#mucking around with shading to see if I can get something that's both fast and looks good

[the-lord-of-the-things]

what're you staring at?

[delldarling]

diving stars | hior

male bog mummy x male reader 3754 words citrus | mild description of death, minor mention of blood, mild description of mummy having stitches (though not getting them), kissing, implied future relationship test match-up: Waaaayyyy back when, I decided I should try my hand at some match-ups. I wanted a unique experience for those coming to me for commissions, and so went through several versions of a 'choose your own adventure' kind of personality questionnaire. Matt, or @severedreamerbeard, was one of the people lovely enough to let me test out my match-up process! Thank you a whole gosh darn bunch Matt, for letting me do so in the first place, and I'm going to heap on extra thanks because I've been such a snail about it! <3

————-　🌠　————-

Much of the bog is a terrible endless black, with nothing to reflect but the cloud covered nighttime sky. Scrubby, dried grass circles the edges of the water, the torchlight making their flickering shadows look like creeping, growing thorns across the opaque surface, ready to snag the unwary and drag them down into the depths. There’ll be no coming back out of that dark water, Hior knows, not once he’s been pushed in.

I’ll close my eyes before I go under, he silently promises, though either way he supposes it shouldn’t matter much. The last thing his body sees will only ever be darkness. He swallows, tucks auburn hair behind his ears, calloused fingers catching at his skin, and pastes on a grim smile, turning to face the gathered people. He can’t linger any longer, no matter how much he would like to, not if he wants the rest of the village to make it through this. Not many of them have gathered, either. Just enough to see the ritual through to the end. Honestly, it’s better this way. If his brother had been allowed to leave the defenses, then Hagan would have interrupted Mother Gree, ritual or not. He would have tried to stop her, tried to stop Hior, even if it meant the loss of the village.

Hagan will be angry.

Hior sweeps his eyes over the surrounding villagers, their frightened faces and trembling hands, their teary eyes reflecting the torches in the misty dark. Hagan will be angry, but the fact of the matter is that he will still be alive to hold onto that anger. Hior can’t find it within himself to regret that.

There’s no time for being maudlin, Hior tells himself, and his smile becomes a bit too wide, stretching painfully at the corners.

This will be the last he ever sees of the village if the Gods deem his offering worthy, but that’s alright. Really. As long as he knows the village will be protected, as long as he knows that his people will do their best to endure, he's willing to fight his way through the Beyond and stay there.

Mother Gree begins to speak in a rough, ragged voice, worn through by years of pipe smoke and leaning over heavily herbed fires. Her words—the spell, the prayer—drape themselves around Hior’s shoulders like a heavy blanket, sweeping away the tension of his worries and the fear of the crowded villagers. Hior’s smile softens.

Mother Gree’s only warning is the icy grasp of her fingers, twisting sharply into the hair at the nape of Hior’s neck. The blade pinches. Wet heat spills down his throat and over his chest, soaking his clothes as he begins to fall backward.

Overhead, the clouds part, and a fierce rumbling fills the air, punctuated by sharp screams. A star, smaller than a pebble, but more brilliant by far than any flickering fire, falls out of the sky. It dives after Hior’s falling body, following him down into the depths of the bog.

The last thing Hior sees is light.

————-　🌠　————-

It’s midday, or just after, and there are odd shapes in the clouds, like reaching hands backlit by the sunshine. The shifting shades of them make it look like they’re trying very hard to break through the atmosphere, a primordial being grabbing for mortals like marbles. The wind picks up, and the flicker of pale warmth and the cloud hands are blown swiftly away, hidden by a tumult of grey and violet. It shouldn’t rain for hours yet, it’s not supposed to, but you’re starting to doubt the truth of the weather forecast. The sky is very clearly telling all watchers that a storm is on the way.

And here you are: distractedly doing your best to carefully skirt the edges of dreary, muddied water, hunting for a folktale. There are weak spots throughout the area, and one wrong step will have the ground turning to mush underfoot. Which, while fitting with the tales, is the last thing you’d ever want. Risk of drowning aside, all the local stories claim that it's your soul you really need to worry about, or you'll be trapped for eternity as 'a ghost given solid form'.

In other words, from what you’ve pieced together, that might mean something like a zombie?

Water sloshes, lapping strangely at the grassy shore and pulling you clean away from your thoughts. You know you shouldn't linger with the storm on the way, but something about the water keeps you from getting more than a few paces past. The noise, rising steadily, almost bubbling, draws you closer even as tension weighs down your steps. Whatever might be down there, you doubt it's anything pleasant, and you’ve had stories of zombies running through your head all afternoon. You edge closer anyway.

The shore grows terribly soft underfoot the closer you get, and it looks like something is struggling just under the surface, wriggling, a bit like—the water fountains. It soaks your shoe and the hem of your pant leg, while icy droplets speckle over your shirt and face. For a moment, a breath, your eyes fall closed as you attempt to wipe the water away. Something smooth and cold grabs hold of your ankle, yanking your foot forward so you slam back into the ground, a quick burst of pain flares in the back of your skull. Fingernails dig into your skin. You can’t remember shouting, can’t remember a loud noise, but your ears are ringing, adrenaline rocketing through your veins as the hand—the literal hand—heaves with all it’s might, pulling you towards the water. You scrabble backwards, you kick, trying to get free, but the arm tenses, fingers curling tighter around your ankle, heavier than iron. You haven’t gotten loose, but you’re starting to pull whatever is in the water out as you struggle.

The water burbles and the haze of panic begins to clear. This isn’t a story. Someone has just grabbed hold of you. They’re not trying to pull you in, they just want you to pull them out. Because they’re trapped. You suck down air, scrabbling at the hand wrapped around your ankle, trying to get them to grab hold of your wrist instead. Their skin is strange under your touch, hard and smooth and fragile, like flowers dipped in paraffin.

A head finally crests the water, a choking, wheezing noise filling the air as liquid cascades off of his body. His breath sounds wrong though, and his cheeks are hollowed, hair and skin stained with peat. He releases the death grip he has on your ankle, bony, wet fingers smacking against your arm so you can grab hold and pull. His other hand twists into the scrubby grass, ripping handfuls of it free as he does his best to work with your desperate bid to get him out of the bog. And then a few startling things happen all at once.

Your eyes drop to his throat and the wide, old injury spanning the entirety of his throat, stitched shut with a pale cord. His eyes snap open. An eerie light gleams in his eye sockets and you do shout this time, words tripping over themselves as you give up on holding him to try and yank yourself out of his grasp. Lightning quick flashes of the zombie stories and a variety of undead flicker through your mind. He’s too strong for you, you can't push him off, even with the wasted-looking muscles of his arms. He holds on terribly tight, knees and calves and feet splashing in the water and sliding through the slick scrub grass. You continue to try to get his hands off of you, breath coming far too fast, but he lets go as soon as he’s clear of the water. His hands fall away, clutching at your thigh for balance before he finally removes his hands from you entirely. He drops to the grass, retching, and then grabs at his own throat. The tie keeping his hair back crumbles, falling away like drying clay, and though most of his hair is still slick and dark with peat, it looks like it’s normally a bright coppery red underneath the muck.

He wheezes again, hands hovering over the injury, fingers feather soft over the strangely clean stitches. After a moment, he lifts his chin, spotlight eyes roving over your face with awe.

"..you..you answered?" He asks, voice warped by withered musculature. His stained cheeks stretch, a painfully tight smile exposing teeth that don't look altogether human. They're even, and clean, but they gleam with a deep blue patina, as if they’re actually polished stones. “I—I must conf-fess,” he rasps, hands falling to his knees, nails digging into the tattered trousers barely clinging to his body, “I doubted. I..” He leans forward, gasping once more as he stares at the ground. “He answered,” he whispers, and his eyelashes flutter, the light of his eyes flickering. Despite his apparent frailness, despite his inattention, you can't bring yourself to run away now. You’re caught, the desire for knowledge outweighing the potential danger. “What would you ask of me?” He breathes, and your heart twists painfully in your chest. He sounds wretched, reverent and fearful, both, anxiously waiting for you to strike out.

"What would I ask?" You struggle to murmur, tongue thick and too-dry in your mouth. Slowly, you get up, rubbing awkwardly at your wrist and forearm. His grip had been a shade past 'uncomfortably tight', but you don’t think you’ll get anything more than faint bruising.

"In exchange," the man says, clutching tighter to his knees. He doesn't notice when you flinch, not with his head still bowed.

Your heartbeat nearly drowns out the distant thunder, adrenaline chasing the wariness out of your veins. "For what?" You demand, pleased when his head jerks up. He's acting like you're going to kick him back into the bog with a boot to his chest. "For saving you? Why would I want anything? I was just-" Your mouth snaps shut, brain desperately clamoring for you to acknowledge that there's a mummified man currently speaking to you. He’s talking, not groaning, not calling out for brains or blood or violence. He may as well be straight from the local legends and he’s… Fully conscious of his actions, nothing like the eerie embellishments all the tales carry.

"I was being decent. Helping. I didn't do it so you would owe me." Any further words slip your mind as soon as your eyes catch on the stitches in his neck again. The rest of him is withered and warped by the peat in the bog, permanently stained—but the stitches are still silvery pale. What on earth happened to make him this way?

Hesitant, he raises his head, the inhuman brightness of his eyes more than enough to make you wince. Your gaze darts to the soft glint of metal in his earlobes, trying to keep from squinting.

"For… For saving my village," he finally clarifies. "You accepted my sacrifice and allowed me the chance to speak, but surely I must complete some task to prove my faith? To win a boon and guarantee their survival?"

Thunder rattles your bones and the mummy tenses, looking past you to the sky. Nerves or not, you can’t stay out here in this, not if you want to escape the weather… Or the panic that will spread like wildfire if anyone happens to catch sight of him. You offer him your hand.

"You'll help me?" He asks, hand lifting from his knee, but not yet reaching for yours. Mist dots his cheeks, rain trying desperately to break free of the heavy cloud cover.

"Help? Yes. In the way you’re asking me to?” You can’t stop yourself from cringing, but that doesn’t seem to have deterred the bog mummy still kneeling in front of you. He’s still staring with rapt attention, caught on every word you speak. “I—I don't know if I have any answer you want, but I do know we shouldn’t stay out here in the rain." You take a single step closer, fingers splaying as you reach for him. He slips his hand into yours and the rain falls heavy upon your heads.

————-　🌠　————-

From what you’ve gathered from Hior on the trip back here, he has for all intents and purposes, traveled through time, via his death. You freeze in the doorway of the kitchen, mind whirling as you attempt to puzzle out whether he can eat or drink anything. He hasn’t needed to, not while he’s been in his enchanted… sleep down in the bog. But he’s actually dead, isn’t he? You hadn’t felt a pulse when he’d taken your hand, but you hadn’t been searching for one either, keen as you were on getting him out of the torrential rain and out of sight. He hasn’t asked for any food or drink, but your brain has seized onto hospitality like a lifeline. No matter what age Hior is from, sharing what you have is always appreciated.

Decision made, you fetch the glass, ears straining for any noise, for any hint of where he is in the house. He’s done nothing but stare at modernized gadgetry since you brought him in, taking the towel you’d offered as if he were in a dream, but he’s bound to get curious eventually. You move a little faster, though when you find him back in the living room, sitting straight backed on the edge of the couch, dampened towel around his shoulders, you feel rather silly. He just crawled out of a bog, knowing that he’d given his life for his village. Maybe he’s frightened? This can’t be like any afterlife he’d expected. “Would you like some water?” You ask, still unsure as to whether he can actually drink it or not. He’d been gasping for air when he’d broken free of the bog, but that might only be reflex, seeing as he is very much mummified.

Hior clambers to his feet, lamplight eyes skittering over your face and then down to the floor before he kneels, towel flaring out like a cloak. You pause where you are, fingers tightening around the glass in your hand, but your brain doesn’t catch up to what he’s trying to do until he speaks. “I must thank you for your hospitality. Truly. To be welcomed into the home of a God-”

You nearly spill the water, breath caught fast in your throat as you hurriedly urge him to get back to his feet, fingers brushing over his shoulder. “Ah, no, not—how about some water first?” Hior rises, the fine hairs of his eyebrows catching the light as he furrows them. They’re the same coppery red as the hair on his head and arms, and even on his legs when you take the time to glance down. “Here,” you mutter, slipping the glass into his hand as soon as his fingers uncurl. “If you don’t want it, or, or you can’t, then it’s fine. But, uh, I’m not a deity. Not a God. Just a man.” Like you, weighs down the tip of your tongue, but you clamp your jaws shut. You can’t honestly claim similarity, seeing as you still have blood flowing through your veins and your neck doesn’t have eerily clean stitches from ear to ear.

"A man," he repeats, but he doesn't sound like he believes you, "of course." Hior sniffs at the water, but he must not need it. He cradles the glass against his chest, water untouched and risks another sly glance at your face, waiting, as if he expects you to change your mind and confess to a different identity. Your brain buzzes, skipping over the hint he’s attempting to fish for.

“Those… It looks like that was a bad injury,” you murmur, gesturing to the neat stitches, a permanent, unsettling necklace. It doesn’t really help change the subject.

“Hmm,” he rumbles, reaching up a single hand. For a moment, he marvels at the sight of his own skin, turning his wrist this way and that before he finally ghosts his touch over the stitches. Hior doesn’t shy away from them, or even appear concerned, fingertip dipping between each rib of cord. “I’ve little idea how I came to possess these,” he confesses. “It wasn’t you?” You grimace, and Hior croaks out a laugh when he notices. Warmth blossoms in your chest, the sound of a real, genuine laugh soothing away some of your nerves. “No. I can see that now. And it wasn’t Mother Gree either,” he says softly, eyes lowering. “No one would have taken me from the water. The… the star?”

“Star?” The God you think I am? You want to ask, but the stiffness is easing from his limbs, memory returning, and you don’t want to interrupt. Frankly, you might be a little shell shocked yourself, but something about his question makes your brows furrow.

“It followed me into the water,” Hior adds, and your heart skips a beat, your own memories a cacophony in the back of your head. You’ve read something about that before, you’re certain of it.

“The star followed you?” You ask, clarifying. “Dove after you?”

For the first time, Hior isn’t staring past you or searching your face for any hint of divinity. A wry smile twists his lips, exposing the polished stones serving as his teeth. “From what I recall, yes. Of course, I was dying at the time,” he says quietly, humor in the arch of his eyebrows. “Perhaps I could not comprehend the visage of our Gods? They often take other shapes, so as not to cause alarm. Such as that of a man,” he says. He’s hinting again, gaze heavy on your face, but all you can think about is the phrase: the star followed me into the water, on repeat.

You lick your lips, darting past Hior for the stacks of books you’d left out this morning. “The Diving Stars,” you explain, pushing two volumes to the side and letting them fall to the floor with a clatter. You seize the elderly green book, whirling so you can brandish it in Hior’s direction. The title glitters, faintly golden but worn away by the passing years. “It’s a folktale, a legend, about… About you, I think.”

————-　🌠　————-

Hior never does drink the water. He sets it aside, fingertips lingering along the rim before you settle down on the floor, book laid open across your knees. He joins you, and as respectful as Hior has been up to this point, he sits close against your side, pressed against you from shoulder to hip so he can better see the pages. It’s intimate, and strange, and he’s… He’s not cold, not exactly, but the lack of human warmth is enough to have the fine hairs along your neck prickling with awareness. It only takes a moment before his attention drifts from the book to your face, staring at your mouth as you read the short tale aloud.

The Diving Stars

For the greater good of a war torn village, a sacrifice was made. A favored son was chosen, one beloved by the village, and kind to all he knew. He was strong, and clever, and though he was leaving behind his family, he knew he must act for the well being of all. When it came time for his sacrifice, he smiled and walked willingly to his ending, hoping that the Gods would accept his service and defend the village from invaders.

A God took notice.

You do your best not to lift your eyes from the text, heat spreading over the back of your neck when you realize how hard Hior is staring at you. You might keep trying to ignore his assumptions, but Hior isn’t going to let you forget about them completely. He still fully believes that you’re the deity from his tale.

Moved by his plight and coveting the favored son’s courage for his own hall, the God left his domain. He dove from the sky as a star, following the favored son into the depths and setting the entire blog ablaze with his magic. When the light faded, when the villagers uncovered their eyes, two men stood by the side of the water, the light of the stars in their eyes. One was the favored son, strange and withered, having sacrificed his vitality to the Gods. The other was the God who had accepted his bargain, and behind them, marching up out of the water, was a brigade of the village ancestors, led back from the underworld to help defend the home of their children.

When the battle was won, and the ancestors had marched back into the water, the favored son wished his people farewell. Lit up from within, the favored son and the God slipped back into the depths, and then two brilliant lights fountained up out of the water, diving back into the sky as stars.

When you lift your gaze away from the book, Hior’s eyes are still on you. They’ve grown even brighter than before, the shine of them sharp enough to make you wince. His hands, resting gently on his knees, are steadily curling into fists, and he’s smiling. Small and sweet and absolutely enchanted. “I knew it,” he whispers, voice tight and low, and then Hior yanks you by the neck of your shirt halfway into his lap, knocking the book completely out of your hands. He kisses you, in want or in gratitude, you’re not sure, the taste of rainwater and the chill of stone heavy on his lips. It’s… It’s not unpleasant at all, the kiss. His lips are smooth, and cool, and tingling, like the sharpness of static in the air, seeping through your skin and racing through your veins. When Hior finally allows you to wrench yourself away, lungs heaving as you attempt to remember how to breathe, all you can think about is the way he’s smiling, arousal pooling heavily in every limb.

“No matter what you might believe,” you mutter, trying to keep your thoughts in order, “I’m not a God. Not of any sort, Hior. I swear I’m not lying.” You lick your lips, the taste of rainwater still lingering on your skin. “Though, even if I don’t know how to help you yet?” You take his hand off of your arm, lacing your fingers with his. “We’re bound to find out together.”

————-　🌠　————-

[cl-01-kestis]

My Little Rebel - Inquisitor!Cal Kestis x Female Rebel!Reader | Part 7

Summary: You’re lost in the scrapyards of Bracca but you’re determined to discover the secrets of the planet and your undiscovered past.

Warnings: None

You sat still for hours after witnessing the vision of the Padawan and her master, thoughts raced through your mind and you had to take many moments trying to collect your thoughts. Your heart pounded in shock, you rubbed your temples to soothe the headache that was splitting your head in half and trying not to break down crying out of confusion.

That was you in the vision, you were certain. But you had absolutely no recollection what so ever of even being involved with any Jedi, nevermind training as one yourself. You don’t remember your past, all you ever knew was the Rebellion, nothing else, nothing more. You couldn’t shake off the feeling of familiarity you had when you held Cal’s lightsaber though, and the wound on your hand. Somehow when you woke back up from the vision, it was a scar once again and the blood was all gone. The rolled up poncho was still wrapped tightly around your hand but there was no bleeding and no more pain.

You were determined to find something new, you wanted to learn more about what you saw. You were once a Jedi, how could you not remember? Questions upon questions flourished in your mind and it done nothing for your deafening headache. You got back on track after ages of being trapped in your own thoughts, you journeyed forth to find the next purple hue of force with the lightsaber tight in your hand, claimed itself as yours.

You felt a strange connection to the lightsaber, it was like the force wanted you to have it. It had gone so long without an owner and it had been in the dark for Maker knows how many years.

During your time wandering around the scrapyards, you’ve continued having random visions even if there’s no purple hue or voice calling to you. It started happening randomly ever since you picked up the saber and saw yourself as a little girl. Strange things were happening and you weren’t sure how to feel or react towards it. You weren’t scared or petrified, of anything you were pretty calm at the fact you discovered you had a past as a Padawan.

Moments after you scrambled up a steep mechanical ramp, chest heaving and hair damp with sweat and oil from dripping towers of shipwrecks and pieces, your transmitter bleeped on your wrist and for the first time in days, you finally weren’t alone.

“(Y/N), I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Cere, listen we don’t have much time but you need to get off Bracca now, the Ninth Sister and Eleventh Brother have found your location-“ The voice of a long lost friend emerged out of your transmitter and you snapped out of your daze. Cere Junda, what a surprise. The last time you heard from her you were just starting out at the Rebel base on Yavin and your memory was wiped. Cere reminded you a lot of a mother, she was there for you when your own wasn’t.

But then you were confused all of a sudden, Cal was with Trilla Suduri? Why?

“Why are they looking for me?” You asked impatiently, looking around in fear they’d be behind you or were nearby.

“You’re a Jedi, they can sense your presence. (Y/N), we have a lot to talk about but you need to move now” Cere said in a stern voice.

“Where are you located?” You asked.

“Look behind you”.

Your head whipped around and in the distance, there was a ship hovering above the scrapyards, waiting for you.

“But- my friends-“ You stuttered.

“We’ve alerted them on the situation, don’t worry” Cere replied quickly.

You started fleeting towards the ship, unsheathing the lightsaber to avoid any accidents as you hopped over and ducked under multiple mechanic parts. You knew you had to hurry, there was a storm coming and you heard the faint distant echo of a howling Tie fighter, two in fact.

Cere was standing on the open ramp of the ship, holding her arm out as much and as safely as she could, trying not to lose her balance as you finally got close enough and jumped up to grab her hand. Cere pulled you up with as much strength as possible, grunting and falling back on the ramp as she successfully pulled you up onto the ramp and helped you up and into the ship as quickly as she could.

“Captain, now!”

Your heart was racing, you clung on to your lightsaber as you got inside the ship and collapsed onto the floor. You hadn’t been inside a ship for days, it felt nice being away from the scrapyards.

You were covered in muck, your skin and hair dirty with grime and oil. Your clothes were muddy and dark, shades much more darker than what they used to be before you started the mission. You smelled of metal, polish, oil, Earth, and rain. Not a very pleasant smell, but currently you were too bewildered to really care about yourself.

The ship dashed off into the sky and into hyperspace, not wasting a single moment. You stayed on the ground, holding your head with one hand and the other your lightsaber. Cere bent down and rested a comforting hand on your shoulder, her eyes showing worry as if she was a mother that was reunited with her long lost child.

“Are you alright?” Was her approach, sitting down next to you on the ground and bending down to see your face. You swallowed the lump in your throat and looked up, happiness filling your heart once your eyes met the familiar warm cocoa ones that belonged to your old friend.

“Yeah... I’m okay” You breathed out, your chest still heaving up and down. You looked around the ship curiously, feeling a bit out of place compared to the clean spotless environment of the ship you were currently in.

“Sorry for catching you so off guard, we couldn’t risk being spotted by the Inquisitors” Cere reasoned, looking over to the cockpit to see a Latero male making his way over, a pair of his arms crossed whereas the other were down at his sides.

“Whatever you do, please do not sit on the sofa, takes ages trying to get oil staines out of it” The Latora said in a not so welcoming yet not so threatening voice. You didn’t feel intimidated by him, you just simply nodded and hesitantly raised a hand out for him to shake, might as well make a good first impression.

“I’m (Y/N)” You mumbled, smiling at the Latora who rolled his eyes and shook your hand firmly with one of his free hands, smiling back since you’d made an effort to introduce yourself to him.

“Greez Dritus” He replied, letting your hand go and walking back to the cockpit so he could get the ship out of hyperspace. You looked back to Cere once Greez was out of sight and wasted no time to bring her into a tight embrace, your head buried in her neck. Cere chuckled at your sudden show of affection and hugged you back, stroking your damp hair and closing her eyes, enjoying the moment. She hadn’t been hugged in so long, it felt almost foreign to her.

“It’s relieving to have a friendly face around again” You smiled, pulling away from her and earning yourself a smile in return as Cere nodded in agreement.

“Certainly is. Now, I need to speak with you about that lightsaber” Cere looked down at your left hand, looking almost reluctant as you raised it up and nodded your head.

“Where did you find it?” She asked curiously, you crossed your legs and your boots squeaked against the metal flooring of the ship. You held the lightsaber in both of your hands and sighed.

“It all happened to fast Cere, I- there was a light, and when I touched it I saw a vision, a vision of me as a Jedi. None of this makes sense, I don’t even remember anything about my childhood- I’m scared, Cere” Your voice cracked but you weren’t emotional, you were just frightened. Your childhood was a fragment of your memory that had always been missing. You never had a mother or father, or siblings or grandparents. You didn’t even remember your friends.

Cere looked at you for a brief moment as if she was trying to understand what was going on in your head, she pursed her lips and opened her mouth to speak up, but you could sense the reluctance and you saw how hesitant she was in what she was about to say.

“I think it’s about time you knew... when the Purge was executed, your Master Shaak Ti, removed your memory and raced them with false ones, then put you in my care. She wanted you to be safe, she felt as though she couldn’t protect you and it seemed to be the only option. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, (Y/N)” Cere said with pity in her voice. Her words echoed in your mind and you stared off into the distance with your eyebrows furrowed and mouth open slightly.

“So my mother being a mechanic... was lies? M-my father as well?” You stuttered nervously, hands shaking and eyes pricking with tears as you looked at Cere, desperate for an answer.

“That was true, but the mother you remember wasn’t your real one. Your real mother died in childbirth and the woman you do remember brought you up as her own. As for your father, he died long before you were born” Cere answered truthfully, her eyes held sympathy for you but you weren’t sure if you wanted it or not. Your heart felt so heavy, you needed to clear your head.

“This is a lot” You sighed, rubbing your temple and trying to calm the ache developing in your head.

“It would be best if you tried meditating, connect to the past” Cere suggested, taking your hand and standing up. You followed her actions and wobbled onto your feet, like a newborn Bantha taking It’s first steps. Cere lead you to the back of the ship where you guessed the rooms were. You were lead to the back one where a small single bed sat as well as a cabinet and lamp.

“I know it’s not much, but it’s better than sleeping in those scrapyards I hope” Cere joked, you smiled at her and nodded before sitting down on the surprisingly comfortable bed and shuffling around on it to get comfy.

“So... how do I do it?” You asked cluelessly, placing your lightsaber down on the cabinet and away from reach so it wouldn’t accidentally end up igniting and hurting someone. Cere sat down next to you and told you to cross your legs, you removed your boots and done as she said.

“Listen to me carefully, remember, this is your first time so if you don’t get it right, that’s completely okay” Cere assured you kindly, making you feel slightly better as your hands rested on your knees and you listened to her every word.

“Close your eyes” You done as she said, inhaling deeply and letting your lids shut over until everything was black.

“Now... try and clear your thoughts; push out both negative and positive emotions, keep your head in a neutral mindset” You were clinging on to her every word, doing as she said with great caution and taking spaced out breaths to help with clearing your head.

You done as Cere asked and blocked both negative and positive so your mind was almost blank, the only thing existing inside of it was your wandering conscience.

“Good, now, open your mind and reach out to the force” Cere almost felt like she herself was meditating as she called out the instructions to you, her heart calm and head clear as she watched you try your best.

You thought she was crazy for a second, but then you remembered that in order to get to your past you had to do this. You had to reach out

Your mind was clear and you tried stretching it out in hopes you’d feel something. A strange aura surrounded you and you felt like the room was completely empty. No cere, not even you. You didn’t feel like you were in the room anymore. You felt like you were floating in space, your body light weight as you drifted off to wherever the force took you. You accomplished reaching out to it, now you had to find what you were eager to know.

You opened your eyes to find that you weren’t in front of Cere anymore or even on the ship. You were a current conscience in your head and you somehow managed to wake up in a strange realm of the force where mostly everything was white and unrecognisable. Your surroundings were blank, but you weren’t physically there, you knew this place had a purpose.

Looking around, you spotted multiple purple hues like the ones from earlier, surrounding you at all angles and hovering abode nothing as they awaited your eager hands. You walked over to the closest one, crouching down and trustfully slipping your hand into the hue, closing your eyes and feeling yourself be taken to a new time period.

You were suddenly on the ground, eyes still closed but a bright light was shining down on you. It felt like you were on a padded ground, slightly cushioned but not enough to bounce on. You pulled yourself up, opening your eyes and noticing you were im completely different attire. You were in Jedi robes, your hair was shorter and a small plait trailed down your left shoulder.

“Try again Padawan, your emotions will get in the way of many things, do not let it stop you by filling your head with doubt” You looked up to see a platform much more high up than you currently were. A tall Togrota woman dressed in beautiful orange toned robes stood on the edge and watched you with a calm, serene expression.

“Yes master” You said, your voice more squeaky than you remembered.

The wall shifted and created a complex obstacle course for you to complete, consisting of wall runs, wall climbs, double jumps and lots of upper strength. A sudden rush of determination came over you and you sprinted towards a levitating platform that lead to a wall run. You skidded a bit on the wall but managed to grab onto the next platform in time, or else you’d be falling to the ground and meet a fairly unpleasant injury. Pulling yourself up, you caught your breath before running as fast as you can to a railing on the side of another levitating platform. This time it was on its side, hovering up and down which made it a bit more tricky to grab onto it.

“Very good, Padawan” Shaak Ti praised, not yet congratulating you as she watched your small form clumsily glide through the obstacle course. You scurried up the railing and onto the top of the platform, huffing out short breaths as your face flushed with exhaustion, but you weren’t finished yet.

As you got onto the top of the platform, you noticed Master Plo Koon had arrived with his team of clones, the Wolffepack. Just as you were about to get excited, Shaak Ti waved out a platform for you to dodge and overcome.

“Concentrate, Padawan” She scolded in a warning tone, placing her hand down behind her back once more and consulting with Plo who watched you with interest, hoping you’d do well on your course. The clones watched as well with wide eyes as you ran across a few more walls and clambered up and double jumped a few platforms. You were visibly worn out, but Shaak could feel the energy in you. She admired it greatly and decided to outdraw the course a little bit longer to see if you could take what she could give you.

“Final assessment, Young Padawan” Shaak announced, watching you intently as she programmed more obstacles to appear from the floor and walls, even the ceilings. At the corner of your eye, you noticed that Commander Wolffe had dropped to one knee and aimed his blaster at you. Quickly, you grabbed your lightsaber and ignited it, balancing on a thin platform and smiling to him as you dodged each and every one of his hits. Wolffe stopped firing and aimed his gun up to avoid shooting anyone. He took his helmet off, looking almost like a proud father as you bowed to him and giggled.

The Wolffepack were proud that their little Padawan had come so far, it was as if only yesterday they met you as a 11 year old. Now, at 15, you were the strongest Padawan they knew and they were honoured to fight by your side.

“Not bad kid!” Wolffe exclaimed, his scarred eye winking and making you chuckle as the platforms formed to make a pathway for you to join your master and Plo at the top. You practically skipped up the way, excited at your accomplishment and walking to your master, a soft yet proud smile on her face.

“Well done, (Y/N), I am so pleased with your progress” Shaak spoke, cupping your cheek with her red hand and moving it to pat your shoulder gently.

“Congrats kid! We knew you’d smash it” Wolffe raised his hand up and you were quick to smash your own against it. The Wolffe pack surrounded you, congratulating you on your achievement and patting your back roughly. It wasn’t gentle as your masters but you didn’t mind, they were considered your family after all.

“Come on kid, let’s celebrate!”.

[notabloodmage]

Handers - the first night

Finally wrote a continuation of the fade-to-black scene with Minerva Hawke and Anders!!! this is incredibly self-indulgent but i hope y'all enjoy!!!

``This is the rule I will most cherish breaking.``

Hawke could scarcely believe it as Anders cupped her face with a loving hand and leaned down, closing the distance between them with a passionate kiss. It was a moment three years in the making for the both of them. Her stomach fluttered as the apostate’s lips brushed hers.

She opened her mouth readily, reaching up to place a gentle hand on his cheek, rubbing her thumb against the rough texture of his stubble. She was practically trembling with anticipation. He smelled incredible--elfroot and eucalyptus with just a touch of ozone.

He’d clearly bathed before he came, too, his golden hair fluffier than she’d ever seen it.

She ran her free hand through it as he drew her closer, sliding a hand around her waist, clinging to her as if he was afraid she'd disappear. Hawke found his hand with hers, giving it a light squeeze before pulling away from him with a dazed smile. She gazed up at him with an expression of pure desire that it had an exquisite blush colouring his sunken cheeks.

From this close she was able to admire him fully, studying the angles of his face. He stared back at her intensely as she took a step back, never letting go of his hand.

She led him to the bed, eyes betraying her nervousness only for a moment before she found them drifting downwards, gaze landing on Anders’ (surprisingly soft!) lips.

He smirked at that, confidence clearly rising, and kissed her again, more insistently this time.

She tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach as the back of her legs bumped into her bed. She knew he was far more experienced in the bedroom than she, and she was terrified she was going to muck this up somehow.

Despite how confident she managed to come off in public, Hawke was not nearly as experienced as she led everybody to believe.

She let herself fall back gently onto the mattress, taking in the sight of him over her with a crooked grin. He looked happier than she’d ever seen him, which made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

He climbed atop her, eyes trailing over her body before meeting hers with a gleam in them she’d never seen before. He looked at her with such profound, unbridled desire. He kissed her again, He explored her mouth with his tongue, sliding his free hand up her side sensually, before cupping her face with it once more. She let go of his hand so she could run her fingers through his hair again, something she’d always been tempted to do. It was even softer to the touch than she’d imagined. She hummed her approval against his lips as she worked his hair free of the tie, letting it down to frame his face. The tips of his hair tickled her cheekbones which made her smile into the kiss. Maker, she could kiss him forever.

He fit so perfectly against her, eager hands running up and down her sides as he continued to explore her mouth with his tongue. It was such a stark contrast to how he`d been with her not two days prior. He was always so reserved about touching her, stiffening at a mere brush of Hawke`s hand against his as they were walking or a chaste hug goodbye after a day of work at the clinic. Hell, even when he was healing her he could never seem to look her in the eyes. Hawke had all but given up the hope that he might be interested at all, but she couldn't get past the way he looked at her. She always found herself making her way back to the clinic to see if he was alright--if there was anything she could do to help him. Anything to hear him say her name again.

Anders pulled back, honey-brown eyes burning with a passion that made her shiver. He was so close, so warm against him. He was perfect. He was so much more than she deserved.

“Minerva,’’ Her name was a prayer on his lips as he pulled back, taking in the sight of her flushed features.

“Anders,” Minerva replied, her usual smirk and confidence fading as he studied her expression closely.

Something about the way he looked at her always made her feel so seen. Her eyes flicked around the room. Even though they were both still fully clothed, she felt exposed beneath his smouldering gaze. He cupped her cheek with his calloused hand, gently guiding her to meet his eyes, which only made her flush darker. ``I- erm, well I--`` Minerva swallowed, steeling herself.

Anders paused in his ministrations, eyes widening with concern.

“I`m sorry--am I going too fast? Do you want me to stop?” His demeanour changed so quickly, voice quivering with the fear of rejection mixed with genuine curiosity. He watched carefully for her reaction, beginning to pull away, stopping only when she pulled him back by the front of his coat.

“N-No! It's not that!” Hawke stammered. “This is, well, this is wonderful really, I don't know how I got so lucky…”

Anders’ expression softened at that, watching her intently as she rambled. He'd never seen her like this before--all flushed and uncertain. It sparked something within him that caught ablaze as Hawke stuttered out her next words.

”It's just that, well… Isabela was… my uh… my first and erm…” Hawke cleared her throat awkwardly, cautiously meeting his eyes for the first time since she’d opened her mouth. “It’s just that I’ve never… you know…” She trailed off, searching his face for a reaction.

The realization set in slowly, but Anders pulsed with a strange sense of possession when it hit him.

“You've never been with a man before?” Anders’ voice was soft. He gazed at her as if he was trying to memorize every detail of her face as she nodded.

Anders couldn’t believe it. Minerva Hawke-- a virgin?? Sort of, anyway.

