that served the best coffee, as well as an excellent corner in the library where we could stream the latest television shows while we pretended to study our incredibly expensive textbooks.

All of that changed, though, when I received a call from my mum just halfway through term.

Artemis was dead. She had hanged herself yesterday, using one of the beams in the house, some hemp rope that she had bought just for that purpose and a ladder. The funeral was slated for next week. The timing was bad, she knew. What with exams and assignments piling up. Would I be able to attend?

It was an impossible request. Despite my best efforts, each and every lecturer refused to give me the time I needed to go home.

Somehow or other, though, I managed to make the funeral – albeit after all the eulogies and when her body had already been consigned to the flames of the crematorium. It had not been an easy journey. Had it not been for Lauren's cooperation and my own special ability, I might not have been able to achieve even that.

The staff at the university knew about my unique condition. Of how I could turn invisible at the drop of a hat. Back in those early days, I had occasionally suffered bouts where I would remain unseen and unheard for at least a couple of days. For quite some time, I had not used my power and initially, I had thought that my inability to control it as a had during childhood had come from neglect. It had been an easy thing for Lauren to give them excuses and assist, on occasion with the delivery of my essays to the appropriate faculty (which I had to send to her via email even as I snuck on two Greyhound buses just so I could reach home).

I don't remember much of what happened that day or the two days afterwards when I prepared to head back to college. All the memories in my head were like small fleeting snippets. There was a brief argument with mom. During dinner, I threw a glare towards my stepdad when he tried to offer his condolences. Me walking into her room, right before bed, and trying to picture the way she smiled and would look up at me.

But, always, my mind would go to her last moments and I would wonder what had pushed my perfect sister – the youngest and favoured daughter in our household to do what she did. Back in my old room, I slept terribly. Haunted by nightmares that I could never quite recall.

Even when I was finally back on the bus, headed back to college and the ire of my teachers, I struggled to find a rational explanation for why Artemis did what she did. The perfect world I had constructed was slowly beginning to crumble.

It was only during the start of my sophomore year that I finally came to know the reason behind Artemis's suicide. All of it came tumbling out during the messy divorce between my mom and stepdad. Buoyed, perhaps, by having a man in the house with a stable income, mom went back to school to finish the degree that she never completed when pregnant with me. Once all that was done, she successfully landed the job of her dreams.

With all her success urging her on to better things, she was blind to what was happening at home. Her absence provided an opportunity for the predator lurking amongst us. And Artemis being Artemis…well, she kept her lips sealed. Far too terrified to reveal that he had been touching her and ashamed to admit that it had happened.

For years she had silently endured until finally, in her senior year of high school, it had been too much.

I should have been there for me. And I hated that I turned a blind eye to so many of the signs. From the bruises on her upper arm to the way the light had faded from her eyes.

At college, my grades began to fall. I started heading out to frat houses and clubs located close to campus. Just so that I could numb myself to the pain that was tearing me up inside.

It was then that I made my worst mistake. His name was Stephen.

Initially, it had been innocent enough. We met during a class we shared. I thought he was a nice enough and it didn't hurt that he was quite pleasing on the eyes. Stephen was intelligent too and always with his head in a philosophy book or another. Descartes, Socrates, Nietzsche. He had read them all. He could even hold a conversation beyond questioning whether or not we were stuck in the Matrix.

Ever so slowly, I fell for his charm. When he invited me to a house party right after the exam period, I agreed readily.

We danced. We flirted. And then we began to kiss. Flush with alcohol, we stumbled upstairs to find a spare bedroom that was free. But when he started to touch me down there, my mind went back to Artemis. I told him to stop. Yet, he didn't listen.

It wasn't until I was trying to claw out his eyes that he wrestled my arms away and kept me pressed down with his weight. That was when my power triggered. Had I not been able to turn invisible and began shrieking for help, I'm not entirely sure what might have happened that night.

Days afterwards, I still felt violated. It felt as if I had lost a key part of myself.

I think that was when my problems with my power began, although I did not quite notice until halfway through my third year. The fact that my hand had turned transparent without any conscious thought on my part was terrifying. And I couldn't bring it back. That was the worst of it. If I had known…

                                                             --

"Are you still typing?" said a voice close to my ear. It was one I knew intimately and as its owner sidled up close and kissed me sensually against my cheek, I leaned back into his warm embrace. "Won't you come into bed? It's late and I'm feeling a little lonely."

"Just one more paragraph," I said. "Please, Connor? Just one more. This is important."

He nuzzled against me. "Come on, Persephone. Your story can wait. It isn't going to disappear. At least, if you save it."

I reluctantly turned away from the Word document on my laptop and looked up at Connor. He had a point. I had been at it for most of the day. The words did not come easy and it was a struggle just to get them out. Always, I'd find something to distract me after I had written a few paragraphs. Then I'd go back and delete it all before rewriting it again. For two hours, I had followed the exact same formula until I finally decided enough was enough and moved on.

Besides, the prospect of bed sounded good. And Connor was always good to me. He understood me, having suffered through the exact same thing I was now experiencing. Yet he had recovered from fading away. With each passing day, he seemed to become more whole. Whereas I had come to a standstill.

Every morning I would take a look in the mirror and be dismayed that I still appeared ethereal. It didn't help that it was an effort just to have myself heard in my current office job.

To say that I was envious was an understatement.

"Oh, all right," I conceded, hitting both the ctrl button and 's'. Just to be safe, I moved a finger along the touch pad and clicked on the floppy disc shaped icon in the top left. I shut the laptop. "There."

"So, what were you actually writing about?" asked Connor as I stumbled around the bed and finally sidled in beside him.

"My—our story. Doctor Gibson said it was best that I put all my feelings down and see what happens. She said it might help."

He frowned. "Do you really think a psychiatrist like her is going to help understand the intricacies of being gifted, Persephone? She's never had to deal with what we've gone through."

I reached out for his hand and gave it a tight squeeze. The sharp contrast between his tanned skin and my transparency was a stark reminder that all my efforts had, as yet, been for naught. Doctor Gibson had been one of my more recent endeavors to find a solution the problem that still hung over my head. "It's a long shot, I know. But let's give it a month or two before calling it quits, all right?"

Connor didn't like it. He hadn't much liked anything I had done over the last six months to build up my confidence and independence when my condition had partially stabilized after it had nosedived earlier that year. It was as if he feared that if I got better, I would leave him. The thought, in itself, was ludicrous and I wanted to tell him that. Yet, whenever our conversation veered into dangerous waters, he would steer it back towards the safety of land.

And so, instead of agreeing, he pulled me close – enticing me with the promises he had made earlier that night. It was an effective tactic. Before too long, I was swept up by his fervor with the only thought in my head focused on how best to reach that peak again and again.

                                                            --

When I woke up, Connor was gone. His side of the bed was cold. There wasn't even a hint of warmth to indicate that he had been beside me all night. And though I knew he always had an early shift on Mondays, that didn't ease the pang I felt in my heart as I set about getting ready for the day.

Padding into the kitchen, I found a box of cereal on the counter top along with a carton of milk. In the sink was the bowl he had used as well as a mug stained brown with coffee. I ignored my immediate impulse to clean it all up. At the very least, I would delay it until I had my own breakfast.

I grabbed a bagel from the pantry and cut it in half. The two sides were soon quickly smothered in cream and jelly. I delicately placed them on a spare plate and took it with me to the living room. If Connor had been home, he would have disapproved. Though I never quite understood why, he liked to keep each activity relegated to their 'appropriate area.' Food was meant to remain in the kitchen or eaten in the dining room. The living room was meant to entertain guests. To bring a chicken wing, lathered heavily in barbeque sauce would have been blasphemy. Even a biscuit would see his gaze fixed upon each and every crumb that dropped.

"How are you going to remove the stains? Do you know how much it would cost? For God's sake, Persephone, are you even listening to me?"

Without him hovering over my shoulder, I settled down on the sofa and turned on the television. I ate my breakfast with Good Morning America for company.

Some might say it was a little lonely but with no plans for the day, I savored it. Besides, today was my day off. I didn't think it was necessary but Connor encouraged me to do it when my condition had worsened. He said it would be of benefit to my own mental health and I reluctantly conceded the point when I started vanishing before the eyes of my co-workers during an important stakeholder meeting.

I gratefully accepted. By that stage, I was hanging on by a thread and having variable hours meant I could see a specialist without feeling the guilt associated with using up all my sick leave. Still, it had stung to be relegated to part-time work and at first, I floundered with all the additional time I had on my hands. Taking up a hobby that I enjoyed helped alleviate some of that tension and also helped push me back on the path of recovery.

It was nine when I padded back to the kitchen and put my plate into the sink. It would only take me a couple of minutes to wash all the dishes but I decided to put it off until I had finished my daily ablutions. I retreated to the bathroom, picked up my toothbrush and squeezed some paste onto it.

Brushing your teeth while being almost ethereal in appearance was a difficult endeavor. When I was younger, I'd often imagine myself as a vampire. Back then, it was a game. Nowadays, I could barely look at my reflection in the mirror. Today, fortunately, was a good day. But there had been times when my features were so indistinct that I forgot what I even looked like. Was my hair long or short? What color was it? Were my eyes brown or did they border on hazel? Maybe they were blue and I had been deceiving myself for my entire life.

Without being able to see what I looked like it was easy to allow the doubts to creep in. To feel that the most essentials parts that contributed to who I was were being stripped away.

Fuck. When did life become so hard? Why couldn't I get through a single day without feeling as if life would be better if I simply faded away.

I set my brush down and took in several deep breaths. What did Doctor Gibson always say at our sessions? To trust in myself? To give myself purpose and screw what other people thought? No. That didn't seem right. She had always been one to preach about checking my self-doubt at the door. To reinforce all my positive attributes rather than dwelling on my regrets and the bad things. Positivity rather than negativity.

She had said I should try turn the way I thought upside down. There were no tries. I simply had to do.

Yes. That was it.

I could do this. I had to do this. Steadying myself against the porcelain, I stared at my reflection and willed color back to my cheeks. Invisibility was my power and I controlled how much I wanted to use.

Once I was satisfied that I would not be vanishing any time soon, I washed my face and headed back to the kitchen where I cleaned the dishes. Knowing that all my immediate chores had been completed, I finally returned to the bedroom where my laptop sat on top of a low waist-high cabinet.

Prying it back open, I stared at where I had left off the night before – rereading the last few paragraphs before I resumed typing out the last few years before I had met Connor.

                                                             --

So enthralled in my little project, I did not notice time pass until the bedroom door opened and Connor stood standing in the entrance, the expression on his face a mixture of outrage and annoyance.

"Did you not hear me come in, Persephone?" he asked, voice low and dangerous. "How about when I called for you the last thirty goddamn times?"

I shrank back, glancing briefly at the time displayed in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. 6:30PM. Shit. Where had the time gone? "I'm sorry C-Connor," I stuttered. Though he had never once struck me before I could see that he was trembling. "I-I-I was writing. I had some music playing. Jesus, y-you know how I lost track of things when I'm e-engrossed with something. B-but give me thirty minutes. Please. I'll have dinner ready and waiting."

"That's not good enough!" Each word was punctuated with an increase in volume. I couldn't help it. I shied away. Instead of calming it down, my fear only made him angrier. He stalked towards me. "When I come home, I expect my girlfriend to greet me at the door. I would have preferred if you had called out. Instead of having to look for you and wondering if you had abandoned me. Funny thing is, I should have known you would be in here. Tip tap typing away on your stupid laptop. Thinking that just by writing down a few words, it'll make you feel better and maybe stop you from becoming unseen."

His words were like daggers, cutting at all my vulnerabilities. "Stop it," I pleaded.

"Well, news flash Persephone: it doesn't! Guess the jokes on you."

There were tears in my eyes and I was finding it hard to breathe. The months I had spent trying to reconstruct my fragile psyche were swept away and I was once more cast adrift. I covered my ears with my hands – hoping to drown out the vitriol.

I knew Connor loved me. Today had simply not been a good day for him. I should have known that. I should have been the dutiful girlfriend. God. What was wrong with me?

"Stop Connor. Please stop."

"No Persephone. I don't think I will. We need to talk about us. We need to talk about how you never give a damn about me. Even when I've slaved all day trying to put bread on the table! You're an ungrateful bitch, freeloading off my love and devotion to you. What's wrong with you, Persephone? Why can't you even do the simplest thing?"

"I-I don't…" Misery and fear threatened to overwhelm me. I felt so small, so insignificant. That nothing I did would ever amount to anything. Connor was right. He was always right. And I should have been grateful for everything he had done for me.

But it was all too much. For the first time, my thoughts went into a dark scary place that I'm sure Artemis had frequented all throughout high school.

It happened so quick. I only realized what I had done when Connor's eyes widened and he immediately backed towards the exit. His eyes darted around the room. "Persephone! This isn't funny. You turn visible right now, you hear me?"

I said not a word. I couldn't. My voice was gone as well and I could only sit morosely at my desk – ashamed and afraid of what would happen next.

"Persephone, I'm going to count to five. If you don't turn visible, I swear to God I'm walking out the door and throwing away the key. You'll be nothing to me, Persephone. Just like how you're nothing to your mom. You know that, right? She never loved you as much as Artemis. The only person who loves you is me but I'll take it back if you keep this on any further."

Why did he always have to reveal my secrets and use them against me? Connor knew which buttons to press and exactly how much he ought to prod. Even though I loved him, I also hated how he always held these things over my head.

Sadness turned to anger. Why was I always the enemy? I had proved time and time again my loyalty to Connor and our relationship. Yet without my voice, without even the ability to be seen, I knew that this could not be easily communicated. I wanted to scream and shout. Fight tooth and nail as I railed against my fate as one of the Unseen. But if I wanted to regain my appearance, I needed time to think. To calm down and be rational. Connor would only use my outbursts against me.