The same Hawke that flirted with everyone so shamelessly, much to his entirely unjustified irritation. He figured she had as much experience as he did, and he was fully aware that she’d been with Isabela. Now he understood why Hawke had been so flustered when Isabela talked about their exploits so openly. He’d have to ask the pirate to tell him about it sometime...

He’d be lying if he said the notion didn't turn him on. The fact that Hawke trusted him to be her first was something he was going to take very seriously.

“Is… Is that okay?” She asked, her lip was quivering-- a sight that both excited him and made his heart ache for her. Did she really think he’d reject her over something like that?

He swept his thumb over her cheek, admiring the flush that painted her skin. He kissed the corner of her mouth, which made her lips twitch with the ghost of a nervous grin. She could feel his smile against her face, and the prickle of his stubble against her skin as he kissed his way up her jaw. Teasing her earlobe gently between his teeth, he answered.

“Of course it’s okay, love.” He whispered in her ear, chucking as if the notion that he’d be bothered was silly. He pulled back so he could gaze into her eyes-- a different shade of brown than his. Warmer. “Thank you for telling me, Minerva.”

She smiled up at him sheepishly, pure adoration in her eyes.

“I still can’t believe you’re here…”

“I’m here…” He confirmed. “As long as you'll have me. You will have me, right Hawke?"

She giggled at that, a beautiful light sound that he found himself chasing, laughing with her.

“Anders, I don’t know if I could possibly make it clearer how badly I’d like to have you.”

The mage smirked at that.

“I can think of a few ways.”

He descended upon her again, passion surging as he gave her several short, open-mouthed kisses before working his way down her neck. He sucked at her soft skin, leaving a trail of little marks in his wake. He ran his hands over her body before sliding them underneath her finery, cold fingers trailing teasingly up the sides of her thighs.

She let out a small whimper as his tongue slid over a particular spot on the side of her neck, so he sucked on it lightly at first, smirking against her skin before nipping at it gently. She whined approvingly, running her fingers over the feathered pauldrons of his coat before beginning to fidget with the buckles, deft fingers sliding him out of it with ease.

She eyed him hungrily as he slid her robe up, not quite high enough to reveal her center, not yet. Anders wanted to take his time. They had all night, after all, and they'd waited three long years. He wanted--needed--to make this last.

He wanted to hear what Hawke sounded like with his fingers inside of her, taste the sweet nectar between her legs. He wanted to see her flushed, fucked open, and satisfied. He couldn't wait to see what she looked like with his cock inside of her. It had been so long since Anders had been with anyone--his brief tumble with Nathaniel seemed so long ago now…

He trailed his hands up, back overtop of her finery. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him ever closer to her. He slipped his skilled fingers into the front of her robe, widening the neckline not enough to completely expose her to him just yet, but enough to give him a tantalizing view of her chest. He teased the skin below her breasts with his thumbs, which brought a sound out of her that was a mix of a whimper and a giggle.

He smiled warmly.

“You’re so cute.”

Now that got a reaction. He’d never complimented her so casually before. He was always sincere in his thanks for her help, and he’d praised the integrity of her actions but this was different. Her flush was creeping down her neck, colouring the swell of her chest just beautifully. Her mouth was agape-- perfect lips kissed swollen and glistening in the firelight.

He brought his face level with hers and kissed her again.

And again, and again, and again.

Minerva, meanwhile, was on cloud nine. He kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered. At this moment she could scarcely recall the world outside her bedroom. That twisted world of mage oppression, qunari affairs and red lyrium seemed merely a dream compared to the man on top of her.

He moaned into her mouth when she slid her foot up his calf, tangling her legs with his. She pulled away from him with an expression he’d never seen before, and it took his breath away. It was a variation on her signature crooked grin-- the grin that’d charmed him from the start.

Now however, as she slid her robe off of her shoulders, revealing the curves of her body to him there was a new layer to that perfectly imperfect smile. It was nervous, which wasn’t entirely new-- Hawke was always smiling, even when she was terrified. But there was a new vulnerability in her eyes as they met his-- the way she seemed so desperate for his approval mystified and magnetized him.

She hadn’t bothered with a brassiere tonight--she knew what he was coming here to do, and she was more than eager despite her persistent anxieties.

She leaned back on her elbows, looking up at him with those knowing--yet still questioning--eyes, letting him take in the view of her beneath him. She was perfect against the red satin sheets in only her smallclothes, teasing her feet along the sides of his legs.

Her hair was damp with sweat, and her skin had taken upon a soft glow in the firelight. Her hair was undone, wild brown curls free to frame her face. Every inch of her tanned Ferelden skin was patterned with freckles.

“Beautiful…” Anders breathed.

She began to kiss along his jawline as he took her breasts in his hands, giving them an appreciative squeeze before massaging them gently. He rolled her nipples expertly with his thumbs, making her bite back a moan. She teased her lower lip between her teeth temptingly.

He leaned forward to kiss her behind the ear, flicking his tongue out to tease her as he began to murmur sweet nothings to her.

“Mm, your voice is so pretty, love, let me hear you.”

He punctuated the statement by sliding his tongue into her ear and pinching her left nipple gently. She whimpered so sweetly as he began to kiss his way down-- taking the sensitive flesh into his mouth to soothe it with gentle laps of his tongue.

He found himself remembering what she'd said to him all those years ago.

"Hurt me," she'd flirted shamelessly once when he tried to warn her away. "I might like it."

And like it she did as he sunk his teeth into her hardened nipple.

She moaned approvingly as Anders mirrored the treatment to the other side, sucking at her desperately. One hand teased her free breast while his other began to slide down her abdomen towards the hemline of her smalls.

He slipped his long fingers beneath the fabric slowly, teasing at the line where her hair began. She squirmed underneath him, eyes glazing over with need. She kissed at the side of face-- his neck-- his arms-- his hands-- his chest. Any part of him she could reach. She pulled him closer, spurring him on. He smiled and kissed her again, savouring every single little sound she made for him as he ran a finger over her core.

His body thrummed with desire when he found her slick with arousal, soaking the fabric of her smalls. He spread her wetness over her clit, swallowing the deliciously little squeak she made before pulling away from her mouth with a pop, watching her face as it twisted in pleasure. He circled over that spot, his fingertips painfully slow over the sensitive bundle of nerves, relishing in the choked whine that escaped her lips. She gradually abandoned her nerves and gave into the knot in her belly--sliding her hands down his back and pulling his hips against her in an unspoken request

“Anders,” The breathless whisper made him quiver.

“Not yet,” He breathed against her skin, sucking hard enough to leave a mark on a spot that had her moaning. “I’ve waited this long to have you, Hawke. Forgive me if I want to savour you.”

His eyes were ablaze

His normally brown eyes seemed to turn into honeyed amber, the lust within them smoldering outwards as his lidded gaze met hers. She trembled against him, the way he looked at her combined with the tease of his skilled hand had bolts of pleasure crackling down the length of her spine. Pure unadulterated desire. He descended upon her once more, sliding down her body with anticipation. He ran his fingers teasingly up her toned legs, smirking as she bit back a giggle--he made a mental note to ask her if she was ticklish later, because that was something he would just have to take advantage of sometime.

But not tonight.

Tonight he hooked his fingers around her smalls and slid them down her legs slowly, admiring the contrast of the red fabric against her skin.

He slid his undershirt over his head, smiling sheepishly as her gaze slid over his body. It wasn’t that he was insecure-- about his looks anyway-- but he found his stomach fluttering in spite of himself.

He wanted to please her so badly. He’d wanted to for years. Years spent getting by on sick fantasies that scandalized the spirit living within him and now the object of his desires was his for the taking, completely bare before him. Anders could still hardly believe this was happening.

“Well don’t stop there…” Her gaze flickered downwards over his body before back to his in an exaggerated manner. She waggled her brows at him suggestively.

Even through her nerves and fluster, Hawke was still Hawke.

This had him laughing before he’d even had time to be self-conscious. It reminded him of what made her so hard to resist in the first place: how open she was with her desire for him. It was far more than he deserved. He slid out of his girdle and smalls, giving a small sound of satisfaction as his aching cock sprang free.

His ego swelled at the way her eyes widened when she took in his size. His magic tricks weren’t the only thing that made him popular at the Pearl.

She spread her legs for him shyly, unable to meet his eyes, she was gazing towards the fireplace, the freckles on her cheeks disappearing beneath a dark red flush.

Even without his clothes, the room was still entirely too hot. Anders let his gaze take in Minerva’s form for only a brief moment before he put out the fire with a flick of his wrist. Darkness swept over their senses. There were still a handful of candles lit, but the light was dim enough to make her squint as she searched for his figure.

His hands found her, traveling over her figure. He kissed her clumsily, missing at first in the dark. His heart swelled as she shook with laughter beneath him.

He traced his tongue down the line of her navel to her womanhood, pausing to admire the sight from this close. She was neatly trimmed and glistening with wetness. His mouth watered instinctively.

She looked good enough to eat and Maker, was he starving.

He guided her gaze back towards him via two fingers of his gentle hand under her pointed chin, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. By now his eyes had adjusted enough to see hers twinkling up at him in the dark.

“May I taste you, Minerva?” The sound of him saying her name alone was enough to make her moan shyly, meeting his intense gaze, before her gaze flickered down to his lips.

He gave her what she wanted, kissing her hard, delving into her mouth with his tongue once more. He kissed his way down her body again, dipping his head between her legs, hovering just above her quivering pussy. He could practically smell her arousal.

“Well?” He teased, eyeing her cockily.

It was so often her teasing him, so he was all too pleased that the tables had finally turned. She gazed down at him with such bewildered adoration, a small trail of drool running down her chin. She looked perfect: lustful and wanton.

“Andraste’s Mercy, Anders,” She whimpered. “Please!”

Anders needed no further invitation.

He leaned forward, pressing his hands against her thighs with newfound confidence. It took every ounce of his restraint to keep him from devouring her on the spot.

He made himself start slow--kissing and sucking his way up her thighs, leaving behind deep red and purple marks that looked so perfect on her sweat-slick skin. When he reached her center he paused, looking up at her for reassurance only to grin when she slid her fingers into his hair, gripping the blond locks tightly.

He started with a tender kiss to her clit that made her gasp and tense in a way that had him smirking. He followed it with a long, slow lick up her entire slit, making good on his word and savouring the taste of her. He sipped at her like she was a fine wine, and with all his past experience from his younger days, Anders did know exactly what he was doing. He used one hand to hold her in place as she squirmed, the thumb of which he used to massage her clit with gentle, but firm strokes. The other traveled upwards, massaging her breast. She left one hand tangled in his hair while the other interlocked with his over her chest, squeezing tightly as she moaned out his name.

He was painfully hard now, but the torture of waiting was as much a pleasure to him as Hawkes sweet moans as she bucked against his face. He could spend an eternity down here. He slithered his tongue up inside her, humming in teasing approval at her squeak of surprise. He fucked her expertly with his tongue, the tip of his long nose bumping against her clit, rubbed to hardness by his previous ministrations. He couldn’t hold back his moans as Hawke began to tremble beneath him and he was able to fully taste her juices as they began to flow in earnest.

“Oh, Maker’s Breath, Anders, I- I can’t-- I- I’m gonna--” She cut herself off with a moan as he pinched her nipple playfully, chuckling against her before sucking on her clit. Hard.

Minerva squirmed in his arms, but he held her fast. She was much stronger than him, usually, but she couldn’t seem to find control over her limbs at the moment. She bucked against him wildly, letting out a choked whine as he pushed her over the edge.

He continued to lick at her, working her into hypersensitivity as she pushed helplessly at his shoulders.

He pulled away reluctantly--if she wasn’t that experienced, she probably couldn’t go as long as he could yet. The heat pooling in his belly only grew when he considered that they had all the time in the world to build up her endurance.

He crawled back up her body, guiding her up the bed and laying her head ever so gently on the pillows. She was still shaking from the aftershocks of her orgasm.

“I.. That was… Wow…” She seemed to be struggling to string a sentence together. Anders rubbed his hand along her side absent mindedly, studying her face with a loving smirk as she swallowed hard. After a few moments of panting and gentle caresses, and Anders whispering sweet nothings in her ear that made her melt, she opened her mouth again.

“I- I mean… We’re not done yet though, right?” She turned to him, running a hand down his bare chest, teasingly close to where his erect member pressed against his lower abdomen. “What about you?”

He was trying to come up with a witty remark when her lips found his collarbone and he abandoned speech in favour of an encouraging moan. She began to explore his body, tentatively at first, spurred on when he took her in his arms and placed her in his lap. Both of them cried out at the slick slide of her drenched pussy against his weeping cock. He was rock-hard and hypersensitive, and that alone was enough to shake Minerva out of her lustful daze enough to look her lover in the eyes.

“Are you alright?” Anders was watching her so closely, unashamed now that he had her permission. He didn’t miss the way her nose crinkled with her eyes as she burst into a fit of giggles. Her laugh was so musical, not self deprecating or sarcastic like it usually was. Just pure joy.

“Better than alright.” She flung her arms over his shoulder, bringing her face close to his. She was smiling wider than he’d seen in a long while (well, excluding the dazed grin she’d given him after he’d kissed her at the clinic earlier today). The sight made him feel warm in a way he’d never experienced before.

“I’ve… Wanted to do this for a while now…” She looked away, eyes trailing down his body towards the apex of his thighs. He gave a bitter huff of laughter and pulled her into him again, his kiss saying far more than he’d ever be able to with words.

“I wasn’t joking when I said three years, you know.” He looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Aching,” He whispered against her lips, he pulled her close, pressing her body against his.

“For,” He flipped them, so he was atop her once more, her beneath him on the pillows, waves of curly brown hair framing her cherubic face like a halo.

“You.” He kissed her again and for a moment he forgot everything, even Justice. For a moment Kirkwall was gone and all that remained was the amazing woman beneath him, grabbing at him desperately.

“Anders-- Please--” His name was a prayer on her lips. A chant, a song that propelled him forward. He let out a strained moan as she bucked beneath him, rubbing her pussy against his dripping cock. He was hypersensitive, every brush of her body against his sending bolts of electricity down his spine. He grit his teeth and willed himself to keep teasing her, focussing on how cutely she whined as he rubbed the head of his cock over her clit, his precum mingling with her fluids.

“Anders--”

“Ask me, Hawke. Tell me you want me,” Anders ordered, before following it up with an oh so sweet, “Please…”

"Maker's flaming breath, Anders, I’ve wanted you for so long.” Hawke found herself begging in spite of herself, shame abandoned. “Please, Anders, fuck me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, he lined himself up with her entrance and looked deep into her eyes.

“Say my name, love.” He whispered as he slid effortlessly into her dripping pussy.

She obeyed him so beautifully, sinking her fingers into his shoulders as she cried out for him. Anders let out a moan in her ear as she clamped down at the intrusion. He pumped in and out of her slowly, shallowly at first, allowing her to adjust to his length and girth. It didn’t hurt the way Minerva thought it would, it wasn’t long before Anders had her on the edge once more, and he hadn’t even sped up yet. He fucked her sensually, gazing down at the joining of their bodies.

His hands gripped her hips with bruising force, tingling with just the faintest hint of electricity. Minerva remembered offhandedly an interaction between Anders and Isabela where an ‘electricity trick’ was mentioned, and Minerva couldn’t help but wonder if he’d try it on her sometime.

Her train of thought was interrupted as Anders let out a low growl.

“Maker, Minerva. You feel so-- ugh-- so good--” Anders separated each word with a desperate kiss on her neck, her lips, her jaw, her chest, anywhere and everywhere he could reach, he only wanted to see more, feel more, love more of her. His pace became less even as he began to pump into her more quickly. His cock was not small, and he smiled with satisfaction when he observed how Minerva’s eyes widened as he bottomed out inside of her. Her pussy pulsed and twitched, embracing him so perfectly. She felt like the golden city itself.

He continued to rasp sweet praise as he fucked into her wildly. He was a little guilty that he wasn’t going to last very long, but when Minerva began to beg sweetly in his ear once more Anders lost control completely. He wanted to see her fall apart for him, and he would fall apart for her to make it happen.

Hawke bucked her hips in perfect time with his, moaning incoherently beneath him as he pushed her over the edge. He sunk his teeth into her shoulder as he came, spilling his emission deep inside of her. He lapped at the wound as he came down from his high, vaguely aware of Hawke playing with his hair as he pumped in and out of her idly. He met her eyes again. She smiled up at him placidly.

For a moment they simply soaked in the silence, gazing upon one another. They became aware of the crackle of the fire and the city beyond Hawke’s bedroom. But it was different now.

He was hers.

She was his.

Truly, how did they get so lucky?

They dozed, tangled in each other’s arms, shielding each other--protecting one another from the world outside. Neither of them were aware of how many minutes, or hours ticked by as they held each other, until Hawke took it upon herself to break the silence:

“Want a sandwich?”

[tightropenuzlocke]

Chapter Six: Supernova Shining Bright

Route 5 had a skatepark of all things, but maybe that was to cut down on the number wheels in the city proper. The place itself was something to see, to say nothing of all the people using it—this one girl in a headscarf was really good! So Aisling and Tierney hung back to watch for a while. Aisling had always wanted to try skateboarding, but there was never enough pavement where she grew up to get properly into it. Might be something to pick up a little farther down the line. Maybe Tierney would be up for trying it with her—though her fascination could be more due to with some of the people in the the skatepark than the skating itself. And who could blame her?

The smell of burning fur interrupted Aisling’s musings and she cast around to find her new Charmander crunching what appeared to be the remains of a charred Minun. Time to stop lingering and get to work.

She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled piercingly to gather up her crew. Bree had never left her side and Gobán shot out of the grass to her, wings fluttering in readiness. Surprisingly, Finley appeared almost as fast and landed lightly on Aisling’s arm when she held it out. It was a nice change.

Aisling hated herself for thinking it.

Emer came bouncing along, babbling about a pond the wilds had told her was off to the north through the crops. Hmm. A watering hole like that was a good place to find battles.

Most of the fields were oats or lavender so Aisling forbade Ember and had her Charmander use Scratch on her wild opponents. The restriction irked her a bit but didn’t slow her much. She really was a ferocious piece of work, but that lust for battle was perfect for Aisling’s purposes. Honestly someone should be paying her for all the Bunnelbies and Gogoats she was clearing out of here.

Finley had to fly up and scout ahead to find any battles for herself and dutifully returned after each match to be checked over, while Íde continued to charge heedlessly ahead.  

“Leave some for me!” Gobán hissed at the Charmander’s back.

Emer found the pond and dove in for a swim while the others took a drink. Her buoyant tail bobbed along the surface as she swam beneath, sending ripples across the water that made the lilypads dance—all but one. A pair of big yellow eyes peered out from under it and burrowed into Aisling. The head was amphibian in shape and covered in dark brown mud.

Aisling leaned over. “Bree,” she whispered, “see that pokemon lurking under the lilypads?”

Bree squinted. “Oh yeah!”

“Think you could lasso it from here?”

Bree nodded and planted herself before hauling back and firing out a vine. The pokemon ducked but Bree’s aim was true thanks to all their practice. She slid a bit in the muck near the edge and backed up onto more solid ground to reel in her catch hand over hand.

With a final yank something bright turquoise and sparkling flew out of the water and flopped heavily onto the ground. Not a Froakie, but a Croagunk of a shade Aisling had never seen.

A shiny.

The Croagunk hopped to its feet and belched lavender mist as it struck Bree in the face with its tongue. The Quilladin flinched but her vine didn’t loosen so the Croagunk kneed her with a swift dark-type attack.

Aisling had Bree meet the next attack with Needle Arm and the sting of her quills was enough to put the Croagunk on the back foot. Bree had it pinned and beaten less than a minute later.

Bree backed off the Croagunk and it sighed in relief but flinched as Aisling approached.

“We’re not gonna kill ya,” Bree assured it. “You can be on our team!”

Aisling tossed her ball and the Croagunk disappeared in a flash.

“Oh! Whatcha catch?” Xoana and the rest had caught up. “Comtesse just got a Snubbull.”

Aisling let the Croagunk back out and they all gasped. Tracie whipped out her pokedex.

“Is that a shiny?!” Xoana yelled. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe your caught another one, holy shit!”

“Hail to the shiny queen!” Tierney crowed.

“Croagunk is nice, I suppose, even if it is doubling up on fighting-type.” Serena really needed to step up her shade.

“Toxicroak is the shit,” said Aisling, looking at her new shiny pokemon.

The Croagunk shifted nervously from all the attention and nearly jumped out of her skin when Bree clapped her on the back. But Bree and Emer spoke encouragingly to her while Aisling’s friends continued to freak out, and she settled down.

Gobán slithered up to Aisling’s shoulder and hummed in pride and excitement. Her powerful Charmander settled by her feet.

The luck god still smiled on her.

...

Serena herded them all back towards the path so that they “would reach the hotel before dark” before Xoana could really finish processing Aisling’s second shiny catch. Xoana couldn’t help glancing back again and again to check that this was real. Each time the Crogunk was still there, sparkling like the southern sea as it trailed behind them all.

Predictably there was another, almost as urgent pull at her attention. Aisling had a little more swagger in her step again and she held her head high, exposing a strip of her freckled neck above the collar.

“Korrina!”

Xoana jolted out of her contemplation with a flush rising to her own neck. Serena was already bounding forward to meet the young woman and her Lucario. Korrina waved back and hit the brakes on her roller blades, causing her long, blonde ponytail to swing forward over her shoulder. 
Aisling leaned into Xoana’s periphery and nodded to Korrina questioningly.

“The Yantreizh Gym Leader. We’ve, uh, known her for a bit.”

“Nice,” said Aisling with a grin.

Maybe at the beginning it was. Now… Xoana didn’t want to think about. Though she probably should. Korrina was more or less the reason they were all here—all but Aisling anyway. Serena had wanted to enter Prof. Sycamore’s program rather than train with her mother since Korrina had taken part and come out the other side as Kalos’s youngest Gym Leader. Now she was an idol of mega evolution to rival Diantha.



“Hey Serena! Hi Xoana!” Korrina chirped.

Xoana was a little energetic herself sometimes, but Korrina made her tired.

“How have you been?” Neither got a chance to answer. “I already know! I heard you both got into the mega evo program! That’s so awesome! Up top girls!” She offered them both a high five which Serena eagerly accepted. “I’m so pumped for us to have a real battle, so work hard okay?”



“Of course! I look forward to it!” Serena chirped. Gods the bald-faced admiration and need. It was like looking in a mirror—or a window into a past she was not keen to return to. 

Which is why Xoana looked away and noticed the Lucario getting up in Aisling’s space. She held her ground even as the pokemon’s aura sensors stood on end and her Dunsparce hissed from her shoulder.



“Artemis!” Korrina reprimanded. A sharp look passed between them before the Lucario reluctantly stepped back. “Sorry about that…?”



“Aisling.”



“Aisling,” Korrina repeated. “Nice to meet you! You’re in the mega evo program too.” She held out her hand and glanced at her Lucario again. “Artemis says you have an interesting aura. She’s never seen anything like it.”



“Really?” said Aisling, betraying nothing. “Neat!”



They didn’t get to talk for long before Serena butted back in and Xoana tuned right out. The jealousy was more than she could take. Sure Korrina was gorgeous and talented, but that kind of laser focus came at the expense of other things. Xoana just didn’t see the lasting appeal.

At some point Korrina noticed the bright turquoise frog with them and that understandably derailed the conversation for a while, though of course Korrina would never be gauche enough to ignore Serena entirely—just Tierney and Tracie.

Xoana’s gaze drifted from Korrina to her Lucario. Having been forbidden from investigating Aisling more thoroughly, Artemis had turned her attention a little more covertly on Aisling’s team, scrutinizing each in turn. If there was something odd about Aisling’s aura, would it effect her pokemon? Was that a thing? The whole aura business was more in the realm of pseudo-science except for the fact that some species of pokemon could very clearly see them. Maybe unexplored was a better term.

“Well, Artemis and I should be going but I’m so glad we ran into you all!” Good. It was almost over. “I’m sorry again about Artemis. She forgets about the proximity thing.” The irritated flick of the Lucario’s ears suggested otherwise, but she dipped her head in apology as required. “I can’t wait to see you all again in Yantreizh, especially you, Aisling.”

She skated leisurely away and her Lucario jogged behind her after one final lingering look at Aisling. Serena waved even though Korrina didn’t look back.

“So,” Aisling began in that tone that meant she was about to start something. “How long you been nursing that crush, Comtesse?”

Xoana turned her head slowly. It was like she was being transported to a parallel universe.

“Wh-what?” Serena stuttered.

“You heard me.”

Xoana was clearly imagining this. She was having an intrusive daydream, nothing more.

“It’s not—!” Serena paused and adjusted her tone, “a crush.”

Aisling nodded, lips tightly sealed and eyebrows hitched all the way to her hairline.

“I just admire her.” Serena started walking again to avoid Aisling’s increasingly triumphant expression but didn’t have the sense to stop digging herself deeper. “She’s not that much older than us but already so accomplished. And she’s so nice, you know? And she always has been. Xoana and I have known her for years.”

Serena continued but she was no longer looking their way so Aisling leaned over and whispered to Xoana: “So I’m hearing,” she counted off on her fingers, “absolutely a crush, totally legal, deeper than that hot bod, and years now. That about sum it up?”

Xoana covered her mouth but still snorted audibly. Serena came back to earth and Aisling covered her with a cough.

“Sorry.” Another totally phony cough. “Please do go on. I’d like to hear more about her.”

Serena’s eyes narrowed suspiciously but she couldn’t resist the urge to monologue about Korrina for very long. Tierney and Tracie pulled ahead so that they wouldn’t have to participate and Xoana and Aisling stayed a step behind. Aisling leaned in again when Serena was sufficiently distracted.

“Have you tried telling her how gay she is?”

Yes, but it wasn’t something she could do again. “Have you tried telling Serena anything?”

Aisling laughed.

“Maybe we should go straight to Yantreizh?” Serena fretted, turning to them.

Xoana and Aisling leaned away from each other to look a bit less like conspirators.

“Sounds great! Just a quick trip over the mountains!”

“We could—”

“I’m joking,” Aisling cut her off. “I wanna see the beach this summer.” Serena threw Aisling her dirtiest look and opened her mouth to argue. “Besides which, we’re not ready. Don’t you think we should have at least one more badge under our belts before we face her?”

Serena swallowed whatever she was going to say and gave it another moment’s thought. “You’re right. It’s important that we be well-prepared for the Yantreizh Gym. We need to make the best impression possible on Korrina—since she’ll be judging whether we’re ready to proceed in the program.”

Xoana and Aisling nodded, trying to keep their faces serious. They let her keep talking and slowly the vision began to fade. It was slipping away like a dream upon waking, and Xoana snatched at it.

“You—you see it too, right?” she asked softly.

“Oh, absolutely.”

Aisling’s unqualified confidence loosened something in Xoana’s chest. Perhaps it was more than one thing. She’d been ignoring that tightness so long it was difficult to say. There were ugly emotions, tangled with the rest. She couldn’t tease out one without bringing the whole mess to the surface. Or she couldn’t before. Maybe with some more time, some more gentle loosening, she could unravel a bit more of herself. She could find where it belonged and weave it in properly.

“What’s so interesting about your aura?” Serena asked as casually as she could muster—which approximately equated to the demeanor of a detective in an interrogation.

Aisling shrugged. “Donno. Can’t see ’em.”

Serena’s eyes narrowed again. Aisling pretended not to notice, but that wouldn’t stop Serena—not when there was a challenge before her.

“Maybe we should have another battle. A rematch.”

“Sure. Sounds fun.”

They sent their new catches out first and Serena had her Snubbull use Charm right off the bat to even the playing field. Aisling had her Croagunk counter with Astonish, which succeeded in tripping the Snubbull up and reclaiming the advantage until she made the mistake of using Mud-Slap. Sure it rendered the Snubbull half-blind, but it also sent her into a frothing Rage that spooked the poor Croagunk, setting her up for a Headbutt to the gut that knocked her right out of the battle.

Aisling flinched a little and withdrew her before sending in Emer to hose the furious Snubbull down.

Serena and her new catch didn’t much appreciate the consideration. She sent in her Squirtle, only it turned out to be Justine using Illusion to close. Emer was tougher now, but Justine fought furiously to take care of the water-type and prevailed with Serena’s quick orders and encouragement.

Xoana called Emer over and tended to the downtrodden Marill rather than let her be withdrawn looking so disappointed.

The triumphant Zorua lasted mere seconds against Aisling’s Charmander, who didn’t even flinch as Serena’s actual Squirtle stepped up to face her.

“Wait for an opening and use Scratch,” Aisling commanded clearly and calmly.

“Water Gun, Laurent!”

The moment of hesitation made it clear that these two knew each other. Shockingly the Charmander did as she was told and dodged the first volley before raking the Squirtle. He withdrew into his shell but she continued her assault until he was able to use her wind-up to nail her right in the face with Water Gun. Even the point blank hit wasn’t quite enough and she struck him savagely across the face, laying him out.

Aisling whooped and her Charmander looked down at her opponent in satisfaction, tensing in gleeful anticipation as Félicité stepped up to challenge her. Serena’s brows set and the Fennekin blasted into Íde with Flame Charge, not to do damage, but to gain speed. She danced clean away from the Charmander’s slashes with the boost and scratched up her chest and face until she fell.

Félicité evolved from the victory, rearing onto her hind legs as she transformed. She flexed her far more dexterous paws experimentally, ignoring Justine’s excited yipping and hopping behind her, but sharing a glance and a smile with Serena.

Aisling looked to Gobán, still on her shoulder, and nodded. The flattened serpentine creature leapt gracefully down and Félicité met her with an Ember. Gobán emerged from the blaze covered in rock and knocked Félicité clean off her feet. She used Flame Charge to get clear of the next hit and scramble back up onto two legs. She danced to the side and roasted the Dunsparce again, but it didn’t do much but warm the rocky armor before Gobán rolled back out of range. Félicité took a deep breath as Gobán went into the turn, gathering herself, and blasted the Dunsparce with one continuous stream as she came in again. Serena’s fists clenched tight, willing strength into Félicité’s flames. Gobán barreled into her head, knocking her down again and slamming into her a third time as she tried to rise. Félicité yelped and Justine whined.

For a moment Serena paused, but then her eyes met Félicité’s and she hung her head.

Gobán came to a halt and shed her rocky casing. Heat haze drifted off the pebbles and some of the Dunsparce’s scales were discolored. But she slithered back to Aisling, wings fluttering and pleased as anything.

Félicité forced herself to sit up, clutching at her side. Serena knelt to look her over, and Justine fretted by her side.

“Good battle, Comtesse. That was even closer than last time,” Aisling remarked. “You nearly had us.”

But of course that was no consolation to Serena, who thought she should have had it in the bag. Xoana stepped in to shift her focus.

“Félicité evolved! That’s so awesome! We should all keep our eyes open for a stick she can use as a wand!”

Serena was still sullen after that, but it did get her moving on towards Fort-Vanitas.

[kyle-writes]

The Neighborhood: Part 2

The ichor reflected my light like snake scales shining in the sun, it looked rubbery and sticky, but when I knelt to poke the nearest chunk with my finger it gave way like a kind of light cream substance. Foamy. It didn’t even stick to my nail, dripping off in thick drops that congealed instantly after coming in contact with its lump.

“We’re extending the scene from the Larsons’ to encompass this area too,” Al said as he came up behind me. “Did you…? Milly, you really oughta get some gloves before you go muck-diving.”

I stood up, shaking my hand off instinctively, “Right, right. Get your light out, we’re going down there. Don’t slip on the shit.”

There were over a dozen creaking, unsteady stairs to go down, and with each step the darkness seemed to press down on us harder. As we reached the bottom I could hear officers and technicians setting things up above me. Al’s light flashed past me and to the left, deeper into the basement.

“Holy shit,” I heard him say under his breath, there was a mixture of fear and awe in his voice.

I followed his light with my own as we both hit the bottom and I instantly understood how he felt. The walls were absolutely coated in the black ichor while the floor was almost untouched with the stuff. It was as if there had been an explosion. From the center of the floor a spider’s web of cracks worked their way outwards to the walls, and there was something else too. Something in the center of the web.

Al found the light switch and with a soft click the entire room was finally lit up. We gasped in tandem. The thing in the center of the room…was the top of someone’s head. Their eyes were bugged out and blood red, and it was tilted back just enough to be able to see the top arch of their screaming mouth. Teeth were missing, and the dark hair was matted with a mixture of blood and the black substance.

“Oh Christ,” I heard Al dry heaving behind me. I didn’t blame him for it, I was barely holding it together myself. “T-That’s Mrs. O’Neil. Rhonda O’Neil.”

“Or what’s left of her.” I said. It came out harsher than I meant it to, but that’s how I was when I got uncomfortable. My heart felt like it was going to explode, it was all I could hear. Over my years in the homicide department I had seen plenty of bad things, nasty things. I’d had to learn very quickly that people, at their core, could be absolutely horrific to one another. It looked as if Mrs. O’Neil had been buried up to her mouth in concrete, but of course that was physically impossible. The terror on what I could see of her face told a tale of intense pain.

Our heads turned with a shot as someone appeared at the top of the stairs. Gil.

“You’re both white as sheets, what’s going on?” He began to descend.

“Stop.” I barked, and his eyes went wide as he froze between steps. “You’re going to need to bring some excavating equipment down here with you.”

 I wish I hadn’t been there when they “extracted” what was left of Rhonda O’Neil from the floor, but I was. It was my job to be. I imagine Gil was used to that kind of carnage, all I knew is that I didn’t want to be. It was all clinical to him.

First it was discovered that Mrs. O’Neil was not really entombed within the concrete. It was just the top half of her head, which Gil peeled away from the floor with a sickening wet sound that threatened to kill my appetite for the rest of my life. Several of her remaining teeth fell from her mouth as Gil carefully brought the top half of the victim’s head up to get a closer look at. Thin strands of the black substance oozed down onto the floor into little puddles, which broke off into tiny streams that flowed down and away into the cracks in the concrete.

One of Gil’s boys was holding something that looked almost like a radar gun used by officers out hunting speeders, but it was some new technology that could analyze contents of certain substances on the spot without having to disturb evidence. XRF-something or other.

The man looked to be about half Gil’s age, lacking many of the age lines and overall grey-ness the job brought along with it. “Sir, I can’t get a reading on this black stuff. The analyzer just keeps giving me error messages.”

Gil made a “hrmmph” noise, which the tech apparently understood to mean Gil had heard him.

“I still want to get the imager in here and see if we can find anything beneath the floor before we go randomly tearing it up,” Gil said, carefully bagging the remains of Mrs. O’Neil’s head.

“So does that mean we can get the fuck out of here now?” I asked, making no attempt to hide my desire to escape.

Gil pulled the dirtied latex gloves from his hands and used his index finger to push his glasses up his nose. “Yeah, we can take it from here. I imagine you’ve got a lot of questions for the gathering mob outside.”

With Al at my heels, I got out of the house as fast as I could trying to look like that wasn’t what I was trying to do. The fresh, damp air of the approaching evening was heaven on my face and to my lungs. The canopy of clouds had grown darker and denser, signs of an oncoming storm. Normally I would enjoy this brief twilight combination of weather and time of day, but any hopes for having a pleasant day, or even month, were long gone.

Gil was right, the crowd was still thick with murmuring civilians, and more than a few had their phones out recording everything we were doing. And the news vans were back. I frowned. Someone had leaked our newest discovery already, but at least Chief Albrecht was on the scene now---he could handle the media. It was his forte.

Without a word, I pushed under the tape and through the crowd, ignoring all questions thrown at me. I didn’t see Al peel away, but I was glad to be able to take a moment for myself. I stopped at the curb and leaned against one of the dozens of patrol cars that had taken up residence on Washington Street. It wasn’t quite dark enough for the streetlights to come on yet so I could still see up and down the neighborhood without much trouble.

Washington was one of the bigger neighborhoods in the city, located on the outskirts right at the border of the city limits. Still relatively new, it had that classic middle-class feel. All in all there were forty or so houses all the way up and down. Each painted a shade of off-white, with black tile roofs. There were trees planted in the front and back yards of at least half of them, and those backyards boxed in by privacy fences. The whole thing had been a goldmine for the city, built on a large chunk of land that had been hoarded by a single, wealthy family until the final old man had died two decades ago with no living heir. I’m sure the city was more than willing to pick up the “discarded” property. This all happened when I will still a baby rookie in the academy, so I don’t know all that much else about it.

Suddenly my phone began to vibrate in my pocket, startling me out of my fatigued reverie. This time I actually looked at the name of the caller before picking up. It was my wife.

“Hey, babe,” I started.

But she jumped in right away, “Milly, is everything okay? That��thing going on with Washington Street is all over the news and---,” she was in her worried-mode. Even with all my time on the force, her apprehension and anxiety concerning my safety hadn’t waned one bit.

I told her once, at the beginning, that I would never lie to her. So I didn’t. “It’s only getting worse,” I said in a low tone, and I heard her sigh softly. No doubt she was also seconds away from going back to chewing on her fingernails. “I’ll be home late tonight, probably around midnight or so. Get the kid in bed and don’t worry about me, okay?” Silence. “Lexi?”

Another sigh, this one louder and a bit more annoyed. That was assuring. “Okay, okay. Just…be careful.”

I chuckled, “I will, I promise. I always am.” Somewhere in the distance came the distinct rumble of approaching thunder. “Well, shit. Maybe I’ll be able to get out of it early…”

“I hope so,” Lexi said.

“Is that Mom on the phone?” came a tiny voice. “Tell her I said ‘I love you’!”

Lexi laughed and I felt the weight on my chest lighten just the tiniest of bits.

“Love you too, kiddo.” I said, and I heard Lexi repeat it.

She said something else, but my attention had been ripped away in a fraction of a second by a man suddenly walking by me and heading towards a house that I hadn’t really been paying attention to until that very moment. The front lawn of this house looked as if it hadn’t been mowed in weeks, weeds and dandelions grew tall and unchecked, along with a handful of small white mushrooms. The man approached a lawnmower that had been sitting in the middle of the lawn and dragged it down one house and put it in the garage.

My gut squirmed again and I felt my throat tighten. “I gotta go, babe.” I said into the phone.

Lexi recognized my tone right away, God bless her. “Alright, honey, be careful.”

Small drops of rain began to fall around me as I shoved my phone back into my pocket and approached the neighbor of the house with the neglected lawn. The closer I got to that house, the worse it looked. The paint looked worn and chipped, and the roof was missing several tiles. I counted and it was only five houses down from the Larson place. How did I not notice it before? Had any of us noticed it? I tried to catch a glance inside but the windows were so dirty I couldn’t see inside the pitch dark.

I came onto the neighbor’s driveway just as he was pushing the mower into the little area between boxes that had been carved out for it. “Hey, excuse me…,” the man jumped at my voice.

“O-Oh! You’re one of the detectives here about…,” thunder interrupted him, and suddenly the sky opened up and rain began to pour down in a thick, grey curtain. He motioned for me to step into the garage with him, which I was more than happy to do.

“What can you tell me about your neighbors there,” I pointed to the dilapidated house.

The man, who was frighteningly skinny and pale a sheet wrung his hands together, thin tongue flicking out across dried lips. “Ah, you see, Ma’am…” He swallowed hard, and I could see his Adam’s apple twitch. “Guy who lives there’s a shut-in, haven’t seen hide nor hair of him in the last five years, ever since his wife died.”

I pulled my small notepad from my jacket’s inner pocket, along with the fancy ink pen Lexi got me for my birthday last year. The wind howled outside and leaves danced along the street. “Tell me all about him.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Summer of 89′ | 001

Read from the Start | Read on AO3

[A/N: Before anything else is said, I just want to give you guys another huge thank you. I have never put so much effort into a series before and I genuinely appreciate every single comment and interaction that you guys provide. Hopefully, you stick around for the rest of this crazy journey!]

JULY, 1989

The scent of burning rubber dominated the cab of the old El Dorado. It was barely noticeable against the dark backdrop of the ever-stretching pine trees. A full moon hung like a hole cut from velvet. It illuminated thick drops of rain that fell against a windshield. Beca found herself wishing for a cigar, a painkiller, something to dull the surroundings that were ever-present.

The seat belt cut into her skin as Chloe brought the car to a rapid stop. Smoke from the tires rose into the air and unmatching labored breath was the only thing that could be heard aside from the purring engine revving at the sudden halt.

There was a sizable dent in the hood. Beca Mitchell wasn’t one for cars, she had dragged her feet every moment until her father finally forced her to get her own license so he wouldn’t have to haul her everywhere she needed to go. But even she, in the near pitch night, could tell that whatever they had just hit left sizable damage on the left side of the car.

“Shit,” Chloe breathed out. She had her fingers against her throat, separating where the belt had assaulted too fresh wounds. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What the hell was that?” Beca asked.

Her eyes flicked towards the rear-view mirror. Even through the rain, she could see a dark figure curled into itself on the ground. A deer, maybe. She considered herself lucky in this moment. Two antlers could be piercing the seat on either side of her neck- instead, all she had was whiplash and an obnoxiously fast heartbeat. A relief short-lived.

Chloe started to unbuckle her seatbelt, the engine still running. “What the fuck are you doing, dude?” Beca asked, shoving the lock back into place and holding it there. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Guys, we have to keep driving.” Aubrey’s timid voice came from the backseat. Her fingers were shaking and numb, covered in blood that wasn’t hers. She did her best to keep Emily awake, the younger camper staring blankly at the ceiling of the old car. Her breathing so soft and barely there. Beca was tempted to hold a mirror against her lips, just to watch it fog. “I don’t- she doesn’t have much time and the nearest hospital is still seventeen miles away. Please.”

Chloe stopped glaring at Beca, those sharpened blue eyes focusing instead on the mirror and the heap that bled freshly against asphalt, only to wash away with the present storm.  She moved her hands from the buckle to the ribbed steering wheel and white-knuckled it. “That was a person.”

“You don’t know that, Chloe,” Aubrey said. “Who the hell is out in the middle of nowhere like this?”

“We are.” She responded coolly “I’m getting out and checking.”

“Not alone-“ Beca protested.

Aubrey’s annoyance turned to outright frustration as she narrowed her green eyes in the innate moonlight. She ran her bloodied fingers lightly at Emily’s temple. Long ago having moved hair from her stare. Now it was an act of comfort, something to distract from the cold numb feeling that Beca couldn’t shake since the lake. Like she held the sun in her hands and Emily needed that light to hang onto in order to make it, to survive.

“Neither of you are going anywhere. Chloe if you step out of this car, I won’t hesitate to leave you on the side of the road, are we clear? Emily is dying. She needs to get to a hospital now and I won’t let her die in my arms because of your stubbornness to just drive.”

Chloe swallowed the thick feeling in her throat and looked back at Beca. The girl's own hands clenching the dashboard with anticipation to flip it open and light one of those gold-wrapped cigars. Wilkens probably died with them on him, just like his gun. Her palm still burned.

“Drive.”

It was a simple word, but it let Chloe release the hold on the brake. The car creaking back to life before she applied pressure to the gas. The tires turned more than once on the wet pavement before finally, the little black mass in the center of the road grew smaller and smaller. Beca pretended not to notice the tears streaming down Chloe’s reddened cheeks as she struggled to keep her own in check.

Her heart didn’t’ stop pounding until the road signs started to mention civilization. Norton Falls. It had a population of 1200 in total and was practically dwarfed by the city another 80 miles away. Beca remembers a fall festival that her parents brought her to a few years before their divorce.

The streets were lined with houses painted different colors and the mailboxes had prominent last names scrawled across in permanent paint. She faintly remembers the scent of kettle corn and the warm sun that countered the bitter October breeze. The way her mother told her that she would never see trees change like this in the city. The way they both laughed at stupid kitten face paint and cracked pumpkin carving contests.

Norton Falls looked different at night.

Its roads stretched on endlessly, streetlamps were staggered, and any hope of summer was starting to fade out into the beginning of a school year. Cars were parked and collecting frost, porch lights were shut off completely. The wind howled as Chloe slowed slightly to match the speed limit exiting the highway, though not too much.

There was a food joint that looked like it had sprung out of nowhere. A small diner with green neon lights to attract passing and tired drivers. The sign read Starlight Diner and had an all too tacky lit up star with a pink path behind it. A few blocks later, a taco place that had just gone dark, and next to that a 24-hour ATM.

Beca watched as the different landmarks passed, noticing the blue signs for the hospital that Chloe seemed to follow numbly. Aubrey had quieted in the backseat, not saying a word as they finally rolled up the quaint building- it was smaller than the one at home, lit up like a Christmas tree and almost blinding compared to the rest of the dead town.

She exited the car first before it even rolled to a stop in the medical bay. Beca felt like she forgot how to walk like everything was numb and her lungs were still submerged in murky lake water. The door hissed as it creaked open.

It was a quaint waiting room, nearly empty aside from a woman wrapped up in a few jackets as she coughed into a cloth towel. A man that was holding his bleeding thumb and his son carrying a manual for a nail gun. She ignored both of them as her wet shoes squeaked against the floor.

A stocky woman sat behind a counter that was painted puke green. Her scrubs were an abrasive shade of turquoise and she hunched behind her computer. Not bothered by the sound of someone approaching.

“Fill out these forms and a doctor will be right with you.” She shoved a clipboard across the counter. The woman didn’t’ look up from her screen. She was protected by a glass window. Beca didn’t’ know what she would do if she wasn’t. “Pens in the bucket.”

“I don’t have time for that.” Beca placed her hands on the counter “My friend is hurt and she’s dying.”

“Yeah, so is everyone else in the waiting room. Fill out the forms. A doctor will be right with you.”

Beca let out a distant sigh, glancing around at the two other people sitting in the tacky patterned chairs. She grasped the clipboard, lifting it slightly off the desk before slamming it back down with force strong enough to create a gun-shot pop. Her fingers shook at the sound, but the woman with the ghostly eyes snapped her attention to the girl. She leaned back in her chair, taking in the drowned mess of muck and blood that she was.

Her voice was hushed. “Someone tried to drown me tonight, lady. My friend is in the backseat of a car bleeding to death because a psycho bitch with daddy issues tried to kill her with a… a makeshift bomb in a watershed. I will not be stopped by a woman with a god complex who hates her life more than she hates her job.” She took a steadying breath. “Get me a doctor before I walk through those doors and get one myself.”

“What’s the problem here?”

Beca was met with another bout of forest green. A stoic woman who looked like she was fresh out of med school. Her auburn hair was thrown into a messy bun and a white lab coat was draped over her arm. In her other hand was a brown sacked lunch, Beca supposed. Her stomach clenched at the thought of food. Even the simple promise of a bologna sandwich on wonder bread was enough to stir the murky water that she was she had swallowed.

“Dr. Saxe, everything is fine.” The woman behind the desk stood, recollecting herself.

“No, it’s not.” Beca turned completely. “My friends hurt, she's in the backseat of a car and bleeding out-“

The doctor, Doctor Saxe, from what Beca could collect, set her items on the counter before walking towards the sliding glass doors that opened to the parking lot and the humming El Dorado. “Lead me to her. I can help.”

[wickednerdery]

Title: Parted Love Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Crimson Peak Pairing/character: Sir Thomas Sharpe/Reader Rating: FRM Summary: “The perfect parting gift.” Notes: I THOUGHT this would a be quick follow-up to another one-shot, but I was wrong again...it’s long, lol! Hopefully worth it though, haha! It’s based on this headcanon by @creedslove, though I’ve made some adjustments to suit my desires/needs, lol! This one is dark, the “Reader” is a dark character...it’s smut with a fair amount of angst, mentions of violence, and the Sharpe’s childhood so head’s up on all that and, yup, there’s a “Read More”!

The moment you set foot on the property your travel boots turn red. Not the shade of fresh blood, but blood found in long-dead creatures. With an annoyed breath you unstick yourself from the clotted Earth and carry on towards the house. It looks all the worse for its years, blackened with rot of wood and soul. Whatever light it may have had centuries ago is long gone, it’s just decaying stone now.

“Madame!” The carriage driver goes to get down. “Perhaps I should go with you.”

“Nonsense,” you smile back pleasantly, letting red and black crawl up your dress. “There’s no one alive left to hurt me.”

“But this place, Madame. They say it is -”

“Haunted? Cursed?” You laugh. “Do not fret yourself with the dead, my friend, the danger always lies with the living.”

You leave him with that, carry on into Allerdale Hall. It’s red. Red all over. Sunken in, drowning in its own lifeblood. The black moths have taken over, but you merely bat them away as they greet you like an old friend. You’ve no trust or patience for the elevator - always a temperamental thing, once delivering you and Lucille right into the brutal hands of her father...even he’d struck you more than once on that occasion.

The shattered banister catches your eye, causes a pause as you inspect the dried blood coating spikes of wood. The girl must’ve hit hard; Lucille must’ve cursed that it wasn’t her head that struck. Without further detour you carry yourself up the many stairs, down the creaking halls, to the nursery.

It’d been small when you were a child, it’s smaller still now. You remember how you and Lucille huddled in a corner, giggling as your latest capture struggled to breathe in its jar. Lucille would take your hand as, with morbid fascination, you watched the last moments of another thing’s life. Sometimes she would brush a hand across your ankle or knee, always thinking herself so clever even though it was you who allowed it.

Thomas was also there. Always. Sometimes watching, often times looking away. He would work so hard on his many little projects, presenting them to you two as if the greatest kill on the greatest hunt. You would give him cheek-kisses as reward and he’d be so joyous he’d happily sit with you both just to remain close the rest of the time.

With boots you nudge aside broken jars and wind-up toys. Stained mechanic blueprints and floor boards. All to get to the one new thing in the room...a workman’s table covered in more sketches. Some for toys, some for the house, and many for the machine Thomas described back in America. He made himself an office, a respite. His devotion to his project was whole and genuine. His devotion to the girl must’ve been equally so. No wonder he never made it out alive.

“Oh Thomas...” You sigh, the house groans and bleeds. “Why didn’t you accept my offer, you poor fool?” You know why. You go to her room next.

It’s a massacre. Living creatures feed on dead ones, glass and blood spatter the floor, scorch marks spread towards the bed due to an unattended fireplace. It’s a curse this place didn’t burn to the ground as it sunk.

At Lucille’s mirror you pull pins from your hair, jab them into the frame for safe-keeping. Fingers undo coat, toss it across bed...dust and moths plume at the disturbance, but you attend the high collar of your gown. The house sighs, crimson weeps from the walls, as you spin and tip yourself back onto the bed. It wails and even you give up a cough as the air attempts a choke.

You watch moths skitter on the ceiling, swat flies from their attempt to pester, then sink hands into black and blue sheets. Your eyes slide closed as you fall back on memories. The childhood ones where you all explored and shared each other, finding a tenuous balance between enjoyment and jealousy, pleasure and pain. The more recent ones...the ones in America with just Thomas.

Stale blood and dust fill your nostrils on the inhale, his name falls out on the exhale. You think on his strikingly sad eyes, that quiver of his lips, as he’d begun to fall apart before you. Hand brushes across your neck and chest, remembering his hands. His teeth, his lips, his tongue as it did what even reluctant predators do...lap up the blood. A breeze curls at the hem of your dress, runs gooseflesh up your legs.

He’s there, but you don’t see him. Even if you were to open your eyes, you wouldn’t. Can’t. He doesn’t want you to...for shame, for fear of startling you, for his inability to apologize. He shifts between regret at dismissing your warning, your offer, and pure desire to be in the world of the living with you once more.

Layer by layer you gather skirt up around your hips, exposing yourself to the room. The house. Him. “Thomas...” you sigh, letting fingers burrow into soft curls, just brushing clit. You imagine his fingers teasing you, his hands spreading you as you set legs all the wider apart. There’s a sigh in the house that you swear sounds like him...Him calling to you. “Thomas,” you call back as chilled air caresses you again.

Thomas watches, wishing he could come back to you. For you. To join in the pleasures you indulge in now and ones that will surely come after. He moves closer, watches you shudder as if touched by him. He whispers your name again and this time you arch.

It’s not enough; you shift back, fully on the bed, bend and spread legs like the wings of a butterfly...or a moth. Fingers return to clit, encircle and rub, as your other hand slips past to graze entrance. It catches the first trickle of juices, spreads them up and back down as you increase pressure on that sensitive bundle of nerves buried in public hair.

Memories of your last time together cling to the spirit and, while unable to get aroused as the living do, he still feels it. The tingles of pleasure throughout, that tension of muscles, how he’d overheat in the throes of passion. He feels it all even as his new form lacks the signs of arousal. Thomas reaches out to touch...

You give a cry as pure ice hits your thigh, shocks a flood from your core before you slip two fingers inside. You imagine Thomas’ eager tongue dipping in, swallowing you down, as you direct him by the hair. You can picture him, with focus you can almost sense him in the room - the smell of his cologne, the sound of his panting, even the feel of his soft skin against yours are all there, somewhere, begging to be with you now.

If only he could enjoy the wantoness of you. Fingers working fast, furious, over your clit as others dive into glistening wet cunt. Two fingers, then three as you groan and gasp. Tentatively he moves closer, shifts over you. A black moth lands between your breasts and you bite lip so hard it leaks blood. He whispers your name in your ear and the familiar growl of it seems to reach you.

“Thomas...fu-fu...” Your legs snap close on your own hands like a trap, toes curl, as sheer will drives you past the edge and over it. Your hips lift high, sex brushes freezing air, and you to cry out a string of curses as the orgasm floods hands, thighs, backside, dress, and bed. You land in a puddle of yourself, curl up to the side as the moth flutters off. “Fuck...” you shake out groans, lick bleeding lip, then sigh. “Thomas...fuck....”

He knows it’s as much a curse at him as it is for him. He settles beside you, watches your ribs rapidly rise and fall, hears a single sob of his name. The peace doesn’t last long; you sit up, breathe deep, and then let out a blood-curdling scream of rage. If only he could hold you, tell you it’s okay...That it’ll be okay.

Flying from the bed you smash the mirror to pieces with bare fists before going to the vanity next, tossing it completely. The only thing that stops your rampage is Lucille’s entomology toolbox. Scissors and knives and pins...and women’s hair all braided and wound up. Delicate fingers pluck out a pair of scissors with hairs caught between blades before you shove the rest to crash and splinter on the floor.

No. Don’t. He begs as you spread blades like you did thighs. Dangerously wide. His eyes flash away as you run finger across, leaving a thin line of blood behind. You set a blade to your arm, then close both with a flick of your hand and set point to your chest. Please don’t. Don’t.

You take a deep breath, but change your mind. Death is the easy route. You bury the scissors deep into the wall, then pull out to watch the crimson flow from the wound. You impale again; this time you leave it in. Wet clay oozes around the weapon. Was this what Thomas looked like at Lucille’s hand? An impotent, stunned, slow-bleeding thing?

Thomas sighs with you, looks on as you gather your coat, pin up your hair, and flit out of the room. The only way to keep up with your glide through the house is to dissipate, watch everything at once. Watch you flutter on as gravity carries the remnants of your arousal down into your boots, as moths pester you to stay and scarlet clay slicks everything in attempt to delay your exit.

Once back outside you take a deep breath, gather yourself together and readjust your social mask. A sweet smile is forced on as you approach the carriage. Then something gleams out the corner of your eye and finally earns the house its win over your determination to leave immediately.

Stepping off the bloody path into raw muck you find it. A ruby ring. The Sharpe ring; the one Beatrice Sharpe once wore, then Lucille. The one you heard the girl wore after marrying Thomas only to lose it in battle. Your smile goes genuine as you crouch farther into clotted clay and pluck it from its spot. It looks rotted, black and red, but a wipe of your dress and it proves as stunning as ever.

You slip it onto your finger...the perfect parting gift. The house seems to shudder, groan, in anger. This ring is not yours to take.

The man you’d loved, the one who loves you still, looks on, forlorn. That ring should’ve been yours from the start, he can only hope it will not curse you to the same life and death as Lucille and himself now.

I LOVED doing with this one as much as the previous one...though this might really be the end now, haha! Still, I thoroughly enjoy writing a darker reader and exploring a sort of darker sexuality that comes with that. Also, haha, ghost smut is a fun new thing to write! :D  I hope all you out there enjoyed it too…and please let me know if you did! Bless @creedslove for inspiring this, hope you like it girly!! (And never be afraid to send more Sir Thomas Sharpe - ghost or otherwise - headcanons to me, lol!)

(Gif found on Google)

Tagging those I think would be/showed interest: @welcome-to-fangirl-hell, @zoesmama2024 @chibiyanai @wadeyourebarelyalive @ktonastya @brightstarmara @rizzo87 @creedslove @kandomeresbitch @carydorse @cheshire-cat-is-my-spirit-animal @littledeadrottinghood @tentacles-and-coffee @tarithenurse @magikat409 @acupofhotlatte @carydorse​

[davidhesseauthor-blog]

The Melon Farm

Finally The Conclusion To - The Goat-Man And Why Some People Shouldn’t Be Allowed To Spawn

Otis Melon was bent over a rabbit hutch, feeding about one hundred rabbits. He stood up and turned as Zippy Doo and Max Fly approached. He was a bulky, barrel-chested man of about 30 years of age, hunched over with a broad forehead and pallid chalk-like pitted skin. Red blotches on his cheeks contrasted with the patchwork of blue colored veins that crisscrossed along the length of his orbicular nose. His close-set eyes were shaded by thick bristling eyebrows. Protruding out of his long, stringy, nut-brown hair over each ear, were what appeared to be two huge bumps that easily could be mistaken for horns especially at a distance.

Otis “Melonhead” Melon - An Alabama Savant

His hair was plastered against his face by rivulets of muddy sweat that ran down his cheeks. He was wearing a filthy pair of blue jeans and his brown shoes were coated in fresh cow biscuits. His white sweat stained t-shirt had an Auburn University logo printed in navy and orange on the pocket where a half-empty package of RedMan Chewing Tobacco poked out. Next to him stood an attractive, elderly woman with long gray hair braided in one long braid that trailed down the center of her back to the middle of her posterior. She was wearing a light blue cotton dress, a blue and white apron, and a pair of pink muck boots adorned with pictures of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck.

Otis nodded and grinned as Max and Zippy Doo approached, exposing brown stained teeth.

Zippy turned to Max and whispered, “He does have kind of a putrid essence to him, doesn’t he? He smells like the outhouse door on a shrimp boat.”

“What can I do for you boys?” Otis asked as he picked at his nose and wiped his hand on the leg of his filthy coveralls.

“Are you Otis Melon?” Max asked.

“That’s right. And this is my mama, Bernice Melon.”

Bernice “Mama” Melom

“I’m Max Fly and this is my partner, Zippy Doo. We are private investigators looking into alleged sightings of a monster that some believe to be the long sought-after Goat-Man. May we ask you a few questions?”

“Go right ahead just so long as you don’t wake my rabbits.”

“Okay, Max replied, looking at the herd of rabbits milling around inside the hutch.“A couple of boys said they saw someone that resembled you climbing up the mountain to play with a herd of goats. By any chance, could that have been you?”

“You must be referring to that Cooter Johnson and Fim Fudge. I saw ol’ Cooter and Fim up there watching me. What I do is none of their business. I stared back until those ol’ boys disappeared like a cork on a fishin’ line.”

“Don’t you pay no attention to what those two boys say. They are so dumb, they don’t know sheep shit from cottonseed,” Bernice Melon interjected. “They dropped out of the eighth grade and have been sittin’ around like a couple of bumps on a log ever since. If stupid could fly, both those boys would be jets.”

“I see,” Max replied, shaking his head. “Otis, by any chance, do you own a goat suit?” 

“I do. My mama made me one, didn’t you, mama? If y’all wanna see it, you’ll have to ask Shirley Smelley over in Slap Ankle. She lives on Watermelon Road, ‘bout 5 miles from here across the Black Gnat River jist ‘fore you git to Hog Jaw. She’s slightly burned out, but still smokin’ hot,” Otis said with what could pass as a leer. “I lent it to her to wear for the fall Yell-Off in Lick Lizard next week.”

“What’s a Yell-Off?” Zippy asked as he picked a wet piece of cow biscuit off his pant cuff.

“That’s where all them folks with a big mouth try to yell-off louder than Chief Shinbone the old Creek Indian Chief did back in the day. Stella Blitzki won it last year. Shirley thought it was rigged ‘cause ol’ Hayward Connor was doin’ the judgin’ and everyone knows Hayward is sweet on Shirley; has been since they was attending Lick Lizard Elementary School. Haywood won’t be doin’ no judgin’ this year. He’s holed up in the Farquhar Cattle Ranch on a work-release program. He don’t get released until next year so Shirley thinks she has the best chance of winning that trophy from Stella this year plus the grand prize, a $10 gift certificate from the Lord of The Fries Restaurant over in Devil’s Holler.”

“Chief Shinbone?” Zippy asked. He was beginning to find it difficult to follow Otis’s train of thought.

“The Chief was a Creek Indian back in the 1800’s,” Bernice interjected. “He lived in what folks now call Shinbone Valley. They claim he could yell so loud folks all the way in Fort Payne could hear him. Claim he had one brown eye and blue eye.”

“Yeah, he weren’t no cigar store Indian, that’s for sure,” Otis said, between bites of his sandwich.

“What do you have in that sandwich, Otis?” Zippy asked.

“Oh, it’s somethin’ my mama makes special for me. It’s goat cheese and coyote meat covered in coon fat gravy.”

“Otis here ain’t no Goat-Man,” Bernice continued, “If anything he’s a Rabbit-Man.

Otis has a photographic memory and in some incomprehensible way he must have picked up the secrets of sequential numbering all by hisself. It’s so beautiful, so precise. His mind shines with a light from another world.”

“What shines from another world?” Zippy asked while scraping more fresh cow biscuit from the bottom of his Cole Hahn loafer while still eyeing Otis’ sandwich.

“His mind. He’s been studying the Fibonacci sequence. That’s where every number is the sum of the preceding two. Somewhere he got his hands on Leonardo Pisano Fibonacci’s book, who is also known as Leonard of Pisa, by Papa John and Luigi Petrocelli, the proprietor of Luigi’s Pizza Parlor and Disco over in Slap Ankle. The name of the book is Liber Abaci. Have you read it? It is a fascinating read, by the way.

Otis watches his rabbits breed. It appeals to his sense of mathematical order. He even has an understanding of axonometry.”

“Axo…? Zippy stuttered.

Max lifted his hand and said, “Never mind Zip.”

Bernice pointed at Otis who sat with a concentrated expression next to the rabbit hutch still eating his sandwich and said, “See? He’s about to say something grown-up wise. Go ahead, Otis, say something.”

“Did you know that rabbits are naturally social and live in groups, Mr. Fly?” Otis said.

“No I don’t. I guess that one slipped by me.”

“They are and rabbits reach sexual maturity after one month and their gestation period is one month. After reaching sexual maturity, female rabbits give birth every month. I know’d ‘cause I watched them.

A female rabbit gives birth to one male rabbit and one female rabbit.

If you put a male and female rabbit in a hutch, how many pairs of rabbits can be produced from that pair in a year if each month each pair begets a new pair and the rabbits don’t die?”

“I don’t know, but that’s fascinating, Otis,” Zippy replied, flicking more fresh cow biscuit from his pant cuff.

“Otis surely isn’t this Goat-Man or monster you are looking for,” Bernice continued. “Otis is a savant, a genius! When he finishes his chores which consist of shoveling cow biscuits and milking goats, he documents these rabbits breeding and using the Fibonacci sequence, he predicts how many rabbits he will have by the end of the year. Every year now for the last ten years he has been exactly right, ‘cept the time a couple of coyotes got into the hutch and ate half the herd. That were a bad year, weren’t it, Otis?”

“It was mama, but I got them coyotes, didn’t I?”

“You sure did son.

How many farmers in rural Alabama know of the Fibonacci sequence, Mr. Fly? Not many. In fact, not many people in the United States know of Leonardo Pisano Fibonacci.”

Leonardo Fibonacci A.K.A. Leonardo D’Pisa - Famous Mathematician

“I think we should be going now,” Max replied, grabbing Zippy Doo by the arm and dragging him away from the rabbit hutch. Thank you for your time.”

“Did you see that black and white rabbit, Max? She is real cute.”

“How do you know it’s a she, Zip.”

Otis accompanied them around the barn to their car, only Otis didn’t bother to navigate around the piles of cow biscuits.

“That’s mighty nice,” Otis said pointing in the direction of the Flymobile and Max’s rifle. “Where’d you get that thing?”

“It’s a Pre-64 Model 1970 Winchester. A collector’s item.”

“I was talking about your car. It sure is ugly What kind is it?”

“It’s a 1958 Oldsmobile 98 Jetaway with Hydra-Matic drive and a 394 cubic inch engine. It’s got electric windows.”

“Nice. Does it have air?”

“Only in the tires,” Zippy replied. “Let’s go, Max. It’s getting late.”

Otis waved as they drove down the dirt road back to highway 24 heading back to Burnt Corn. They heard Cletus yell out, “Y’all drive safe now, ya yeah?” Francis the coon dog didn’t move. He was either sleeping or passed out.

“How much did you pay for that Winchester Rifle, Max?” Zippy asked.

“A little over two grand. As I said, it’s a collector’s gun. Every year it has gone up in price.”

“Where do you store an expensive rifle like that when you aren’t using it?”

“I keep it in a Kade Realtree double-sided foam padded rifle case made of a durable 1200D waterproof material that protects it against rain and wet conditions.  The case is specifically designed for scoped rifles.

CX901RC Kade Realtree Xtra Scoped Rifle Case

“Sweet, man, I might have to get one,” Zippy replied.

“You don’t have a rifle, Zip, but they do have a nice case that would fit your .357 Smith and Wesson revolver. Check it out at iadconcepts.com. They have a complete line of ammo bags as well.”

As they pulled onto highway 84 a few miles out of Burnt Corn, Zippy said, “We did it, Max, we solved that Goat-Man mystery, didn’t we?”

“Not so fast, Zippy. We solved this sighting of what was thought to be the Goat-Man. There very well could be a real Goat-Man out there someplace terrorizing innocent people; people just like the folks in Devil’s Holler and Burnt Corn Alabama. We don’t know. We just don’t know. We will have to continue to stay alert for any sightings reported from around the world and periodically check in with Liz Tureen, the Daily Gazette’s investigative reporter. She’s connected to all the news services. But this is what we do, Zip, we are here to protect the good people of Burnt Corn and the neighboring towns here in Alabama.

“I’m hungry,” Zippy said. “Let’s stop at that new eatin’ place that opened in Ankle Scratch. Its called the Smut Eye Grocery, Bait and Fine Dining place. They were advertising on the inside wall of that porta-potty that’s located alongside the highway at the new Burnt Corn Mall and Auto Auction. Wanda said she stopped in one day when nature gave her a call and she couldn’t make it to the office. She said they make a shrimp flavored crack at the Smut Eye that’s to die for.”

Shrimp Flavored Crack - Smut Eye Grocery, Bait & Fine Dining’s Weekly Special

[kfdirector]

Student Awareness of Nonstandard Danger Society

The afternoon finally came.  Niewitzski watched as the students were clearly taking initiative; Craig and Tracey were setting up laptops with audio-visual equipment, Joe and Mario were sitting at the back of the classroom, smiling with satisfaction, and Stella was, of course, supervising.  Niewitzski kept his directive simple: “I want to know what we know!”

Stella saluted.  “Sir, at my direction Freshmen Reubens and Washington built a timeline of the data feeds from all sensors and collated all information!  Freshmen Reubens and Washington have valuable results to report, sir!”

“Neat.  Who found out...whatever it was?”

The two freshmen in glasses looked at each other and didn’t volunteer.

“Sir, science is a team effort!  Now then, Freshmen Reubens and Washington will make the report, sir!”

Craig turned on a projector and pulled down the screen at the front of the room.  Tracey stood by the screen, and gulped.

“Relax, Miss Washington.  This isn’t for a grade.”

“Well, yes.  Umm.  This is the monster from the 27th.”

Niewitzski looked at the slide, and could not disagree: it was the monster from September 27th.

“I mean, uh, this is the monster when examined under wavelengths visible to the human eye.  This is what you saw. Next slide, Craig.”  A very similar monster appeared, only in shades of red.  “This is the monster when examined under a segment of the infrared portion of the light spectrum.”

Niewitzski frowned.  “O-okay....”

“Freshman Washington!  The faculty advisor of SANDS is missing the significance of this data!  Please elaborate!”

“Oh, right, okay.  Um, overlay, Craig.”

The visible-spectrum slide was now overlaid on the infrared slide, showing two monsters, side by side.  Niewitzski still didn’t - oh.  Oh? The monsters were side by side, but the backgrounds were in sync!

“Um, as you can see, I hope, in infrared, the monster leaves a perfect after-image of its previous location.  With this particular infrared filter, we can see where the monster was about twenty-two seconds in the past.”

“That is - that is not how infrared works.  That’s insane.”

“Sir, it gets much more insane!  Prepare to have your mind blown, sir!”

“Um, let’s just skip ahead and overlay the ultraviolet filter, Craig.”  Several slides were bypassed with quick clicks. “This is the monster in a ultraviolet portion of the spectrum, at the same time stamp.  As you can see, with this particular filter, the monster can be clearly seen at a different location. If you fast-forward ahead in the video - yes, like that, this is the location that the monster appears at in the visible spectrum about twenty-two seconds later.”

“We’re past insane and into impossible.  Ultraviolet light does not see through time.  That’s not how anything works, not even a little - ”

“Science has only begun to be slapped around for its lunch money, sir!”

Tracey gave a small cough.  “Um, I need to point out, Mister Niewitzski, that under the infrared and ultraviolet filters, light was only emitted from the monster’s past and future locations, not from its present one, while every other object behaved normally.  Also, the readings we got on Friday night were largely consistent, although the time separation was only nineteen seconds.  Okay, Craig, next section, please.”

The screen changed from false-color images of monsters to something that looked like an oscilloscope or an EEG - that is, there were a lot of waves being charted on the screen, and Niewitzski had no idea what any of them meant.

“While the creatures were active, Mister Niewitzski, signals were being broadcast on several little-used radio bands that sort of resemble brain waves.  When the creature from the 27th was shot by Officer Gale, and when the creature from Friday was struck by your car, the signals became erratic.  At the moment they vanished, the signals went completely flat.”

Niewitzski stroked his beard.  “That sounds really unlikely, although not seeing-through-time unlikely, but potentially very useful.  About how far away could these waves be detected?”

“Um, there were really strong signals.  Probably throughout the metro area.  So, using a radio direction finder tuned to the frequencies I’ve noted on - next slide, Craig - we could track these monsters.  Both monsters used the same frequencies.  Also, these are almost completely unused by normal radio traffic.  So, any signal on them at all above the standard atmospheric noise could function as a good early warning system.”

The teacher grinned.  “That frees us from the police scanners.  But...why and how are the monsters broadcasting their thoughts on the electromagnetic spectrum?”

“Sir!  With Freshman Reubens’ input, I have arrived at a hypothesis, sir!”

“With Craig’s input?  Uh oh.”