I glanced towards the bathroom door. There was only one way I would be able to find the solace I sought.

In the end, it was easier than I had thought.

As Connor was on the cusp of making it to five, I hopped over the bed and ran towards the bathroom. I slammed the door and ducked to the side as Connor raced towards me – thinking that I had sequestered myself inside. He banged futilely – never thinking to simply turn the knob – and demanded that I let him in. To console, to berate. God only knows what went through his mind.

Free for the first time, I slipped from the bedroom and out the front door. Stopping only briefly to pick up my laptop and a change of underwear before I left the apartment.

                                                              --

Somehow or other, I found myself outside Doctor Gibson's office close to nine. The lights were still on so I made my way up the stairs. As I stepped up to the door, ready to knock, I thought I could hear voices. Daunted by meeting another of her patients, I went back to the stairwell and made myself comfortable a flight down where I could see who might have had a such a late-night session with the good psychiatrist.

A couple minutes passed and the door creaked open. Out stepped a mess of a man. His cheeks were sunken and it seemed as if he had not shaved in weeks. There were dark bags under his eyes and when he walked past my hiding spot, I caught a whiff of stale whiskey on his breath.

"David! For God's sake David, you can't run from this."

I looked up in time to see Doctor Gibson slipping on a coat as she hurried out the door. The man ignored her, his pace quickening as he took the steps two at a time. Seeing my opportunity, I clambered to my feet and caught the door before it closed.

In her haste, she had left the light on.

I navigated my way down the hallway to the familiar couch where I had spent a couple hours each week trying to find the answers to my condition. The cushions were strewn on the floor and a blanket lay crumpled at one end. Atop the coffee table were water stains, clearly visible on the glass. Maybe David had been staying here. Or perhaps it had been the leftovers from another session with the good Doctor Gibson.

What frustrated me the most, though, was that even though I was now here in the sanctity of Doctor Gibson's abode, I could not make myself visible. Try as I might, I was able to be seen.

The best I could do was blur the edges and give myself a faint outline. Was this it? Was this how I faded into obscurity? Forgotten? Unloved?

I don't know how long I stood there, waiting for Doctor Gibson to return. Trapped in that spiral, it could have easily been thirty minutes or a day. All I could focus on was the rising panic and the all-encompassing fear that came with it. I was only pulled from my thoughts when the door slammed shut and I heard a strangled sob of frustration behind me.

Perhaps she had a sixth sense or maybe she heard me as I whirled around but almost immediately, I saw Doctor Gibson transform from weary and vulnerable to guarded and wary. "Who's there?" she called out. "I know someone's here. And if you're an Unseen trying to bugle me, well, there' not much you can take."

When I tried to speak, to reassure Doctor Gibson that I meant no harm, silence emerged from my lips. Caught between a mixture of dismay and fear, I clutched at my throat as I stumbled forward. Maybe she could feel me. Surely, she would notice if I made physical contact.

I still existed. I was still rooted in the world. Only my appearance and voice had been taken from me. Right?

She fell backwards when I wrapped my arms around her in a hug – desperate to feel wanted and loved and here. In my haste to save her, I banged my leg against the edge of the coffee table. "Damnit," I swore, trying to assess if I had suffered any damage. It didn't seem like I'd hurt myself but it was hard when even your own blood was invisible.

"Is that you, Persephone? I know that you told me that your powers were unstable," she said after a lengthy silence, "but I would never have guessed that it was this bad. Talk to me, Persephone. I'm here."

A smile threatened to tear my face in two. She had recognized my voice. She knew who I was. Perhaps it was this thought that broke through the barrier preventing me from becoming visible. It was only when Doctor Gibson began to stroke my back and dabbed at my tears that I realized that I must have returned. Or had, at the very least, resumed a faded outline or appearance.

My suspicions were confirmed when she took me into the restroom and I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Much of my color was missing but no-one could overlook the faint fuzziness that indicated my presence in the world.

It was nearly midnight when we settled back on the couch. Doctor Gibson looked worn out and weary as she handed me a cup of chamomile tea. We didn't talk much that night. She needed to head back home, but I was welcome to stay the night at the office to collect my bearings and make some decisions. When I handed over my laptop, with my story sequestered in a 30kb word document, Doctor Gibson slipped it into her bag and promised to read it when she had the chance.

We parted at one in the morning. I walked her down to the street before retreating back to her office where I had made a comfortable bed on the couch. Sleep eluded me as I ran through everything that had happened that day. Memories and thoughts would flash through my mind – demanding my attention.

I must have fallen asleep sometime between three or four, because when I next opened my eyes, Doctor Gibson was seated in her armchair, pouring over what I had written over the past week as per the assignment she gave me. Mouth dry and eyes crusted with rheum, it took me a while to understand where exactly I was.

I'm ashamed to admit that panic was my first instinct and I immediately tried calling out for Connor, confused at waking up in an unfamiliar environment.

Doctor Gibson, patient and understanding, was quick to allay any fears I had. Within the half hour, I had recollected myself and was gorging myself on a bagel slathered with cream cheese. She had also brewed up a batch of coffee. And though it was black, the first sip tasted a little like heaven as I was returned to the land of the living.

"This may be a little forward of me to ask, Persephone, but in all our talks together you never mentioned you had a sister," said Doctor Gibson when I had finished breakfast and had just returned from the kitchen. "In fact, it seems as if a lot of your present issues with your gift seems to stem from a place of guilt."

"Well, shouldn't I have been a little more aware? If I had known…if I had stopped it, perhaps Artemis would still be here," I replied warily, saying the first things that came to mind. Talking about what had happened in those frantic months at college had always been difficult. Particularly when mom had slowly begun to withdraw from our interactions. I had always known she loved my younger sister best.

She nodded. "That's an understandable emotion to feel."

"What are you getting at?" I asked, unsure where this conversation might be headed towards. All I knew was that there was tingling down my spine and not the good kind.

"Why don't you sit down," Doctor Gibson said gently. From her tone, it was not a simple request. "This is a bit earlier than our weekly sessions, but considering the circumstances that brought you to my door last night, I warrant that there are things we need to discuss."

I didn't quite know how to respond to that. A part of me was scared. It wanted to turn invisible and run away. But a stronger part, the one that was sick and tired of feeling trapped stopped me from giving in. It was this part that sat me down opposite Doctor Gibson and look her dead in the eye as I waited for the guillotine to fall.

"From what I've read so far, I can see that you feel responsible for what happened to Artemis. In the years since, you've pushed everyone away. And all the failed relationships you've been in, the men you've dated – all of it is some twisted sort of penance. You want to punish yourself, Persephone."

Laughter burst through my lips. "Really, Doc? Is that the best you got? I'll admit that I haven't made the wisest choices but that was because my power made it impossible. One day I'd be me and then the next, I was gone. Faded from sight. As if I didn't exist. As if I never existed. Do you know how that feels like? To have all your efforts gone unacknowledged by those around you. To be ignored and treated as little more than the air someone else breathes?

"Connor was the one that helped stabilize me. He saw me. Because he knew what it meant to be unseen. To be cursed with this ability and not know how to control it."

"Yet, here you are. With me," observed Doctor Gibson. "Why is that, Persephone? If Connor sees you, where is he now? What happened last night?"

"I—we…we had a fight," I admitted. "But that doesn't negate the fact that he's always been there for me."

Doctor Gibson leaned in close. "What did you fight about, Persephone? Was it the fact you were distracted? Or did you forget to have everything just the way he liked it? After all our sessions together, we've hardly even broached the topic about your relationship. Whenever we do, you're quick to change the subject. Is it because he frightens you? Or is he one of the underlying reasons behind why you can't control your powers?"

Each question was a direct blow against the fragile wall I had constructed around my psyche. For months I had tried to play pretend. For months, I had written off Connor's behavior and given him excuses.

If I was going to be honest with myself, though, I needed to realize that being with Connor did not make me happy. I hated how he always treated me as if I was made of porcelain. Or that I was incredibly naive.

In fact, so many of his actions only served to undermine my individuality and my autonomy. Ever since we had met, he had tried to strip away my self-confidence to boost his own ego. And I, feeling that this was what I deserved after what had happened with Artemis, had allowed it to happen. I had been the accomplice to my own downfall.

Hot tears prickled at the corner of my eyes. I tried to blink them away, but it was useless to stem the tide of emotion that crashed through. Doctor Gibson watched on, a silent witness, her face an impassive mask. I did not know if she considered this a breakthrough or if she was aghast that she had destroyed the very fabric of my tenuous world.

                                                             --

Rebuilding my fractured relationships was a lot easier than I had initially thought. It was still a long and drawn out process with many missteps. For a while, I despaired whether or not any of it would be worth it. But, little by little, I made inroads. They say that a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And that was exactly what happened.

Doctor Gibson continued to help and support me during my momentary lapses. Of course, always with a fee attached. With my new role and growing mastery of my abilities, however, it was a small price to pay.

What I struggled the most with, though, was letting go of my feelings of inadequacy and the guilt that had plagued me for so many years. It didn't help that for several weeks, I still tried to make it work with Connor. He had a way with pushing my buttons to make me feel worse. In the end, there was simply no way for the both of us to be together. Or even live in the same apartment. Not after everything that had happened.

I moved out and continued to work on both my physical fitness and my mental health.

Whether or not it was the right thing to do, I can't say. There were moments when I wondered if I even deserved something better but Doctor Gibson was quick to pull the 'could have, should have, would have' card. There was no telling what might have been and there was little sense on dwelling on the possibilities. What was done was done. The past was immutable and could not be changed.

The future, though, that was unwritten. And I had it within me to chart a different course. To seek atonement rather than wallowing in self-pity.

When I think about everything, though, I know I'm not quite there. Yet I know now that such things take time. There's no instant solution. With my new roommates and Doctor Gibson and quite a few supportive colleagues from work, I felt as if I was finally starting to see the light at the end of a long dark tunnel.

People saw me. Even in my darkest moments. Perhaps I should have reached out earlier. Sought help when I could.

Despite shame and embarrassment holding me back, I still managed to cling onto that last shred of hope. And it was the very thing I needed to claw my way out of an impossible situation.

I write this now for the people that come after. For those that are held back by fear and anxiety.

I see you.

And if I can make it then you can do it too.

[catbowserauthor]

Lost TMNT story of mine...

So a few years ago, I started writing a TMNT story with my husband. He wanted to see a darker version of the 87 Turtles take on a Walking Dead type of threat and well, I decided to have fun with it. This is just the prologue and first chapter. I have about four done, I believe though I got stuck. I DO want to finish it though, now that I've re-discovered it!

Darkest Before the Dawn

TMNT characters are not mine and are used without permission for the amusement of fans. This version of TMNT is based heavily on the 1980’s Fred Wolf Series, though you may seem some other elements thrown in as well as well asa common time period. The concept of the “Brotherhood of Life” is taken from Max Brooks’ “Zombie Survival Guide” Plot elements and ideas are the property of the authors’.

  Prologue

Japan, April 4, 1644

            The air hung heavy. The old aged ones could smell the coming sulfur and brimstone. It would be impossible to miss the aura that snuck about the temple walls, like an uninvited serpent, preying on anything it encountered and devouring without any remorse. Silence reigned in the old weathered rooms. There were very few left. Most of the members had left weeks ago but he had had remained. Dipping his ink quill again, he unrolled another scroll, jotting down information, last minute specifics. He had very little time left. Not because of age, though he was hardly young, but because of other factors. The premonitions had been so intensive.

            Blowing lightly to help dry the ink, he rolled the scroll, sealing it with the dragon’s foot symbol. Granted, it was not the Brotherhood’s symbol but the Brotherhood was disintegrating. Truth be told, he had been ordered by his master to destroy all documents relating to their activities. Despite the good they were doing, it was for the best of public relations that the destruction and presence of demons be kept quiet. Panic tended to dull the mind and the blissful ignorance that demons resided only in the minds of frightened children tended to keep the people calm. Far too often, history was amess with empires that fell to the sound of panic and anguish. If ignorance would keep the peace and maintain a harmony, then secretive methods were necessary.

            The deaths of a few dozen of his colleagues to maintain anonymity did not weigh as heavy on his conscience as the safety of a nation. He mourned his lost partners but their sacrifice had paid for the extinguishment of demons from the land. The last had been seen two months ago and neither sound nor sight had been reported since. The elders breathed sighs of relief as they prepared to reenter the everyday life of feeding and caring for families. He remembered those days, though they had passed into memory, with far less joyful memories taking their place. For the past ten years, his life had been revolved about demons, monsters and the creatures of darkest fantasy. He had shed a tear or two of relief when word first came that the Brotherhood of Life was finally disbanding, their use done. Though, it was short-lived relief.

            He was not a fool. As much as he would love for the demons to remain buried in the past, the images he had received in the sacred fire told him otherwise. He was blessed and cursed, depending on the situation, of seeing things yet to come. When he was young, he had dismissed them as childhood fantasy, as images brought upon by the dark coils of imagination. As time marched on, however, he realized that nearly all of his visions and dreams had come to pass in one way or another. He had entered into Shinto work in an attempt to still the horrors of his visions and while the visions continued, he had learned to interpret them, to use them rather than be hindered by them. It was partially because of his visions that the Brotherhood had sought him out. He had been reluctant; he had a wife and a child. However, the order was persistent and he had found himself thrust into the living Hell of tracking and murdering all-too-real monsters, as he saw his son’s own innocence die before it truly had a chance to grow. It saddened him immensely, to see his child pass through adolescence, knowing all too well that the demons people spoke of were no conjuring of the mind but very real creatures that lurked in wait.