“Sir, these beings are clearly in flagrant violation of many laws of science as we know them in this universe!”

“Right.”

“Therefore, sir, I propose that they are not native to this universe!  The monsters have found themselves here, and they possess a set of characteristics that are, in their native universe, perfectly reasonable and internally consistent characteristics for monsters to have!  However, in this universe, some of these characteristics are perhaps measured in different ways, or along different axes, than they are in their home.  Therefore, sir, while in this universe, they are walking incarnations of dividing by zero!  I am aware that it is possible in higher math to approximate division by zero, but in normal math it results in two equalling one, so please bear with the metaphor, sir!  With every step, they are throwing up read-errors in the very nature of reality, and those manifest as these violations of science!”

“...you came up with this theory on Craig’s help, yes?”

“Freshman Reubens’ input was invaluable in the formation of this hypothesis, sir!”

“I bet it was.  I’m with you one hundred percent up through, maybe, the first sentence, that they’re not from around here.  Everything after that is...it, ah, needs more data.”

Stella shrugged, as if she hadn’t just spent a minute vehemently shouting this theory and so wasn’t that invested in it.

“Question.”

Tracey called on Joe, at the back of room 203.  “Yes?”

“So, if we wear glasses with ultraviolet filters or whatever, we can see where that thing’s going to be twenty-two seconds before it gets there?  So Mario and I can see where it’s going to swing and we can then be, y’know, not there when it does swing?”

Mario muttered.  “Twenty-two seconds is a longass time in a fight.  Give me just two, please.”

Niewitzski slammed his fist on his desk for dramatic emphasis; Craig jumped.  “Okay, yeah, that’s the problem with this part! This all violates causality in a big way, I mean, straight up time paradox here!  How could we see where that thing’s going to attack next, when the very fact that we’d just make sure not to be there would cause it to not bother attacking there in the first place?”

Tracey sighed.  “I don’t know, Mister Niewitzski.  All we have our observations on the cameras with the filters.  We should test this further in our next battle by equipping the four of you with headsets that apply the ultraviolet filter in real time, and see what happens.”

“Even if it causes a time paradox and breaks the universe?  And what do you mean, four?”

“Sir, if you think I’m going to keep staying in the van, you’re some kind of shithead, sir!”

“Um, well, and we won’t know if a time paradox breaks the universe until we try, sir.”

According to legend, Niewitzski had heard, right before the atomic bomb test at Trinity the scientists had done calculations to determine whether the atmosphere itself might catch fire.  It was the only comparable situation that came to mind, and yet it had both lower stakes and more qualified scientists working on it.  “So, last question, then: why are they here?”

Craig spoke up.  “They’re being summoned, Mister Niewitzski, that’s still my guess.”

Niewitzski waved that off.  “These are apparently things from another dimension.  Magic conjuring circles aren’t going to do the trick.  Do you really think Tony Hayes - assuming he even was responsible - was really the first one to muck around with magic and see if it could work?”

“Maybe he was the first one to find something that worked!  Magic is all about the experimentation, Mister Niewitzski, that’s why they even have Books of Shadows.”

He did not find that plausible.  “Humans have been screwing around with magic for probably longer than we’ve been hitting rocks with other rocks, and Tony is the first guy who finds something that works?  I’m doubting that.”

“Hey, Coach,” Mario cut in.  “Summoned doesn’t just mean ‘by magic’, does it?  Maybe there’s some government or university lab that’s playing with weird science.”

“That’s possible, I guess, but ‘Coach’ is really more Joe’s thing.  Okay, that’s...well, I can’t think how they would stumble on this, but apparently the natural laws I’ve been leaning on all my life aren’t as ironclad as I’ve been hoping.  Hmm.”  He scratched his beard.  “Can these things be summoned remotely, or are they being sent from a central point?  All of the attacks that we know about are in this county, which is suggestive, but we’ve been relying on police reports until now.”

The students nodded.  “So, we need to use the radio frequencies Miss Washington listed to prepare for the next attack.  Even more important than destroying the monster will be tracking its initial appearance, and the time it is in existence before being spotted, as well as its location.  With a few more data points, I think we can apply some principles of geographic profiling to narrow down the origin of these monsters, and thereby stem the problem at its source.”

And, hopefully, that source would not be, say, anyone he knew personally.

“SANDS, are you with me?”

Of course, they were.  All the way.

Even to the point of Craig volunteering to shimmy up a radio tower and install an antenna to aid in their new monitoring plan; Tracey using her careful handwriting to forge backdated paperwork protecting the SANDS’ right to operate as a school club; Mario helping Niewitzski repair his car; and - well, the less he knew about what Joe and Stella might be doing to arm or finance their operation, the better he felt.

But yes, they were with him, all the way.

[la-appel-du-vide]

Lake Powell 2021 🌊

Ohhhhh Lake Powell. What a PLACE!

After we had such a blast last year, we wanted to do another trip this year - especially because now Brady has a Jeep that can tow! We figured it would be cheaper to rent a pair of waverunners in Utah and then drive them down ourselves. Plus, Brayden had NEVER SEEN Lake Powell, which is both crazy and not acceptable. (;

As the summer went on, and the lake levels kept dropping (they're currently the lowest they've been since the lake was originally filled up), we were getting nervous that our trip wouldn't happen. Ramps at Wahweap and Bullfrog were closed and auxiliary ramps had to be used instead - the photos of the ramps so far out of the water are absolutely crazy! Houseboats were encouraged to pull out of the water. Things weren't looking super good. But when the time came to pull the trigger, we took the risk and hoped things would work out. And they did!

We rented two waverunners from a guy in Provo, and that was a horrible experience. We told him we'd be picking them up on Thursday night between 7:30 and 8:30, and he said to give him a 45-minute heads up. We texted him when we were about 35 minutes out, and he didn't even leave until 40 minutes later. He literally did not get there until 9:15. I was livid - we still had a 5-hour drive to Page. On top of that, the waverunners were NOT in good shape. Deep gashes covered in paint/duct tape, one that was missing its registration sticker (literally illegal), one that had no mirrors, neither of them had dry box lids (he tried to tell me that was normal, that they ALWAYS break off on every machine he's ever seen - BS, and I called him on that), they had a tiny amount of storage space, and they were already low on fuel. Perfect. He insisted that we take 6 life jackets, even though we only needed three, so he didn't have to put a special note on the reservation. Annoying. He talked to us about useless information for almost an hour, so we left SO much later than we wanted to, and didn't get to Page until almost 3 AM. Good start to the trip, right?

We stayed in a little townhome Airbnb - it was fine, but a bit outdated (the green carpet was a clear giveaway haha). We got a quick four hours of sleep before we were up again, exhausted, to hit the lake. We stopped by the place Beach and I rented from last year to see if they wouldn't mind giving us a map - we LOVED the map they gave us last year. Clear, helpful, and plastic so getting wet doesn't hurt it. It was awkward though, when I explained we weren't renting from them this year, but certainly would again in the future because we were having a very bad time, but that we'd really love a map again. She gave us one, but didn't seem happy about it. Yikes. Then we stopped at the store to get some snacks for the day, and finally stopped at Maverik to fill the stupid things up. That's where the next sign of trouble occurred - Beach took the turn too sharp and rammed the trailer right into the bollard in front of the gas pump. It was SO loud and shook us all. And yep, it left quite a dent in the trailer. It was still functional, but that's no way to start a day. Morale was quite low for a bit.

But then we finally got to the lake. Much needed. The line wasn't long at all - I think many people are afraid to launch after hearing the things we'd heard. We launched like pros and hit the lake! I was really conscious of enjoying the sun on my skin, the sound of the water, and the way it felt to cruise around the lake. I get so sad at the end of summer, because the warm weather really keeps me going. We went to see the dam, and took an inaugural dip. We LOVE our little dips - always refreshing, and never too cold. Plus, you dry almost immediately when you get out! We drove the channel (insane, of course) down to Antelope Canyon, and then hit a no-wake zone up until we got to a spot to park. Because the lake levels are so low, there's a ton of muck in the water (I'm not sure how that correlates, but it must, because it wasn't like this last year) when you get to the ends of canyons. There was a THICK layer of sticks/debris coming into the Antelope Canyon parking area. Brayden and Beach had to swim us in so we didn't get the machines full of that crap and ruin the engine.

It's amazing how much less crowded it was this year than last year. We only saw a handful of people while we were hiking Antelope - last year, it was pretty packed and we had to do a lot of waiting to get photos. I liked this part of the change haha. It's such a stunning canyon and hike - the beautiful wave patterns along the red rocks are just unreal. It doesn't feel like it's something that could have happened naturally, and it's absolutely mind boggling. We are so lucky to have something like this so close to home, so we can experience the magic so easily. Ugh, I love it. I got a little nauseous on the hike back, because I always do when I don't sleep and then physically exert myself. BUT I didn't throw up, so W! We took a small break to eat an apple, drink some water, and rest in the shade before swimming the waverunners back out through the muck hahah (poor B and Beach - I got a ride). We did have to do some serious work to ensure that the engines were clean and clear of debris before we started them up again, and that was a little stressful, but it all turned out fine.

Then I hopped on with Beach and we drove Navajo Canyon, which is really just one of my favorite things to do. By the time you get to the end (it's pretty long) it smoothes out so nicely, and there is NOTHING better than absolutely cruising on glass water on a waverunner. We were gliding so fast, taking smooth, wide turns through the canyon... gave me absolute life. At one point, Beach hopped on with Brayden and they took a video of me riding side-by-side with them, and it's so great.

Then trouble hit us yet again. My waverunner alarm started going off to alert us of low fuel. We knew it was time to head back to the marina anyway, so we could load them up before it got dark. We started heading out and just decided to take the fastest path back to the marina, because we obviously weren't familiar with these machines and didn't know how far we could get once the gas light was on. We took a right out of Navajo Canyon to go look for the small channel that leads from Warm Creek Bay back to the marina - which we used quite a bit last year. But..... we couldn't find it. I was pretty sure I was losing my mind. We drove that whole bay up and down a couple of times, and I was getting so frustrated by how I could possibly be missing it. Eventually, we stopped by a houseboat to ask where it was, and apparently it's LITERALLY GONE. The entire channel DRIED UP. In the span of a few months. That is WILD. And we'd wasted all the gas I probably even had left looking for something that doesn't exist anymore. So the bad news was, now we'd have to go ALL THE WAY AROUND to get back to the marina. Their gas light was on too now (by the way, the alarm would scare us so bad when it went off, and it lasted like 3 minutes before it would turn off - so annoying) and we figured we would run out of gas before we made it that far. We ended up stopping by another houseboat (a SUPER nice one) to ask if they'd be willing to let us borrow a couple of gallons of gas. They were super nice about it and let us have some. Then we went guns ablazing to try and get back to the marina before it got dark. Going the long way, though, you hit THREE wakeless zones, so it just takes forever. We ended up completely forgoing the rules and flying through them. The sun was setting FAST and it was getting SO DARK. It's definitely not safe to be out there in the "pitch night" hahaha as Beach said. By the time we dropped Beach off to go get the car and trailer, it was literally black outside. I could hardly see anything. Some of the buoys had lights on, which was so helpful, but we still had to be so careful. Our only saving grace was a broken down boat at the bottom of the auxiliary ramp that had a light on, so we could find the ramp in the dark. Loading was difficult, especially once we realized that the roller poles on our trailer were SO LOOSE. We texted the rental guy about what to do and his response was "Lol, guess those need to be tightened." And he suggested we try to tie them on with a rope. SO helpful. All of his stuff was shotty.

But we DID IT. What an adventure. We stopped for dinner at Denny's on the way home, because we looked like hell and hadn't eaten all day. And then we were so exhausted, I'm pretty sure I've never slept deeper. I couldn't even keep my eyes open for a minute.

To be continued...

[foreversillythings]

roses are red, roses are white interlude

chapter five

Hi! This was supposed to be only one chapter, but it definitely got away from me so I split it up. The second half should be up in a few days, I'm just finishing it up. This is an interlude (so technically not part of the main story), but I really think it's important for what's to come. I've been really excited to write it and as soon as it's done, we're off to part 2: the thorns of Lancaster, so I hope you enjoy!

roses are red, roses are white interlude a lullaby from the sea part one of two fairy hearts

1470

Annie clutches tightly to Robert the squire as they make their desperate flight from Rochester, Haymitch’s words ringing in her ears.

We’re the rebels

Her heart thuds heavily in her chest, worry clashing with hope.

What does that mean? Could it...could it be...Finnick, are you finally coming home?

*

1455

Annie is almost four when they meet for the very first time.

A lazy June is fading into a rainy July when a letter arrives from the Earl of Pembroke asking if he may avail himself of their hospitality. He is passing by her father’s Great Canfield Castle on his way home from somewhere up north and her parents leap into action, cleaning and cooking and preparing. The whole castle buzzes with activity and Anne isn’t entirely sure why they’re so excited; they never are when Uncle George and his great gaggle of children come to visit (not that Anne is either, her cousins are very annoying). Still, she can’t help being a little eager too; after all, the only people she’s ever met are relatives or servants.

The long awaited (or at least it feels long to Anne) Earl arrives on a Tuesday and her governess Mags laces her into her best dress, the blue one with the pretty bird pattern, and then ties ribbons in her hair.

“Don’t you look lovely,” she says fondly and Anne preens. She feels lovely and she skips down to the entrance hall, her poppet Lizbet held snugly in her arms. I wonder what this earl is like...I hope he’s nice. Her parents are already there, her daddy pacing about in dark velvet and her mummy running her hands over her round tummy (apparently there’s a baby in there, not that anyone will explain to Anne how it got there).

“Their rooms are ready?” her daddy demands and Mummy purses her lips.

“Yes, my lord.”

“The cook is prepared?”

“Of course.”

“Everything must be perfect Mary,” he says sternly and Mummy’s eyes narrow.

“I know John,” she replies, tone annoyed, and they glare at each other. Anne squeezes Lizbet and though she doesn’t understand it, she certainly feels the tension in the air around them. It’s not an unfamiliar tension, her parents rarely seeing eye to eye, but thankfully their guest comes cantering through the gates and her parents transform into the perfect hosts, all smiles and good cheer.

(maybe they should have guests more often)

The Earl of Pembroke rides in on his horse, looking just like a great Earl should Anne decides, but he is not alone. Just behind him comes a boy perhaps a year or two older than Anne, his hair shining bronze in the sunlight. She stays focused on him as the Earl dismounts, her curiosity piqued. The only children she’s ever met are her cousins and this boy, whoever he is, is immediately interesting for not being related to her. The Earl shakes her daddy’s hand and then kisses her mummy’s, while a groom helps lift the boy down from his horse.

“Welcome to Great Canfield, Lord Boggs. It is an honour to have you here,” her daddy says and Boggs smiles warmly.

“It is my honour Lord Oxford. It has been a long ride and we appreciate the chance to rest.”

He gestures then for that boy to come forward and he does, Boggs dropping a hand to his shoulder.

“And my nephew, Finnick,” he introduces and Anne runs his name over in her mind. Finnick.

“Ah yes, and this is our daughter, Anne,” her daddy says and pulls her forward. She hugs Lizbet close and looks at this Finnick, with his chubby cheeks and green green eyes.

I wonder if I’ll like him...

*

Her parents and Boggs go off to do grown-up things, leaving Anne and Finnick to Mags’ care.

Anne feels shy, too shy to say anything, so she hides her lower face behind Lizbet and stares at him with big eyes. He’s only a tiny bit taller than she is with a round face, tanned skin and coppery hair that curls around his ears. That hair’s a bit messy from the ride, his nose is reddened by the sun and the only thing he seems to have in common with his uncle is his pretty pretty green eyes. Boggs is taller (but then, he is much older), has no hair and his skin is a dark brown, but his eyes are just like Finnick’s and Anne wishes she knew more words so she could describe that special shade of green. He turns to look her over and she feels her face heat up, an embarrassing wave of bashfulness washing over her. He looks at her a little warily, as if she might bite, and Anne cannot help but wonder if he’s met many girls that do.

“The king is my uncle,” he says suddenly and Anne’s eyes go wide. She’s never met the king, but she’s heard her parents talking about him before and she’s understood enough to know that it’s impressive for Finnick to be related to him.

“My uncle’s a knight,” she offers, mumbling into Lizbet’s hair, and Finnick leans in with a frown.

“Huh?” he asks and Anne ducks her head, her skin burning. He continues to look at her and she shakes her head, too nervous to say anything else. Thankfully, he accepts this.

“My cousin Cato’s going to be king someday too,” he says, though he doesn’t sound very excited about it. Anne just continues to stare at him, her tongue useless in her mouth.

“Oh no,” Mags sighs, “I’ve broken my needle, I’ll have to get a new one. I’ll be right back.”

They watch her leave and as soon as she’s out the door, Finnick turns to Anne.

“Can we go outside?” he asks and Anne frowns. Mags never said we couldn’t...

She nods.

“Lizbet think so,” she murmurs and he grins.

“Great, let’s go!”

He heads straight outside and Anne trails after him, Lizbet hugged in her arms. The ground’s still muddy from last night’s rainfall and Finnick stops just outside the doors, peering around with his hands on his hips. Anne almost asks him what he’s looking for, after all, this is her daddy’s castle and she knows it fairly well, but the words get swallowed up in her throat. She’d been so excited to meet this new boy but now that he’s here, she’s never felt more timid.

“Aha!” Finnick says, perking up suddenly. He hurries forward and Anne struggles to keep up, her shorter legs and long skirts slowing her down. She stumbles over the sloppy, uneven ground but Finnick just charges ahead, leaving her behind just the way Cousin Georgie does.

Anne is not impressed.

Her boot sinks suddenly into a squelchy, wet puddle and she squeaks as her foot disappears into the muck. She tries to pull it out but can’t, frustrated, angry tears starting to burn in her eyes. She stomps the foot not trapped in goop and Finnick actually stops rather than running off without her. He turns but he doesn’t laugh or even say something snotty like Cousin John would (that’s the problem with being the baby of the family (except for Ursula, but no one plays with Ursula, she’s only two), everyone is always older and never very fun). He winces, his green eyes filled with distress.

“Oh no,” he says and hurries back to help. Anne looks at him in bewilderment as he takes her hand (and it might’ve been easier if he’d held both, but it’s not as if she could put Lizbet down) and pulls, her leg leaving the guck with an awful suctiony noise.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, “I shouldn’t have gone so fast.”

Anne just stares at him.

“Anne?” he asks anxiously, as if afraid she might be cross and she shakes her head.

“Lizbet doesn’t think it was your fault,” she says (even though Anne herself kind of does, but then, Lizbet’s always had the better manners) and he blinks, looking down at Lizbet in her arms.

“Oh,” and then he smiles, “thanks Lizbet.”

Anne bites her lip but wants to smile too, and Finnick doesn’t run off this time, he stays right by her side. He leads her all the way to the river and then peers down into it with a grin, his whole face glowing. The sunlight flittering through the clouds makes the water glitter and Anne looks down at their reflections, the light breeze making their faces ripple. She feels a little breathless as the river slides by, something magical about it  that she can’t quite put her finger on. Finnick sits down on the wet grass and yanks off his boots, fumbles with his belt and then tugs off his hose, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. Anne watches him in confusion and he looks up at her with sparkly eyes.

“Do you wanna put your feet in?” he asks, “I do it all the time back home.”

Anne blinks a few times and then nods shyly. She sits beside him, the damp soaking through her skirts and she pulls them up over her knees. She frowns at her boots and it takes both her and Finnick to figure out how to unlace them. As soon as they free her feet she plunges them into the water, gasping a bit at the cold. Finnick follows suit and smiles at her.

“Can you swim?” he asks and she shakes her head, feeling silly.

“I love swimming, I could teach you,” he offers and Anne feels something happy bloom in her chest.

“Lizbet would like that,” she whispers and he nods, looking up at the sky.

“Okay, but maybe when it’s warmer. Hey, doesn’t that look like a rabbit?”

Anne follows his eyes and stares up at the clouds.

“Lizbet thinks so.”

“Good, cause rabbits are lucky,” he says and then he looks off to his left and gasps. Anne looks too and there is a great big rock, gray and mossy. Finnick stands and rushes over to it, his boots and hose forgotten. He immediately clambers on top and Anne watches with wide eyes as he scrambles up and stands, wobbling slightly, before nodding.

“I can see France from here,” he declares and Anne’s mouth drops open.

“Really?”

He nods and then looks over at her.

“Would Lizbet like a look?” he asks and Anne’s heart thunks. She nods and stands, walking slowly over to him. Her bare feet sink into the mud and she tentatively hands Lizbet over. Finnick puts her on his shoulder and then holds her legs so she doesn’t fall off.

“See, right over there,” he points and Anne follows his finger but can’t see France, though maybe it’s because she’s on the ground. Finnick peeks down at her.

“Do you wanna come up?” he asks and Anne bites her lip before nodding slowly.

“Okay,” he says, “but remember, I’m almost six, so you might not see it.”

Anne nods because that seems sensible and then he takes her by the elbow. He helps haul her up and her bare feet scrabble on the rock, trying to climb up.

“Anne Cresta! What are you doing? Get down!”

Finnick’s face goes pale at Mags’ shout and Anne slides down into the muck. She turns and Mags is running towards them, her face very red. Finnick slips off the boulder to land beside her, Lizbet squeezed in his hands.

“What were you two thinking? I go off for five minutes...oh, look at you,” Mags says with a sigh and Anne looks down. There is mud all over her dress and she can feel it squishing between her toes. Mags shakes her head.

“And you,” she says to Finnick, dirty legged and in his breeches. She sighs again.

“Alright, let’s go and get you cleaned up before your lady mother sees you,” she says and takes Anne’s hand. She gathers up their discarded clothes and Finnick follows slowly behind, his head bowed. They go up to the nursery and Mags sits Anne down on a bench, her arms full of gucky boots and Finnick’s hose.

“Stay here,” she tells them sternly as she goes to fetch clean things and Anne looks over at Finnick. He’s biting his lip, eyes on the floor and Anne frowns.

“Finnick?” she asks and he flinches.

“Sorry,” he whispers and she looks at him in confusion.

“Why?”

“Cause I got you in trouble. I don’t want you to be in trouble.”

Anne shrugs.

“Lizbet doesn’t mind,” she says and he looks up at her in surprise.

“Really?”

Anne nods.

“Yes, she had fun.”

Finnick grins and Anne’s tummy feels warm.

“Me too,” he says and Anne smiles back at him. He sits beside her, Lizbet in his lap and right then and there, Anne decides she is very, very happy he came to visit.

(he’s much better company than her cousins)

*

After dinner they play cards, Mags watching them much, much more intently.

She’s meant to be stitching but all she does is stare at them instead, as if expecting trouble. Mags has always told her staring was rude, but Anne decides not to mention it, since Mags was nice enough not to tell Mummy or Daddy about their fun in the mud. They don’t get up to any trouble but since she’s never actually played cards before, it falls on Finnick to teach her. He is very excited to show her something new, his eyes bright and sparkly and he is very patient every time she forgets a rule (which is more often than she’d like to admit). He even deals a hand to Lizbet, though she’s not very good at all. Anne looks down at her cards and then at Finnick, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Lizbet is glad you’re teaching us,” she says, “your lessons are much more fun than Mags’.”

He grins.

“Yeah? I hate lessons; they’re so boring. I don’t think my tutor Master Sprindrel likes me very much.”

Anne frowns but Finnick just shrugs.

“I don’t like him much either, he’s very stuffy.”

“Lizbet likes Mags,” she says, “though her lessons aren’t always very fun.”

“Lessons never are,” Finnick sighs and Anne nods, “but Uncle Boggs says I have to do them.”

Thinking of his uncle, a sudden thought occurs to her.

“Where’s your mummy and daddy?” she asks and he blinks at her, before looking back down at his cards.

“My father’s with God,” he says and Anne nods. She’s never sure what that means, though her parents have said the same thing about her grandparents. All she does know is that people with God never seem to come back.

“I never met him,” Finnick continues but then lights up.

“He was locked up in a dungeon before he left for heaven,” he says and Anne gasps.

“Wow,” she breathes. “Why?”

He shrugs.

“I dunno, but it must’ve been for trying to fight some great evil or something. Uncle Boggs always tells me he was a hero.”

“That’s...Lizbet thinks that’s amazing,” she tells him and he grins. She furrows her brow.

“What about your mummy?”

He frowns.

“She lives with her new husband, Plu-tarch Hea-vens-bee,” he says slowly, separating each syllable.

“I thought only mummies and daddies were husband and wife,” she says in confusion and he shrugs.

“I guess not,” he says and another question occurs to her.

“But why aren’t they here?”

“Why would they be?”

“Don’t you live with them?”

He shakes his head.

“I live with Uncle Boggs.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, the King thought it’d be better like this. I’m glad though, Plu-tarch’s got this nephew, Darius, and he always follows me around. It’s annoying.”

Anne nods and how odd, not to live with your mummy or daddy.

“It’s your turn,” he says and she looks back down at her cards. All her other questions start to disappear, all her focus swallowed up by the game.

(and perhaps that’s the best part of being young, it is so easy to forget all your concerns)

*

The next morning it’s already time for them to leave and Anne cannot help but pout.

It’s been fun having someone other than Lizbet to play with and she doesn’t want to say goodbye. She watches sullenly as they load up their things, Lizbet clutched tight against her chest. Her parents and Boggs talk to each and Finnick wanders over to her, not looking nearly as upset as she feels.

“I guess this is goodbye,” he says and she nods, squeezing Lizbet.

“I had fun, thanks!” he continues brightly and a little bit of her bad temper vanishes.

“Lizbet too,” she murmurs and he grins. A groom comes to lift him up onto his horse and he waves, his smile wide.

“Maybe we’ll see each other again,” he says and she nods, lifting up Lizbet and making her little hand wave. He rides off and I hope so, she thinks, I really, really hope so.

*

1468

Finnick had always known that exile was a possibility.

He’d never said it aloud of course, his uncle would’ve had his head, but defeat was always an option. Someone had to lose and that could be either side, he’d acknowledged that. He didn’t know if the Yorkists had any intention of offering pardons, but it didn’t really matter where he was concerned. He was the king’s nephew, damned by his own blood and there would be no pardon offered to him, no forgiveness. This war could only end one of three ways for him.

Victory, death or exile.

Well now it’s over and he rides as hard as he’s ever ridden, trying to outrun death itself.

Exile it is.

(and there’s a moment when he thunders across England that he thinks of all he’s leaving behind and almost turns right around)

(this isn’t the end)

(I’ll be back, I swear)

*

1457

Finnick is a few months shy of eight when they see each other again.

“How would you feel about company this summer?” Uncle Boggs asks one night over dinner and Finnick perks up immediately. And then wilts.

“Cousin Cato?” he asks, unable to cover his pout, and Uncle Boggs laughs.

“No, not cousin Cato. Do you remember the Earl of Oxford?”

Finnick shakes his head.

“We visited him in Essex two years ago. He has a daughter about your age, Anne, I think.”

Finnick’s eyes go wide and he does remember her, of course he does.

“And Lizbet!” he says, remembering her very favourite poppet too. Uncle Boggs frowns.

“No, he only has the one daughter.”

Finnick shakes his head.

“Lizbet’s her poppet,” he corrects and Uncle Boggs look at him strangely.

“Right. Well, I mentioned to the Earl that we’d be spending the summer at Hadleigh and since his Hedingham Castle is so close, he thought he might bring his family for a visit. What do you think?”

Finnick nods eagerly. He loves company (as long as it isn’t Cousin Cato) and Anne was nice he remembers.

“Wonderful,” Uncle Boggs says, “I’ll let Earl John know right away.”

*

It is June when they all meet up at Hadleigh and Finnick bounces up and down as the Oxford family rolls through the gates with a great train of horses and baggage carts and a fancy looking litter. A man that must be Earl John swings off his horse and Uncle Boggs goes over to shake his hand. Finnick ignores them as they talk, much too busy trying to find Anne. A servant opens the litter’s door and helps down a lady that must be Anne’s mother, her hair covered up by one of those silly hats ladies are always wearing. Uncle Boggs bows and kisses her hand.

“Lady Mary, welcome,” he says and then finally Anne comes out of the litter. She looks just like Finnick remembers her, dark haired and big eyed and clutching little Lizbet in her arms. He hurries over while she peers about in wonder, her arms tightening on Lizbet.

“Hello!” he says excitedly and she looks at him, her whole face lighting up.

“Finnick! Lizbet missed you,” she says and he grins. He thinks of Uncle Boggs and Lady Mary and wanting to look grown up, he takes Anne’s hand and kisses it. He’s not really sure what the point of it is, but he feels very gentlemanly. Not wanting Lizbet to feel left out, he kisses her tiny hand too. He looks back at Anne and she beams, her cheeks a pretty pink.

“Lizbet’s very happy to be here,” she says and he smiles.

“Me too,” he says and then Uncle Boggs leads everyone inside, Lady Mary holding onto his arm. Finnick watches them go and bites his lip. He looks at Anne, looks back at Uncle Boggs and Lady Mary and then nods. He puts his arm out in front of Anne but she doesn’t take it. She merely blinks at it and then at him, clearly confused. Finnick feels his face go hot and he gestures at Uncle Boggs and her mother with his head.

“Oh!” Anne says, eyes wide, and then she takes hold of his arm. He pulls her after the grown-ups, feeling quite grown-up himself. They go up to the rooms the Oxfords will be staying in and when Anne goes to unpack, Finnick knows he was right.

It’s only been a few minutes, but she’s already much better company than Cato.

(not, to be fair, that that’s very hard)

*

He tries to teach Anne a new card game after supper and her kindly-faced nurse is supposed to be watching them, but most of her attention is taken by some little baby that toddles about and babbles nonsense.

“Who’s he?” Finnick asks and Anne turns to look.

“Oh, that’s Aubby,” she says and he frowns.

“Aubby?”

Anne goes pink.

“Aubrey. It’s just Mags told-” she pauses for a moment and swallows, “me once that when people like each other they sometimes make up nicknames, so I’ve started calling him Aubby. He’s my brother. He’s not very fun, though he’s better than he used to be. He talks sometimes and he can move and play some easy stuff, he used to do nothing but sleep. And cry.”

She talks very fast and Finnick nods, thinking this over. She peeks at him through her lashes and it’s the very first time she’s ever said “me”. He thinks for a minute more and then, “Can I call you Annie?”

Anne’s already big eyes go even bigger.

“Annie?”

“I like you,” he says, “so Annie can be your nickname.”

She goes pinker than pink, like that perfect rosy colour at sunset, and nods, biting her lip. She shuffles her cards together until she drops them suddenly, clapping her hands.

“Ooo, you can be Finny!” she exclaims and if she’s giving him a nickname, that means she must like him too. He nods, a fuzzy feeling in his chest, and then, because he’s seen Uncle Boggs do this every time he makes some sort of deal, he takes Annie’s hand and shakes it.

“Annie,” he affirms and she nods.

“Finny,” she agrees.

They smile at each other, hands still joined and just like that, they’re friends.

*

He hasn’t been to Hadleigh since he was very small, so he, Annie and Lizbet go exploring.

(of course, they can’t go anywhere too exciting, Mags always following behind them so they stay out of trouble)

They wind through hallways and peek in every room, store rooms and bed rooms and rooms Finny could never guess the purpose of. They find a dusty room full of old costumes for Twelfth Night celebrations and they try them all on, funny hats and glitzy masks and pretty wings that sparkle.

“You look like a fairy princess,” he tells Annie as she spins around in glittery wings and a tiara made of beads. Her whole face lights up and she smiles brightly, putting the sun outside the window to shame. She drops into a curtsy just like a real lady (except maybe a bit more wobbly) and he takes off his oversized hat to bow, holding it up against his heart. She giggles and he grins, putting the floppy hat back on his head. It might be a farmer’s hat, the brim wide and limp.

“Here,” Annie offers, holding out a prop of a farmer’s tool, “it’ll go good with your great hat.”

Finny takes it with a beam. They head off again, still dressed up, and Mags’ eyebrows go straight up when she sees them.

“And what’s all this?” she asks, gesturing at their outfits.

“I’m a fairy princess,” Annie says happily, hugging Lizbet tight, and Mags smiles warmly.

“And a beautiful one too,” she says and Annie’s cheeks turn pink with pleasure. Finny thrusts out his tool.

“I’m a farmer,” he says and Mags grins, bouncing Aubby on her hip.

“Oh, are you? Well, shouldn’t you be ploughing a field then?”

Finny nods and turns to Annie.

“Come on Annie, let’s go plough!”

They hurry off outside, Mags laughing softly after them. Of course, as soon as they get there they both realize they have absolutely no idea how to plough.

“We could roll down the hill,” he offers instead and Annie nods. They race up to the top, Finny tripping over his stupid farmer’s tool and falling face first into the grass. He is more embarrassed than hurt and Annie kneels down beside him, her face all painted over with concern.

“Are you okay?” she asks and he nods quickly, not quite able to meet her eyes.

“Fine,” he mumbles and she touches his arm lightly. He turns and she holds out Lizbet.

“Here, Lizbet always makes me feel better.”

Finny looks at her and she smiles, soft, sweet and in all his years going to court, he’s never met anyone quite like Annie.

“Thanks,” he says, taking Lizbet and he does feel better. Annie stands and holds out her hand. Finny takes it and she pulls him up, his smile blooming to match hers. They run up the rest of the hill together and then roll down it, their laughter rising up to the sky. They go again and again, grass in their hair and leaving stains on their clothes. They pick flowers because Lizbet loves bouquets and Annie teaches him to tie them together, making a necklace for her and crown for him.

“Lizbet thinks it’s very pretty here. Your Uncle’s very lucky,” Annie says with a smile, her eyes sparkly.

Finny frowns.

“This isn’t my uncle’s castle, it’s mine.”

Annie stares at him.

“Yours?”

He nods and puffs out his chest.

“Yup, I’m the Earl of Richmond,” he boasts and Annie’s eyebrows draw together.

“I thought only daddies could be earls,” she says and Finny shakes his head.

“Nope.”

“Huh. Mummy says if I’m really good and act like a lady, I’ll be a countess someday.”

Finny ponders this and Annie pulls up grass with her fingers, her skin starting to turn green.

“Do you want to be my countess?” he asks and Annie looks up at him.

“Really?”

He nods.

“Yeah, I like you best of all the girls I know, so better you than them.”

Annie presses her dirty hands to her cheeks.

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Glimmer Mowbray’s mean, she stole my tart.”

Annie gasps in outrage.

“How rude! Why would she do that?”

“Cause my cousin Cato told her to.”

“Why?”

“Cause he’s mean.”

Annie shakes her head.

“I’d never steal your tarts, no matter who told me to,” she promises and he nods.

“I know, that’s why I’d pick you over her. Or Clove Clifford, she’s also mean. And everyone else is too old or too young.”

Annie thinks about this for a moment and then nods.

“Okay, I’ll be your countess Earl Finny.”

He smiles and then, because it seems like something an Earl should do for his Countess, he reaches over and brushes the dirt from her cheeks. Annie’s eyes go wide but then she straightens his doublet for him, smoothing down the arms with her fingers. They smile at each other until Mags comes over to lead them back inside and Finny stands and offers Annie his hand, pulling her and Lizbet up to their feet.

He doesn’t let go until much, much later.

*

June goes by much too quick but then it’s July and Earl John decides to head home.

Finny doesn’t mind his leaving, but he is upset that he’s taking Annie with him. He kicks at the dirt while they pack up, Earl John and Uncle Boggs guffawing together by Annie’s litter. She and her mother come outside and as much as he hates it, that means it’s time for goodbye. Finny tries to be a grown-up and keep the pout from his face, but it isn’t easy. Annie looks as downtrodden as he feels and Lady Mary curtseys to his Uncle.