            He had lived with hunting these demons for years; those images he was forced to endure in the silence of night were near perfect replication of the living nightmares he had fought. As the years had pressed on, the visions became stronger, more detailed, and he had learned early one that these were warnings. They told of potential attacks, they told of hot spots for outbreaks and they kept the order informed; the order strove to keep the overall public ignorant of their actions and his visions were truly an aid.

The images of the demons were impossible to forget: grotesque, broken images of man, some not even able to see anymore but relentless at passing their curse onto the next victim. He had killed more than he cared to recall. They had tried sutras, charms, chants but all without any success, each time hoping to release their fellows from this curse. If anything, this had merely allowed the curse to pass more readily, with access to the priests. Though, it had allowed them to ascertain that the breaking of skin was necessary. The hardest part was watching one slowly become possessed. It would have been far more humane to watch an instantaneous take-over by a monster but no, this demon took its time, quick enough that very little could be done except manage an isolation of the lost one but slow enough that the poor soul was well aware what was becoming of them. 

Many of them welcomed death if they stayed in control of their own bodies long enough.

            The man closed his eyes tightly. He had fought the demons with fervor, with enthusiasm. After the fifth one, he had become numb to it. He no longer saw his fellow man, simply monsters that existed to extinguish everything he held dear. He had torn through them, one after another, only feeling relief when they went up in smoke and flame. He had been content with that, able to numb his mind to the thought of them being fellow human beings. It became so easy after a while, because the demons lost all trace of the humans they had once been. They walked without coordination, eyes nearly unseeing after a certain amount of time, senses that were slow to respond, if they responded at all. Eventually, they became little more than decomposing ghouls that wandered, never satisfied until they were put out of their misery. The demons preyed on the bodies for nourishment, eventually; the possession itself was a death sentence, eating away blood, flesh and bone.

            The Order took it upon themselves to reduce collateral damage, taking out as many demons as possible before they could plant their eggs in other victims.

This was not an easy task. Usual methods: arrows, bo, nothing short of a blade through the head was effective. They had learned that early on in the order. It seemed appropriate, the demon lurked where the spirit of the person sat. To free the person’s soul meant destroying its resting spot, freeing it from the confines of both the demon invader and their earthly form. The grotesque nature of their work was a determent to many. Those wishing to be a part of the order had a great many tests they had to survive, one of which was spending a night with nothing but their wits in the room with the living heads.

 They had kept them out of necessity, hoping to learn from them, as they refused to die. Even separated from a body, the heads still blinked, the lips still moved and while little noise could be made (as most of the vocal cords were slit when the head was removed) the overall appearance of them: shrunken skin, eyes either missing or slowly rotting away, lips that split and fell apart in pieces of flesh and blood, was enough to made the bravest soldier run in terror. While little had been learned, aside from an effective means of dealing with the demons: simple execution, they served the purpose of sorting out the weakened ones.  Only those devoted to their cause made it through the night without retreating in panic.

            He remembered his ordeal in it quite well: a night that seemed to stretch for a thousand years. The heads, without bodies, still moved, still made sounds and seemed to moan in misery. They never approached him of course, having no means of transport, but the mere presence was unnerving. The room seemed to reek of an unrelenting evil force. Shadows seemed to move with purpose, as if they might suffocate the occupant. He had sat in deep meditation through the entire night, trembling even as he sought peace within his mind. It was like being the presence of darkness and trying to focus on a simple, flickering candlelight. He had endured, survived but it had forever changed his outlook.

            Now, as the scent of disaster lingered in the air, he finished his last scroll, sealed it and gently placed it into his small bamboo chest. He stared at the content for a moment: he was supposed to burn all of it, to seal the secrets of the Brotherhood of Life in soot and ash. However, he was not like most of the Order. He had a wife…well; he had one at one point. She had gifted him with a son and soon after, when his visions had begun of these monsters; she had been claimed by their curse. He tried the best he could not to remember that. It reminded him of the humans the demons started out as and it did little but depress him. There was no cure for possession except to eliminate the earthly shell. He had dispatched his wife himself, freeing her from the flesh-eating curse. He had done so with tears staining his face but he did not trust his comrades to have a firm and steady hand. They knew nothing of what the possessed felt but on the off chance they could feel pain, even through their possession, he wanted her end to be swift, painless. He had taken her head with one swipe of his katana blade and that blade he had wrapped and laid within this very chest, where it still lingered. He never touched it again.

            She had left him his son and years later, his son had granted him a grandson and a granddaughter. His grandson was ten years old and they would soon flee this hell on earth.

            “<Father?>”

            Closing the chest, he turned, “<My son,>” he spoke in his heavy Japanese accent, bowing his head “<Where are my grandchildren?>”

            “<They’ve already been taken to the horses. My wife just waits for me. I came for you Father.>” The tall dark haired young man spoke calmly, though his eyes were full of mixed emotions. The very pattern of nature was reflecting a coming disaster. The mountain had been spewing smoke for days now and the earthquakes had begun in earnest. It was as if the Gods themselves were intent on burying the evil of this place under a blanket of ash, fire and smoke. He had never been so ready to flee a place but his father had not come with the rest of them.

            The elderly man bowed his head “<You put me to shame, child. I cannot come with you.>”

            “<Father!>” came the protest. “<You must! The karma of this place draws the wrath of the Gods! You will…>”

            “<I am well aware, my son.>” the man spoke calmly, without fear and locked eyes with his grown child. <It is alright. I do not trust the lingering spirits here. I will remain and ensure they are extinguished.>”

            The man before him took a heavy swallow. “<Father…>”

            Breaking into a small smile, the first in many years, the old mystic smiled at his child. “<Jinsei, you are a loyal and honorable son. I pass a greater task still onto you.>” Kneeling, he retrieved the old bamboo chest. “<Take this with you, guard it well and when the children are old enough, when maturity has deemed them wise enough to understand, tell them of this place, tell them of the demons we have fought and managed to keep contained.>” He took a deep breath <Tell Saki, tell Shin. Tell them the signs, tell them the warnings. Keep them prepared. Teach them to teach our line. Make sure our family line will never fall to these Hell spawn…they took one of us…>”

            Jinsei closed his eyes, “<Mother…>”

            “<Never forget that, my son!>” Here the older man’s voice took on all the energy and strength of a man half his age. His echoed cry screamed of passion and determination, “<They stole your mother. Do not allow my grandchildren, or their children to ever fall the same way.>” Pushing the bamboo chest into his son’s arms, he commanded, his eyes flashing “<Go now! Take my grandchildren, take my daughter-in-law and flee this earthly pit! Go swiftly! Do not turn back and do not look back…ever!>”

            Silence for a long moment before Jinsei bowed deeply and stammered “<As…you wish, honorable Father.>”

            The elder man, Shibo’Dira, stood a moment more at his son before he took him into a tight embrace. Physical affection was hardly something he was known for. He showed it in far superior ways but now, faced with the last time he would see his son until their souls perhaps crossed again in later lives, he held him tightly, unlike he had ever done since he had been born. For a short while, he held him, trying to memorize his features then just as swiftly, he pulled away and commanded firmly “<Go, my son. Go quickly.>”

            The young man turned, chest in hand, and while he paused at the doorway leading outside, where his wife and children awaited, he heeded his father’s command and did not look back. “<Farewell, Father.>”

            Then, just like that, he was gone. The sound of horses’ hooves rose not long after and amid the winds and rumbling earth, Shibo’Dira could hear his grandchildren’s pleading cries for their grandfather fade into the distance. He stood still a moment, eyes firmly shut before walking down the temple halls. He stopped outside an old familiar room, a room he had long since avoided. He had been within its walls once, when he entered this profession, this profession of demon slaying. Pushing open the door, he narrowed his eyes.

            The living heads still remained, some moaning, most simply moving, trapped amid their possession. Eyes were half rotted away, some missing entirely. Tongues had long since withered and turned to dust. Teeth full of holes and ate away by acidic environment and nature, lips no longer existent. Yet, they still remained, lingering, howling and hoping to spread their curse. Nothing remained of the humans they had once been, only an empty, soulless shell. They refused to pass into the Afterlife.

            The ground rumbled again. Smoke filled the air outside and the scent of fire began to emerge, amid shakes, rumbles and a loud explosion in the distance. The Gods had issued their statement and judgment.

            Hamato Shibo’Dira took a seat, within the doorway, sitting in a lotus position. Closing his eyes, he sat still, waited, and welcomed the heat, “<Protect my son.>” Calm, relaxed, for a mere moment, a final image, a final flash occurred to him: those demons he had come to fear and despise, falling in the dozens, by the hands of another creature, neither human nor animal. Eyes full of sadness and rage but through the anger, sorrow and determination: honor.

“<So…a demon conquered.>” He gave a hefty last breath, “<By Honor.>”

Chapter One

Present Day

            An excavation was hardly his forte but given the right amount of force, as well as the right amount of money, and it was truly surprising what could be accomplished. They did state that money was the root of all evil and in his case, having the right amount of it, allowed for just the right amount of manpower. Having Foot Soldiers was one thing but even his resources had their limits. Luckily, a few well-placed bank heists had made his bank account significantly fatter. He was normally not the type to fulfill his part of the bargain but since he was determined to remain secretive about his efforts, honorably paying for his work force was deemed a necessity.

            He was well known here and his human loyalists had not failed him. When his command was issued, they came in dozens of numbers. They had sworn their loyalty to him long ago and it carried through. He supplemented his followers with paid workers, only ten in number. They had been pulled from shelters and from the streets. When their task was done, he could dispose of them easily and not have them be missed or at least not for a while. So far, it had served him well. The excavation had gone undiscovered, despite it being well into its third week. Keeping Krang otherwise occupied had been another manner but the old tyrant was easily distracted with BeBop and Rocksteady. They caused enough mischief to keep him out of his hair.

            His efforts had not been for naught. Stopping his car, Oroku Saki climbed from the vehicle to walk to remaining distance to the site. It had truly been a pain to uncover this place. Superstitions had truly filled in the last of the holes. The people about here placed a great deal of weight in stories of spirits, haunts and spooks. Uncovering the nearest “cursed” place had been fairly easy and when he found the one cursed place where no birds flew and no animals dared venture, he had begun to dig.

            As it currently stood, the remains of a temple were slowly emerging from layers of dirt, grass and hardened soot. It was amazingly well preserved; it looked as if the place had merely been painted over in white and brown paint. The stone had given away over time but all in all, it was fairly easy to see the details. There were nearly no bodies hardened under the ash but it seemed the temple had been abandoned days prior to the disaster. Unlike expected no doubt, the volcanic eruption that had shook the temple had not brought a quick end of fire but one of smoke and grey clouded ash. In this case, it served him well. He had not expected to find the Temple in the type of condition it was. It made his purposes all the easier.

            Learning about the Brotherhood of Life had been a trial. It was connecting frayed lines of information, hidden away in past relics and wrapped in enigmas. Predictably, the only word he heard on it had been passed in rumor, from wives’ tale to legend and myth. However, as ridiculous as some of them had been, he had grown up hearing them. His parents had often disregarded them as fairy tales but he had clung to them, fascinated by the concept. Demons he used to think were simply things of children’s stories but with the turns his life had taken in the last few years, he was willing to consider them established fact.

            After all, he currently worked with a bodiless alien, commanded at least two mutants, had turned an ex-henchman into a fly and fought his ancient rival turned into a rat, only to discover his foe had raised four humanoid turtles as his own children.

            All from the command post of a giant war machine in a separate dimension.

            It was pretty well established that nothing was beyond the grasp of plausible.

            That said, it had been difficult to discover the truth behind those old fairy tales. Luckily for him, he was well versed in dark stories and knew just where to look. He had been in command of the Foot Clan for quite some time and it had not taken long to gather his best warriors and send them in. He had told them that their lives depended on their success as well as bribed them with the promise of wealth and riches. While he certainly did not fulfill all his words, he was wise enough to fulfill just enough that people would still attempt to please him, out of the hopes he would smile upon them and grant what he promised. All things said and done, offer enough of an incentive and most would waltz into Hell’s fire barefoot.

            Honor was overrated and he took every advantage of it.

Speaking of which, those who had failed him had been piled up in the furthest corner of the land. He gave all kinds of excuses to those that questioned it, from accidents to diseases, all with the promise that their families had been contacted and would be arriving soon. Most of them had actually been lost raiding the offices for the information he needed. They had gone in with about twenty, emerged with three but all he cared about was that they had came back with the information in hand.

With a low smirk, he said aloud, “If you’re looking for buried secrets, dark cover-ups and overall despicable actions, you need not look any further than the files of the government.”

            Japan’s government had not failed him in that regard. It had been hard to get ahold of the files, even for him, but given their age, they had still been in written format. A lot of the government was trying to find other means to preserve their records and while they pretended these old files did not exist; they had been remarkable well preserved for files that did not exist. He had to resist tearing through them as soon as he received them but instead had managed to contain himself long enough to sort through them slowly.

            Looking down at the files he still held in his hands, he made out the faded kanji for “Black Dragon”  and further down the sheets still, “Cherry Blossom Project.”

            Old forgotten trials that created an invincible army, one that could not be killed, one that could not be conquered. It had turned on itself. They had been careless but if he had the means, the knowledge, he could do the same. Imagine that, an army impossible to kill! An army that could not feel fear, that would never surrender! He could finally rid himself of those troublesome turtles but far beyond that! He could be rid of that bothersome Krang and those stupid mutant lackeys of his. The world would remember why they dreaded the name “Shredder!”

As cliché as it sounded, the world would fall to his feet. He would conquer, like he had taken the Foot Clan, he would take country after country! He was so close to his victories that he nearly could taste it, he could hear his triumph, ringing in his ears.

            “Master!”