“Thank you so much for having us, Lord Boggs,” she says and he kisses her hand.

“It was a pleasure; you are all welcome any time,” he replies and then helps her up into her litter. Mags and Aubby go in next and Finny turns to Annie, his whole body feeling heavy.

“Goodbye Earl Finny, we’ll miss you,” she says, holding Lizbet’s arm and making it wave. He takes that tiny hand and kisses it like a real lord’s supposed to and then takes Annie’s bigger, warmer hand and kisses it too.

“I’ll miss you too Countess Annie, Lizbet.”

Uncle Boggs comes over and drops a hand on his shoulder.

“Countess Annie?” he questions and Finny nods.

“Yes, Annie’s my countess,” he explains and Uncle Boggs starts to laugh, Earl John joining in. Lady Mary doesn’t laugh; her face goes sour instead and she gives him the same look his mother always gives him when he does something she doesn’t like. Finny frowns and wishes he knew what was so funny, but he doubts they’d tell him. Grownups never do. Annie climbs up into the litter with her mother and she holds Lizbet up to the window. Finny watches her leave and he’s almost eight years old, an earl and he definitely doesn’t want to cry.

Definitely not.

*

At the end of November, her daddy has a very exciting announcement.

“We’re going to London for the festivities this year,” he announces as they break their fast and Annie drops her apple slices.

“To see the king?” she asks in awe and Daddy nods, patting her on the head.

“Indeed. We weren’t able while your mother was with child nor when Aubrey was so young, but I think it’s time.”

Annie nods and licks apple juices from her fingers, her mummy watching her with a frown.

“Stop that Anne,” she says sternly and Annie does, her cheeks turning red. Mummy dips her head at her husband.

“An excellent idea, my lord. When do we depart?”

Annie rubs her fingers on the tablecloth while no one’s watching and her daddy thinks.

“A week or two I think. I trust you to have everything ready,” he all but commands and his wife dips her head again.

“Of course, my lord.”

Annie watches them and thinks she and Finny have much more fun being Earl and Countess than her parents do.

I wonder if he’ll be at court.

*

They leave early in December and Annie bundles Lizbet up against the biting cold, wrapping her in thick scarves and a little shawl Mags made her for last New Year’s. There’s a thin white sheet of snow over everything, a chilly wind nipping at her nose and Annie bundles up too, Mags dressing her in a thick, wooly cloak and a pair of dark gloves. There’s a hood to pull up over her head and then she climbs up into the litter, Mags making sure to tuck a cozy blanket around her. Her mummy sits across from her and Mags beside her with Aubby in her lap, fire warmed bricks placed beneath their feet to try and fight the cold.

Annie is almost too excited to manage, her heart pounding with thrills. She’s never been as far as London, nor has she ever been anywhere as wonderful as a royal palace. This is the greatest adventure she’s ever had but Aubby seems determined to ruin it, his pudgy face screwed up into a pout. He starts to cry only moments after they leave, his fists flying as he shouts. Mummy pinches her nose and “no, no, no!” Aubby wails. Mags coos in his ear, strokes his back and Annie frowns, his voice very shrill. Her happiness starts to evaporate, ground down by his shrieking and why, why, why are brothers so annoying? It takes forever to get him to quiet and it never lasts, a new fit of temper coming over him every time they make a stop. Nobody shouts at him though and Annie wants to throw her own fit, because that’s not fair. If she had a tantrum, she’d certainly get a scolding.

They’re all very surly by the time they arrive at Westminster (except her daddy, who is lucky enough be riding on a horse), its towers tall and dark against the sky and Annie is too busy closing her eyes and covering her ears to take in London, that sprawling city filled with soldiers and criminals in chains.

(would it have made things better or worse if she had?)

With Aubby momentarily hushed, Annie opens her eyes and is immediately entranced. Her daddy has many great castles, but none as magnificent as Westminster and Annie hangs out the window in awe, Lizbet squeezed against her chest.

“Stop that Anne, you must be on your best behavior,” her mummy reprimands and Annie wilts before settling back in her seat. She pouts and Mummy gives her a sharp look.

“None of that Anne. You must be a lady and ladies do not pout.”

Annie wants to sniffle but doesn’t, Mummy’s eyes narrowed as they watch her. She swallows her unhappiness and buries her nose in Lizbet’s soft hair, Aubby starting to fuss yet again. Her mummy sighs in frustration and Mags starts to make shushing sounds in the hope of keeping him calm (which seems unlikely, judging by their entire miserable journey). This is no fun at all, I want to go home.

Luckily for all of them, they’ve reached their destination and grooms help them climb down into the courtyard. Mags sets Aubby down and he totters about with a big smile, his little hand held tight in hers. They go up to their rooms to unpack and Annie looks around in wonder, her petulance forgotten, everything here so much more lavish than she’s used to. The king must be very rich indeed. She peels off her gloves and cloak when they reach their rooms and can’t wait to go searching for Finny. The king’s his uncle, he must be here. She’s just about to head out to find him when her mummy’s sharp voice stops her.

“What are you doing Anne?”

Annie turns to her and frowns in confusion. Mummy sighs.

“You can’t take that doll with you,” she says and Annie’s arms tighten around Lizbet.

“But-” she starts and never finishes.

“Anne, you mustn’t argue. This is the King’s court; we must make a good impression. You need to behave like a lady, not a child. You can either leave that toy here, or you can stay here yourself until you grow up.”

Her words broker no argument and Annie wants to stomp her feet, wants to cry and shout. Mags frowns.

“My lady,” she begins but Lady Mary cuts her off.

“You coddle her Mags, she must learn to behave appropriately.”

Annie squeezes Lizbet and fights back her tears. She is six years old and as much as she likes to pretend she’s all grown up sometimes, she’s not. Lizbet has been her bestest, only friend for as long as she can remember and Annie doesn’t feel safe without her. Mummy makes an aggravated noise.

“Fine then, stay here,” she says and turns to sweep from the room. Annie bites her lip and steps over to the bed. Her hands shake but she sets Lizbet down, tucking her under the covers and smoothing down her hair. It’s okay, I don’t need Lizbet. I have Finny now, he’s my friend. She repeats this to herself as she follows Mummy, but it still feels like she’s left an arm or a leg behind, her whole body feeling off and exposed. Mags squeezes her shoulder.

“Just think of all the exciting things you’ll be able to tell her about later,” she whispers and Annie nods, adding that to her mantra. Lizbet will be so happy to hear all about Finny, she missed him very much. They make their way down the stairs and Annie wonders where her daddy’s gotten to, because he’s nowhere to be seen.

(this isn’t all that surprising though, he’s always somewhere else)

“The Prince of Wales is about your age Anne, I hope the two of you will get along,” Mummy says and Annie wrinkles her nose.

“He’s mean,” she says and Mummy stops suddenly. She whirls around, her cheeks red and Annie recoils from her fury.

“How dare you,” she hisses, “how dare you say such things. Where would you even hear such an awful thing?”

“Finny told me,” she mumbles, feeling small and Mummy’s nostrils flare.

“I don’t care what that horrid little boy tells you, I never want to hear you say anything like that ever again. Is that clear?”

Her voice is harsh in a way Annie has never heard and she nods, tears starting to sting in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers and her mummy’s eyes narrow.

“You should be. He is your future king Anne, you must show him respect.”

Mummy turns back and starts to walk, Annie trailing miserably behind her. Mags strokes her hair tenderly and Annie barely restrains a whimper. She wipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands and though she’s sad, there’s also a kernel of anger in her belly.

Finny isn’t horrid, he isn’t

how dare you mummy, how dare you

*

Mummy wanders off to gossip with ladies in great tall hats and Annie is left to her own devices. She drags Mags all over the palace, peering in every room for Finny. He must be here somewhere...

“Countess Annie!” a jubilant voice calls and she turns, clapping her hands in joy when she sees Finny rushing towards her. He nearly trips on his feet and she laughs, forgetting all the day’s unhappiness in an instant.

“Earl Finny!” she greets and then drops into her best curtsy. His face is red when he reaches her but he bends into a bow right away. He goes to take her hand but then frowns.

“Where’s Lizbet?” he asks and Annie feels her heart ache.

“Mummy says ladies do not have poppets,” she says and tears get caught in her throat. Finny folds his arms across his chest and scowls.

“That’s stupid,” he says firmly and Annie feels her heart bounce.

“Well hello Lord Finnick,” Mags greets as she comes around the corner with Aubby. Finny grins.

“Hullo!” he says and then nods at her brother. “Aubby.”

Aubby ignores him, far more interested in tugging on some fancy curtains. Finny turns back to Annie, his whole face lit up with excitement.

“You’ve never been here before, right?” he asks and she shakes her head. He beams.

“I’ve been here loads of times,” he brags and Annie’s eyes go wide.

“Wow,” she breathes, suitably impressed. He grabs her hand.

“I’ll show you all the best spots,” he promises and then they’re off. Mags smiles fondly and follows after them, Aubby doddling beside her. Finny takes Annie to see the great hall with all its big, long tables and then outside to the gardens covered over in shimmery white snow.

“Oh,” she says softly, entirely enchanted, and Finny squeezes her hand.

“You should see it when it’s warmer,” he says and then they’re off to Finny’s room and its magnificent views. Annie looks out the window and gasps, all of London sprawled out beneath her.

“I can see Essex from here,” Finny says and Annie looks up at him in surprise.

“Really?”

He nods.

“Uh-huh, just over there.”

He points and Annie follows his finger, squinting her eyes.

“I can’t see it,” she sighs and Finny shrugs.

“Well, I’m eight,” he says and Annie nods because that makes perfect sense. He wanders over to the bed and flops down on it, his arms stretched above his head.

“I’ll take you to the stables after; you won’t believe how many horses there are!”

Annie nods and sits beside him.

“Lizbet’s very happy we came,” she says and he turns over to look at her. He smiles and really, she thinks, he has the nicest smile in the world.

“Me too,” he says and she feels warm down to her toes. He bounces up then and grabs her hand, his fingers wrapping snugly around hers.

“Now come on! There are horses to see!”

He leaps off the bed and takes her with him, and yes, Annie thinks as they laugh through the halls, I’m very happy I came.

*

“Are there any other kids here?” she asks much later when they’re heading to dinner and Finny wrinkles his nose.

“Yes,” he says sourly and Annie frowns.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he mutters and she raises an eyebrow at him. He scowls.

“There’s my cousin, Cato. He’s only five but he’s always bossing me around and acting like a...like a jerk. I’m older but he’s always I’m a prince Finnick, you have to do what I say Finnick, I’m going to be king Finnick, I could cut your head off Finnick.”

Annie covers her mouth in horror.

“Could he really?” she whispers and Finny shrugs.

“Not until he’s actually king, but I don’t want him to complain to his father. I hate it when he’s cross; he always does nasty stuff when he is.”

Finny’s voice takes on an odd, unhappy tone and Annie feels her heart shake.

“Oh no,” she says softly and Finny shrugs again.

“Most of the others always do what Cato says, which means never doing anything nice. I hate having to play with them; they always make fun of people and trip servants in the hall. They’re...” and he lowers his voice, “gits, all of them.”

“I don’t think I’ll like them,” she says and his eyes widen.

“They’re not all bad,” he hurries to assure her, “Henry Holland’s okay and so’s the Earl of Salisbury’s son, not that he comes around often. Oh, and the Duke of Suffolk’s son John, though he’s only five...and um, I’ve never actually talked to the Duke of York’s daughter, but I’m sure she’s nice.”

He trails off and looks at her anxiously; as if afraid he’s scared her off. She smiles and takes his hand.

“I’m sure, but even if they’re not, I’ve got you. That’s enough.”

He blinks at her and then smiles sweetly, his fingers tightening on hers.

“Yeah?”

Annie nods without even a little bit of hesitation.

“Definitely.”

Finny beams.

“You’re enough too,” he says and she grins. They head into the great hall together and there are more people milling about inside than Annie has ever seen. She feels suddenly shy and draws closer to Finny’s side, wishing desperately she had Lizbet with her. Finny leads her over to the farthest table where all the children are gathered and she hugs his arm in concern. Finny is enough, more than enough, but that doesn’t mean she’s not afraid to face Cato and his group of meanies.

“Finnick!” a voice calls and she turns to see a boy hurrying towards them. He’s maybe seven with a freckly tanned face, light brown hair, hazel eyes and dirt stains all over his boots. Finny grins.

“Hullo Henry,” he says and this must be Henry Holland.

“Were you outside?” she blurts and then blushes. Henry glances at her and Finny laughs.

“Henry practically lives outside,” he says and Henry sighs.

“I wish,” he says with glittery eyes before giving her a thoughtful look.

“Can you climb trees?” he asks and Annie has to shake her head, feeling somewhat stupid. Henry looks appalled.

“You can teach us,” Finny offers and Annie feels a little less dumb. Henry nods.

“I’ll have to,” he says very seriously and Annie smiles. Finny squeezes her hand and they reach their table. They sit and there’s a knot of children about their age clustered at the far end. Finny narrows his eyes at them before leaning over to whisper in her ear.

“That’s Clove Clifford,” he says, indicating a short girl with very dark hair, “and that’s Glimmer Mowbray”, a tall girl with silvery blonde hair and pale skin, “and that’s Marvel Abernathy,” he finishes, pointing out a boy with muddy brown hair, vibrant green eyes (though not as pretty as Finny’s) and very light brown skin. Annie looks them over and cannot help but hope they’ll be nicer than Finny described.

“I hope supper comes soon,” Henry sighs and then “Finnick! Finnick! Finnick!” an excited voice practically squeals. Finny wilts and Annie looks behind them to see a boy of perhaps five streaking towards them, his cheeks rosy, his eyes wide and his hair the brightest orange she’s ever seen.

“Hello Darius,” Finny says and Darius bounces up and down, looking at Finny with awed adoration.

“This is my friend Annie,” he introduces and Darius looks over at her like she’s fallen straight out of heaven.

“Hello,” she manages, waving slightly, and Darius beams.

“Hi,” he breathes and his whole face lights up. “Finnick’s my cousin! Step-cousin actually,” he amends, though his enthusiasm doesn’t dim. Annie nods.

“Why don’t you sit over here, Henry’ll move, won’t he?” Finny asks and Henry shrugs. He scoots over to the next seat and Darius practically vibrates as he climbs in next to Finny. He just sits there and smiles widely, three of his teeth missing. She wonders if Aubby will be so impressed with her when he grows up.

“And who are you?”

She’d been so caught up in Darius she hadn’t noticed the other children coming over and Annie jumps in her seat. The question is from that blonde girl, Glimmer, who looks down her thin nose at Annie. She ducks her head immediately, her hair falling over her face.

“Anne,” she mumbles.

“What was that?”

“Anne of Oxford,” she says a bit louder, because she has nothing to be embarrassed about. Her daddy’s an earl and that’s impressive, her parents told her so. Glimmer lifts her chin to think about that and the other girl, Clove, thrusts herself forward.

“Never heard of you; I bet your father’s only a knight,” she says as if that’d be the worst thing in the world and Annie feels offended on Uncle George’s behalf.

“He’s an earl actually,” Finny says angrily, “which is better than your dad the baron.”

Clove turns very red and Annie squeezes Finny’s fingers beneath the table. His cheeks are stained crimson, his eyes are narrowed at Clove and he’s the best, she decides, the very best.

“My daddy’s a duke,” Glimmer declares, looking at Annie like she’s something grubby on the bottom of her shoe,  and Finny opens his mouth to say something but Henry cuts him off.

“So’s mine,” he says, “which means I get to be a duke someday too. But you don’t right? You only become a duchess if a duke marries you.”

Glimmer scowls at him.

“So?” she asks and Henry looks her dead in the eye.

“I wouldn’t marry you,” he says firmly, “and I doubt you’d want Darius, unless you like babies that is.”

Clove gasps and Glimmer’s eyes go very wide, her lips clamped together so tight they almost disappear. Big, huge tears start to gather in her eyes and then she drops suddenly to the ground, a high pitched wail rising from her mouth. She rolls around, arms waving and Clove backs away like she’s diseased. Marvel Abernathy looks over at her from his spot near the head of the table and rolls his eyes. Annie stares at her in alarm.

“Is she okay?” she asks Finny and he rolls his eyes too.

“She does this all the time,” he says and Annie frowns. Glimmer’s just like Aubby except she’s six, not two.

“Or maybe you do like babies, since you act like one,” Henry says and Annie’s eyes go very wide. Just then a great horn sounds and everyone immediately scrambles to stand up, Annie following suit in bewilderment. Three figures come striding into the hall and she gasps. At the head is a man that must be the king, a glittering crown on his head. Wisps of white hair sneak out from underneath it and his clothes look very heavy, all velvet and jewels and a fur lined cape. His face is parchment coloured, papery and wrinkly like a prune but his lips are very red, almost like he’s bleeding.

Annie’s not sure why, but she suddenly feels very cold.

A lady who must be the queen follows him, her very dark hair woven through with shiny gold thread. Her skin is a warm sort of brown and she smiles, her teeth unusually sharp. Her dress is also heavy looking with costly gems and then comes a boy that must be Finny’s cousin. He’s blonde and smiling smugly, his dark eyes bright. They head to the dais at the front of the hall to sit at the head table and this is her first glimpse at England’s royal family.

Sadly, it won’t be her last.

*

“Finnick!” a sharp voice calls as he walks Annie back to her room and he stiffens all over. Annie looks at him in concern and turns to see a lady coming towards them, everything about her severe. She is dressed in sombre colours, her grey eyes are narrowed and she’s plucked her forehead and eyebrows, all her hair pulled tightly back into a caul. Finny inhales sharply.

“Hello mother,” he says, eyes duller than Annie’s ever seen. She gasps a little and looks back at the lady in surprise. She doesn’t look like Finny at all. She looks meaner. Finny’s mother sweeps her eyes over Annie in disinterest before focusing on her son.

“Why aren’t you making an effort to befriend your cousin? How many times must I tell you Finnick, you will never achieve your great destiny if you don’t become close to your royal relatives.”

Finny rolls his eyes like he’s heard this all before and Annie frowns. Great destiny?

“I don’t like him,” Finny says and his mother purses her lips like she’s just eaten something rotten.

“God has told me you will achieve greatness Finnick, but you must seize it,” she insists and Finny scowls.

“I don’t want to. Cato’s mean and I’ve got Annie now, she’s better.”

Annie feels something happy flutter in her tummy until his mother turns to look at her, her lips curling back over her teeth.

“Annie?” she echoes and Annie feels small and useless under her withering look. Finny squeezes her hand.

“Yes, she’s my countess.”

His mother laughs shortly, but it isn’t a nice sound at all.

“You are the king’s nephew, your countess will be someone of far more importance than this Annie,” she says and her voice drips with something nasty and cruel. Annie almost wants to cry and wishes she had Lizbet to hug.

“Oh there you are Anne, I was worried,” comes Mags familiar voice and they all turn to see her walking towards them. Her smile soothes Annie’s hurt but her eyes widen when she takes note of Finny’s mother and she drops into a curtsy.

“Lady Alma,” she says and the lady in question barely even seems to notice her. She turns back to Finny with a frown.

“I see I will have to have a talk with your uncle, Boggs is not raising you as I would like,” she says and Annie doesn’t say it, but she thinks that might be a good thing. Finny merely glares at her. Lady Alma gives them both one last harsh look before she leaves and Finny seems to wilt as soon as she’s gone.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles and Annie shakes her head.

“It’s not your fault. And what does she mean by destiny?”

Finny bites his lip.

“God talks to her,” he says in a tone that suggests he doesn’t believe it at all, “and He tells her that I’m going to be someone amazing someday. Except I always ruin all her plans.”

He sounds sad and Annie frowns. She squeezes his hand.

“I think you’re amazing right now,” she says and his eyes go very wide. For a moment Annie thinks he might cry but then he smiles.

“You’re amazing too,” he says and she feels all of Lady Alma’s rudeness melt away. Mags reaches out to stroke both their heads.

“Alright you two, it’s best you get to bed. It’s been a long night.”

She leads them off and Annie decides right then that she doesn’t like Lady Alma at all. Anyone who makes Finny sad is bad and never in her life has she ever been surer of anything than she is of that.

*

All the festivities over the next week are incredible, but nothing is better than presents on New Year’s.

Annie gets a fancy comb and brocade for a new dress from her parents, while everyone at court has to give the king something amazing and expensive. He gets golden cups, sparkly jewels, yards of velvet and fur lined cloaks, even a new horse from the Duke of Exeter.

“Henry’s dad,” Finny whispers to her and she nods. The king has a great, big mound of gifts when it’s all over and something awful occurs to Annie.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she tells Finny mournfully. “I’m a terrible Countess.”

“I didn’t get you anything either,” he admits and taps his chin. His eyes widen.

“I know, here,” he says pulling off one of his rings and handing it to her. It’s silver with a pretty pattern of swirls and Annie cradles it in her palm.

“I love it,” she says and pulls off one of her own. It’s gold with one little pearl and Finny smiles.

“Thank you Countess Annie,” he says and puts it on his pinky. Annie pushes his onto her thumb.

That night she curls around Lizbet in bed and stares at that ring, her whole body warm and happy.

This is the bestest bestest new year’s ever

ever ever

*

It’s sad saying goodbye, but Finny promises they’ll see each other again soon. Annie holds onto that as they roll away from Westminster and she cannot wait.

soon

*

1458

It turns out to be much sooner than either of them would have guessed.

In February, on Saint Valentine’s Day, Annie wakes to the sound of screaming. It is a wailing, wretched, heartbroken sound and she is frozen in her bed, far too terrified to go see what’s going on. She curls around Lizbet and listens to that shrieking, male and female, her heart hammering in her throat.

What could it be?

It sounds like it’s just beyond her door and then something shatters, like a vase against the wall. Annie flinches and her fear doubles, a sick feeling bubbling in her stomach. More sounds of destruction follow, over top of weeping and Annie cannot even guess what might be going on. Only six and terrified, she thinks the world is ending.

In a way, it is.

Aubrey Cresta, two years old, is dead.

He’d had a cold, but no one could have predicted this, could’ve imagined it would become so much more deadly overnight. His little body is clammy when they find it and it is Annie’s mother that wails so loudly, tearing at her hair and clothes. It is her father who rampages, sobbing as he breaks everything in sight. Mags merely cradles her poor lifeless boy, weeping into his chest and there is no heartbeat there, nothing at all.

(Annie sits in their nursery later and cries her own tears, because it is quiet, so quiet, no Aubby to disturb her peace. His muddy shoes sit by the door, a wooden horse lies sideways on a shelf but there’s no Aubby.

There never will be again)

Castle Camps becomes a tomb, filled to the brim with grief and darkness and tragedy, spun over them like an intricate web. Little, tiny Aubby is prepared for burial and there is not a single smile to be seen, no laughter heard at all. Everything is misery and something important dies with Aubby, something they’ll never get back. Her parents lock themselves away, away from her and away from each other, their sorrow too heavy to carry. Annie sits with Mags in the hush death has brought to their home and feels oddly empty. Mags strokes her hair, kisses her head and tells her Aubby is gone to be with God. She is still too young to fully grasp what that means, but she does know it means he’s gone and never coming back.

Her whole family comes to the funeral, her uncles, aunts and cousins and her parents look at those children with wounded, hostile eyes. Neither one of them ever looks at Annie. Other people she doesn’t know come too, each one with sympathetic words that never seem to soften her parents’ broken edges. Boggs and Finny arrive on the day of and Finny holds her hand throughout the ceremony, the Latin floating up and over Annie’s head.

Soon

I had wanted soon

I shouldn’t have

Mags sobs into her hands, her father falls to his knees and her mother sits there in silence, tears streaming down her face. Annie looks at them and feels as if she is drowning in their mourning, Aubby’s death like a puncture wound into the bubble of their life.

Oh Aubby, why did you go?

(she’s so caught up in her parents’ agony, she doesn’t even realize she’s started crying until Finny wipes the tears from her cheeks)

*

They leave Castle Camps after that and Annie wonders if they’ll ever be back. Aubby’s ghost lingers there and she doesn’t think her parents could ever survive the haunting. Finny hugs her goodbye and his arms are warm, his embrace as comforting and safe as Mags’. She breathes him in slowly, his skin smelling just like summer, and she wants to stay here, where it feels like nothing bad could ever touch her.

“I’ll come visit as soon as I can,” he promises and she nods, the harshness of her pain softening just a bit. She rests her cheek on his shoulder, tears tickling her eyes.

“He was so small, what will he do all alone?” she murmurs, fear thick in her veins, and Finny tightens his hold on her.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, “my Dad’ll look after him.”

Annie closes her eyes and breathes a little easier.

“Thank you, Earl Finny,” she says and he squeezes her.

“Anything for you Countess Annie.”

*

Soon after that, their lives fall into a pattern.

They spend every summer together, bathing in the river no matter the consequences, rolling down hills, catching frogs and fighting invisible dragons. They laugh together, sneak cakes from the kitchen and it’s perfect.

(or as perfect as anything can be in Coriolanus’ England)

They meet up again in time for Christmas and there’s hide and seek in the king’s grand castles, magnificent pageants to enjoy and lovely new year’s gifts to exchange, a brooch she gives him when she’s eight, fabric for a new dress for Lizbet, a deck of cards, a beautiful book of hours from him when she’s ten.

(you’re ten now, that’s a milestone, right?)

He regales her with the thrilling tale of his grandparents’ love, the Welsh servant and the widowed queen who eloped in secret. He tells her how they’d defied the law forbidding a queen to remarry without the king’s permission, how his grandmother had fought parliament itself to have his grandpa Owen granted the rights of an Englishman and how his grandfather had been arrested but managed to escape Newgate Prison and flee. It’s better than any made up story or romance, full of adventure and love and Annie sighs, eyes bright.

How romantic, I wonder if anyone will ever love me that much

I will, he promises her at all of ten years old, I’ll love you even more than that.

They grow up side by side but there are shadows of course, lurking just beyond the summer sun’s bright rays.

There is a hole in Annie’s home, Aubby’s death followed by another miscarried boy tearing her family apart, and the chill in their halls never seems to warm. Her father spends so long away, away at court, at his other castles, just away, that Annie wonders if he even recognizes her when he’s finally home. Her mother is sharp and jagged, brittle and no matter what she does, Annie can never make it better.

(put that doll away!)

(grow up Anne, stop being such a child)

Annie lies in bed and thinks of little Aubby, his chubby cheeks and mud stained shoes, and oh Aubby Aubby, why did you leave us?

(and under all that, she thinks, did my parents love him more than me?)

There is a weight on Finnick’s small shoulders, one growing heavier as he grows older, as every day passes. There is Cato hounding his steps with sharp words, taunts and Finnick bites his tongue, letting every wound fester until he thinks he might pop.

(you must make him love you Finnick, how do you think you’ll ever achieve your destiny without royal favour?)

There is his uncle, the King, glorious and vicious and vindictive. Executions in every city he visits, cruelties lavished on all who displease him and his darkness looms over everything Finnick does, breeding fear in his heart and suffocating him under the  pressure to live up to royal expectations.

(you are my nephew Finnick, you are a part of this family. Every mistake of yours is a mistake of ours, your failures reflect on us. You wouldn’t want to disgrace us Finnick, you may trust us on that)

At eleven, Finny loses his grandfather, Owen Odair, the Welsh servant who won the heart of a Queen. He had been kind, friendly and Finny had adored him. He’d taught him to speak Welsh (always be proud of who you are Finnick, no matter what anyone else says), told him the best stories of fighting in France and all about the royal grandmother Finny’d never met (she was beautiful, but more than that, she was clever. Catherine always beat me at everything, from cards to horse racing. I think she passed those skills onto you).

He’d never had anything but love for his grandfather and Annie mourns with him when he dies, holding him as he cries for days afterward. King Coriolanus doesn’t bother to attend the funeral and he denies Owen the chance to be buried beside his love with a mocking laugh. A Welsh servant has no place amongst the kings he says of his step-father and so Owen is laid to rest in Boggs’ chapel, far from the woman he’d risked everything to be with. It’s tragic Annie always says, but I’m sure they’re together now anyway.

And there are whispers too, about unhappiness and discontent in the countryside, in the towns, a rumble of terrible things to come. Riots flare up here and there, followed by bloody, violent punishments, and the whole country is just waiting for a chance to erupt. But there is also Mags and Uncle Boggs to love them, Henry to teach them to climb trees, little Darius to coo in awe at every little thing they do, and perhaps best of all, there’s each other.

It isn’t perfect, not really, but they are young and the world around them still seems wide open with possibility.

(if only it could stay that way)

*

1468 March

Scotland.

After spending a lifetime listening to his uncle call the Scots savages, barbarians, little better than dogs, it is Scotland that provides their refuge. The teenaged King James III welcomes them with open arms and provides them with much needed shelter and sustenance. He is far more gracious than Finnick himself would be if faced with his greatest enemy begging for help and looking at the two kings before him, it is pretty clear who the savage is.

(not that he’d ever say such a thing aloud of course)

Finnick knows he should be grateful he is alive after the massacre at Towton and he is, really. But Annie is still in England, alone and at the mercy of the Yorkists and it is only Uncle Boggs keeping watch over him like a warden that stops him from fleeing back to England. He can barely breathe with fear for her and how could I leave you?

“She is safer in England. The Yorkists won’t harm her, she hasn’t done anything wrong. Their grievance is with her father, not her. If you’d brought her with you, she would be in danger. Exile is a perilous life; we will be hunted and slaughtered if we are ever caught. You did the right thing,” Uncle Boggs keeps telling him and he repeats it to himself but never believes it. Annie is alone in hostile territory and if anything happens to her...

Be safe Annie, please be safe

*

1462

Everything changes the year she turns eleven.

Their visits usually happen in June or latest July, but this time Finny only shows up mid-way through August, three days after her eleventh birthday. He’d written of course, explained that the king wanted him in London, but Annie would be lying if she said there wasn’t a curl of uneasiness in her stomach. Mags merely laughs fondly and strokes her hair.

“He’ll be here soon,” she murmurs and Annie nods.

Maybe I’m just being silly.

(if only)

She is waiting outside when he finally arrives at Hedingham, his bronze hair shining in the sun. He beams when he sees her and leans forward in his saddle to wave. Annie smiles and feels her heart bouncing happily in her chest. He leaps neatly off his horse, all his limbs longer than they used to be, and Annie flings her arms around him, his own coming around her in a hug. He’s taller than he was at Christmas, not a lot, but definitely taller. He pulls back and she looks at him, all the baby fat that had clung to his cheeks seeming to have melted away.

“I missed you,” he says and happy bubbles fill her up.

“I missed you too,” she tells him, unable to keep down her smile, and he squeezes her.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he apologizes, “but I brought you a present!”

Annie smiles, fondness coursing through her like a river, and even though she’s older, she still can’t think of a single word to truly describe the perfect green of his eyes.

“You didn’t have to,” she says, “you’re present enough.”

She says it like she’s teasing but she isn’t and he smiles, her favourite, slow, corner-of-the-mouth smile that makes her every bone warm beneath her skin. Her mother clears her throat loudly.

“Perhaps we should move this inside,” she says with a particularly sharp look at Finny and Annie. They do and Annie loops her arm through Finny’s, practically skipping towards the doors.

“Come on,” he whispers just to her, “I want to give you your present.”

Her heart hums with excitement and she nods, tugging him off towards the stairs.

“Anne!” her mother calls in annoyance but she doesn’t stop.

“I’m just going to help him unpack,” she shouts back over her shoulder and the two of them pick up their pace to make sure no one stops them. They hurry into his room and thankfully his trunk is already there, Finny immediately heading straight to it. He flings open the lid and digs through it, tossing things out of the way. A stray pair of hose hits her square in the face and she laughs, winding the legs around her wrists.

“Is this my gift then?” she teases and he turns in confusion. He rolls his eyes when she holds up the hose for him to see and she laughs again.

“Very funny,” he says and turns back to his digging.

“Did you forget it?” she asks and he briefly looks at her to stick out his tongue.

“No, I just made sure to put it right in the middle, so it’d be cushioned on all sides. I didn’t want anything to happen to it.”

A thrill runs up her spine and she squeezes the hose, the anticipation driving her wild. What could it be?

“Hah!” he crows in triumph and then turns, a lovely little box in his hands. He bounces over to her and she might be vibrating. She takes it and he sits beside her, watching her eagerly as she lifts the lid.

“Finny,” she gasps, her eyes stretching wide. Sitting in that box is the most beautiful necklace she’s ever seen, so beautiful she’s almost afraid to touch it. It’s three strings of pearls interspersed with emeralds and from the center hangs a golden filigree heart with the loveliest emerald of all right in the middle.

“Do you like it?” he asks and she can barely speak.

“It’s...oh Finny, it’s beautiful, too beautiful,” she murmurs in awe and he bumps her shoulder with his.

“Just like you then,” he says and her heart beats fast.

“I love it,” she whispers and he smiles

“Do you want to try it on?” he asks and she nods, pulling back her hair. He clasps it behind her neck, fingers soft when they skim her skin and she gasps at herself in the mirror.

“Oh Finny,” she says and then flings herself on him. He catches her and laughs, squeezing her around the middle.

“Happy birthday, my Countess.”

And it is happy, though not because of the necklace. It’s because of him. She’d meant what she said before.

No gift, no matter how grand, could ever be as perfect as Finny himself.

*

“What did the King want?” she asks later when they’re lying side by side in the grass, their fingers linked. Finny sighs.

“To tell me what a disappointment I am,” he says and Annie bristles in outrage.

“What?” she demands and Finny squeezes her fingers.

“As the King’s nephew, it is my duty to befriend the next generation and ensure their loyalty to their sovereign lord. I am not nearly charming or amiable enough.”

“I think you’re very charming and amiable,” she says, still smarting at the King’s rudeness. Finny grins.

“You’re the only one who thinks so, apparently. According to the King I am nothing but a social failure. From now on, I must be the model courtier, hobnobbing with all the noble children. Even if I hate them, I have to lie and smile and act as if we’re all the best of friends.”

His voice is bitter and Annie frowns.

“Why?”

“I’m supposed to win their affection, all to bind these up and coming nobles more closely to our royal house.  And if they prove resistant to being bound, I am to gain their confidence so I might learn all their secrets. He wants me to kiss ass and then report everything back to him. He wants me to be a liar and a spy.”

Annie doesn’t know what to say to that so she scoots a little closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly and he shrugs, his smile false and his laugh fake.

“Ah well, that’s the price you pay when you’re related to royalty. Actually, I was hoping you might do me a favour.”

“What?” she asks and he pauses a moment as if embarrassed.

“Well, um...couldyoumaybeteachmetodance?”

It comes out in a breathless rush and Annie blinks, not having caught a single word.

“Huh?”

His face turns pink and he breathes in deeply.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he admits and her eyes go very wide.

“Really?”

“There just always seemed to be something better to do, but now my uncle’s insisting I dance with every girl at court and I’m going to make an absolute fool of myself. I know you’ve had a dance tutor, so help me? Please?”

Annie props herself up on her elbow and looks at him, all earnest and anxious. She nods.

“Alright,” she says, “I’ll teach you.”

“Really?”

She leans over him, her hair falling around them like a curtain.

“Of course,” she says, mock-offended that he would doubt her, and he grins. He pulls her down on top of him in a hug and Annie nestles into his chest with a smile. She loves hugging Finny; she always feels like she’s exactly where she belongs.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you Annie,” he says and she can’t help a cheeky grin.

“Make a fool of yourself at court,” she teases and he laughs.

“I would. Thank you. And as a show of my appreciation, I’m going to ask you to dance first. Not just next time we’re at court, but always. Until the day I die, you’ll always be my first dance.”

She lifts her head up a little to look at him in surprise.

“Really?”

He nods.

“I have to dance with everyone apparently, but you’re the only one I really want to dance with.”

Annie feels her heart smile.

“And I’ll always say yes,” she promises and he grins, squeezing her. She lays her head back down on his chest and listens to his heart beat.

If everyday could be just like this one, well, everyday would be perfect wouldn’t it?

*

She spends the next two weeks teaching him every dance step she knows and he is naturally graceful, so unlike the clumsy Finny he used to be. It’s fun, the two of them spinning around (though they never have any music, Finny much much too embarrassed to ever allow anyone else to know what they’re up to) and Annie doesn’t want it to ever end.

But then, she never wants her time with Finny to end.

It does though, it always does, but this time it comes far sooner than she could have expected. Only two weeks after he’d arrived, the King calls Finny to join him at his Leeds Castle. Annie is furious.

“You only just got here,” she says angrily as Finny packs and he sighs.

“I know.”

“He just saw you.”

“I know.”

“This isn’t fair,” she snaps and Finny sighs again. Most of the time, nearly all the time, she barely notices that Finny is two years older than her. But sometimes, like now, he seems older and she feels childish in comparison.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” he says and Annie does everything within her power to stop from pouting. A great many petulant, whining thoughts rise up inside her but she forces them down. If Finny can be grown up about this, then so can she.

“I know, but I’d hoped you’d at least stay until your birthday.”

“Me too, but what the King commands, I obey.”

He says the last bit bitterly and Annie feels something hard settle in her stomach. Oh Finny. She throws her arms around him and squeezes tight.

“I’ll miss you,” she murmurs and he nods, holding her closer than he ever has before.

“I’ll miss you too,” he whispers and Annie doesn’t know it of course, but this is just the start of the King taking Finny away from her.

(she’ll learn soon enough)

*

Finny does everything his uncle wants of him.

He smiles, charms and laughs with every young noble at court, even as he hates himself for it. He is a liar, but worse, he allows them to say and do awful things, all to convince them he’s their friend. He laughs when they trip servants in the hall, ignores the people they hate and agrees easily with every insult they throw at those not in their little circle.

“Ugh, I can’t believe George Neville asked me to dance, his father’s only a knight. Like I’d ever stoop so low,” Glimmer Mowbray says in disgust before fluttering her eyelashes at him and Finny grins.

“You deserve much better than that,” he says and she beams.

It’s the same as every day and Finny makes himself sick, but carries on anyway.

(not that he’s allowed to do anything else)

His uncle’s eyes follow him around every room and so Finny acts just the way his uncle wants, even though all he really wants to do is tell Glimmer and her ilk that they’re awful, rude and deluded if they think their titles make them so much better than everyone else.

They’re not better than anyone. But then, neither is he.

What have I become?

(you don’t want to know)

*

Christmas arrives and thankfully, so does Annie.

She is a like a breath of fresh air and Finny yearns so badly to run off with her, to have everything go back to how it used to be. Just him and Annie and Henry and even little Darius. He can’t of course, he must continue his charade but still, if he could have Annie beside him, it would be so much easier to bear.

But he doesn’t have her.

Annie flutters at the periphery of all their gatherings, always watching him but never once trying to approach him. When he manages to get a moment with her, even away from all the others, she is shy and quiet, so unlike the smiling, affectionate Annie he is used to. He is almost too afraid to ask why; terrified she will tell him she is disgusted by him. It takes until the final ball of the festivities before he is able to pluck up the courage.

There is a magnificent feast and Annie spends it all with some blonde girl he doesn’t know. He tries to convince himself he has nothing to worry about, that she is not avoiding him; she is merely making new friends. After all, he can see his birthday gift hanging about her neck, as lovely as he’d knew it’d look on her, that must mean she still likes him, right?

He sits at the head of the table, smiling and chatty, but that worry eats at him all throughout dinner. When they migrate to another room for dancing, Finny knows the time is now. He searches through the crowd until he sees her, her eyes sparkling as she looks at the dance floor, and he heads right over, determined and terrified. He bows when he reaches her and smiles as best he can.

“Lady Anne, may I have this dance?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes, her cheeks flushing a deep, dark pink but she nods quickly and he takes her pale hands in his. He leads her out amongst the other dancing couples and still she won’t look at him, a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach.

“So, who’s your new friend?” he asks, trying to sound nothing but mildly curious. She smiles.

“Madge of Bedford.”

Her voice is warm and happy as she says it and Finny cannot help but smile too. The name is familiar and it takes him a minute to figure out why.

“Oh, she’s my cousin,” he says and Annie finally does look up at him, her eyes wide.

“Really?”

“Well, first cousin once removed. Her mother, Margaret, is my actual first cousin. Which is weird, since she’s old enough to be my mum.”

“Oh. She’s very nice, Madge is,” Annie says and even though he’s still a little sick with worry, he cannot help being happy for her.

“My mother thinks I should marry her,” he mentions and Annie’s eyes go very wide, before she drops her head, eyes turned straight down to the floor.

“Really?” she asks, her voice at a much higher pitch than normal.

“Uh-huh. She’s the richest heiress in England by a huge amount, no one but the King has more land and money than her father. She’s also set to inherit two dukedoms, not to mention her royal blood. I bet nearly everyone in England wants to marry her.”

“Oh,” Annie says quietly, “well, she is lovely.”

“I’m sure she is, but I don’t want to marry her.”

Annie looks up at him in surprise.

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m happy being an Earl, I don’t need a dukedom. And really, what would I do with two of them? I think I’m rich enough on my own and I already have royal blood, I don’t need hers. I mean, I’ve never even spoken to her. And anyway, I already have a countess.”

He says it with a smile and Annie just stares at him, her eyes very wide and her cheeks red. Finny feels like he may be sick.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asks quietly and he’s so, so terrified she’ll say yes. She tilts her head a bit.

“Wrong?”

He nods.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Annie bites her lip and drops her head again, looking flustered.

“I haven’t, I...well, you’re making all these new friends and I’ve never been very popular with people like Glimmer, I didn’t want to get in the way.”

Her voice is very small when she says it and Finny shakes his head, both relieved and flabbergasted.

“Annie, you could never get in the way. Never. No matter what happens, I’ll always want you with me. You don’t have to sit with me or spend time with me if you don’t want to obviously, but just...don’t ever think I don’t want you to. I do, of course I do. You’re my countess, my best friend, my Annie.” He pauses then and swallows, his nerves nearly eating him alive. “That is, if you still want to be.”

He can’t help sounding vulnerable, all his worries crowded in his mouth and slipping out, but Annie looks at him shyly, her eyes bright.

“Of course I do, I always will. But your mother, she...doesn’t like me.”

Finny rolls his eyes and can’t help but smile, buoyed by her words.

“My mother doesn’t like anyone. It doesn’t matter anyway; she’s not in charge of me. I still like you best of all the girls I know.”

“I like you best of all the boys I know,” Annie says, her smile starting to unfurl and Finny feels his heart bounce in his chest.

“That’s what matters most. And anyway, think how jealous Madge or anyone else would be. You’ll always be my favourite girl, not to mention I promised you’d always be my first dance; that might be awkward at my wedding.”

Annie giggles a bit and he grins, spinning her around.

“See? It’s better for everyone if I marry you,” he says and she laughs, the sound lifting his spirits up to the roof.

“Okay. I’ll be your countess Earl Finny, happily.”

“Good.”

They grin at each other and the dance comes to an end, Finny not quite ready to let her go.

“You’re not very good, are you?” comes Cato’s harsh voice and both Finny and Annie look over at him.

“My most sincere apologies, your Highness,” Madge of Bedford says with a curtsy, possessing far more grace than Finny is sure he’d have if he were in her position. Cato stomps off and Annie puts a hand over her mouth in distress. People whisper and point while Madge tries to keep her head high, moving to the edge of the room with as much dignity as she can muster.

“Well, I think I’ve found my next partner,” he says, hating Cato for heaping this humiliation on Madge’s head. Annie looks up at him with a grateful smile.

“Idiot!” the King bellows and Annie jumps, her nails digging into Finny’s arm. Finny himself feels his heart thump and he watches his uncle strike a serving boy across the face, sending him and his wine jug crashing to the floor.

“Useless cur!” his uncle roars and Annie hides her face in Finny’s chest. He holds her, too horrified to look away and his uncle kicks that boy, over and over and over again.

“Did I say you were allowed to stop?” his uncle barks at the minstrels and they start playing again, their music slightly hysterical.

“Remove this filth from my hall!” the King shouts at two guards who yank the bleeding boy up. Finny fights the urge to be sick.

“Lord Brutus, see that the wretch is properly dealt with.”

The Duke of Somerset, the king’s cruellest noble, swaggers forward, his expression hungry.

“As you command, my king.”

Finny watches as the terrified serving boy is hauled off for some horrific torture and cannot help remembering the gruesome executions that had kicked off the festivities this year.

England is dying

He thinks it only briefly, that thought much too dangerous to be allowed to linger. He is the king’s nephew but it would only take one wrong word to send him to the torture chambers, to have him dragged through the streets in chains, even to find his head on a pike on the gates.

I wonder, will we ever be safe here?

Or are we to live our whole lives in fear?

*

1468 March-August

The Yorkists may have won England, they may rule it now, but King Coriolanus has no intention of letting that stand.

Almost as soon as they reach Scotland, the Lancastrians begin making plans to retake the kingdom, all with the support of James III of Scotland. He has promised to aid them in their struggle against the Yorkists, though this cooperation does have a price. Finnick is not made privy to all the clauses in James’ proposed treaty, but he does find out that James would like to seal their alliance with the marriage of his sister Margaret to Cato, Prince of Wales. Margaret is thirteen and seems pleasant enough, but Cato is beyond unimpressed. Finnick isn’t exactly surprised. He has never liked his cousin, in fact, he doubts very much that he ever will, but he does have to admit that when it comes to fidelity, Cato has always been true to Clove Clifford.

(though a part of him wonders if that’s because Clove Clifford seems the type to punish betrayal with a great deal of pain, if not outright death)

(honestly, he’s not even slightly surprised they get along so well)

Their liaison is an open secret, mostly because they don’t seem to have any understanding of the word “discretion”. Everyone on the entire bloody island has probably walked in on them in some intimate act; Finnick himself has witnessed their lovemaking so many times he’s given up counting.

It isn’t surprising that the Prince of Wales has a mistress, most would expect it of him, the surprise is just how blatant he is about it. Besides ravishing each other everywhere they can, they are nearly glued at the hip, Clove accompanying Cato everywhere except to his most important meetings. He showers her with jewels and gifts and he even listens to her, something Finnick never would’ve imagined possible. He suspects the king only allows the affair to continue because he assumes it must be a purely lustful arrangement, if he had any inkling Cato cared at all, Finnick is sure he would order it terminated. Clove is the daughter of a baron and not at all suitable as a wife to a future king, something Princess Margaret most certainly is.

The king despises the Scots with a flaming passion and has often mused aloud how he’d love to carry on Edward I’s great work and crush them to dust, but he is very low on options right now. James III knows this, Finnick is sure, and fully intends to press his advantage.

The Lancastrian exiles have almost nothing except for what King James sees fit to give them, they are entirely at his mercy. Some did manage to gather some riches before they fled England, but most, like Finnick, have nothing but what they wore into battle that day. He has a horse, his armour and what he’d worn beneath it and that’s all. To make matters worse, reports from England have confirmed what he’d known was coming, he has been attainted and everything he owns now belongs to Queen Katniss of York. He is officially destitute.

Enobaria and Cato did manage to take coins and jewels with them when they’d made their flight from Westminster (and Finnick is both disgusted and unsurprised to learn King Coriolanus abandoned them and tried only to save himself), but it is nowhere near enough to keep them all housed, fed, clothed and to fund an army for invasion. King James is their only hope of regaining England and it is on his generosity that they live. It is a bitter pill for his uncle to swallow, but it is the truth. With that in mind, the king consents to the engagement and so alongside their plans for conquering England, the betrothal ceremony of Prince Cato, heir of England and Princess Margaret of Scotland is planned.

Cato is furious over the whole thing and if Cato were anyone else, Finnick would certainly be sympathetic. He is sure it is just awful to be forced into a marriage with someone when you are so deeply attached to someone else, but sympathy for Cato has always been difficult to come by. Especially at moments like now.

“So, how is the monkish life suiting you?” Cato cackles at him, one arm wrapped snugly around Clove’s waist. Finnick inhales sharply but swallows his words. No matter how tempting, he is not allowed to knock Cato’s teeth in.

“You’re little fiancée in England must be so charmed that you’re being so chaste,” he continues and Clove smirks cruelly. Finnick bites his tongue and this mocking of his faithfulness is rich coming from Cato, who has never touched any woman but Clove.

“Or perhaps it isn’t a choice, perhaps your little prick doesn’t even work.”

Cato and Clove both laugh as if that’s the funniest thing in the entire world and Finnick barely manages to stop his eyes from rolling. His manhood works just fine (and it isn’t little, so sod off) but there’s no one in the world that could ever tempt him away from Annie. Cato’s just trying to get a rise out of you, ignore him. Finnick does, but then he’s had a lifetime of practice.

“I wonder if she’s being quite so virginal,” Clove says nastily, dark eyes fixed on Finnick but he doesn’t allow her the satisfaction of a reaction. She can taunt all she likes, if there’s one thing he trusts, it’s Annie.

Annie, oh Annie

He misses her with a fierceness that scares him and he dreams of her every night, dreams of seeing her again, holding her, talking to her and...well, let’s just say it’s a good thing the Earl of Oxford can’t read thoughts, or Finnick might find himself missing a crucial part of his anatomy.

Sometimes though, his dreams are nightmares.

He’s been going out of his mind with worry, so much so he can barely function. He has no idea where she is, how she is and now with her father attainted, she will have nothing and no one. Sometimes he wakes cold, sweaty, with his heart galloping in his chest and it’s because of Annie, because of all the horrible things that he imagines happening to her. Her only hope is that someone takes pity on her, a relative or friend or even the Yorkists, if not she’ll be left homeless and starving.

And that’s if she even survived.

Word had reached them that the Duke of Buckingham had burned Hedingham and Finnick had actually puked when he’d heard. Annie was at Hedingham and God only knows what Darius had done with her. It was almost inconceivable that his step-father’s little nephew could have turned on them so entirely, but he had proved it rather convincingly. In any other circumstance, Finnick might have cared about that betrayal, but all he can feel is his fear for Annie, tormenting him day in and day out. The only thing that keeps him sane is focusing on their planned invasion, pinning all his hopes on the idea that he will soon be back in England, soon he’ll be able to find her and make sure she’s safe.

She has to be

Please Annie, please be safe

*

1463

Of all the castles she’s been to, Finny’s Dunstanburgh Castle in Northumberland is by far her favourite. It is a great big fortress on the coast and from the moment she’d first visited, she’d been enchanted. There is something about the sea stretching out before them, about the salt in the air that’s just stunning.  She feels...alive here in a way she never does anywhere else.

“Annie!” a hearty voice calls and she beams, turning around in her saddle to see Finny headed down the castle’s front steps. He is taller yet again, broader and, well, handsome. Annie blushes but it’s true, he seems to grow lovelier every time she sees him. His skin has a sunshine touch of gold, his hair shines bronze and there’s something about his face, something she could never hope to describe.  A groom helps her down from her horse and she throws herself on Finny, breathing in his smell of sea and summer.

“It’s good to see you,” he whispers and his breath is hot on her ear. She shivers a bit and squeezes him as tight as she can.

“Oh Finny,” she sighs and he stiffens for a just a moment. She pulls back to look at him and there’s a shadow in his eyes, one that flits away almost before she recognizes it.

“I’m a bit old for Finny, don’t you think?” he laughs and she blinks.

“Oh, okay. Finnick.”

It sounds a little off on her tongue, a blot of melancholy appears on her heart and she keeps thinking about that shadow in his eyes.

“Should I call you Anne?” he asks and she shakes her head.

“No, I like Annie best.”

He nods and that shadow is back, dark and sad as it flutters over him. It’s gone a moment later and he’s all smiles, tugging her by the hand.

“Come on, I’ll help you unpack.”

(what she doesn’t know, what she can’t know, is that what he wants to say is I’m still Finny, I’ll always be your Finny)

(but then he remembers his uncle, stern, unforgiving and his words It’s time for you to grow up Finnick)

(no more tears, no more childish games, it’s time you became a man)

*

“I’m scared,” Annie admits later while they float around in one of the castles meres. He’d taught her to swim here years ago but now she finds herself feeling shy, almost afraid to touch his bare skin like she never has been before.

“Of what?” he asks, shaking his head like a dog. The sunlight makes the water on him sparkle and for a moment she is distracted from what she’d been thinking.

“Annie?”

She pinches her arm and grasps at her former train of thought.

“There are riots, Finnick, all over the country. What if they get worse?”

He frowns for a moment and she lingers over those lips, a steady heat growing in her face.

“They won’t,” he says firmly and she looks up into his eyes, lovely and perfectly green. “Local riots are one thing, but it’s not as if these people are going to start rebelling against the King. They’re just a little upset, it’ll blow over.”

Annie nods but deep down, she’s not so sure she believes it.

She’s not sure he believes it either.

*

They were right not to.

Rebellion, real rebellion, breaks out in September.

Uncle Boggs is ordered to help stamp it out and Finnick is sent off to join Annie and her mother at Great Canfield Castle. It’s a relief in a sense, he’s not sure he could have survived the worry all by himself. Her father is also off to fight and he knows the minute he sees her that she is taking just as much comfort in him as he is in her. Still, they try and behave like this is any other visit, like death is not lurking just beyond their walls.

“Please Mags, oh please can’t we?” Annie begs and Mags raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure your lady mother would approve,” she says and Finnick grimaces. Annie’s eyes widen with perfect misery and she clasps her hands.

“Oh please Mags, just for an hour. I swear we’ll be good,” she promises and Mags rolls her eyes with a fond smile.

“Oh alright, just don’t get into any trouble,” she says with mock sternness and Finnick grins.

“Never,” he swears, hand pressed to his heart and Mags laughs.

“Oh go on then,” she says and they do, smiling as they run off hand in hand. They rush down to the river and the air is sticky and warm, absolutely perfect for a swim.

“I’ve been dreaming of this,” he says and means it, “there’s nowhere to swim in London. The Thames smells rank; I’d probably catch the plague swimming in there.”

Annie laughs and Finnick grins before he pulls off his belt. Annie reaches behind her to undo her girdle as Finnick tugs off his boots and he can’t help but notice the slight red tinge to her skin. She turns so he can unlace her houppelande and his fingers fumble with the ties, a strange sort of heat fluttering in his belly.

“Dresses should be easier to get out of,” he mutters and she shivers a little with his breath on her neck. He finally gets it and then the kirtle beneath it until she’s in nothing but her shift and boots. His stomach feels all the hotter and just like over the summer, he can’t help but notice how different she looks. She’s taller than she used to be, but then so is he. Her shift leaves little to the imagination and he can see her every curve, ones that definitely didn’t used to exist. She sits down to take her boots off and he shakes his head. He pulls off his doublet and then his hose, the feel of Annie’s eyes on him making him feel twitchy (though not really in a bad way). She stands up and he yanks off his shirt. Annie gasps.

“Oh Finnick,” she breathes and reaches out to touch his back. He shivers at her touch, her fingers soft on his skin and he knows without asking what she must have seen.

“Oh, right,” he says with a laugh, as if he’d forgotten all about it. He knows she’s seeing thin white scars on his back, each one trailing diagonally from left shoulder to right hip.

“What happened?” she asks and he can’t look at her, his easy smile only barely staying on.

“I might’ve told Cato to take his head out of his arse, which as it turns out, didn’t make him all that happy. It’s my own fault, I should’ve known better. He complained to his father, the king took exception with me disrespecting our future sovereign and a lashing later, well I’ve definitely learned my lesson.”

He laughs again like it’s no big deal, like it’s nothing at all. He doesn’t mention his terror at the king’s ice cold fury, the pain like no other when the lash had struck him. He doesn’t mention how hard he’d cried nor Cato’s laughing taunts (hah, what a girl you are, crybaby) nor his mother’s harsh condemnations (stop snivelling, Finnick, these tears are disgraceful. You’re an embarrassment). He doesn’t mention Uncle Boggs’ rage at the king, the king’s threats should Boggs defy him or the violent guilt that had swarmed him at the thought of Uncle Boggs being harmed.

After all, he has learned his lesson.

(respect, loyalty, duty. If you cannot follow these three principles, than there is no use for you, nor for those who would defend you)

(remember that)

(he’ll never forget)

He chances a glance at Annie and she has her hands over her mouth, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He grins.

“Come on, weren’t we supposed to be swimming?”

He dives in before she can answer and she just watches him, her heart breaking down the middle.

(he doesn’t say a lot of things, but it doesn’t matter)

(Annie knows him, she always has)

*

They spend three weeks together and fear looms over them, poisoning what could have been a happy visit. No matter how hard they try, they can’t forget what’s going on in England, cannot forget the danger both Uncle Boggs and her father are in.

“It will be over soon, won’t it?” Annie asks quietly as they stand out on the ramparts, looking out over the land and Finnick swallows, a cold lump in his chest.

“I hope so,” he says and Annie takes his hand.

“Do they...do they really want to get rid of the King?” she whispers and it seems impossible that anyone would try anything of the sort. And yet...

“Maybe,” he murmurs and she inhales sharply.

“What does that mean for you?” she asks and he can feel her terror. He squeezes her hand and tries his best to smile.

“I should be fine. I’m pretty far down the line of succession.”

The wind picks up briefly, blowing her flowery scented hair in his face and she frowns.

“How? You’re the king’s nephew.”

“Yeah, but it’s a bit more complicated than that. He’s only really my half-uncle, remember? He and my dad share a mum, but not a father, and it’s my uncle’s father, King Henry IV that gives him his claim to the throne. So through my dad I’m the King’s nephew, but I’ve no claim to the English throne. I do have one to the French throne though. I think King Louis is my first cousin once removed.”

He tries to keep his tone light to smooth over her insecurities, but she continues to frown, concern bright in her eyes.

“But you do have a claim to the English throne?”

Finnick nods.

“Through my mother. She’s descended from Edward III, so I guess I am too. But Cato’s first in line, then the Duchess of Bedford, then your friend Madge, then the Portuguese royal family, then the Castilians, then me. After that I think it’s Uncle Boggs, the Duke of York and then the Duke of Buckingham. So yeah, I don’t think I’m much of a threat to anyone, unless the Duke of York wants to take over,” he jokes but Annie doesn’t laugh.

“He wouldn’t right? The Duke of York? Or the Duke of Buckingham?”

She sounds genuinely afraid and he tries to give her a comforting smile.

“Be a little difficult. He’s way down the list, think of how many people he’d have to get rid of. It’d be hard to justify a grab for the throne. Well...”

“Well what?” Annie asks and he shrugs.

“It’s just that he could I guess, but he wouldn’t I’m sure. I mean, Edward III had a lot of sons. His eldest Edward, his line’s died out. The King and me, we’re both descended from his third son John. The Duke of York is descended from both the second and fourth sons, so he could technically try and insist he has the better claim. But, Edward III’s will barred his second son’s line from inheriting. So I mean, they could say they have the better claim, but that’s only if you disregard Edward III’s will.”

“They could though, couldn’t they?”

He shrugs again.

“Yeah, but wouldn’t they have done it already? If they had the better claim, they always would have, so why wait until now?”

Annie bites her lip and then nods slowly. She hugs his arm.

“I’m sorry; I’m just worried is all. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Well, don’t worry. I’m a little too far down for anyone to care I think.”

Annie smiles and what he doesn’t say is that maybe he is in danger. He’s the king’s nephew, his title, his lands, his riches, they’re all gifts given by his uncle. No one will ever believe he’d stand against him. Everything he is, he owes to King Coriolanus, not to mention their close blood tie. No one hoping to seize the throne would ever trust him.

If they come for the King, they’ll be coming for him too.

*

The rebellion is put down and for a moment at least, everything seems to go back to normal.

(if only if only if only)

*

That Christmas is more extravagant than any Annie can remember and she wonders if the King is trying to send a message. Rebels have tried to pull him down but here he is, standing taller than ever. Silk banners hang on every wall, gold and purple with red roses and the King’s crowned wolf stitched in with glittering thread. Garlands, wreaths and boughs of holly are everywhere while minstrels play in every room, dancing and singing through the halls. There are pageants, plays, hunts and tumblers to entertain them, acrobats and fire breathers and dancing girls in barely-there costumes. There is more food than she could ever describe, heaps of it on golden platters and wine fountains flow in every corner of the great hall, jewel encrusted goblets overflowing in every hand. There is a masque, great contests with showers of coins as a prize and endless dancing, even to the morning hours. It’s magnificent, truly, but it’s a little too much for Annie. Too loud, too crowded, too over the top. She thinks she’d prefer a quiet Christmas, one with only those she loved best.

Finnick is as glorious as he was last year and all the younger guests cluster around him, all of them wanting to bathe in his golden glow. Prince Cato glowers from the corner, seething with jealousy and only Clove Clifford seems to prefer his company to Finnick’s. Annie feels her heart warm at Finnick’s success and she’s glad they’ve all finally realized just how fantastic he really is (though his constantly improving looks may be helping too). He tells a joke and everybody laughs, little Darius practically in tears.

I’m so happy for you Finnick

Madge hasn’t come back this year and Annie can’t help but be disappointed. Still, she has Finnick when he can break away from his admirers and Henry too, so she can’t be too upset. The music swells and the King orders everyone to dance, people hurriedly finding partners before he unleashes his wrath upon them. Girls look at Finnick longingly but he walks right up to her, bowing low.

“Lady Anne?” he asks, a smile in his voice, and she can feel so many angry eyes on her.

“Of course, Earl Finnick,” she says and he grins, pulling her out into the middle of the dancers. She can feel the warmth of his hands even through her many layers and when he spins her, she can’t help but notice all the dirty looks directed her way.

“I think every girl here wants to dance with you,” she laughs, though she doesn’t really find it funny. Finnick shrugs.

“I’d rather dance with you,” he says simply, sweetly and Annie might be made of jelly. For a moment when they move around the floor, she forgets about jealous girls, about rebellions and wicked kings. There’s only she and Finnick, her Finnick.

Of course, every song ends and he kisses her hand when theirs does, a sparkly tingle travelling up her arm. Glimmer Mowbray practically throws herself at him for the next dance and he shoots Annie a grimace over her head. She giggles and then Henry is there, a determined look on his face.

“Finnick says you taught him to dance,” he says and she nods.

“Would you help me?” he asks and she blinks. “I know how, I’m just not sure I’m very good.”

“Of course,” she says but she can’t help being confused. He takes her hand and they move through the appropriate steps, his eyes focused on his feet.

“Why this sudden interest?” she asks and he doesn’t look up.

“My father says he’s trying to convince the Duke of Bedford to let me marry his daughter-”

“Madge?” she interrupts in shock and Henry shrugs.

“I guess. If the Duke of Bedford agrees, I want to be a good husband. Mother says a good husband is a good dancer.”

Annie tries to process this and feels surprise thick like syrup in her veins. Lady Alma will be so disappointed if this works out. Even still, Annie herself can’t help but be pleased. Henry and Madge are both nice, she’s sure they’ll make a lovely couple. And if Madge marries Henry, she can’t marry Finnick. Annie blushes.

They finish their dance and Henry looks at her in worry.

“So?” he asks and she smiles.

“I think you’re great. Madge will be very pleased, I’m sure.”

Henry grins.

“Great, thanks. I was thinking of getting her a present, do you think she’d like that?”

Annie nods. “Oh yes, I’m sure she would.”

Henry nods, still smiling and then Finnick sidles up beside her.

“Mead?” he offers, holding out a goblet and Annie takes a sip. It’s warm and spiced and she smiles.

“My favourite.”

“Of course,” he says and his fingers weave through hers.

“Henry might marry Madge,” she says and Finny grins as Henry nods in confirmation.

“I hope she likes to climb trees,” he teases and Henry looks absolutely horrified as he contemplates the fact that she might not. Annie giggles, Finnick bumps her shoulder and even with every problem in England, for now at least, she feels nothing but happy.

*

(it never lasts though)

(it can’t)

*

Goodbye always comes too soon.

Finnick holds her and she wraps her arms around his waist, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

“I hate saying goodbye,” she sighs and he nods.

“Me too. I’ll try and convince Uncle Boggs to let me visit before summer,” he says and her heart leaps at the possibility.

“Come along now, Anne,” her mother says sternly and she pulls away reluctantly. She touches his cheek softly.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispers and he puts his hand over hers

“I’ll miss you too,” he says and kisses her palm. She feels a shiver travel throughout her body, her blood pumping suddenly faster.

“Anne,” her mother says sharply, a warning in her tone and Annie forces herself to walk away from him. She climbs up into the litter and leans out the window, watching him as they ride away.

Oh Finnick, I wish we could stay together and never ever have to say goodbye.

*

1468 September-October

The invasion begins in September.

Bankrolled and with their numbers swelled by the Scots, two Lancastrian forces march into Northumberland, determined and hungry to retake it. Even King Coriolanus rides out with them, confident that he will soon see his enemies burning and bleeding before him. It is easy at first, towns and castles surrendering without a fight.

I’m coming Annie

And then the Yorkists come.

Marvel, Earl of Northumberland collides with one section of the army outside the town of Hexham and it is a bloodbath. He moves too quickly, catching the Lancastrians off guard and the entire right detachment flees into the town before a single blow is struck. The rest are left outmanned and with no room to manoeuvre. They are driven back into the Devil’s Water and slaughtered. Many drown, some are crushed as they try to climb the banks and escape but most are merely cut down, the river clogged with bodies and dyed red.

The army quickly surrenders, but pompous Marvel, that boy Finnick grew up beside, shows no mercy, executing over thirty of the leaders.

Finnick’s half of the army is caught at Hedgeley Moor by the Earl of Warwick. It starts out the same as every battle, archers exchanging arrows and Finnick forces himself to be calm.

We can do this.

They can’t, as it turns out. The Lancastrian army collapses when the Yorkists slam into them and it is chaos, pure and simple. Finnick isn’t sure if he hears or imagines the command of retreat in the carnage but soon everyone is fleeing the field, tripping over the corpses left behind. Finnick rides as hard as he can, not even tasting their defeat, not yet at least. For now all he can think of is survival.

(later he’ll hear that a few didn’t flee the battle and led by Sir Ralph Percy, they made a brave last stand)

(none survived)

And just like that, by the end of October, they are defeated.

Again.

*

1464

Rebellion comes again in the last week of March.

It flares up in Devonshire and Uncle Boggs has to go out and fight again, risking his life to keep the king on his throne. Finnick knows he is supposed to be strong, knows he’s too old to show fear or cry, but inside he is terrified.

What will I do without you?

Uncle Boggs squeezes his shoulder and Finnick grins, nothing but excited at this prospect of battle.

(he’s not allowed to be anything else)

“Would you like to pay the Countess of Oxford a visit? The Earl will be joining me against the rebels, but he says you are welcome to Canfield, should you like,” Uncle Boggs says and Finnick nods.

“Annie’s probably worried sick,” he says because she’s allowed to be and Finnick wonders if Uncle Boggs can tell that what he’s really saying is I’m worried sick. Uncle Boggs claps him on the back.

“Good man, look after her.”

(and what he’s really saying is look after yourself)

“I will,” Finnick promises and he hates watching Uncle Boggs ride away, hates that he is too old now to be anything but brave.

(these tears are disgraceful Finnick, you’re an embarrassment)

(hah, what a girl you are)

(men do not know fear and they do not weep like children)

*

He arrives at Great Canfield Castle on the first day of April, the rain finally, finally letting up.

It had been a long, long ride and he swings off his horse with aches in all of his muscles. He is sopping wet, cold to his bones and starving, but all of that vanishes the minute he sees Annie. She is waiting just inside the doors of the entrance hall, bouncing from foot to foot, and he grins, even his fear for Uncle Boggs taking a momentary break. He takes the front steps two at a time and she smiles at him, bright and sunny.

“Hullo Annie,” he says and her eyes shine.

“Good day, Earl Finnick,” she greets, her voice overly formal and she drops into a curtsy, one much too deep for an Earl. Finnick follows suit, removing his drenched hat and holding it over his heart.

“Greetings, Lady Anne,” he says and sweeps into a flourishing bow. They stay that way for only a moment before their laughter breaks out, all of Finnick’s tension just melting away. I missed this.

“It’s good to see you,” he says and her cheeks turn a pretty pink. She looks him over and frowns.

“Oh Finnick, you’re soaked. Come, you must change or you’ll get sick.”

She takes him by the arm and practically marches him up to his room, puddles left behind in his wake. There are already servants there with some of his luggage and Annie flings open his trunk to riffle through for dry clothes. He grins.

“I am old enough to dress myself you know,” he teases and she pauses, her blush moving down her neck.

“Of course, yes, I know,” she mumbles and steps away, face hidden behind her hair. He laughs and walks over, squeezing her arm as he passes.

“What about this one?” he asks, holding out a blue doublet for her inspection. She nods and takes a tentative step closer.

“I think it would look very fetching with the white hose,” she says quietly, pointing at the hose squished in the corner of his trunk. He nods and he very much likes the idea of Annie thinking his attire fetching.

“Thanks,” he says and bumps her hip. The pink of her cheeks starts to darken and then she steps away again, moving back towards the door. Finnick pulls off his cloak and shakes it out, water droplets flying in every direction.

“Watch it!” Annie laughs, shielding her face with her hands and he grins in apology.

“Sorry, m’lady, I’m an absolute menace.”

“You are,” she agrees and he sticks out his tongue. She laughs, a sweet, happy sound that makes him feel very warm. He undoes his belt and her laughter starts to fade, her skin suddenly flushed.

“Mags wanted to know when you arrived, I’d best go and tell her,” she says quickly, her voice high and Finnick blinks. Before he can say a word she is gone, the door thudding shut behind her. Finnick stares at where she’d been and that was odd, wasn’t it?

I wonder what’s gotten into her…

*

His hair’s still damp when he comes down to eat and Annie won’t look at him, her face very red.

I don’t get it, what did I do?

There is something horribly cold in his stomach at the thought that he might’ve done something to upset her and he wishes he knew what it was so he could apologize. He sits across from her and she keeps her head down, her eyes focused on her plate. He feels anxiety roll over him in waves and I’m sorry Annie, whatever it is, I’m really sorry. Lady Mary arrives and the food comes out, but Finnick has barely any appetite.  He pokes at his supper and Lady Mary watches him with hawkish eyes, a general sense of disapproval wafting off of her. He’s old enough now to recognize that she’s never liked him and as much as that rankles, he’s much more concerned with Annie.

“Well,” Lady Mary says when they’re done, “time to get back to your embroidery Anne, don’t you think?”

Finnick feels something hard settle in his stomach.

“Oh,” he says, trying and failing not to sound disappointed, “I was hoping Lady Anne might join me for a round of cards.”

Lady Mary’s face sours and he knows she is about to refuse.

“What a lovely idea, after all, someone should entertain our guest,” Mags interjects helpfully and he can’t help but smile in her direction. She winks.

“Of course,” Annie mumbles, still not looking at him and Lady Mary can’t refuse now, it would be the height of rudeness. She gives him a poisonous look.

“Very well,” she says tightly and leaves, at least one weight falling off Finnick’s shoulders.

(though really, what’s her problem?)

Annie and Finnick sit across a little table from each other and Mags settles in the corner to sew. Finnick casts a glance at her and then leans over towards Annie as he deals.