            Torn from his thoughts, he looked up to see one of his more loyal human warriors, Kenji, calling to him, “Master, we have found the entryway.”

            Jumping down, he slid down the side of the deep ravine, tripping somewhat at the bottom but catching himself quickly. Boots stirring up old dust and forgotten ash, he made his way forward, where his men were gathered about a single entry way. There were half destroyed pillars, decorated with dust and old decaying stones but he ignored them. It was fairly obvious that an old hallway used to exist here but it had been torn away with time. In fact, most of the old temple had crumbled into small piles of cracked bricks and dead plants. But, amid the forgotten stone walkways, one large room still stood, nearly intact.

            Excitement nearly making him burst, he paused as he neared it. Yes, yes, he was more certain than ever that this was it.

            His excitement had brought all his workers closer. It was tempting to just be done with them now but no, he could not do that yet. It was not yet time. He needed to know for certain. He waited, a bit then put on his best charismatic smile and waved at his few hired hands, the homeless men who had jumped at the chance to earn any money and had already cost him quite a bit of money by the day. But they would raise the least amount of questions; they could not afford to ask questions. Now, he would make sure his money had been worth it.

            “Gentlemen,” he cooed, his voice dripping with false sincerity, “Please, walk with me to see the fruits of your hard labor!”

            The five men eyed him but sensing a chance to acquire more work, they followed. Oroku Saki never bothered to learn their names but that also meant he asked no questions, required no tests and was not about to report anything to the government. He paid well. Far more than most manual labor did. It was a chance for them to start all over again and that made them grin. They all had plans for when this job was done and the new start they would begin. If this discovery meant possible further digs and perhaps categorizing finds then that was potential more work for them!

            As for the man in charge, Oroku Saki was quite distracted. Walking the short distance on broken and missing stone tiles, he came upon the small room, amazingly well preserved. Though not one generally well attuned to spirits or the like, it was impossible not to feel the negative charge within the air. While it made his workers wince even as they followed, it made the Shredder grin all the wider. The more negative enrgy he felt, the more excited he became. Truly, the tales of these demons had not been exaggerated! If they could still generate such energy, even after all these centuries, then they were more than perfect for his plans.

            Right outside the doorway, Shredder stopped his trek.

            Amazingly well preserved under volcanic rock and ash, was the simple figure of a meditating man. To others, including his workers who began to say a silent prayer for the man, he seemed a simple temple priest who had not fled in time. However, as Oroku Saki looked him over, he recognized all too clearly the signs of his ancient adversary. The same calm demeanor upon the face, the longer chin, the smaller eyes, the deceptively small build that hid incredible power. Yes, there was no doubt in his mind: this was the ancestor of Hamato Yoshi.

            Still attempting to protect, even in death. Lotus style, permanently sealed in stone, eyes closed, in deep meditation.

            Shredder, Oroku Saki, laughed out loud, “You old fool.” Storming past the figure, he swung out with the hilt of his katana which he kept close even in business clothing disguise, and shattered the ancient relic into a cloud of dust and forgotten bones. Amid the ruckus, he heard his hired hands engage in deep bouts of prayer. Superstitious fools but they served him well. Stepping over the broken dust and dirt, he slipped through the old entry way. Reaching into his shirt, an odd feeling being without his armor, he withdrew a flash light and cast it upon the room.

            Those behind him screamed but to their credit, they did not flee. They were still too deeply invested and needed their pay. As for Shredder, his eyes glistened and shone as he cast his small light upon wall after wall.

            “it’s true.” He breathed aloud to himself. “it’s all true!”

            As true as the old legends said, adorning the walls were heads. No bodies or people, just heads. But these heads moved, they writhed, they bit at the open air. Their skin had begun to decay and vanish and very few teeth remained but even with that, their skulled remains attempted to make themselves known, to make noise, to continue their plague. Oh, yes, even as decayed as these were, with the proper equipment he would make use of the demons that invested them. All demons had their price and he meant to extract it by force and utilize it. Oh, the things he would achieve with it! It made his entire body tremble with anticipation.

            “Foot Soldiers!” he called over his shoulder to his robotic minions. He had not brought many of the mechanical ones because their ability to do physical labor was limited but they were useful in this sense. Five of them stepped forward, pushing the human workers aside, who blanched after them in shock, and stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Take two from the side walls and one from the back and place them in the boxes I provided. Be quick.”

            Always loyal, being robotic, the androids set to work instantly. One by one, five heads went into steel boxes that the soldiers placed on the center of the room. One that had been male at one point but had experienced the most damaged, decayed almost entirely to bone, one that had been young perhaps a teenager by some standards but had withered to broken skin and missing eyes, one that had been old and female but still maintained quite a bit of her hair though it had turned hard and breaking, one that had been middle-aged male and had  scars visible right down to the bone and the last one was young, hardly beyond the single digit years but torn and beaten nearly beyond recognition. All five of them still moved, still attempted to bite, even if they had nothing to bite with, and they all only went silent when the lids of the steel boxes were clamped shut.

            Shredder stood by the doorway as his soldiers carried them out one at a time. As the last one exited, he observed his passive workers finally make their way towards him though he noted they kept as far from the walls as they could. They bowed lightly, out of respect, but the eldest asked, “Good sir, with all due respect, should you be removing these…things from a temple? Surely the spirits would not approve. They have obviously been guarded.”

            Turning slightly, he regarded them, planting a sincere smile across his face. “Oh, I suppose it is rather disrespectful to desecrate this place by removing five of the heads.”

            Without another word, he unsheathed his sword as he turned to walk out, slicing it through five equally shocked necks. Glancing down as the five fell to the ground, still in a death jolt, he smirked lightly at the mouths locked permanently open, “Allow me to leave five.”

[temptation-narnia-chronicles]

From Upon the Golden Thrones

Episode 4: Outbreak, Part Two

      Galma was a land of antique charm with cobblestone roads and cozy little buildings backed right up against one another. Once the Splendor Hyaline docked, memories of childhood visits flooded Eilonwy's brain. Unlike those happy times, however, now all she saw was disease and despair. I guess the trouble living in such close quarters, she thought to herself, is the increased contagion. People wailed in the streets, faces pale and bodies bruised, as they clung to one another and prayed for a miracle. A collective silence spanned across the deck as the ship's crew began preparing the luggage for unloading. Eilonwy glanced to the kings and queen, instantly aware of exactly what they were thinking: we never should've come here. But Lucy. They had to get Lucy.