“Annie-”

He never has the chance to say anything else, Annie quickly backing away from him, her chair scraping over the stone floor. Finnick blinks and honestly feels as if she’s punched him in the gut.

“Have I done something to offend you?” he whispers, though it might come out as more of a hiss. He winces at his own angry tone but can’t help feeling hurt. Annie covers her face in her hands and Finnick sits back down heavily in his chair. He glares at his cards. What could I have possibly done to make her hate me so?

(and if he’s angry, it’s only because he’s so afraid)

“Would you like to start, Lady Anne?” he asks stiffly and she doesn’t answer. He looks at her and she lowers her hands, carefully picking up her cards.

And then she throws them under the table.

Finnick’s eyes widen as he stares at her and her face is cherry red and burning.

“Oh no, I seem to have dropped my cards,” she says loudly, “would you help me pick them up, Lord Finnick?”

And then, before he can answer, she dives under the table.

Has she gone insane?

Have I?

He looks over at Mags but she doesn’t seem to have noticed anything odd. He looks back at the table and nearly jumps out of his seat when Annie grabs his ankle. He scoots back in alarm and she pops up between his legs.

“Come on,” she hisses and slides back under.

I think she has gone insane

Oh hell

Finnick slips under the table and Annie is on her hands and knees, her face still quite red. She rocks back to sit and he just stares at her.

“What’s going on?” he asks, perhaps a bit more annoyed sounding than he’d wanted and she grimaces.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what exactly?” he asks, and again, his voice is much colder than intended. If possible, Annie’s face seems to darken.

“Well, you…well it’s just…you took off your belt.”

Finnick stares at her.

“I don’t understand. I’ve changed in front of you plenty of times.”

“Yes, yes I know. But that was before. I’ll be thirteen soon, you’ll be fifteen. We’re old enough now to be married; you can’t exactly get naked in front of me,” she explains quickly and he can practically feel the heat from her face.

“I wouldn’t even have thought of it myself,” she hurries to continue, though he’s not so sure he believes her, “but Mother brought it up. She thinks it’s inappropriate how much time we spend together and oh, I’m so sorry, really. I couldn’t help but think of what she said when you took it off and I panicked, I’m so embarrassed. She’s worried you see, worried you might…well…” Annie trails off and despite the blush he can feel on his cheeks, a spurt of annoyance shoots off inside of him.

“She doesn’t trust me,” he says flatly and Annie winces. “She thinks if we are left alone I will attempt to rob you of your virtue. I’m not an animal, I’m not going to attack you,” he snaps and Annie reaches over to squeeze his hand.

“I know you wouldn’t, but she’d put all these thoughts in my head and the minute you took that belt off, well, I couldn’t help thinking of you…well, in ways I shouldn’t. I was mortified. I never thought for a moment you were going to do anything.”

He’s relieved to hear it, really, but there’s something else she’s said that catches his attention.

“Thinking of me?” he echoes and her eyes go very wide.

“No, I wasn’t-I mean, what I meant was...” she takes a deep breath, “I know nothing of the sort was going on, but no one would have believed us if they’d walked in. It’s not as if I was…imagining things.”

“Of course not,” he agrees and wonders why he feels so hot. And really, he’s not sure what she would imagine. He has only the vaguest idea what people might do without their clothes and he’s never given it much thought.

(though, after this, he’s definitely going to)

“I’m sorry,” she says again, “and if it helps, she doesn’t trust me either. She’s certain that should you ever attempt to rob me of my virtue, that I would…give it willingly,” she whispers, her eyes shyly turned to the floor and there’s something entirely unwelcome going on in his stomach. He clears his throat.

“It does help actually,” he says and Annie grins.

“Am I forgiven?” she asks and he rolls his eyes.

“Like I could ever stay mad at you.”

She beams, his stomach does that thing again, and he looks down at her scattered cards.

“Here,” he says, gathering them up, “this is why we’re under here, isn’t it?”

He goes to hand them to her only she’s moved forward to take them from him and suddenly their faces are very, very close. Her cheeks starts to flush and he thinks of everything she’d just told him and then everything her mother’d apparently said and he rockets backwards, his head cracking on the underside of the table. He falls back down with a loud curse, clutching at his head as it splits right through with pain. Tears immediately spring to his eyes but he forces them not to fall and Annie squeaks in shock.

“Finnick, oh Finnick, are you okay?”

She scuttles over to him and Mags hurries over, having heard all the commotion.

“What’s going on under here?” she demands and Finnick can’t answer, his teeth biting down on his lip to bottle up a cry of pain.

“He’s hurt himself,” Annie reports anxiously and Mags drags him out from under the table to examine him.

“You’ve cut yourself,” she says and Annie gasps, “I’ll have to go fetch something to fix it up.”

She hurries off and Annie comes up to his side, her hand rubbing his back.

“Does it hurt terribly?” she asks and what he wants to say is yes, yes, yes, but he knows boys, men do not wilt under pain.

“It’s fine,” he says instead even as those tears continue to burn in his eyes.

“You look like you’re about to cry,” she says and immediately he feels his defenses rise, his uncle’s accusing eyes boring into him.

I won’t tolerate a disgrace in this family Finnick

“I’m not about to cry, that’d be pathetic,” he says and he sounds so much like his uncle he wants to puke.

“Finnick…”

“Boys don’t cry,” he tells her (and maybe himself) and she furrows her brow.

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t,” he snaps, his uncle swimming before his eyes, and then instantly regrets it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs and she frowns.

“You can cry as much as you like, I don’t think it’s pathetic,” she says firmly and he stares at her, waiting to see the lie in her eyes. But there’s none and he feels something odd in his chest. She means it, she really does, and she might be the only person in all the world who’d think him strong even if he cried. He swallows, the urge to cry now greater than ever (though for a completely different reason), but he knows he can’t. Annie may not hold it against him, but he knows everyone else would. They would call him weak, embarrassing, shameful. They already have.

(but still, it’s nice to know that if ever he is weak, at least Annie will not abandon him)

*

Over the next few days, Finnick decides it might do them well to spend some time apart. They don’t avoid each other or anything, but he spends more time alone than he ever has during a visit with Annie. He hates it, he really does, but every time he’s with her, there’s something tight in is body, something uncomfortable. He pushes through it mostly, the thought of being without Annie too awful to contemplate, but he isn’t as glued to her he’d like to be.

I hate this

He goes to the river and even though it’s slightly chilly, he strips off his boots and hose to stick his feet in the water.

He could use the cool down.

He drops his head into his hands and groans, his whole body feeling hot. Why did Lady Mary have to think such awful things? I feel like a deviant and I haven’t even done anything. Not that I would, I’m not a criminal. And what would we even do? Kiss I suppose and-

“Finnick! Finnick! FINNICK!” Annie screams from behind him and for a moment Finnick is positive they are under attack. The rebels have come to Canfield and they’re going to siege us. Before he can sink too deep into terror, he turns to see Annie running towards him, her hair and gown streaming out behind her. She does not look frightened in the least, in fact, she looks jubilant. Her eyes are bright, her smile wide and Finnick jumps up from where he’d been sitting on the river’s edge.

“They’ve won! It’s over; father and Boggs are coming home!”

She flaps a letter at him and he starts to grin, relief nearly making him sway. Thank the Lord. Annie laughs and flings herself at him in her joy, her arms wrapping around his neck. He catches her and as happy as he is, he thinks to spin her around. He starts to, but as he’d just had his feet in the river, they’re slippery and wet and he very quickly loses his footing. His eyes widen in alarm and he shoves Annie from him as he falls, still desperately trying to find purchase on the wet grass. Annie shrieks, he shouts and then he lands with a splash, the water much colder all over him than it had been on his feet.  He swallows half the river and kicks for the surface, his clothes dragging around him.

“Finnick!” Annie yelps and then she’s down on her knees reaching for him. She grabs his arms and pulls, the both of them managing to haul him from the water. He flops over like a fish and coughs, Annie hovering by his side nervously.

“Oh Finnick,” she says as all the water he’d swallowed comes back up. She rubs his back and he starts to shiver.

“Ugh,” he manages.

“You’re freezing, we should get you inside,” she says and he nods, another shiver running over him. She helps him up and they both freeze in sudden horror.

He isn’t wearing any hose.

He’d taken them off to wet his feet and her mother’s concerns come racing back to him, the whole accusatory torrent. Annie’s eyes are round and focused on his bare legs, her cheeks dark and red. His face burns and he remembers how she’d jumped into his arms, remembers holding her tight. I’m in my breeches, I held her while standing in my breeches. Oh God, I wasn’t wearing anything but my breeches (and his shirt of course, but that doesn’t seem to register through his profound horror). She whirls around quickly.

“I’ll go and have Mags make you something hot,” she offers, high pitched with embarrassment and he nods.

“Great, thanks,” he says and his voice is much higher too. He winces and she sets off, practically fleeing from him. This is mortifying. He looks about desperately for his hose and scrambles into them, nearly tipping himself back into the river in the process.

Thank God her mother didn’t see that, she’d never forgive me

never

*

Mags has a nice hot bowl of soup waiting for him after he changes into dry clothes and she is kind enough not to ask how he got himself so wet. Annie won’t look at him and he can’t really blame her. Did I really hug her in my breeches? Her parents would skin me alive.

Maybe I can’t be trusted.

Mags leaves them alone for a moment and he wishes she wouldn’t. What am I supposed to say?

“Thank you…for uh, pulling me out,” he mumbles around his spoon and Annie turns crimson.

“Oh no, it was my fault you fell in in the first place. I’m so sorry,” she says, fingers winding nervously through her hair.

“No, it was the spinning that did it and that was all me,” he says and then they fall into silence, his lack of hose just hanging between them. Slippy feet, no hose and a dip in the river, it’s like a comedy of errors, he thinks sullenly. How ridiculous.

And really, it is ridiculous, so ridiculous in fact that he starts to laugh. He can just picture himself flailing about in the river in his underthings and God, what an absolute lunatic he must have looked like. Annie stares at him for a moment as if he’s lost his mind and he thinks of her red face and how she actually ran from him and he laughs all the more, so hard he nearly chokes on his soup. Annie bites her lip and then she nods, laughter starting to spill from her lips. Soon, she is laughing as hard as he is, clutching at her stomach and what a pair they make, two fools if ever there were any.

And that’s how Mags finds them, sitting in the kitchen laughing themselves to tears. She doesn’t bother to ask why; she just leans on the door and smiles.

They are ridiculous, the both of them, but she’s not sure she’s ever loved anyone more.

*

Finnick is beyond excited to go home and see Uncle Boggs, but that doesn’t make goodbye any easier. In fact, every goodbye with Annie seems harder than the last.

Mags packs him more food than he’ll ever need for the journey back to Wales and Lady Mary glares at him as if she expects him to try and ravish Annie right there in the dirt, but he barely notices.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, both her hands held in his. She turns that pretty shade of pink again and that strange something happens in his stomach. He ignores it and grins.

“Even if you did push me in the river,” he teases and she laughs.

“And here I was thinking you were a gentleman, taking all the blame yourself. I guess I was wrong.”

“I guess you were.”

They smile at each other and he wishes he could just take her home with him, though he knows Lady Mary would never allow it. She’d probably assume he meant to defile her. As if on cue, she clears her throat.

“I am sure Lord Boggs is eager to see you,” Lady Mary says pointedly and Finnick barely restrains his sigh. He forgets about Lady Mary and focuses instead on Annie, giving her his best grin. He squeezes her hands and presses a kiss to back of each one.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises and she nods.

“Very soon.”

There’s a stray hair fluttering by her cheek that he’d love to tuck behind her ear, but with Lady Mary still looking at him like he has the plague, perhaps he shouldn’t. He climbs on his horse instead and I wish we never had to say goodbye. He spares one last look at Annie before he rides off and she is waving, her smile bright and lovely.

He tucks that smile in his heart and carries it with him all the way to Wales.

*

Finnick does not throw himself on Uncle Boggs like he wants to, nor does he tell him how absolutely thrilled he is that he made it. The king would never approve so instead he drinks in the sight of his uncle, a happy hum in his heart.

“What happened?” he asks, excitement warming his voice but Uncle Boggs doesn’t smile. His eyes are grim as he drops a heavy hand on Finnick’s shoulder and fear, sudden and ice cold, starts to bloom inside him.

What? What is it?

*

(Uncle Boggs makes it home safe and whole, but not everyone is so fortunate)

(Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon, fourteen years old and always good for a laugh, dies on the battlefield, a rebel sword slicing through him from shoulder to hip)

(Finnick swore he’d be strong, promised himself and the king that he wouldn’t cry or ever show weakness, but he does that night)

(he finds the tallest tree he can out on the grounds and sobs beneath it, can almost imagine Henry in the branches above him)

(this isn’t fair, this isn’t right)

(and how sad then, that this is the England he has sworn to defend)

*

In the months that follow Henry’s death, Finnick buries the boy he used to be.

He will be strong and brave, unwavering, unflinching. He trains every day, until sweat coats his skin and his muscles ache. He will be the best rider, the best swordsman, the best jouster. He ends his days cut and bruised, but he is back out the next day, determined and driven.

“You needn’t push yourself so far,” Uncle Boggs tells him, a current of worry in his voice, but Finnick pushes himself even harder. The rebels who killed Henry must be stopped, the instability in England ended and most important of all, his uncle must be appeased.

King Coriolanus has made it very clear that he expects Finnick to be ruthless and devastating on the battlefield, loyal, unquestioning and without fear.

It is your duty to fight for us, here in England or in the homes of our enemies.

He expects Finnick to smile, laugh and charm, but never to show true affection, to never get caught up in feelings or emotions.

You must win them, but never let them win you. Charming on the outside, hard on the inside.

Finnick knows what he has to do.

A man like that, he might keep those he cares for safe. Any other kind, well, tragedies are known to happen.

(but maybe, just maybe, the old Finnick, the boy he used to be, isn’t quite so dead)

(you can cry as much as you like, I don’t think it’s pathetic)

(maybe he’s just hiding, wrapped up in a shell, and waiting for when it’s safe to come out)

*

1468 October-November

Their failed invasion not only costs them England, but everything else as well.

The King is captured by the Yorkists and James of Scotland decides he has backed the wrong horse. He is kind enough to let them leave rather than handing them directly over to the Yorkists, but still, they are driven from yet another kingdom. Enobaria takes command with her favourite Brutus, Duke of Somerset beside her and orders them to make for France and her cousin King Louis. They have no choice but to do so, but now they are kingless and headed even farther away from their goal. And if King Louis turns them away...

Finnick watches the coast recede and there is a hopelessness in him, one he cannot fight down. Uncle Boggs rests a comforting hand on his shoulder but it does little good. He has never truly believed in the Lancastrian cause, nor does he support the Yorkist usurpers. His uncle is evil, purely, entirely but he sees nothing in the Yorkists except ambitious, greedy liars willing to plunge the country into war to win themselves a crown. In his mind, neither side is right. He’d fought for the King because he’d sworn loyalty to him and because he’d known he had no other choice. His uncle would never allow him to sit out the conflict, the Yorkists would never have trusted him (not that he’d ever have joined then anyway) and what good, he’d asked himself, would my dying do anyone? Because that’s what would have happened had he done anything other than ride to war for his uncle, a gruesome painful death. He’d wanted a quick end to the war, safety for his loved ones and maybe, maybe his uncle would be humbled by this threat, maybe he would learn to be kinder.

Now, sailing even farther away from Annie and home, he begins to think he might’ve been better off standing his ground and denouncing his uncle. At least then he would have died defying evil, now he’ll spend his whole life fighting to win it back its crown.

Forgive me Annie

He fingers the chain around his neck and kisses the ring on the end, one his hands had outgrown long ago. It is gold with one solitary pearl and it is all he has left of her, his countess, his Annie, the other half of his heart.

I don’t know how, but I’ll find my way back to you

I swear Annie, we’ll be together again

some day

[sceawere]

convalescence pt 1. | john shelby

i promised a fic where john doesn’t die, but instead goes somewhere to lie low while everyone thinks he’s dead so here it is (or at least part 1)

“What the fuck is that?” you stepped back from the door, your shock registering in your voice.

“A dying man, are you going to let me in?”

It took you a while to process what exactly was happening as Tommy and a rabble of other men barged passed you into the house. Not this again. Your eyes followed the trail of muck and blood from the paving stones, to your hallway tiles, to their retreating backs as they hauled something in. A lump, covered in a tarp.

You sighed, looked up to the photo of your brother on the hallway wall, and slammed the door with your foot.

“What the hell did you get me into?” you whispered up to the picture, and turned to shout down the hallway “It better not be a dead man, Tommy Shelby. We’ve just had that paving re-laid after you took up the last corpse”

-

“Lord almighty, that’s John” you noted as they unwrapped him.

“Yes, it is my brother. And as you can see, he’s not in the best way, so- “Tommy motioned to him, stepping back as you pushed him to the side. His breaths were ragged, sweat pouring from his brow, and he didn’t look much better than the pale man currently laid out on your table.

“Someone get him something strong before he faints, and we’ve got two of them to deal with”

One of the faceless men around you moved towards the bottles on the cabinet and set to work as you moved John’s split shirt out of the way.

“He needs a real doctor” you pled, looking over his marred chest.

“You’re the best I know”

“Tommy, that’s bullshit. What you mean is ‘I fucked up and you were the closest idiot who owed me a favour’, let’s all be honest with each other”

He was taking another swig straight from the bottle, one of his guys holding an empty glass next to him.

“You fixed us up a thousand times. Even when a hundred of them should have killed us, so just…do your job” he spat back, losing his ability to even try and butter you up halfway through.

You kept eyes together for a moment, and he relented just a little. Not enough to drop his mask. Just enough that you could see it in his eyes, and he knew that you had.

“Right, so you can’t go to a real doctor, is what you’re saying?” you motioned towards him.

He sighed, took another swig, and slammed the bottle down to the table beside you.

“Thank you” you took it and poured it into a dish. You motioned with your head “third cupboard over, blue tin”

One of the men looked to Tommy, then behind him to the cupboard, then back to you.

“Go on, there’s a good boy”

He nodded, and moved all in a fluster, emptying half the cupboards contents onto the rug in his haste. He finally brought your kit over to you and you set to work.

“I’m going to need some help – Tommy”

“Yeah”

He moved off, out of the room, and down the hall. You knew he knew who to call. You’d both been here before.

You almost didn’t notice him return, so deep in your work, until you felt him right behind you.

“It’s a good job I’m not the jumpy type or Johnny boy here would be less a part of his liver”

There was an intake of breath on the other side of the table and you sighed.

“Tommy, can you- “you turned your head just slightly.

“James, go and…keep watch…please?” he commanded, nodding to the queasy man.

“I told him to five minutes ago, but he wouldn’t bloody leave without orders. You’ve got the puppies well trained, I’ll give you that”

“I need this kept quiet” Tommy whispered.

“I assumed- fuck” you grabbed his hand and moved it to apply pressure where you needed. He kept staring you down until you snapped and looked to him.

“I understand, Mr Shelby”

“Good” he held his eyes on your face for a few seconds, before looking down at his brother “because everyone else already thinks he’s dead”

-

“Alright, he seems pretty stable. He’ll stay on the table in the study tonight, and then we can hopefully move him upstairs sometime tomorrow. The nurses are staying in the guesthouse, so if they’re needed…”

You wiped off your damp hands and threw the towel into the fire. Tommy sat where you’d ordered him off to when he started bothering you, smoking at your kitchen table, staring into nothing. Your shoes clacked against the cold tiles as you made your way over to him. You planted your hands on the surface, leaning as you tried to grab his attention.

“Can I ask?”

“I’ve put men around the grounds, no-one but essentials will be coming in or out until he’s gone” he replied, ignoring your question.

“Yes, I know the drill. But I would like to know exactly how many shades of shit I’m in, thank you” you persevered but he just took another drag, straight faced.

“Tommy, I deserve better. Don’t be a prick” you deadpanned, and he rolled his eyes to you, letting the smoke escape him slowly. He pulled the ghost of a smile, dropping it as quickly as it came.

“I appreciate the help” he replied, taking another drag.

“Thomas…what the fuck did you get into this time?”

He rose from the table, paced around it in a circle. You rolled your eyes, waited. You’d been through this maybe three or four times now. Tommy turning up with some broken bird to fix, turning your estate into a compound for a month.

“If you hadn’t saved my brother’s life in France, I’d have fed you to my pigs by now. You know that, right? I want to make sure you know” you huffed.

“How is he?”

“He’s painting in Canada. Can we get back to business, please?”

He dropped back into a chair, stubbing out his cigarette.

“The Changrettas-”

“Oh, Tommy, you’re a fucking idiot!” you reached and pulled the ashtray from under him, stomping over to empty it out the window. You yanked the pane shut, letting the tray ring out as it fell to the tiles, and braced yourself against the counter as you tried to calm down.

“You’re feuding with the old man again, seriously?”

“He’s dead”

You felt the rage flow through you like a wave, squaring your shoulders as you turned around slowly.

“You…did…what?”

Tommy had the grace to look apprehensive, rolling his tongue as he waited. He cleared his throat, and adjusted his coat.

“He ordered a killing, a killing that fell on my wife. So, I- “

You reached to your side, grabbed the nearest thing, and threw it.

“Ow! Fuck!” Tommy reached up and covered his face. The wooden spoon fell to the floor, clattering against the tiles at his feet.

“I hope it blinds you!”

He removed his hands, looking up at you incredulously. There was a red whip mark on his cheekbone, eye watering.

“Is it Luca? If it’s Luca- “you reached for a spatula, pulling so fast it tipped over the whole container, making utensils spill out all over the place “I’m taking that other eye off you”

He rose as you aimed, raising his arms in time with yours.

“Listen- “

He tried to take it off you, but ended up having to defend himself as you beat it against his arm, his side, his ear. Wherever you could get access.

“You. Brought.” A hit punctuated each word “Luca. Fucking. Changretta. Back. Here. And. I. Have. Your. Brothers. Blood. In. My. Carpet. You. Dumb. Idiot. Fucking. Selfish. Bastard”

“Oi!”

The two of you stepped back, both breathing heavy, as a new voice interrupted you. Tommy wiped his arm down as you rolled your shoulder.

“Yes?” you asked in a casual tone that seemed to unsettle him even more than if you’d screamed.

The man truly looked nervous, and very confused, as he moved his eyes between you and Tommy. He hovered in the doorway, messing with his hat in hands.

“What?” both you and Tommy called out.

“Uh, John’s mumbling. I don’t know if he’s really awake or if it’s just- “you dropped the spatula to the floor, barging passed him “I thought I should just check with you!” he called after.

You paused halfway down the corridor, turning back to point at Tommy. The man between you flattened himself against the wall and tried to look invisible, scared to be caught in the crossfire.

“You shouldn’t be left in charge of a fruit stand!”

You turned and stormed off, still breathing heavy.

“Should have fed him to the pigs” you mumbled, fixing your hair.

-

You managed to trick yourself into mostly forgetting the situation as the days went by. John was sedated and so you could get on with your day-to-day, keeping the family farm going. At least once you’d provided proof that all your hands had been working for you for at least a decade, and assured Tommy that no, 73-year-old Mr Jenkins was not going to use his sheep shearing tools to try and assassinate anyone.

“I kept you on the strong stuff as long as I could but it’s going to start causing more trouble than it’s fixing” you explained, helping John take another sip of water “You’re just going to have to be a big, brave boy from now on”

“I feel like someone tried to pull my lungs out” he coughed, grimacing as he settled back against the pillow.

“That would be me” you checked his pulse again, focusing on the seconds ticking by “they managed to scrape just about everything and you had some swelling around your ribs”

“I feel like I’ve been kicked by twelve horses”

“That would also be me, I had to- “

“John” Tommy’s voice broke through.

“Oh, goodie. Your brothers come to visit” you dropped John’s wrist, ignoring the pained little smirk that appeared on his face.

“Where’s Esme? She’s got to be bouncing out the fucking rafters” John laughed, until his ribs made him think better of it. He nodded up to Tommy’s bruised face “she do that to you?”

“No” you stood from the edge of the bed, winding up your tools and dropping them back into the pot on the counter side “That would be me again”

You shot Tommy a gloating smirk, patting his shoulder as you made your way to shut the door behind him. You settled back against it, one foot perched against the woodwork, as you crossed your arms across your chest.

“Go on, Thomas. Explain to your brother what’s happening”

[yumikkaku]

this is like 5k of that one thread where vmin get married when they’re like 18 and it’s a disaster but. this is mostly just the part where they’re dumb and a little happy <3

Taehyung leans back with his hands behind his head and stares up at the stars.  "It's pretty, right?"

Next to him, Jimin scoffs.  It’s not harsh or derisive, but with that edge of passive criticism that makes the edges of Taehyung's lips pull into a smile.  "Yeah," he says, blankets rustling as he turns onto his side to face Taehyung.  "Through all of that muck." He reaches up to tap the little sunroof set into the roof of the car.  "When was the last time you washed this thing?" "Shh," Taehyung says, leaning across the median to press his finger up against Jimin's lips.  "Don't question, just enjoy." Jimin raises his hand, pointing one short, fat little finger up at the sunroof.  The shiny, brand-new silver of his wedding band catches in the moonlight, and Taehyung's heart swells so much in his chest he feels like it break its way right out of his ribcage.  "That's a dead beetle, Tae."   "Enjoy," Taehyung repeats, leaning so far over the center console so far that the edge digs into the soft flesh just under his ribs as he presses his lips to Jimin's cheek, feels the way his body shakes with laughter right up against Taehyung's own skin. "Alright," Jimin says.  His voice squeaks just slightly as he laughs, all unbridled fucking joy, all laughter at Taehyung's shitty, half-assed jokes because he's so happy he can barely get his head on straight enough to think past the fact that he and Jimin and married, they're married -- "I'll enjoy the dead beetle.”

Taehyung leans just slightly closer, pressing his forehead to Jimin’s cheek.  “No,” he says.  Jimin leans into the touch, reaching over to let his hand rest on the back of Taehyung’s head, combing his fingers through Taehyung’s hair.  “Enjoy the moonlight.”

“Ah,” Jimin says.  Taehyung feels the vibrations of his voice against his skin, and can’t help but smiling.  “Not being married to you?  Just the moonlight?”

“Well,” Taehyung says.  He feels his lips pull into a goofy smile, his heart thumping hot and heavy, absolutely aching with giddy happiness — it’s so much that Taehyung feels like it’s spilling out of him, buzzing in his shoulders and down his arms, bubbling in the pit of his stomach and pushing laughter up from his lungs.  “Maybe you can enjoy that, too.”

Jimin’s giggle sounds a bit like bells going off in Taehyung’s head.  “I am.”

The two of them lapse into comfortable silence.  Taehyung lets his eyelids flutter mostly closed, until the only thing he can see is his own eyelashes and the soft curve of Jimin’s shoulder.  He reaches over, running the flat of his palm across Jimin’s stomach.  “Does it feel different?” he asks.

“Hm?” Jimin asks.

“Being married.”  The weight of the ring still feels heavy and alien on his ring finger, a constant reminder.  Taehyung wonders how long it’ll be before he doesn’t feel it anymore, where the whole situation becomes less surreal and more — normal.  When Jimin will be his husband and Taehyung muscles won’t be sore with how much he’s smiling.

“Yeah,” Jimin says.

“Yeah?” Taehyung asks.  He knots his fingers in the material of Jimin’s shirt, turning his head slightly when the hem rides up over his stomach to reveal the soft dusting of hair beneath his belly-button.

“Mm-hmm,” Jimin says.  He lays one hand over Taehyung’s and traces the edges of his wedding band.  The pads of his fingers are chilly against Taehyung’s, small and sweet and something rises up in Taehyung’s throat so overwhelming he can’t even speak for a moment, he’s just —

Taehyung closes his eyes and sinks his teeth into his lower lip.  He’s wanted this for so long.

His knees dig into the seat as Taehyung scrambles over, gripping Jimin’s cheeks in his hands and pressing their lips together hot and hard — and Jimin giggles against him, hands fluttering over Taehyung’s shoulders, fingers curling into fists against his lower back.  His mouth is small against Taehyung’s, lips soft and so hard to kiss when he’s giggling, when he’s leaning up to kiss Taehyung even as his breath ghosts humid across Taehyung’s chin.

“I love you,” Jimin says.  The two of them are parked in the far corner of the parking lot of some department store, seats reclined as far down as they’ll go.  They’d been married the day before — cheaply, quietly, with no one present but a few of their high school friends in addition to Namjoon.  Only a few days after graduation, just enough for the two of them to get all of their plans in order.  (Actually, it had just been Taehyung for the most part.  Jimin is terrible at things like figuring out plans and making phone calls, and Taehyung really doesn’t begrudge him that.  It’s just the way he is.)

And now the two of the are parked, for their second night of marriage, in the nondescript parking lot of some department store.  And maybe it’s a little goofy, a little imperfect, but it’s — he loves Jimin.  He loves Jimin so, so much, had known that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Jimin when they were both grubby little fifteen-year-olds and he knew when he proposed in the Sonic parking lot around the corner from Jimin’s house (he’d handed Jimin and onion ring, waited for Jimin to realize that he was actually, 100% serious before pulling the actual ring out of his back pocket and promptly shoving the onion ring into his mouth), and in that particular moment Taehyung isn’t more sure of anything else in his entire life.

He wants to be with Jimin forever.

“I love you more,” Taehyung says.

Jimin smacks him on the shoulder.  “Shut up,” he says.  

His voice is so close and his mouth is so close but Taehyung wants to be closer, can't believe he found his soulmate so fucking young, can't actually believe how stupidly lucky he is.  Taehyung threads one hand through Jimin’s hair and slides the other down his chest, over Jimin’s collarbones and down his ribs until Taehyung reaches the soft give of Jimin’s tummy and god, he's perfect, fuck —

“Can I come over there?” he asks even as he slides his fingers up beneath the hem of Jimin’s shirt.

Jimin's voice comes out as a breathy little whine — Taehyung doesn't know whether it's because he's running his thumb from the dip of Jimin's belly-button to the hem of his sweatpants or as a noise of complaint.  “Tae,” he says.  Taehyung presses his face into the curve of Jimin’s neck.  “Someone will see.”

Usually Jimin is the needy one, the one who clings and whines and asks for sex with grabby hands and pouty lips but Taehyung — tonight — he just can't seem to help himself.  His heart pounds in his chest, blood thudding through his veins so hard and so fast and so full of want.  He wants nothing more than to show Jimin how beautiful he is, how perfect, wants to be pressed up to Jimin so overwhelmingly close it doesn't feel like they're two separate people at all.

Taehyung chuckles, dipping his head down to press his lips to the flutter of Jimin’s pulse.  He tilts his head to the side to give Taehyung room without so much as a second of hesitation.  “No one's around,” he says.  “Who's gonna see?”

The street lamps glow bright against the dark blue of the sky, drowning out the shimmer of the stars.  Whenever Taehyung looks up the light burns neon-colored spots into his vision for a few.minutes, so they're bright, but — are they really as bright as Jimin?  Probably not.

Taehyung wonders if Jimin would roll his eyes if he could hear how cheesy Taehyung’s thoughts are.  He decides, after a moment of consideration during which he opens his mouth and slides his tongue across the marks he'd left on Jimin’s neck the night before, that he probably would.  

“Someone could come...by…”  Jimin's voice putters out into something quiet and distracted.  When Taehyung pulls away, he sees something flash behind Jimin’s eyes, feels Jimin’s grip around Taehyung’s waist tighten.

“I'll put the sun shade up and we can get in the back seat.”

Jimin blinks at him, left hand migrating from Taehyung’s waist up to the curve of his ribs.  Taehyung wonders if he can feel Taehyung’s heart beating frantically under his skin, wonders if Jimin is as hyperaware of the spot where his wedding band presses into Taehyung’s chest.  “Okay,” he says.

The two of them end up sprawled haphazardly in the back of Taehyung’s car, seats pushed up as far as they'll go to give themselves some space.  Taehyung crawls onto Jimin’s lap as soon as he gets the chance, bracketing Jimin’s hips with his knees and pushing Jimin’s head to the side so he can dot kisses and licks and bites all down Jimin’s neck. Taehyung isn't possessive (well, okay, maybe he's just a little possessive — wants Jimin to be his and him to be Jimin’s and everyone to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the two of them belong together) but he loves the way Jimin flushes with embarrassment whenever he catches sight of Taehyung’s marks in the mirror, sweet red and purple bruises forming a constellation across his collarbone.

And the way Jimin squirms under him whenever Taehyung digs his teeth in just right, well — that just makes it all the better.

“I love you,” Taehyung says.  He whispers it into the hollow of Jimin’s neck, skin spit-shiny and chest heaving beneath Taehyung’s fingers.  “I love you so much.”

“Fuck,” Jimin says, knotting his fingers in Taehyung's hair and dragging him upwards to smash their lips together, all needy and messy, teeth clacking together more than once when Jimin sinks his teeth into Taehyung’s lower lip, when Taehyung traps Jimin’s tongue in between his incisors.  Taehyung feels out the curve of Jimin’s waist, the nubs of his nipples through the material of his t-shirt.  It's all so familiar — the two of them had been together for four years.  At this point touching Jimin is second nature to him, so easy and unstressful.  

Jimin slides his hands up Taehyung’s shirt and drags his stubby little nails down Taehyung’s back.  He arches in response and Jimin mutters, “I love you, too,” and they've been saying that to each other for years, Taehyung’s heard it so many times before but there's something about the fact that they're married, Jimin is his husband and they love each other that has a knot rising in Taehyung’s throat, something swelling up hot and overwhelming deep in his chest —

“Tae,” Jimin says.  “Babe.”  He pushes Taehyung away by the shoulders, makes Taehyung hold himself up on his knees as his chest shakes and his breath trembles out of his mouth.  “Are you crying?”

He's giggling.  Probably because he knows that Taehyung isn't crying out of sadness or worry or anything else, but — because he's happy.

Taehyung is so happy.

“Sorry,” he says, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes.  The pleather seats squeak under Taehyung’s knees as he shifts backwards, resting the majority of his weight on the area just above Jimin’s knees.

“Hey,” Jimin says.  He runs his palms along Taehyung’s waist, his ribs, and a few more hot tears spill over Taehyung’s waterline.  “It's okay.”

His voice bubbles with a giggle.  Taehyung leans down and kisses him again.

The two of them manage to wiggle out of their clothes and toss them haphazardly into the front seat.  Jimin had forgotten his own deodorant, so he'd borrowed Taehyung’s that morning and when he rests his chin on the crown of Jimin’s head and breathes in Taehyung can make out the scent of his own product, but — beneath it there's something a little earthy, fresh like the smell of grass after rain.  And that's all Jimin.

Taehyung slides his hands through Jimin’s hair.  “I can bottom?” he asks, even as Jimin leans forward to fish out the bottle of lube Taehyung keeps in the pocket behind the passenger’s seat.  His fingers press into the small of Taehyung’s back, keeping him steady even as Jimin shifts his weight.  It's so — sweet.  Kind.  Caring.  Taehyung couldn't have asked for a better person to be married to.

“‘Course,” Jimin says.  “Whatever you want.  You're the one who’s crying.”

Taehyung’s chest rumbles as he laughs.  “Shut up,” he says.

The back windows of his car are darkened, but even through the tint Taehyung can make out the flash of headlights from the main road.  The two of them pull off their clothes slowly — Jimin shucking Taehyung’s shirt over his head and undoing the button of his pants.  Taehyung doing the same for Jimin.  He leaves a series of kisses down Jimin’s chest, running his fingertips and his lips over every inch of skin he reveals as he slides his hands up Jimin’s chest, the material of his shirt riding up his chest.  Taehyung flutters his eyelashes — long and pretty, like “a princess out of a fairytale”, Jimin had told him once — across Jimin’s shoulders, his collarbone, the column of Jimin’s neck and relishes in the way that Jimin giggles.  Taehyung even holds him by the bicep for just a moment to drag the tips of his fingers across Jimin’s armpit just to hear him squeal.