     Swallowing hard, Peter straightened his back and turned to his men, ordering them to lay down the plank so that they may depart. The wavering in his voice only emphasized his fear and uncertainty.       Peter clenched his hands at his sides as he and his confidantes waded through the sea of dead and dying. A cocktail of fluids puddled and trickled through the streets, swirls of crimson and pale yellow and snot green. Puss oozed from blisters and blood dribbled past chapped lips. It was a wonder how anyone would come here voluntarily, but Lucy did.       "I'm beginning to regret not wearing pants" Susan muttered, gathering her skirts in her arms so as not to stain the hem. Eilonwy rolled her eyes and trotted past her. Despite her cool exterior, however, inside the huntress was constantly restraining the urge to vomit. Not only the sight but the smell-- oh god, the smell!-- was enough for anyone to keel over and die. Galma was transforming into a mass graveyard of unburied bodies left to fester and rot in the summer heat.       Something churned inside Susan's chest at the sight of such terror, something far less brutal than disgust. Though the scene was hardly bearable, the gentle queen forced herself to see past the sores and the screams to the people behind them. She saw mothers cradling lifeless children, husband's crying over dead wives, children wandering aimlessly without a parent to steer and hug them. This is why Lucy came here. This is what Lucy needed to do: to help them. And perhaps it was what Susan, and even the others, needed to do, as well.       As they walked along steep, residential hillsides toward the estate at the very top, Edmund did his best to steer clear of everyone as best he could. The last thing he wanted was to contract the disease himself. The higher they climbed, however, the narrower the streets grew and soon Edmund's plan faltered, his elbow bumping into a mass of body on his right hand side.       "Oh! S-sorry!" he murmured, eager to rush off as quickly as possible. A gasp echoed from behind him as a hand reached out to grab his arm, keeping him trapped in his space. Edmund panicked, struggling to break free, but when he turned around, was met by a pleasantly familiar face. "Nefyn?!"       The young centaurette smiled, though it was clear she was incredibly weary. Her caramel skin had grown dull and dark circles had formed beneath her eyes. "I didn't expect to find you here, in such a place!" she exclaimed. She leaned in to hug him but then thought better of herself at the last minute. If she was a carrier, she didn't want to put Edmund at risk.       "...and then the duke ought to think rather highly of us by then, don't you think?" Susan spoke as her and the others trekked upward. "If anything, I'm sure Edmund can negotiate some sort of alliance, right Ed?" As she turned to face her younger brother, however, she panicked to find him gone.       "Oh, great" Peter muttered. Instinctively, he barreled back down the pathway in search of the just king. First Lucy, now Edmund. As is the apparent pattern. Finally, a wave of relief. "Nefyn?!"      "Good day, your majesties!" she greeted with a slight bow. "Edmund was just telling me of your journey here in search of Lucy."       Peter's attention was instantly captured. "Lucy! Have you seen her? Where is she?" he demanded.       Nefyn laughed coolly and shook her head. "Don't you worry, your highness. My father and I have had her well looked after. She's been of great assistance to us these past few days. Last I saw her, she was with my father down on the other side of the island" she explained.       Peter wasted no more time. Like a bullet, he scaled the mountainside to the very top, pausing to catch his breath at the summit. From the patio of the duke's estate, he could see all the way to the desolate beaches. His eyes frantically scanned the village below in hopes of finding any glimpse of Lucy but to no avail. If he was to have any luck finding her, he'd have to search on foot.       By the time Susan and Eilonwy reached the estate, Peter had already disappeared into the east side of the island, leaping over body after body and calling out Lucy's name. "Shouldn't we go after him?" Eilonwy inquired.       Susan shook his head. "Peter would only get frustrated if we imposed. I say we stay here and wait for his return" she said. Though she tried to keep her voice steady, it was obvious she was insanely worried. Perhaps she didn't have the strength to do anything but wait and pray. Clasping her hands together, she scurried into the estate to briefly greet the duke himself and alert him of their arrival. Eilonwy gazed out into the vast expanse for a moment before sighing and shaking her head.       "Please let her be safe..."       Down in the fray, Nefyn led Edmund through the tight alleyways talking of her adventure. "This is probably the worst epidemic I've seen, well, ever! I wish there was more we could do, though. It seems like all we've tried is never enough. Lucy's cordial has been of great use to us but even then, it doesn't prevent them from contracting the disease again. And unfortunately, the second hit is often worse than the first" she explained, motioning to a small pile of bodies heaped up against the wall like firewood. The centaurette pursed her lips and knitted her dark brows together in pity.       "Do you know what it even is?" Edmund asked, careful not to step on anyone. Nefyn shook her head.       "I wish we did, Ed. I truly wish we did. Even my father said he's scarcely seen a sickness the likes of this before and he's seen everything. Perhaps it's some new kind of disease taking hold, maybe contracted from the livestock here. That seems to be a common cause of these sorts of things-- pigs and chickens and the like" Nefyn explained. Ed nodded slowly. He had remembered reading about the Bubonic plague in history class, the way it spread through Europe from infested rats and wiped out nearly half the population. A shiver ran down his spine. In the midst of his thinking, however, his care in watching where he stepped faltered and he tripped over a rogue leg spread out across the path. In one swift motion, he went tumbling to the ground, extending his arms out before him to at least break his fall.       Nefyn squealed and whipped around, pounding her front hooves against the cobblestone in shock. "Ed, are you alright?!" she exclaimed. The just king sucked in a breath as he used Nefyn's flank for support in lifting himself up.       "I think so..." he mumbled. There's something significantly disorienting about tripping over a dead person's body part into the stickiness of unidentified bodily fluids. The smell as it stuck to his skin like mucus amplified his disgust.       Kicking into work mode, Nefyn cautiously checked the just king once, twice, even three times over to ensure he was truly alright. However, she was rather displeased to find a scrape on his knee that tore right through his hose.       "Bollocks!" she whispered to herself, immediately ripping a scrap of cloth from one of her saddle bags. "Here, we need to treat this immediately" she demanded, wrapping the wound in a panic.       "It's just a scrape. I'm fine, really" Edmund tried to reassure her, but she was unconvinced.       "Ed, if that scrape gets infected-- especially by all this gunk in the streets-- then I guarantee you, you will be in a world of pain. We need to get you out of here now" Nefyn explained. The urgency in her voice forged a lump high in Edmund's throat, as if highlighting the severity of the situation. His eyes panned to the heaps of bodies, their puss filled buboes and blood stained lips. His stomach flipped. Before he could dwell on his circumstance any longer, however, Nefyn had grabbed his wrist and hoisted him up onto her back in one swift motion. "Hang on tight!" she commanded. Edmund nodded once, dazed, and instinctively wrapped his arms around her bare waist. A shiver ran up his spine but not necessarily the bad kind. He could feel the hard muscles in her abdomen flex as she galloped toward the estate, determined to keep her friend safe.       From the other end of the island, Peter weaved his way through the narrow streets, cursing under his breath that apparently Galma wasn't build for quick pursuit. He swore he saw Lucy in every little girl he passed, his heart pounding at the sight of emaciated children who reminded him so much of the valiant. But Lucy wouldn't get sick. She'd be fine. She was fine. He had to be sure of it, constantly reassuring himself so as to not drive himself mad. Not that he wasn't already going mad. By now his lungs ached, numb legs forcing him to stop for a breath. The High King leaned against a pillar, gasping, scanning the hillside down toward the sea desperate for any sign of his baby sister. His thoughts were clouded with the horrendous coughs of nearby victims, blood spluttering from their mouths and contributing to the sea of fluid pooling in the streets. This was not the place for Lucy. Absolutely not. He had to find her if it was the last thing he did. There were only so many places on this island where she could be, anyways. He glanced back toward the estate, a beacon of safety and hope atop the hill, before sucking in a deep breath and proceeding down through the dirtied streets.       "Oh yes, we plan to do all we can to help your country retaliate from this terrible tragedy" Susan spoke, words cool and collected as she grasped the hands of the Galman duke. Eilonwy nodded vigorously, hands clasped tightly behind her back. Unlike the gentle queen, the maiden had remained silent nearly the entire time, unsure of what she even could say in such an instance. International affairs were never exactly her forte, after all. And besides, she was far too preoccupied with more pressing matters at hand. Eilonwy found it hard to believe Susan was so composed when her baby sister was down in the wreckage among so many diseased and dying. The huntress gazed down at the village below, the red streets cluttered with bodies, and shuddered at the thought of sweet little Lucy weaving through such a scene. Surely Susan was thinking about it, too.       As they spoke, the duke's eyes shifted from Susan to the doorway, then instantly interrupted with a "Miss Nefyn! What a joy to see you! How are things down in the fray?"       "No time to chat, your regency. We've got an urgent matter at hand" Nefyn said quickly, and as she galloped closer it became very clear that Edmund was upon her back.       "Ed, what on earth do you think you're doing?" Susan instantly exclaimed, rushing forward.       "We had a bit of an accident" Nefyn replied.       Susan's eyes instantly drifted down to Edmund's injury, eyes widening and a gasp escaping her lips. "Ed, what the devil--?! How?!" she panicked.       "Well..." the just king began. "I may or may not have tripped over a dead guy's leg and scraped my knee." The gentle queen stared at him with wide, panicked eyes for a moment before sighing and slapping her palm to her face.       "I suggest quarantine. That's the only certain way to ensure the scrape remains well cleaned and void of any risks of infection" Nefyn replied matter-of-factly. All the color drained from Susan's face as she slowly sunk into the nearest chair. It was bad enough she had Lucy to worry about, but now Edmund, too? Fantastic.       "Wait, what about the cordial?" Eilonwy finally spoke up. All eyes turned to her, surprise painting the duke's face. By now he had probably just assumed the huntress was a mute.       "We can't do anything until we find Lucy" Susan added. Eilonwy nodded slowly, eyes drifting from the gentle to the just. Nefyn gave a single nod before turning to the duke, who ushered the centaur and the king back to the residential hall.       Edmund rested a hand on Nefyn's back for comfort, staring at the abundance of oil paintings in hopes it would get his mind off of what was to come. No matter how many serene scenes of pottery and verandas at sunrise, however, all he saw were corpses and blood.       "It isn't much" the duke stated, swinging open the door to a guest suite, "but it should suffice." Great windows lined the far wall, the rest of the room occupied by frescos and potted plants. It was nothing like the marble beauty of Cair Paravel-- rather, this place was more earthy and warm. It reminded him of photographs he had seen of Venice and Tuscany, an old world charm filled with hospitality and seasoned culture.       From upon the balcony, Susan gazed across the island and to the horizon. "Peter ought to love this" she murmured.       "When do you think he'll return?" Eilonwy inquired. The gentle simply shook her head. They both knew well enough that Peter wouldn't stop until he found Lucy, but he had been gone for so long that the waiting had given them each ample opportunity to overthink. What if Lucy had disappeared? What if she was kidnapped? What if she was dead? They both willed away the thoughts.       As they stood in silence, suddenly an idea sparked in Eilonwy's brain. She turned to face the balcony itself, the little mosaic dinette and their most significant belongings. On the back of one of the chairs hung Susan's bow and quiver and, along with it, her horn. "Hey, Susan..." Eilonwy said slowly. "What did Father Christmas say again about that horn?"       Susan furrowed her brow a moment before piecing together what Eilonwy was getting at. "Oh, no you don't!" she exclaimed.       "But why not? He said to use it if we're ever in danger, correct?" Eilonwy argued.       "Yes, but--!" Susan began but was quickly interrupted.       Eilonwy skated toward the table and ran a finger along the length of the horn. "Well, you would classify this as an emergency, wouldn't you? Your baby sister gone, your younger brother hurt. Peter is bound to respond...and so should Lucy."       It was a tempting offer, certainly. The quickest way to get everyone back together, but Susan couldn't help but fear it was a misuse of power. They weren't in any danger as far as she was concerned. If they were to blow the horn, then Peter and Lucy would surely think there was some imminent emergency, a life or death situation. Not that Edmund's injury was any less important, but certainly not life or death. Or at least Susan prayed it wasn't.       Eilonwy eyed the queen expectantly, eyebrow raised and finger lightly caressing the ivory. "Well...?"       Peter huffed as the sun set on the island, reaching the edge of town with little success. His eyes burned from the sweat dripping off his brow and the stitch in his side made left his lungs screaming for air. Dammit, Lu, he thought to himself, if this is meant to be some sick game of hide and seek, you win. In his effort to track Lucy down, he quickly realized the trouble with little girls: they had a serious inability to stay in one place. Surely if she had rooted herself in one spot, he would've much more easily found her but he knew Lucy well enough to know that's never the case, especially when on a mission. She was no doubt overflowing with determination to heal every person she could find, meaning she'd be buzzing through the streets with cordial in hand like a hummingbird, impossible to catch.       As he leaned against the dock and sighed, an alarming sound suddenly reached his ears. Faint, echoing from a higher altitude, but distinct all the same: Susan's horn. Without a second thought, Peter's immediately jolted back through the streets toward the estate. Maybe Lucy went back, maybe she was hurt or ill and needed immediate attention. Peter didn't know and he didn't care. All he was certain of was that he needed to follow the sound.       "Where's Lucy?!" the High King gasped, skidding to a halt at the estate's entrance.       "I thought she was with you!" Susan shrieked. Her dark hair was in minor disarray, a surefire sign of her distress.       "I've been looking for her all afternoon but she's nowhere to be found" Peter replied. His voice wavered at the admission, hating the way the words felt in his mouth.       "Well, now we've got more than just Lucy to worry about" the gentle said. Peter's heart skipped a beat, looking Susan over before turning his attention to Eilonwy and then back. The huntress twisted her arms around her waist in anxiety, shaking her head softly and averting her eyes. Unhurt.       "Edmund...?" Peter murmured. Susan nodded. The magnificent cursed under his breath before barrelling toward the hall.       "It's no use. He's on quarantine" Eilonwy called after him. Her words stopped Peter in his tracks, whipping around to face her in terror. "It's not as bad as you think. Promise. He just got a little scrape and Nefyn suggested quarantine for his own safety" she continued. She figured someone might as well give him the full story, and Susan didn't seem in any condition emotionally to explain.       "Not as bad as I think? Lucy is still missing, Edmund's sick, and I'm losing my head!" Peter shouted.       "Peter, please try to calm down..." Susan murmured, hesitantly skating forward. A bejeweled hand reached out in comfort but at the last second, the gentle thought better of herself and retracted.       "I can't calm down! This was all a huge mistake. Lucy never should've come here" Peter raged. Then, much quieter, voice strained: "This is such a mess." Defeated, he sunk into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands.        "What's a mess?" a small voice then called from the doorway. Everyone recognized it immediately. Lucy.       Without a second thought, Peter and Susan unanimously leapt from their seats to take her in a massive embrace. The valiant was drenched in shouts of Don't ever do a thing like this again! and Thank Aslan, you're alright! and even an I can't believe you'd do such a thing! You had us worried sick!       "If I knew I'd come back to this kind of celebration, I'd run off more often!" Lucy joked, wrapping her arms around her siblings. They both stared at her unamused before she shook her head and pulled them close. "I'm kidding! But it is such a relief to see you all here. But...where's Edmund?"       Peter and Susan's faces fell at the inquiry. How were they supposed to tell Lucy her big brother was sick? Or at least at a higher risk of getting sick, that is. After a moment of silence, Lucy knew something was definitely up, cocking her brow in suspicion.      "Ed had a bit of an...accident" Susan said cautiously. Lucy stepped forward, urging her to continue. "He was out helping Nefyn when I guess he fell and...scraped his knee. He's perfectly fine! Just kind of...on quarantine for the time being. Nefyn was scared the cut might get infected if he doesn't stay put."       Tilting her head to the side, Lucy looked at her siblings in great confusion. "I don't understand. I can just use my cordial on him and he'll be fine! You're all so dramatic" she chuckled, swatting away their insecurity. Peter nodded, dumbfounded, as Lucy then asked, "I'll go take care of him. Where is he?" and with that, Peter, Susan, and Eilonwy led the littlest Pevensie back to Edmund's chamber.       A light knock and the door creaked open to a rather indulgent scene. Edmund laid back in the luxurious bed, pillows abound, as Nefyn sanitized the scrape with utmost precision. A silver platter of fruits and cheeses rested beside the just king, sucking grapes off the vine and sipping a goblet of the finest wine.       "Is this what happens when you get hurt in this country? If so, count me in" Eilonwy joked, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorway.       "Ed, what the bloody hell is going on?" Susan exclaimed. Edmund paused mid-chew to look up at them, a cheesy grin spreading across his lips.       "The duke felt so bad about my getting injured that he offered me this great room with around the clock service and all I can eat!" Edmund gushed. Susan narrowed her eyes.       "It's a minor scrape!" the gentle shouted.        "It's an unexpected injury at risk of infection" the just corrected. Susan rolled her eyes and groaned, yet again slapping a palm to her forehead.        "Don't you worry, your majesties. The duke has appointed me Ed's personal servant and nurse. Anything he wants or needs, it's my duty to give it to him. Bandages, sponge baths, snacks. Anything!" Nefyn stated, raising a hand in salute.       Peter rolled his eyes, exclaiming "No sponge baths!" before Lucy rushed forward, cordial in hand.       "It's alright, Ed! I'm here. One drop and you'll be good as new!" the little queen reassured. She uncapped the bottle and tilted it toward Edmund's lips but there was serious panic in his eyes as he covered his mouth and shook his head. "Edmund, what's wrong?" she asked in great confusion.       "It's just..." he stammered. "Your cordial! Look how low it's gotten! Do you really want to waste a valuable drop on a kid with a little scrape on his knee?" he explained.       "I thought you said it was 'an unexpected injury at risk of infection'?" Peter prodded. Ed glared, whispering at him to shut up, before softening his gaze to Lucy.       "But you're my brother! It's no trouble, really!" she protested.       "No, Lu, I wouldn't dream of it! I'll be fine. Save it for the others. The ones who need it far more than I do" Edmund replied. He rested a hand on Lucy's and smiled softly, but Peter knew better.       "You're just doing this so you can get the royal treatment, aren't you?" he accused. Edmund's eyes widened, a dramatic gasp spilling from his lips.       "Peter! I am offended you'd think such a thing!" he began but before he could say more, Lucy interrupted.       "It's alright, Edmund" she said. "I understand. I understand completely." Underneath the sweetness, there was something conniving about her tone, eyes glancing from Edmund to Nefyn and back. "Take all the time you need to get better and rest yourself." She kissed him on the cheek before backing away from the bed, motioning for the others to follow her, explaining that they had lots of hard work to do and were wasting time. Ed watched wide-eyed and, to be honest, slightly unnerved, as the door creaked shut. Once fully alone, his cheeks burned bright red, a nervous chuckle escaping through his awkward grin.        "Little girls. They're just so dramatic!" he joked to Nefyn, as if it would ease his discomfort. Nefyn eyed him suspiciously before slowly turning back to her cart of lotions and salves to reorganize the bottles. When she wasn't looking, Edmund buried his face in the pillows and sighed.       Moonlight cast the island in an ethereal glow as the Pevensies sat around the balcony in collective defeat. "What are we supposed to do now?" Susan asked, glancing to each of her present company.       "What do you mean 'what are we supposed to do now?' I think it's very clear what we're supposed to do" Peter replied.        "Peter's right. We really only have one option" Eilonwy spoke. "Edmund can't leave until the quarantine is lifted. The quarantine can't be lifted until the epidemic is cured. And the epidemic can't be cured until we find the source of the sickness and beat it from the root." It was this last sentence that truthfully took everyone by surprise, fully capturing everyone's attention.       "Where did you come up with that plan?" Susan questioned. Eilonwy shrugged.       "What about my cordial?" Lucy asked. "I've been rushing around the entire island trying to cure everyone, you can't tell me all that effort has gone to waste!"       Eilonwy shook her head. "It hasn't, Lucy. But if we don't defeat the source of the sickness, no matter how much you use your cordial, people are just going to keep getting sick over and over again" she replied. Lucy frowned, eyes downcast, at such a harsh slap of reality. Perhaps all her effort had gone to waste, then. Perhaps this entire trip was a waste. All she wanted was to help people, but hearing it that way, she began to feel like nothing more than a hamster on it's wheel: constantly running but getting nowhere.       "Alright, then. So how do we find the source of the sickness?" Peter asked. Now this was a question Eilonwy didn't have an answer to. She averted her eyes, studied the grout in the flooring, chewing on her bottom lip.       "Face it, Pete, she has no idea. She's all talk" Susan then said. Peter didn't want to believe her, but as Eilonwy's silence dragged on, it became harder and harder to have faith in the huntress.       "You really don't know, do you...?" he finally asked, quietly, cautiously. Eilonwy glanced at him, unable to maintain eye contact, with a sorry shake of her head.       "Oh, well that's just brilliant!" Susan erupted. "We've come all this way only to get stuck here without any idea of what to do! Perfect! We should've just grabbed Lucy and gone back to Narnia while we still had the chance."       "Hey!" Eilonwy shouted, finally breaking. "None of this is my fault! It's not like I cast some sort of curse across the entire island like some sort of witch! Maybe if I wasn't the only one coming up with ideas, then we'd be getting somewhere!"       "Stop it!" Lucy interrupted. All eyes turned to her. "Arguing isn't going to help anything."       "Lucy's right" Peter sighed. "If we yell and fight, we're just going to make matters worse. We need to work together to figure this out. All of us." A small smile touched Eilonwy's lips as her and Peter locked eyes for a split second. Something fluttered inside her at his defense, a notion of care and respect. She shoved it deep down inside of her. There were more important matters at hand.       As the sun peeked over the horizon, the Pevensies suited up to enter the fray. Lucy babbled on about protocol and all that she had already experienced alongside Nefyn and Aesop, but deep down she was terrified. All she could think about was how low her cordial was getting and of all the sick, helpless people in the streets below. What if she really couldn't save them all? Her breath hitched.       Wading through the streets absentmindedly was one thing but diving straight into the sea of death and disease was another entirely. Rather than just bodies, now they saw people. Real, living people with lives and hopes and dreams and families. Eyes clouded over with mucus and cold hands clammy to the touch. The Pevensies were like angels to those desperate for their help. As they wandered through the streets, the beggars reached for them in desperation.       I can't believe Lucy voluntarily immersed herself in this, Susan thought in disbelief. The stench was what tortured her the most, the smell of dead bodies hanging in the air and constricting her throat until she thought she'd suffocate. But the further they walked, the more saddened Susan became. So many pale, sickly faces and tear-stained cheeks. So many children left to fend for themselves, naked and emaciated and afraid. One bumped into her as he crossed the street, eyes wide as he profusely apologized to the woman he could only imagine was an archangel herself. Susan's heart broke at the sight of him and she instinctively just wanted to wrap her arms around his frail little body and hold him close, show him the comfort and care he so desperately deserved. How many more children were like this? She choked back her tears.       Back at the estate, Edmund gazed out to the village below. Something within his chest began to stir, an unsettling feeling like an itch you can't scratch. He thought of his siblings down there among the dead and dying, of how helpless he felt trapped up there in that room. The novelty of it all had worn off rather quickly, much to his displeasure.       "You alright?" a voice called from behind. Ed turned around to find Nefyn at bedside, pouring various liquids into a small beaker and stirring with a glass stick until the colors combined into a dark sludge.       "I've been better" Edmund replied, trudging back toward his friend. "And apparently so has that. What is even in that?" The closer he came, the more powerful the smell grew until he had no choice but to cup his hand over his mouth.       "I've been working on a new remedy for those god-awful buboes. This is just one of the many attempts" she explained. The centaurette stared at the beaker with great concentration, as if at any moment it would explode or vanish into thin air. "Fingers crossed this time it actually works!"       Edmund chuckled as he sat adjacent, crossing his legs at the edge of the bed. "How many other mixtures have you tried?"       "Eighteen" she said bluntly.       "And none of them worked?"       Nefyn shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. Buboes seem to be a rather tricky thing to get rid of. Not that there isn't already a way to get rid of them. I'm just trying to create something more...effective."       A small smile graced the just king's lips. "I'm sure you'll get it this time, then."       "You think so?" Nefyn asked, finally looking up from her work. Edmund nodded. The sincerity in his eyes made her heart skip a beat, filling her with great joy. "Thank you, Edmund. That really means a lot to me" she then said, resting a hand on top of his knee. Blood rushed to Ed's cheeks but he tried his best to hide it. "You know" she then continued, "I'm really grateful the duke assigned me to look after you-- and that my father approved. It feels nice to be in charge of something for once."       Edmund cocked his head to the side. "What do you mean?"       Nefyn cheeks reddened as she shook her head. "It's nothing. Just that...sometimes I feel like my dad doesn't trust me enough to take care of things on my own. Like he doesn't think I'm good enough, always needing constant supervision and strict direction. He doesn't believe in new achievements in the medicinal community, which means my experimentation really ticks him off. My father is very...by the book, so to speak."      "But what about illnesses without any cures yet? I thought finding treatments for stuff like that was a good thing" Edmund inquired.       "It is" Nefyn nodded. "I guess with my father, that sort of stuff falls into a bit of a grey area. For ailments without any known cures, he tends to focus more on treating the symptoms rather than the cause, as if that's going to cure people. He tries his best to stick to the ancient ways which is great and all-- if it's not broken, don't fix it, you know? They've worked well enough for centuries, so he doesn't see any point in changing them. What he doesn't understand is that there are so many better ways we can do things, so many great advancements and more effective medicines to mix. After all, we can't live in the past forever, you know?"        Edmund nodded. "I know what you mean. There are people who think the exact same way in my world, too. Or at least, the world I came from. People who hate progression and want to keep living in the past."       "It's so frustrating!" Nefyn replied. "It's one of the many things my father and I disagree on. I think my passion for it all makes him rather nervous."       "How so?"       The centaurette sighed and ran her hands through her thick, dark hair. "I'm my father's only child. He's getting older and I know he's grooming me to take over the family business after he's gone. I'm the only possible heir, he's counting on me to carry on the family tradition. But in his eyes, progress and tradition don't mix. I think he fears I'll screw things up, ruin the constant plateau of a reputation we've upheld for centuries. I don't know, I just wish I could make him understand. I just want him to see that change isn't necessarily a bad thing."        "Then prove it to him" Edmund replied. "Show him you know what you're doing, and that what you're doing is for the greater good. He can't argue with something that benefits everyone. If he does, he's not very good at his job then, is he?"        Nefyn smiled and grasped Edmund's hand in hers, squeezing it lightly. "You're right, Ed. I need to really show him what I've got." Resting her free hand at the back of his neck, she leaned in close and rested her forehead against his. "Thank you again, Edmund. For being such a good friend. I really cherish your companionship."       By now, Edmund's cheeks were burning hot. With Nefyn's face so close to his, he could feel her breath on his bottom lip and fingertips against his bare skin. A strong tingle filtered down from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, like nothing he had ever felt before. He pasted a cheesy grin against his lips and laughed softly. "I'm glad to have been of service" was all he could say before Nefyn pulled away.       In a flurry of inspiration, she began gathering up her potions bottles and jotting things down on scraps of parchment beneath her cart. "When my father returns for the night, I'll present him with this medicine and the recipe for it and show him what I'm really worth. If it does actually work, there's no way he can deny me!" she rambled excitedly.       "Why stop there?" Edmund replied. "Why not try to treat the whole sickness, not just a part?"       Nefyn's face grew sallow. "Oh, Ed, I don't know if I could do that. It's too huge. I'm not skilled enough to manage a task so great."       "Nonsense!" the just king explained. "I think you can do it."       "...I think you must have a fever" Nefyn replied, jamming the back of her hand against Edmund's forehead. The just wrinkled his nose and ducked his head out from under her hand.       "I don't have a fever, Nefyn. I feel fine. And I know you can do this!" he said. The centaurette eyed him suspiciously. "You can do this. I'm sure of it. You're smart. You can figure it out."        Nefyn sighed and rolled her eyes, not convinced. "Will you be alright here on your own if I leave you for a while?"        "Where are you going?" Edmund asked. Panic suddenly bubbled up from deep within his chest, terrified he had upset her in some way. He really didn't want her to leave because of something so petty and stupid.        "I have some things to sort out, Ed. I'll be back soon, though, I promise" she replied. "Unless you don't think you'll manage alright on your own?"       "I'll be alright. After all, it is just a scrape" Edmund replied.        With a roll of her eyes, his friend replied, "I know that, smartass! I mean mentally. Are you going to be bored if I leave you?"       Edmund blinked and shook his head. "I think I can manage. I'll find somehow to keep myself occupied. You seem to forget you're talking to the same person who spent a good chunk of time in the White Witch's prison. At least this place has a fully stocked bookshelf, and I can always sneak out to the common room to take a crack at that chess table" he replied.       A half-grin graced Nefyn's lips as she nodded. "Good, I'm glad. I wouldn't want you getting too bored and trying to break out of here or something. I don't plan on losing any patient of mine, runaway or otherwise!"       As the days wore on, the Pevensies committed themselves to helping Galma. They rose and set along with the sun, spending many an hour in the heat trying to treat the sick and properly dispose of the dying. Peter's heart broke for the loss of so many people, getting to know some of them personally. He began truly rooting for them, encouraging them to stay strong and keep going. Despite the grin pasted on his face, however, he had a hard time encouraging himself to stay strong. Every day was filled with grave tragedy and it was slowly beginning to chip away at him.       In the privacy of the duke's estate, Peter didn't have to be strong for anyone. He let himself crash into nearby chair and buried his face in his hands, exhausted.       "Long day?" a voice called from behind. Peter picked his head up to find Edmund in the doorway, a book tucked under his arm.       "Yeah" the magnificent nodding, ushering his younger brother to join him. "I thought you weren't supposed to leave the room?"       "Well, technically it's the estate I'm not supposed to leave" he explained. "But being stuck up here has given me a lot of time to think about things and, well, I might be able to help you guys without actually going down there with you all." Peter cocked an eyebrow in interest, urging his brother to go on. "Eilonwy said the only way to really cure everyone would be to get to the root of the sickness, right?" Peter nodded. "Well, Nefyn said her father has never seen a disease like this before--"       "That's concerning" Peter interrupted.       "--But that doesn't mean we haven't!" Edmund exclaimed.       "What do you mean?" asked Peter.       "Think about it, Pete: the Galmans have puss-swelled buboes, fevers, and lethargy, right?" Edmund began. The eldest nodded. Edmund rose his brows, waiting for the magnificent to catch on, but to no avail. Peter was far too tired for critical thinking. With a sigh, Edmund explained, "Those are the same symptoms as bubonic plague. The plague was transmitted through rats, which there are apparently a lot of on Galma."       "Okay..." Peter said with uncertainty. "So what are we supposed to do? We can't just get rid of the rats, there's too many. We'd never be able to pull that off."       The just king shook his head. "Of course not. We need to kill this at the source. The source being fleas. Infected fleas live on rats which spread the disease to the people who then die. In order to stop the death, we need to stop the fleas."       The High King simply nodded, furrowing his brow in thought. "What about pesticides?" he asked after a moment of contemplation. "Pesticides should work, right? Spread them through the island, kill the rats and the fleas on them, then cure the people."       "Nefyn is going to work on something like that" Edmund added. "I've shared my findings and talked with her about it in the past few days while you've all been gone, and I fully put my trust in her. She knows a lot about medicine, maybe even more than her father does. I'm sure she can come up with something great."        "Good" Peter nodded. "I'll go find the others and see what they think of all this. I'm sure they won't be able to argue with your research. Thanks again, Ed." Peter spoke as he rose and made his way toward the hall. Edmund simply nodded before settling into a nearby chaise and propping open his book.       As the Pevensies returned from another day of making the rounds, Nefyn rushed out to the common room, face painted with urgency. "Lucy! I need you to do me a massive favor" she exclaimed, skidding to a halt beside the valiant queen. "I need you to bring me a rat."       "A rat?" Peter questioned. Nefyn nodded.       "I need a live rat to test on. The only way I'm going to find out if my concoction really exterminates the source of the problem is if I test on a live, infected rat. We're just that much closer to ending this epidemic once and for all" the centaurette replied. Peter was wary, but her tone was so full of hope he had a hard time denying her request.       "I'll do it" a voice interrupted, and Eilonwy stepped up. "I'd rather risk my own health rather than Lucy's. She's done enough hard work, she doesn't deserve to go into the fray and nearly kill herself like that. Let me do it."       "Whoa, wait, Eilonwy--!" Peter shouted but the huntress cut him off before he could finish.       "It's alright, Peter. I'm a big girl. I can do this."       Lucy looked up at the huntress with wide eyes. "Eilonwy, you don't have to do this. I can manage just fine on my own."       Eilonwy rested a hand on the valiant's shoulder and shook her head. "Don't worry, Lucy. I want to. Please, do I have your permission?"       Reluctantly, Lucy nodded and wrapped her arms tightly around the huntress's waist. "Please be careful, though!" she replied, voice muffled in the huntress's skirts. "And here, please take this" Lucy then added. She unfastened her cordial from it's spot on her belt and handed it up to the maiden with gleaming eyes.       "Oh, Lucy, I couldn't possibly--" Eilonwy protested but the littlest Pevensie insisted.       "I'd rather you keep it just in case. You don't deserve to nearly kill yourself, either" said Lucy. A soft smile spread across Eilonwy's lips as she leaned down and hugged the young queen, awkwardly but a hug nonetheless, murmuring a thank you in her ear.       "I'll be back by sunrise. Don't wait up for me" Eilonwy replied, fastening her cloak around her neck. The red hugged her body as the exterior cloaked her completely, thinking it best she try to be as invisible as possible. The darkness could only do so much.       "You're sure you want to do this?" Peter asked. His blue eyes were filled with worry, hands unsteady as he gifted her the cordial.       "Sure as ever" the huntress replied.       "Stay safe out there" Edmund said, arms crossed in concern. He knew this wasn't the most ideal mission-- for anyone-- but he had great respect for Eilonwy's volunteering. And from what he had seen of her ability, he had faith she could certainly handle this.         "Remember, Eilonwy: all we need is an infected rat. You'll likely find them in sewers and lurking through allyways. Dark places. Use as little light to navigate as possible" Nefyn instructed.        "Believe me, with this cloak, I don't think I'd be stupid enough to draw attention to myself like that. I've spent way more years than you can imagine hunting things. I think I'll be fine" Eilonwy reassured. She glanced to the centaurette and each of the Pevensies before sucking in a deep breath and giving a single nod. "Alright then. Here goes nothing. I'll be back by dawn, and if not, don't search for me. I'll either make my way back on my own or you'll find me dead in the streets. Either way, you'll see me" she spoke, only half joking. Not knowing what else to say, Eilonwy awkwardly smiled, saluted goodbye, and turned to depart into the dark village below.       As she descended the stairs, however, a voice behind captured her attention. She whipped around to find an all too familiar figure rushing toward her. Before she could reject the advance, a strong pair of arms embraced her, warm breath on the back of her neck. "Please stay safe..." Peter whispered, squeezing her tightly before withdrawing.       "P-Peter, I'll be fine. Don't...don't be such a sentimental idiot" she whispered back, but not because she was afraid of making noise. She whispered more because she had no other choice. The surprise encounter left her disgustingly breathless-- she didn't have the strength to speak any louder. She prayed he couldn't feel her heart racing from against his chest.       The high king reluctantly released his grip but before leaving, she felt his breath against her skin and then, hesitantly, his lips brush against her cheek. All the blood rushed to her face as he whispered a soft "Take care of yourself" and then ran off.       Fucking great, Eilonwy thought to herself, watching his shadow saunter off in the moonlight. Just what I need: a big, fat distraction. Heaving a sigh, she turned on her heels, threw her hood up over her head, and descended into the abyss of death and darkness.       "Why hasn't she come back yet? What could possibly be taking her so long? How hard can it be to capture a stupid little rat?" Peter argued, pacing the room.      "I'm sure Eilonwy's fine" Susan reassured. She extended a hand to rest upon his shoulder but he walked away before she could reach him. Lucy peered back over her shoulder, frowning at her brother's panic. She, too, was worried about Eilonwy's safety, but knew the only thing they could really do was wait. Like Eilonwy said, she'd return or be dead but either way, they'd find her again. She truly hoped for the former.       Peter's eyes crossed the room to land on his younger brother leaning back in a dining chair, one hand stuffing pastries in his mouth while the other held a worn leather book. "Ed, how can you eat at a time like this? And what on earth are you reading?" he asked, almost accusatorily. Edmund glanced up from his novel, eyebrow raised.       "I can eat because I'm hungry and I'm reading because there's not much else to do when you've been on lockdown" he replied sassily.       "Edmund, what are you reading?" Lucy asked, tone curious, cocking her head in hopes of making out the title. Her efforts were to no avail, however. The title had worn off long ago, nothing left but the imprint of words she couldn't quite decipher.       The just king shrugged, licking the powdered sugar off his fingers. "Some spy novel. Not nearly as good as the ones in England, though. The detective is some mole who can't even see. Kind of like Sherlock Holmes but blind and stupid" he replied flippantly. The littlest Pevensie chuckled softly before gazing back out upon the village below. It was then, however, that she noticed something approaching from the distance.       "Peter! Susan! Edmund! Look!" she shouted excitedly, pointing toward the base of the stairs. The three rushed forward to find none other than Eilonwy trudging up to them, cloak hanging off her shoulder and face pale with exhaustion. Peter immediately pushed past everyone and raced down toward his friend, elated to see she was really alive.       "Cut the happy tears, Peter. I'm sick and I'm tired. Just take the stupid rat and let me sleep" Eilonwy muttered as she ascended. Despite Peter's desperation to just wrap his arms around her and hold her close, she shoved him away and didn't even so much as look at him. As she reached the top of the stairs, she unfastened a little cage hooked to her belt and threw it toward Nefyn in aggravation, the little rat squealing from inside and gnawing at the wooden bars.      The centaurette grinned wildly as she inspected the little beast, the perfect specimen, before thanking Eilonwy profusely. "There must be some way I can repay you!" she rambled, but Eilonwy simply shook her head.    "Just let me sleep for fifteen billion years and we'll be even" she replied tiredly, uncapping Lucy's cordial and taking a dramatic sip for good measure. She handed the bottle back to the valiant as she trudged toward the residential hall, slamming her chamber door shut at the end of the corridor. Curled up in bed, she prayed that she would never have to hear of or speak of such a night ever again.     Nefyn spent the entire rest of the day monitoring and experimenting with the little rat in her chamber, logging the medicine's effects in hopes that she was successful in her scientific endeavors. As night fell over the island, she took one last test and...   "YES!!"    Uproarious shouts and the pounding of hooves echoed down the hallway as Nefyn barged out of the room squealing in a half-horse-half-human manner. Her shouts and bellows woke up everyone in the estate, some to much chagrin, all trudging sleepily into the common room.      "Mmm...Nefyn? What's this all about?" Susan murmured, rubbing her eyes awake. The centaurette grinned wildly, stamping her hooves. In her hands was a blue glass bottle with a wooden tag tied around the neck.      "I've done it! I've finally created something that works!" she squealed.       Edmund's eyes lit up and a soft chuckle broke free from his lips, overflowing with happiness and pride.       "But how do you suppose you'll manage to administer it to every rat on the island?" Eilonwy questioned. Nefyn's smile quickly dimmed.       "Oh...okay, well I didn't think of that" she muttered, eyes downcast. Edmund shot the huntress a glare before slowly approaching his friend. He hoped he'd figure out some comforting gesture on his way over but by the time he reached her, he still hadn't come up with anything, so he settled on just standing beside her somewhat awkwardly.       "What about the sewers?" Lucy proposed. "Rats live in sewers. You could spread the medicine through the sewers, or in whatever it is that rats eat, and then when they consume it, it should cure them of whatever disease they're carrying, right?"       Now the centaur's smile brightened and she tightened her grip a bit more on the bottle. "That might just work, your majesty!" she spoke. Chocolate eyes leapt from each of the Pevensies tired faces in search of approval but all she really received was exhaustion. "You know what? Why don't you all go back to sleep? I'll have a plan to present to you all by breakfast" she added. Without hesitation, everyone nodded and headed back to their chambers but as they departed, Nefyn reached out to grasp Edmund by the forearm. The just king gazed back at her in surprise, unsure of what she was going to say. A soft smile unlike the one before touched her lips as she whispered a tender, "Thank you, Ed, for believing in me" before kissing his cheek and releasing him from her grip. Edmund floated back to bed in a haze, his skin tingling where her lips had touched. As he fell asleep that night, he dreamt of nothing but happy things.

     "It is with great pride and immense pleasure that I issue the highest of honors to our phenomenal new friends" the duke announced. His round cheeks shined in the sunlight, deep creases forming at the corner of his lips from smiling so wide. The Pevensies, in their finest attire, stood beside him on a brick-laden stage before the citizens of Galma, laying eyes upon their newly brightened faces. Flowers fell across Nefyn's collarbone and breast, baby's breath and plumerias braided into her hair, as she proudly watched from the sidelines. The duke extended a hand to the other end of the stage, ushering a small, stout faun to approach carrying a thick pillow in his hands. Atop the velvet sat five gleaming medals embossed with the Galman crest, each strung onto a different colored ribbon. The lord raised the orange one first and motioned for Lucy to step forward, whose eyes lit up as she scampered near.       "For her acts of unwavering valor and compassion, I present unto thee, Queen Lucy of Narnia, our medal of honor" the lord announced. He draped the token around her neck and smiled brightly upon her, his fat face like that of the sun itself, and squeezed her little hands in his. Then, his beady eyes turned to Nefyn, ushering her forward. The centaurette gazed back at her father first, uncertain, but with arms crossed he nodded approvingly and his young protege sauntered up.       "For her astounding scientific advancements and resilience to improve her craft, I present unto thee, Miss Nefyn of Narnia, our medal of achievement" the lord announced, then presented the young medic with her own medal strung along a purple ribbon. Nefyn bowed her head in respect, whispered a soft thank you, and returned to her father's side beaming.       The rest of the Pevensies were presented with generic medals of freedom to signify their new alliance, the crowds cheering in gratitude for all that they had done. Looking upon the Galmans now happy and healthy, however, Peter felt a shred of guilt twist in his chest. He hadn't done anything even remotely heroic. He didn't deserve such an award. It was meaningless to him. Lucy and Nefyn were the real heroes, they were the ones worthy of such praise. As he glanced to Susan and Edmund at his side, they shared a familiar expression, silently signifying that they, too, felt the same. However, there was no way they could reject the duke's gifts. They were signs of respect, tokens of friendship. Should they refuse to accept them, they would be refusing the lord's hospitality and future help. As an executive decision, the Pevensies would shut up for their own good.       The setting sun painted the sky like rainbow sherbet as the duke's men loaded the Pevensie's luggage back onto the Splendor Hyaline. The High King gazed out upon the ocean from the highest deck, Narnia's shores just hazily visible in the distance.       "Well, this was quite an adventure" Eilonwy approached from behind. Leaning against the boat, she looked to Peter in hopes of a response. His eyes were so stony and concentrated, deep in thought. The corner of his mouth jerked upward with a shake of his head as he turned his back to the Great Eastern Sea.       "Yeah, I suppose" he replied, tone stale.       "Something bothering you?" the maiden asked, not skipping a beat.       "I hate how you're so goddamn perceptive" Peter chuckled, rolling his eyes. Then, with a sigh, continued, "It's just all been a very wild past couple of weeks. It's difficult to let sink in, I guess."       "Understandable" Eilonwy nodded. "We have kind of been through hell and back. But no more so than Lucy." The huntress jerked her head toward the littlest queen, still down on the dock saying goodbye personally to a select few people. Peter recognized them as some of the deathly ill she had helped care for on their rounds through the village. It was so strange seeing them all so healthy and bright-eyed now. He desperately hoped things would stay that way. He didn't think he could stomach a repeat of the past fortnight.       Down below, Edmund watched as the men loaded the last of their trunks aboard the Splendor Hyaline. The just's eyes frantically scoured the crowd for his good friend, wishing to see her one last time before his departure. Just as before, Nefyn and her father were assigned to travel elsewhere in order to help yet another needy country. Though he knew it was selfish of him, he was terrified of never seeing her again, especially after all they had been through together.       "Coming aboard, your majesty?" a voice called from behind. Edmund nodded to the crew member on deck, a sigh escaping his lips as he slowly forced himself to come to terms with the fact he may not get to say goodbye. As he trudged up the ramp, however, something soft suddenly thwacked the back of his neck. Turning around, he found none other than Nefyn waving at him from amidst the crowd.       "We have to stop meeting like this!" she called to him jokingly. Edmund shook his head with a laugh and grinned.       "I thought I wasn't going to see you again!" he replied back.       "And miss all this? Not in a million! I couldn't stand not to say goodbye to a friend!" she shouted. The ship's men urged Edmund aboard as they raised the anchor and began prepping to set sail.       "When will I see you again?" Edmund finally blurted.       "Just call on me next time you trip over a dead guy!" Nefyn yelled, now cupping her hands over her mouth to better project her voice. Though growing further and further apart, she could see Edmund's cheeks redden and a wide smile spread across her face.       "Stay safe out there!" the just king shouted back, praying she could hear him. She shouted something in reply but by now was far too distant for him to make out the words. He kept his eyes locked on her until she disappeared, contributing to the mass of faceless shapes crowding the marina. The corners of his lips turned downward as he kicked at the end of a coil of rope, defeated. His scrape, now barely visible, was all he had left of his time spent on Galma with her. Turning toward the bow of the boat, he saw his family gathered together to admire the sunset. Heaving a sigh, he straightened his back and rushed to join them. Though his situation was not ideal, he would never have traded his time in quarantine for anything else in the world. Now that was all finished, however, and as he stood beside his siblings gazing out to the sea, he had to remind himself that this may have been the end of one adventure but was only the beginning of many more.