And maybe it’s just the rose-colored goggles that everyone had told him about, but — there’s something about this, this moment, with Jimin smiling and laughing and glowing underneath the yellow-tinged streetlamps that’s simply — magical.

Taehyung wants it burned into his memory forever.

—

It’s only a few minutes later that Jimin has his arm wrapped around Taehyung, his wrist crooked at an awkward angle to slide his fingers inside of Taehyung.  “This good?” Jimin asks.

Taehyung makes some noise that’s meant to be an affirmative, but actually comes out mostly unintelligible.  But he claws at the headrest and lets his mouth fall open in a gasp and attempts to push himself back onto Jimin’s fingers which doesn’t fucking work with their position and he whines —

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Jimin giggles, wiggling his hand to slip his fingers just slightly further inside of Taehyung, fingertips rubbing against his inner walls.

“Yeah,” Taehyung says.  “Def-definitely yes.”

Jimin chuckles.  He presses his lips sweetly, softly, against the curve of Taehyung’s collarbone.  “You about ready, or — ?”

“Fuck,” Taehyung says.  It takes him a long second realize fuck isn’t really an answer.  It’s because Jimin’s fingers aren’t quite pressing into his prostate — Taehyung doesn’t very much like the sensation of having it pounded into anyways, prefers the sort of gentle teasing Jimin loves to do, slow and steady and setting his nerves on fucking fire — and it so distracting, the way he curls his fingers to rub up against all the right places, mouths at Taehyung’s sweat-slick skin and chuckles into the crook of his neck.

“Shut up,” Taehyung says, shoving lightly at Jimin’s shoulder.  Which, of course, just makes him rock backwards, makes Jimin’s fingers slide against his rim in a way that sets Taehyung’s belly thrumming with arousal, his lips parting around a gentle gasp.  Jimin can’t seem to wipe the smug grin off his face.  “Just — “  Taehyung pants, dragging his hands from Jimin’s shoulders down his chest.  “Just fuck me.”

He watches as Jimin’s cheek’s flush red.  Whenever they have sex, whenever Taehyung slips his fingers under Jimin’s clothes and skate across his skin, hold him and love him and pull the two of them as close as they can get without occupying the same space, he’ll get a little red.  But when he’s embarrassed his cheeks will burn with bright points of color on either side of his nose as opposed to the way sex leaves his face pink all the way down to the curve of his neck into his shoulder.

It always makes Taehyung’s heart thump a little faster in his chest, a smile tug at the edges of his lips.

And in that moment Taehyung thinks he has Jimin, thinks he’s gained the edge in the situation.  He blushes and draws his fingers out of Taehyung, gaze cast demurely downward for a long moment before he flicks his gaze back up to Taehyung, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks.  “Of course I wanna fuck my husband.”

And that — that melts Taehyung’s heart in an instant.

He slides down onto Jimin as slowly as he can possibly manage.  Jimin mutters a gentle, mindless tease into the air between the two of them, but Taehyung can't help it.  Jimin is beautiful and loves him and is married to Taehyung.  He gets breathy when Jimin’s cock pushes past his rim, leans forward and wraps his arms around Jimin's head and brings their mouths together in a bruising, all-encompassing kiss.

Taehyung feels so full with Jimin inside of him, with their wedding band circled snug around his finger.  He wants to hold Jimin close, wants the two of them to be pressed skin to skin, heart to heart, wants to sink into Jimin slow and thorough until he can’t tell where his skin ends and Jimin’s begins —

He pushes himself up onto his knees with a fully-body shudder.  Jimin breathes, “I love you,” against Taehyung’s lips as he rises just out of reach, and Taehyung has to bite back on a moan as he feels himself squeeze around Jimin’s cock and bangs the top of his head against the roof of the car.

“Fuck,” Taehyung moans, and he can’t quite tell if it’s in pain or pleasure or sheer emotion.  His heart is caught in his throat and he can’t quite seem to bring himself to care when Jimin giggles at him.

He slides his hand around the back of Taehyung’s hand, gently bringing him down to rest his head on Jimin’s shoulder.  “Don’t hurt yourself.”  

Taehyung whines low in his throat and tries to bounce up on Jimin’s cock once more only for his shoulders to scrape against the roof of the car.

Jimin giggles at him again, light and airy.  When Taehyung pulls back to get a good look at his face, he only notices how sweet Jimin’s smile is when he grins so wide the edges of his eyes pinch together.  “Maybe we should switch?” Jimin laughs.

Taehyung pouts.  He’s panting just hard as Jimin is, cheeks probably flushed red and chest heaving with the effort of catching his breath.  “You just wanna bottom,” Taehyung says.

Jimin’s lips pop open in faux shock.  “It’s not my fault you’re a giant!”

And Taehyung grumbles, but he knows there isn’t enough space for the two of them to lie down vertically in the backseat, knows he’s going to end up ramming his head into the door or kicking his feet into the glass of the windows, but —

Taehyung pouts.  He squeezes around the length of Jimin’s cock, feels the way Jimin’s chest expands up against Taehyung’s own when he gasps.  “I like this.”

Jimin bites his lip, reaching out to grab at Taehyung’s hips and Taehyung grinds down, circles his hips, feels the way that Jimin’s muscles tense, fingers digging into Taehyung’s skin, breath catching in his throat —

But in the next moment he bounces up on Jimin’s cock and slams the back of his head into the roof of the car once again anyways.

Taehyung hunches over, clutching at the back of his head.

“I think we should switch,” Jimin says.  He cards his fingers through Taehyung’s hair, batting his hand away to press gently but firmly against the spot where Taehyung had hit his head.

“You owe me for this,” Taehyung says.  His lips pull into a genuine smile despite the way his head throbs.  He can feel Jimin’s wedding band pressing up against the crown of his head.

“Sure I do,” Jimin says, eyes shining with pure, unadulterated happiness.

It only takes a few minutes to get Jimin relaxed enough to take Taehyung’s cock.  He curls his fingers inside of Jimin, presses up against his walls just the way that Taehyung knows he likes, relishes in the way that Jimin grasps at his shoulders and gasps into Taehyung’s hairline.  It’s close and comfortable and it occurs to him, somewhere in the back of his mind, that maybe he shouldn’t be so happy to fuck Jimin in the back of his car the second night they’ve been married.  But honestly, Taehyung would be happy to be anywhere with Jimin, would be happy to be anywhere with his husband — whether the two of them are in Paris or on the moon or whether Jimin is sliding down onto Taehyung’s cock in the soda-stained backseat of his car.

“Fuck, Tae,” Jimin mutters, biting his lower lip and scrunching his eyes closed.  Jimin feels so hot and tight, so overwhelmingly close that Taehyung just rests his head on Jimin’s sternum and whines low in his throat, unable to hold the noise in.

Jimin doesn’t fare much better, however.  He knots his fingers in the back of Taehyung’s hair and circles his hips, grinds down with a moan that rises up out of his lips.  “Tae,” Jimin gasps, pushing himself up just slightly before dropping back down, the top of his head coming just shy of brushing the roof of the car.

“Huh?” Taehyung asks, digging his fingertips into Jimin’s hips, helping Jimin up as he starts to develop a rhythm.

“Love you,” Jimin gasps.  Strands of his hair slick with sweat stick to his forehead and he flushes a light pink color from the tips of his ears down to his collarbones.  “I’m so — “ he drops down onto Taehyung’s cock, squeezes so tight around him Taehyung feels his own toes curl of their own accord, “ — so glad we did this, so happy we — we got married, I love — “

He’s getting almost incoherent at that point, his movements becoming more erratic, bounce of his hips becoming less and less coordinated and more just a soft grind.  He leans forward just enough that the head of his cock catches on Taehyung’s stomach, but when Taehyung removes one of his hands from Jimin’s hips to slide around his cock, Jimin only bats his hand away.

“No, no,” he says, leaning forward, shuffling just slightly forward until his cock is pressed between his own stomach and Taehyung’s, dragging a slick little trail of precome across Taehyung’s skin as he circles his hips.  “Wanna — “ he slides his arms around Taehyung’s shoulders, hugging Taehyung’s face to his chest.  “Just wanna — Tae.”

And Taehyung chuckles low in his throat, a deep sound that vibrates through both of their chests.  He’d probably laugh just a little harder, make fun of how much trouble Jimin is having getting out a full sentence — but Taehyung is almost just as wordless as Jimin, one arm wrapped around Jimin’s waist to help him rock down onto Taehyung’s cock while the other splays flat across his lower back.  

Taehyung presses his forehead up against Jimin’s collarbone, tilts his head until he can feel Jimin’s skin warm against his cheek, can inhale the scent of his sweat.  He can smell Jimin and all his lavender and citrus (the smell of his deodorant) undercut by a soft, earthy scent that’s just entirely Jimin.  Taehyung knows it from years of wrestling him in the cluster of trees on the other side of his backyard fence, and from days spent slinking through their local movie theatre, hopping from show to show and huddling in the back row of seats, Jimin occasionally letting his eyes close, his scent fluttering up from the fluffy tuft of his hair.  And Taehyung will always be able to remember it from the days he’d spent with Jimin during their winter breaks, huddled underneath the duvet of Taehyung’s bed, legs tangled together, their noses bumping whenever one of them shifted position or leaned in to press a kiss to the other’s lips —

Taehyung feels Jimin tense around him once, twice, three times before he lets his breath out all at once.  He digs his nails into the back of Taehyung’s neck as he comes, sharp spikes of pain spiralling down Taehyung’s spine before he spills over the edge himself, muttering something that might be Jimin’s name or nonsense or just a barely intelligible, “Thank you.”

Taehyung comes back to himself slowly.  He starts drawing circles out against Jimin’s sweat-slick skin before he even realizes, pressing Jimin’s chest so close to his that he has to fight to breathe in deeply.

“Taehyung,” Jimin says, after a long moment.  He drags the tips of his fingers — his small, fat little fingers that Taehyung loves more than life itself — across the little half-moon indents he had dug into the back of Taehyung’s neck.  “Why’d you say thank you?”

Still a little breathless, Taehyung laughs.  “Did I?”

Jimin doesn’t move off him, just plays with the damp baby hairs at the back of Taehyung’s neck and goes nearly limp in his lap.  Taehyung’s cock is still nestled inside Jimin along with his come, soft and warm and comforting in a way that Taehyung doesn’t really bother to look at too hard.

With a hum, Jimin shifts on his knees.  “Yeah,” he says.  “You did.”

Taehyung slides both of his arms around Jimin, hugging him so tight.  Jimin’s come is cooling on the both of their stomachs, sweat drying tacky all down Taehyung’s back and tingling with the very beginnings of an itch.  But he doesn’t especially care, just — wants to be as close to Jimin as he can be, wants to revel in the fact that Taehyung is going to be able to do this for the rest of his life.

“I just…” Taehyung leaves his face pressed up against Jimin’s chest.  He leaves his lips open against Jimin’s skin, letting his breath collect dewy across Jimin’s collarbone.  “I dunno.  Thanks for having me, I guess.”

Jimin’s laugh tinkles like little bells in Taehyung’s ears.  “Like getting married to you is a fucking dinner party, Taehyung,” he chastises.  But Taehyung just laughs all deep and low and Jimin giggles high-pitched, absolutely darling, and in the next moment Jimin follows up with, “You’re wonderful.”  His voice Taehyung can imagine based on the timber of his voice, the lilt of his words, exactly the angle which Jimin’s lips quirk up.  “Thanks for having me.”

“To this fabulous dinner party,” Taehyung says.  Jimin rocks in his lap with laughter, and Taehyung continues with, “The main course is your ass,” before raising his palm and landing a soft smack against the curve of Jimin’s butt.

Jimin only giggles, wiggling just a few inches closer.  Taehyung’s dick starts to slip out of him and he clenches up, trying to keep it inside him.  Taehyung hisses with oversensitivity.

“The appetizer is your dick,” Jimin says.  “Tiny.”

Taehyung scoffs.  “My dick is not small, Park Jimin, stop lying.”

Jimin hides his face in the curve of Taehyung’s shoulder and spreads his knees, sinking impossibly further down onto Taehyung’s waist.  “Small,” he says.

“Your dick is small,” Taehyung mutters.  He rests his hands over the plane of Jimin’s back, sliding across his shoulder blades and down to the knobs of his hipbones on either side of his spine.

“My dick is a fucking anaconda,” Jimin says, and Taehyung guffaws so suddenly he nearly knocks Jimin off of his lap.

“Yeah, if anacondas are four inches long,” Taehyung snickers.

Jimin smacks him on the shoulder.  “Shut up!” he barks.  “It’s not four inches!”  But he’s laughing and Taehyung is laughing and when Jimin hits him, Taehyung can feel the cool metal of Jimin’s wedding band press into his shoulder.

Something settles low in Taehyung’s stomach — something sound and satisfied, so calm and comforting and all-encompassing that Taehyung feels like he could just...sit there forever.

Jimin leans forward, pressing his lips open-mouthed to Taehyung’s.  They kiss for a long, long stretch of time, dingy streetlamps peeking in through the car door windows, sweat and come drying across their skin.  But Taehyung doesn’t even fucking care because Jimin is — he’s so beautiful, and Taehyung loves him, and Jimin loves him back so much, and it’s —

It really couldn’t be more perfect.

When Jimin pulls away, swiping his tongue over puffy red lips, he says, “You can bottom next time, though.”

Taehyung smiles.  “Good,” he says.  He pecks Jimin on the cheek before rolling him off onto the other end of the seat, propping himself up on his knees to rifle through his duffel back in the trunk.

When he reemerges with one of his own already-dirty t-shirts, he finds Jimin laying sideways against the seat, hugging his own knees to his chest and staring at Taehyung with a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes.  “I love you,” he says.

Taehyung can’t keep himself from smiling like an idiot.

“I love you too,” he says.  Jimin smiles right back at him, peaceful and understated, and — Taehyung doesn’t say it out loud, but it occurs to him with absolute certainty that Jimin is his soulmate.

The two of them clean up as best they can, shuffling back into their dirty clothes and crawling back into the front seat.  Taehyung leaves the shade up across the windshield, but he makes sure the sunroof is wide open so the two of them can stare at the stars while they drift off to sleep.

It’s not too many hours before Taehyung wakes up, not a full night of sleep, but when he does flick back into consciousness, Jimin’s fingers are still entwined with his.

—

“So,” Jimin says, spreading his arms out wide in the empty front room of the apartment.  “You like it?”

Taehyung grins.  “Looks good,” he says.  He leaves his hands in his pockets as he steps through the threshold and into what is — apparently — going to be their new apartment.  Jimin had been the one to pick the place out, having come down here a week earlier than Taehyung to get everything sorted out for the two of them while Taehyung did the last of his packing and...tried to work things out with his parents.

[ralphspina-blog1]

HELLO it's ya girl coming to request some skipenk (or! another pairing if you'd rather do them!) with either the prompt “My parents are coming over in 10 minutes so please put some clothes on”, or “You’ll catch me, right?” if you wanna do those that is!

what would you do if i managed to make this cheesy and fluffy instead of humor? that’s what you get tbh, i’m so bad at humorous fic so HERE’S THE END RESULT

In the summer of Warren “Call me Skip” Muck’s eighteenth year on the planet, he feels more like he’s got a handle on the vagaries and paradoxes of life than he ever has before - and he’s been a consummate know-it-all since the day he was born, when he asked his mother if maybe she might want to reconsider the name “Warren” and caused a minor panic in the delivery room, so that’s an impressive feat.

Eighteen years old, fresh out of High School and ready to face whatever college has to offer, finally at a point where he appears to have grown into his features and the end result isn’t half-bad, cruising down the back streets of Towanada with his best friend in the whole wide world riding shotgun: what could touch him at this point, never mind knock him off his feet? He’s invincible. They both are.

Beside him, Penk “Why do you insist on calling me that, no one else does, just use Alex for fuck’s sake” Penkala is leaned halfway out the passenger side window, his outstretched arm rising and falling lazily with the shifting air currents each time there’s a variation in the car’s speed. They’re going so fast that the wind also cuts slipstream part lines all through his thick tangle of hair, which is too densely curly even for fingers to slide through - Skip has tried, with the good and valid reason that he just needed to know if it was possible, okay - but Skip doesn’t think for a second about telling him to sit back down.

Other people do shit like that. Him and Penk, they just have each other’s backs so that no matter what they get up to, what kind of disaster one courts, the other can keep it from coming to pass. It’s what makes them invincible, the fact that they simply don’t allow the idea of consequences close enough to touch them.

“Talked about it, talked about it, talked about it, talked about it -” Skip’s singing tunelessly to the mix CD he hasn’t switched out of his car stereo for nearly three months, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, and one of those facts seems to have started to wear on Penk’s nerves because out of nowhere, he lashes out a sneakered foot in the direction of the stereo’s eject button.

Ah. So it’s the mix that’s the culprit.

“Would you kindly be a little more respectful of Stacy the Stereo and her ceaseless devotion to the task of bringing us bitchin’ tu -”

“What?” Penk shouts from his perch, because naturally, the wind is rushing by his ears much too loudly for him to hear Skip’s request. He responds to that fact by kicking at the stereo again, so Skip resorts to drastic measures: namely, grabbing his pant leg with one hand and yanking him back in the general direction of inside the car.

“I said, don’t kick my fucking stereo!” Skip’s almost got his hand firmly around Penk’s ankle when Penk decides, in his infinite wisdom, to tug his leg back as hard as he can. Of course that leads to him recoiling precariously toward the open air and the pavement below, and Skip sees how the entire Rube Goldberg device of mistakes will play out and leave Penk as a smear across the road in the split-second it takes him to blink.

But when he opens his eyes, Penk is sitting in the seat beside him, laughing with breathless exhilaration. “Damn,” he says with something close to awe. “I nearly bit it.”

It’s all enough to make Skip forget that he’s not one of the assholes who would give Penk shit over doing something like that, so he pulls onto the curb with a squeal of tires and shower of gravel and slams on the brakes, then switches off the stereo the way any civilized human being would before turning his full attention to his friend. Who, he notices with redoubled annoyance, looks more startled and alarmed by their sudden stop than he did after nearly falling out the passenger side window at fuck off miles per hour.

“… what?” Penk says again, but this time he sounds uncertain and careful, like maybe he shouldn’t ask. Even more ludicrous, really, because since when do they watch what they say with each other?

You could’ve died, his mind responds in a frantic voice nothing like his own, and what was I supposed to do without you? We’ll already be living on opposite sides of the country in a month, so can we please make sure we at least make it that long? Jesus fucking Christ, Penk, what would I do without you? What will I do without you? Don’t you have any idea how much I -

Oh.

“You’ll change the CD with the respect due to my mixes, thanks, and that means not with your goddamn foot,” Skip says instead, which immediately causes a bright smile to spread across Penk’s face. Maybe it’s just the angle at which the sunlight is slanting through his windshield, but Skip thinks he’s never seen Penk’s eyes look quite that clear and pure a shade of blue before. Looking into them is like focusing his vision through a translucent marble, or a cobalt bottle.

Must be the sunlight. He’s seen Penk’s eyes plenty of times before. They’re hard to miss, perched up there like highbeams above his round cheeks.

Halfway into 19-2000, before Skip can start droning Get the cooooooooool shoeshiiiine along with Noodle again, Penk turns to him and blurts out, “I really scared the shit out of you, didn’t I?”

“Pshaw,” Skip says, since it’s both something very much like him to say and a made-up word that means nothing. 

Penk just flashes him a lazy grin, lips pursed, eyelids at half-mast. “So what if I fall out sometime? You’ll catch me, right?”

“I’ll dive out the driver’s side of a speeding car and somehow land on the opposite side in time to throw out my arms and save my dearest friend from a fate worse than roadkill?” Skip doesn’t even have to turn his head to see Penk nod in his peripheral vision, and he doesn’t hesitate with his answer:

“Yeah. ‘Course I will. I’ve got your back, buddy.”

That may be the only thing he actually knows about life and the world and himself, after all - that he’s got Alex Penkala’s back, come hell or high water, or scorched asphalt. Skip may just be slightly more vulnerable than he realized, but as long as he’s around to make sure of it, Penk will never be anything but invincible.

[muinaru-novel-blog]

Chapter Eleven - Breakout

The crew finally began to emerge from the other end of the sewage pipe after a gruelling half an hour crawl. One by one, the crew fell out in to a cold, slow-moving river, of which the pipe overhung. The banks of the river were high, reaching just above the head of Tyru, who stood tall, gazing up at the gradient of indigo fading into red on the horizon.

Over the bank, situated a kilometre away, was the prison, standing tall like a castle against a back drop of orange and red, which leeched slowly into the darkness of sky. The prison was constructed on top of a large hill, built out of great stone blocks and kept isolated by a five-metre-wide moat, which had since dried up. Erected on each side of the prison was an over-looking tower, however the left tower had been damaged, leaving only a fractured structure of stone blocks nestled within a bed of rubble, however the right tower was still complete along with its impressive spire.

Herax and Eric were the last ones to exit the pipe. Eric flopped out ungracefully; he splashed into the river and sank into the watery mud. Quickly, Freta grabbed Eric, after a momentary snigger with crew, and hoisted him up onto the bank. Eric thanked her as he clutched desperately to the grass, covered in cold watery-mud, shivering.

Herax dropped out next, managing to roll himself out so that he landed onto his feet. Immediately, he straightened up his jacket, scrapping away the muck, and moved up to Tyru. He gazed over the bank, looked at the prison and whispered, “It’s quiet.” He smiled and looked at Tyru, “Looks like we got away with it,” he added as he grabbed Tyru’s shoulder and jubilantly shook it, “and you were worried it would fail.”

Tyru shook his head, “I was merely expressing my concerns over marching into a prison filled with shades.”

Skrik smirked, “Basically had your tail between your legs.”

Tyru scowled, “Are we gonna get going?”

Herax agreed, “Yes,” He grabbed Eric and explained, “Our airship is about a kilometre through the forest, just over the other side of the bank.” Eric nodded and Herax continued, “But the ground is a bit soft, shall we say. Do you think you can keep up?”

Eric stared blankly, his eyebrows rose and he stammered, “I s-suppose so.”

Herax’s mouth skewed to one corner as he frowned. He raised his arm and signalled over Freta. She stepped to his side and Herax instructed, “Freta, look after the boy, make sure he doesn’t get left behind.”

Freta sighed, “Why are we bringing him?”

Herax shrugged, “The shades kept him alive, that’s enough reason for me. Besides, should I just leave the boy?” Freta answered with the shake of her head and attentively touched Eric’s shoulder, who still clung to the grass.

Herax turned to look across the rest of his crew, and commanded, quietly so as not to attract any unwanted attention, “Alright, let’s move out.”

The crew hiked up the bank, crawling up the grass, and moved into the forest. Eric, however, could barely pull himself a centimetre higher. The crawl through the pipe, and the previous day, had exhausted him. Freta saw Eric’s struggle and promptly lunged over to help. She pulled him up to his feet and dragged him to the top of the hill, where she released him. Eric collapsed to his knees. His hands dropped hard onto the grass, which was bogged by a night of heavy rain, and mud squelched around his hands up to his wrists.

Eric sighed, “I’m … I’m too tired. I-I can barely move.”

Freta knelt beside the boy and cupped his face in one hand. She looked at his cheeks; they were pale, his lips were purple and his eyelids were struggling to stay open.

Skrik paused by Freta’s side. He looked mournfully at the boy and said to Freta, “You keep on, I’ll carry the boy.” Skrik knelt and asked Eric, “Think you can hold those arms around my shoulders, boy?” Eric nodded and slowly lifted his arms. Freta helped hoist Eric up onto Skrik’s back and Skrik clasped Eric’s legs to his waist. Once Eric was secure, Skrik stood and walked on into the forest.

As they walked, Freta whispered close to Skrik, “The boy feels thin and he’s very pale.”

Skrik nodded, “Been in there for a while, I suspect.”

Freta compressed her lips and added, “He doesn’t seem to know it.”

Skrik shrugged, “Tocks will probably know what’s on.”

 The sky was becoming brighter as Herax and his crew ploughed on through the mud. The clouds were highlighted with linings of gold and silver as the light cascaded out over the land. However, the tall prison kept the crew in the cold under its long shadow, which stretched far over the forest.

The crew smiled as they gazed up at the new light casting down upon the top of the airship’s balloon, which they could just see through the leaves of the tree. However, their grins were suddenly removed when a squabble of chilling howls echoed out from the prison. The crew turned their eyes back towards the prison and stared with a sullen expression.

Tyru whispered loudly, “Shades, they’re on the move.”

Herax huffed and ordered, “No time to gawp, we need to move. Now, go now!”

The crew reanimated and began moving twice as fast, ploughing through the mud and pushing through the dense brush.

Tyru muttered, but loud enough for those around him to here, “How’d they know we were here?”

Muran curled up his lip, looked back at the Skrik, who was carrying Eric, and insinuated, “They know we took something.”

Herax heard the conversation and quickly interrupted, “Cut the chat. Keep moving, we’re almost at the airship.”

 Despite Eric’s small size, he still managed to be a tiring weight on Skrik’s back and slowly he fell behind the rest of the crew, but Freta held herself back with him.

Skrik huffed, whilst looking back at the silhouette of the prison against the sky, and advised Freta with a grave tone, “Charge your weapon, you’ll need it.” Freta lifted her rifle and turned a dial on the side. Immediately, the rifle whistled and hissed as it charged, before reducing to a gentle hum.

Skrik asked, “How’s the boy doing? I feel his grip slipping.”

Freta replied, “His eyes are closed.”

Skrik sighed and threw the Eric around into his arms. He looked at Eric and assessed as they walked, “He needs rest and food.”

Freta nodded and just as she turned her eye back around, a shade shot from out of the trees. Startled, Freya erratically fired her weapon, spraying a violent bolt of electricity wildly through the sky. The stream flowed out in an untamed flailing line but managed to strike the shade down, as well as striking a few branches of the tree behind. The bark of the branch smouldered gently with black smoke until eventually it ignited into rage of flames.

The fallen shade tried to stand back up but quickly Freta struck it again, concentrating the bolt on its body until, eventually, after a couple of seconds, the shade burst into a swirl of ash. The creature cried out with a shrill gurgle as it dispersed into ash.

The flames burning in the tree had now chewed up higher and had grown into a serious fire, which emitted a bright orange glow into the sky. A dark cloud of smoke swirled up with the heat of the flames, drifting through the leaves and high up into the sky, dragging up with it large flakes of glowing ash. Skrik grimaced as he looked at the fire and remarked sarcastically, “Good aim; that’s not going to call any attention.”

Freta sneered and snapped, “It surprised me; I couldn’t exactly allow it to jump onto me.”

Skrik smirked and immediately responded, “I know. Let’s keep moving.” He slung Eric over his shoulder, leaving one hand free, so he could un-holstered his rifle, and marched on towards the airship. More shades jumped out from the darkness as the pair trekked, but again and again, they shot the shades down and burnt them into ash.

Farther ahead of the Skrik and Freta, the crew were themselves fighting against a barrage of shades, as indicated by the flashes of blue light shimmering out from between the trees. Skrik sighed and warned, “We’re too far from the rest. We need to stay together.”

Freta affirmed, “Yes,” whilst keeping her eyes narrowed upon the shadows of the trees.

Skrik commanded, “Keep moving, we can’t hope to kill all the shades before morning.” He groaned, “Hopefully, they’ll realise we’re fallen behind and slow down for us.” Skrik pushed his legs harder, whilst keeping an eye upon the trees around him and occasionally firing upon the devious shades that tried to flank both him and Freta.

Despite Skrik’s effort, he could not move fast enough to keep a head of the howls, and soon they were surrounded in frenzy whooping shrieks, as horde of shades spilled out from between trees in front of them. Freta released a stream of electricity, however, there were too many for her to concentrate the beam upon and she was forced to flick her rifle back and forth across the shades, just to keep any one from advancing out of the horde.

The shades jumped out, clawing, but quickly they cowed and clambered back into the group, escaping the threat of the electricity. An occasional shade would daringly leap out of the group at Freta, however this generally only made them an easier target to be shot down and destroyed.

Freta glanced over to check Skrik but her lapse of attention was taken advantage of and a shade lunged forward, latching itself onto her back. It wrapped its arms around her biceps and constricted her from raising her hands above her shoulders. She yelled out in anger and immediately swung herself from side to side, whilst continuing to aim a stream of electricity in the direction of the horde of shades. After a few violent jerks from side to side, Freta managed to jostle the shade off her back, casting to the floor before she burnt it with a bolt of electricity, which at such close range, dissolved the shade instantaneously.

Freta quickly returned the stream of electricity at the horde of shades around her and continued to back away towards the airship. She glanced around once again, looking of Skrik, but he was no longer around. She called out, “Skrik, where are you?” but the shrieking howls of the shades overwhelmed the reach of her voice.

 Skrik turned around as when he heard a faint voice on the air. He around and found himself walking alone. Just as he was about to call out, a shade jumped down onto his shoulder, grabbing onto Eric. It pulled hard at Eric, trying to tug him off Skrik’s shoulder, but Skrik quickly dropped the boy and slugged the shade away with a strong sweep of his arm.

Skrik took aim with his rifle but before he could take a shot another shade jumped onto Skrik’s back and knocked his balance, causing his aim dropped and focus onto a dead branch lying on the forest floor, which ignited under the intense heat of the bolt of electricity. The flames moved quickly across the wood, illuminating the trees around it.

 Repeatedly Freta called Skrik’s name as she moved towards the airship, but she still struggled to reach over the volume of the shades. However, eventually, a voice did call back, “Freta?” It was Herax. He ran out from the trees, holding in his hand his sword with a long curved-blade, like a katana, and in the other hand a bright torch. He stopped at Freta’s side and snapped, “Where’s Skrik?”

Freta shook her head, “I don’t know, he was just ahead of me.”

Herax observed, “I see a fire over there.” he commanded, “Follow with me and keep shooting at the filth,” and ran into the darkness.

Freta fired haphazardly at the shades behind Herax, when he yelled out, “THERE, IN FRONT.” Freta glanced over Herax’s shoulder and glimpsed a horde shades overwhelming Skrik, restraining him down onto his knees. The shades brawled with each other to take turns feast upon Skrik’s spirit, which was being drawn out of his skin like swarm of fireflies.

Herax roared and charged towards them, holding his blade to his side, ready to swing. The shades jumped from Skrik and rushed towards Herax. Once they reached within a metre distance, Herax fired up his blade, which crackled with streams of electricity, and swung into the shades. His blade burst with a firework of blue sparks, as he lunged and sliced through the mindless gathering of shades. The seething heat of electricity demolished the shades’ frail bodies, leaving behind clouds of black ash.

After Herax cleared out the shades, he rushed over to Skrik, who was crouched over on his hands and knees. His spirit weakened but he was still fighting. Herax turned to Freta and ordered, “keep an eye on him, I’ll find the boy.”

 The shades dragged Eric across the mud back in the direction of prison. He tried to pull at his arms away, out of the grip of the shades, but he was too weak. In a desperate effort to slow himself, Eric dug his heels into the ground, but the mud was too soft and it merely flowed around his shoes. Eric could do nothing but yell out, however even his voice was failing and he could only muster a hoarse cry for help.

However, Eric’s cry was enough and Herax managed to find him. He jumped out of the darkness and furiously thrusted his blade into one of the shades in a brilliant burst of bright blue sparks. The shades quickly dropped Eric and dove towards Herax, but he swiftly cut them down.

Eric coughed and apologised, “I’m sorry. I tried to es─”

Herax quickly interjected, “Shut up boy, conserve your energy.” He lifted Eric and placed him over his shoulder, leaving one of his arms free to carry his blade. He took Eric back over to where Skrik rested, who was now also being watched over by Muran.

Herax handed Freta the boy and ordered, “Muran, you keep the Shades at bay, Freta you take the boy back and I’ll carry Skrik.”

Herax threw one of Skrik’s arms over his shoulder and lifted him up. Skrik smirked and thanked Herax as he limply rose to his feet. Herax shook his head and cautioned, “Don’t thank me yet. We still need to get to the airship.”

 At the airship, the crew had already begun to make her airborne and she was now hovering several metres off the ground. The airship unusual; the passenger hold, below the balloon, looked like an old sail ship, however, there were no masts nor a rudder. Draped down one side of the airship was sturdy rope ladder and at the end was Tyru, waiting at the bottom, guarding it from the shades.

Freta arrived first with Eric over her shoulder. She rushed over to Tyru and explained, “The boy’s frail and they got Skrik a bit. He’s still conscious though, but he’s weak.”

Tyru nodded with a grave expression, “Okay, urm, get up the ladder.”

Herax arrived next dragging Skrik, who stumbled along by his side, with Muran following close behind. Herax stopped at the ladder and commanded, as he panted, “Muran, Tyru, get the hell up and blow the bloody charges. Skrik is too heavy to haul up, so I’ll stay with him and you,” he pointed at Tyru, “get the crew to pull us up on the ladder.”

The pair quickly climbed up the ladder, whilst Herax remained at the bottom, driving his blade wildly through the shades. As soon as Muran reached the top he quickly aimed his rifle down and began shooting a perimeter around Herax and Skrik. Whilst Tyru quickly gathered the crew and commanded them to pull up the ladder with Herax and Skrik holding on down below.

Once the crew was in position, Tyru left to the control room, where a detonator sat on a table on top of a detailed blue print of the prison. The detonator was only small, about the size of Tyru’s palm, but it’s antenna reached up two metres. On the front of the detonator was a toggle switch, which was covered with a red safety clip. Tyru grabbed the detonator and rushed to the banister of the airship. He flicked up the red clip and pressed the toggle switch up firmly with his thumb.

Tyru gazed out the at the silhouette prison on the horizon and waited. It took several seconds but suddenly, the sky broke with tremendous bellow, like a rumbled of rolling of thunder. Tyru punched the air with a jubilant chuckle as he pocketed the detonator. Then, like an avalanche a roar of tumbling stone resonated through the sky. The two towers were the first to fall, crumbling down in a storm of dust and rubble. The bricks smashed down into the arena, which too began to fold in onto itself.

As the walls tumbled, new light flooded in through the gaps and sliced into the trees, piercing through the gaps of the leaves. The light shredded the shades apart, which were all now frantically rushing to hide in the isolated shadows of the trees and shrubs.

Herax laughed like a mad man as the airship rose up into the light of the sun. He jubilantly shook Skrik as he shouted, “Look at them run, the shades are running, hah ha.”

Once Herax was pulled up onto the deck, he hugged his crew, lifting them up of the ground and elated, “Another fine job crew, let’s go home.” The crew cheered, including Skrik, who was held up by Muran and another crew member, who wore a vibrant yellow handkerchief around his neck.

After a brief celebration, Skrik was taken down into the bowels of the airship, where the two crew members holding him, laid him down on a bed in the infirmary. Herax followed and stood over his crew member mournfully. Skrik smiled, “I’ll be fine, Just need a good meal.” Herax smirked and patted his shoulder.

As he turned Freta called him over, “Herax, the boy.”

Herax quickly rushed over and confessed, “I’d forgotten about him, how’s Eric doing?”

Freta tightened the sheet wrapped around the boy and cautioned, “He’s exhausted. He needs medical help.”

Herax sighed and nodded, “It’ll be an hour at least before we reach base. Keep him company until then will you?” Q �OER��t}��-