[red-mafia-rpg-blog]

Gregor ValiguraVolkov || Brotherhood  || The Tempest

TAKEN | OPEN |

Face-claim: Jon Bernthal Age: 39 Occupation: N/A Nationality/Ethnicity: Russian

PERSONALITY

Enneagram: The Challenger Alignment: Neutral Evil MBTI: ENTP

+ Incorruptable, Principled, Venturesome

- Callous, Caustic, Pugnacious

From a young age, Gregor has always been somewhat of a rebellious, reckless child that enjoyed provoking fights and stirring up trouble. This behaviour reached its peak once he was taken in by the military and trained among his new comrades, topping in what others might call self-destructive tendencies. Along with that, he has always been carrying somewhat of a cynical and bitter attitude towards society and life in general, but paired with a sense of humour — possibly rather bizarre — it made for a person that acted much like a jerk but could be tolerated once you got to know him.His first actual love and later wife was the one to slow Gregor down for a while and heal him from what he has endured. Still, he would not let go of his reckless demeanour completely, but slowly turned into a considerate parent who cared about his wife and son more than his own life. The events of the war and of the aftermath, however, especially with the consequences of the Secret Police trying to recruit him, seemingly destroyed the glimpse of hope and happiness his wife had sown and cherished so carefully.Now, Gregor has turned into somewhat of an irascible person that only ever seems to come to life when in a fight with fists to his nose or stomach. He does not do emotions except for anger, wrath and rage, making his core identity. Underneath it all, however, he never quite let go of his parental instincts and is subconsciously always looking for a family he seeks to protect. Even though he refuses to acknowledge that to himself, this is mostly the reason why he ranked up so quickly in the Brotherhood and makes such a strong commander of support. He subconsciously sees all of his trainees, the people who belong to his syndicate in general, as family and whoever threatens to harm them… well, better think twice if it is worth the trouble.

BIOGRAPHY

Not even born yet, the mention of Gregor only brought up resentment. His father being no less a man than Pyotr Valigura, third Pakhan of the Valigura Bratva, an infamous, old and strong brotherhood, there wasn’t a place in the world for a mistake made by one of Moscow’s most powerful men: a bastard son; a problem originating in a random one-night-stand with a random barista after a random amount of alcohol. So a plan was counted up to clean Pyotr off his mistake before his fellow Valigura could find out. However, as his confidant arrived at the barista’s house to get the job done, nice and quickly, they found it abandoned, the expectant mother having disappeared off the face of the earth, or so it seemed. Her sister-in-law had taken her in while her husband was fighting at the front in the First World War, but knowing that she couldn’t hide from the brotherhood forever, she gave Gregor up for adoption.

The baby boy was taken in by the Volkovs, a family name well-known with his adoptive father a man close to Stalin. His parents never kept it a secret to Gregor that they’d adopted him — even though unaware of his true origins —, but this knowledge didn’t make a change about their family bonds. A few years into his childhood, he was promised to live a comfortable life, enjoying the family’s money and respect. These visions were rapidly shattered, however, when soldiers broke into their home one night, dragging their father away and sending them to Gulag, claiming he’s betrayed the Soviet Union. While Konstantin was eaten up by the shame and hatred for his father, Gregor distanced himself from the latest events.

He wasn’t my father anyway.

However, he couldn’t close his eyes from the truth that the family was left with no money or power, no future for the two boys. His mother, in her despair, sold herself to the men her husband had interacted with, only worsening the life they were forced to lead. Gregor and his younger brother were left to their own demise, somehow had to weave their way through life, until one day they saw the soldiers again.

This time, they were coming for the boys. With tensions rising in Europe and a new war seeming possible only few years after the massive failures in the Russian Empire’s participation in the First World War, the military hungered for new recruits. In memory of the family’s past, the Volkov brothers were to be moulded into perfect little soldiers, cleaning their name under the Soviet flag.

Konstantin had always been more of a reclusive boy who works hard a quiet and stayed out of the trouble for the better part. He had a mission, an aim to achieve: wash himself off of his father’s shame. Gregor, on the other hand, wasn’t driven by anything resembling that honourable motivation. In fact, he didn’t have a clue what to do with his life, was bored to death by everything, and just gasping for a little thrill. He ended up throwing himself head first into conflicts at every chance, more often than not needing his brother to bail him out of the fights again. Early into the training at the military, it was obvious that Gregor didn’t excel at hand-to-hand combat or short ranged weapons. But oh boy, when he first laid hand onto a sniper rifle. Sharpshooting quickly became his speciality. Finally, he was able to define himself over something, distance himself from the others, and so he’d spend hours and hours of practicing until there wasn’t a target he couldn’t hit, no matter the distance, his positioning, its movements or the wind. He also developed quite a fascination for explosives of all sorts — bombs, grenades, mines, missiles — but the rifle would always stay his weapon of choice.

Only two years before the outbreak of the Second World War, Gregor met the love of his life, Ana Matkin. A quick wit embedded into a stunning dark-haired and blue-eyed beauty, she completely threw his world upside-down, and in a head-over-heel decision somewhat mirroring his way of life, they got married and moved in together. By the time, Gregor almost broke contact with his brother. He was finally having it all: a loving wife, an adorable son, a life everyone was striving for. There simply wasn’t a place for Konstantin and the constant reminders of their past.

However, as war broke out, Gregor saw it coming and only waited for the day he and his brother were sent to the front. They fought side by side, had each other’s back, made sure to, one way or another, drag their sibling along and get them to safety. They made quite a team to be reckoned with. Until a mission in Germany went wrong, a trap, perhaps, Gregor doesn’t remember, but they got separated.

Gregor barely made it out alive and back to the camp where he was greeted with a simple “No” to his yet unspoken request. He tried to reason with the officer in charge, screamed at him, shouted, threatened him even, but all he was offered was a trip back to Moscow. Not just once, they told him that Konstantin as probably dead by now and if he wasn’t, God may have mercy on his soul. Gregor refused to let it end this way, and single-handedly slipped back behind enemy lines, only accompanied by a few comrades that couldn’t stand him so much but did it for his brother.

On a mission that should’ve meant certain death for each and every one of the soldiers, they infiltrated the Germans, found out where they were keeping Konstantin and delivered him from captivity. They never talked about what they did to him in those weeks, but he’s never been the same afterwards. Neither was Gregor, though, and when he finally returned to his wife and his son, eight years of age by then, he and Konstantin lost sight of each other and wouldn’t keep up any form on contact in a long while.

Processing the war, Gregor became quieter, calmer, but also more aggressive when provoked. Unable to talk about his emotions and claiming that no one could ever understand him anyway, he bottled up his anger, feeding that swelling hatred inside his stomach over the officer who had let down Konstantin just like that. After all that he’s done for his country. More and more frequently, Gregor would disappear down the basement for a couple hours, punching rough, solid stone walls until his knuckles broke and bled. Now that he’s witnessed it once, he couldn’t make the injustice unseen that loyal Russians like Konstantin and him, who had bled for their country, had to suffer.

Even though he desperately tried to ignore everything politics, the regular reports of how Stalin treated his people, the ones he should actually protect and care for, burnt a mark into Gregor’s heart. Ana was quick to realise the change of mind her husband was going through, trying to silence his rebellious, traitorous remarks about their government, but with no success.

Hardly a year back in Moscow, the secret police, hiding their true identity from him, of course, contacted him with an offer: either join them and go on mission for the Soviet Union in order to stabilise the country and preserve peace, or have them slaughter his wife and his son and all of his beloved ones. If only he knew who he was dealing with, maybe he would have decided differently. But then again, he’s always been somewhat of a bullethead, clinging onto his own principles way too strictly. And perhaps, too, he wanted to dare them to act on their thread.

Well, they did. A couple weeks later after he almost forgot about the strange encounter that had made him laugh for the first time in a long period, Gregor returned home from a run late in the evening and found the remains of his wife spread in their living room; crimson red had soaked into the furniture, covered all of the walls and read a barbaric note on the wall: Save your son.

He’s seen a lot while at the front; comrades carrying their own guts as they stumbled in shock, and others having their skin melting off their faces from the heat of an explosion. It was fair to say he had become inured to horrifying sights, but that scene that was presented to him in his very living room, made him double over and empty his stomach onto the carpeted floor. It was a moment of weakness, bare seconds, but a warrior doesn’t mourn the dead until the war is over. And so he pushed himself onto his feet, went for the sniper rifle he was carefully stowing beneath his bed, and climbed onto his home’s roof. They couldn’t be far, he hoped.

Yet he was surprised when he made out two silhouettes in the dark; a dark figure dressed all in black and his little Tad with his unmistakeable blonde locks being dragged to a car. Having a rough idea just which organisation he was dealing with, Gregor knew what awaited the boy; pain and torture and the fact that he was only nine years old wouldn’t make a difference to his capturers. So he raised the rifle, aimed and felt his finger sliding onto the trigger like it had countless times before. He wasn’t shaking, he wasn’t trembling, he was as calm as he’s trained to be. Gregor exhaled and a shot echoed from Moscow’s walls.

Completely numb, zoned out even, he watched as Tad went down, but much more interesting was the reaction of his capturer. He knelt down, almost as if in despair, hands clenched tightly onto the kid, holding him as he shook, fighting for his last breaths. The man raised his head, staring directly to Gregor’s spot on the roof. And even though he keeps telling himself that his mind must’ve fooled him, Gregor still believes to have seen all too familiar blue orbs reflecting his own pain.

After the events of the night, Gregor ended up where his story had started way back; joining the Bratva for good. He had grown numb to pain and emotions. Only hatred and wrath, bottled up deep inside, kept him going, made him get up the morning. He proved his loyalty and value to the brotherhood not only once or twice, but over and over again until he was promoted to rank 3, training officer. The trainees that had been assigned to work with him, utterly hated every second of it, but he taught them everything he learned from the military, war and his years in the tunnels. If they survived his training, they’d survive anything.

Only a few weeks back, their Pakhan found a special interest in Gregor and shortly after, he was promoted to the position of commander of support. Even though he told him it was the reward for his exemplary qualifications and achievements, Gregor can’t shake off the feeling that there’s more to it.

[shelterpark]

Tweek Tweak

((About the Mun: Name: Jake Age: 19 Pronouns: She/Her, They/Them Discord: 

About the Muse: Name: Tweek Tweak Age: 20 Pronoun(s): He/Him Sexuality: Homosexual Height: 5’4” Location: Living in SP Occupation: He often volunteers to be a scavenger. More often than not, he would also try to help out with managing food supplies and learning to deal with injuries. Brief History: Before the outbreak, Tweek had been working for his parents’ shop in South Park, trying to balance work with school as well as keeping a stable relationship with Craig. When the outbreak occurred, he had been terrified out of his mind. The worst had come. While he was freaked out, he learned quickly that in order to survive, he would need to defend himself by whatever means. And if that meant smashing a man’s head in for his own protection, so be it. He remained in South Park, as it’s apparently a safe location. The world out there is a mess and he doesn’t have any desire to be out there with even more dangers. 5 or More Head Canons: * Tweek’s parents didn’t last long during the outbreak. His mother had been attacked first, likely by a common infected. While they tried everything they could for her, she turned in the end. His father was bitten soon after when he had gotten too close to her in his mourning. Thus, Tweek has been left on his own, likely living in what was his childhood home. * Tweek has currently been clean of any kind of drug for almost seven years. When he was entering middle school, Tweek had inevitably overdosed on far too much of his parents’ coffee, thus leading his parents to reconsider how they make their special brew, as Tweek himself probably considered filing for charges against them if they wouldn’t. Following the incident, Tweek made an excellent recovery and now has to pay careful attention to his health. * Without the drugs in his system, Tweek is far calmer. He can think far better on his feet and he doesn’t tremble so terribly. He does have a leftover shiver, likely from anxiety. He’s worked hard to overcome his paranoia and mellow out through the years with lots of assistance from Craig. * Tweek enjoys activities such as boxing, as he finds it relaxing to he out his energy. * His weapon of choice is actually a bat or the occasional ax. Guns are far too loud for him to handle as they make him jumpy, thus he prefers to avoid them. The noise is also far too risky to attempt using. * He often can be found with Craig, as Craig is his only sense of security in this world.

RP Example: He couldn’t have known what had been happening. It had been a slow day at the coffee shop. Hardly a customer had stepped foot through the door since morning — not that it wasn’t expected from a weekday in their quiet mountain town. He had been taking inventory in the back room while his father, Richard, worked towards cleaning the shop. He was in the middle of sneaking a message to Craig when it happened. The door of the shop chimed open. At once, Tweek was caught off guard. A customer at this hour? Didn’t they see the closed sign hanging on the the door out front? He could tell his father had the same thought as he could hear mumbling from the front. Slipping his phone into his back pocket, Tweek moved to slip through the door to find out what was going on. “—please! They’re out there! I need to call the police!” He could recall seeing his father standing there, broomstick still in hand as he frowned down at the frantic man. “Sir, I’m sorry, but we are CLOSED. If you want coffee, you will have to come in the morning when it’s made. If this is an emergency, you should go to the police, but we cannot help you.” The strange customer seemed to be panicking now. Tweek could remember his appearance vividly. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat. His closed were rumpled, as if the man had ran a mile to arrive at their shop. To which, in his innocent state, Tweek had thought to himself — “Why would anyone run all this way to come to their shop of all places?” If he just looked a little closer, maybe he would have realized something was wrong. But instead, he found himself wondering if the man was drunk. Was he drugged? Sick? He was awfully pale. “Please! I need you to listen to me! They’re out there! I-I need to call the police right now!” The man was pleading with his father now. Perhaps if they had let him continue, he would have been groveling on his knees. But his father didn’t even give him the chance. Richard placed his broom aside. He began to shove the man out the door, “Listen, we are CLOSED. If you have a real emergency, you should take it to the police. But we can do nothing for you and I must ask you to leave. Thank you.” “Y-You’re making a mistake! You need to listen to me—!” The lock clicked into place. Sighing in relief, Richard turned on his heel with a smile. “Now that that’s over with, let’s get finished up, shall we, Tweek? Your mother is already home waiting for us and we wouldn’t want to keep her up.” Tweek could remember himself nodding distantly, but his gaze had not been on his father. He was staring at the man, who was still banging on the glass, shouting for them to “Listen! Just listen to him please!” He continued to scream until he seemed to deem them useless. And when he finally began to wobble — wait, was he limping? — over to the next store, Tweek could swear there was fear in his eyes. He forced himself to meet his father’s eyes. “A-Ah… Y-Yes, sir…” He couldn’t have known what was wrong at the time. But maybe he deserved it… Maybe it was only right that when they came home that his mother was attacked. Maybe it was karma that they would find her lying in a pool of her own blood in what had been their kitchen… And when they had to watch her suffer through death only to come back shortly hours later. Maybe he deserved it when he found his father, who had leaped at his mother in joy when he thought she was alive, several feet away from where he had bashed her head in as means of self defense… And when he discovered the man had been bit, maybe he deserved that too… Craig didn’t deserve it though… When he broke down in tears over his father deformed body and he couldn’t finish it. When he collapsed to his knees, grasping the bat in his hands, because no matter how awful they were, how they stained his childhood memories with the realizations of their terrible parenting… No matter how much pain and trouble they caused him, those were his parents! And that was his dad lying there! And like the caring boyfriend Craig is, he took the bat from his hands and handled it… And when Craig held him after it was over, telling him that it would all be okay because he would protect him… God, he didn’t deserve him. And that’s what he would tell him every night. For months, even years later, when Tweek would still have nightmares about those same incidents… And when Craig would tell him that it’s okay and it’s not his fault, he still wonders if he even deserves to be alive. Maybe it should have been him… If he just would have known at the time… Maybe he could have prevented something! If he had just called the police like the man asked, may be everything would really be okay. Maybe he should have been the one to go after all.