#murder at mist tree manor

[macguffinandco]

MURDER AT MIST TREE MANOR 🔎

Our latest microsetting features an idyllic trip to a remote country house that’s definitely, for certain, going to contain absolutely no murders oh god oh no is that a body on the floor

quick please help us solve this fiasco by running to the patreon

[moonchild9350]

The Manor

Summary: both you and your boyfriend Chan love haunted houses so you both decide to check out the one in town, but you both find out soon you may get more than you bargained for.

Pairing: Chan x fab!reader, OT8 x reader throughout

Genre: horror, mystery, smut- 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: presence of spirits/ghosts, attempted drowning, knife play, description of blood, use of blindfolds, violence, description of bruising/assault, poison use, unprotected sex (don’t), creampie, fingering, fear induced arousal, use of guns, attempted strangling, voyerism, mention of stabbing, element of dubcon (one scene), Chan's kind of a dick

Notes: This is it! The last fic for spooktober. I appreciated every kind comment, reblog, etc. throughout this month. Happy Halloween!

Let's see if you can decipher who is who as you read through! Let me know your guesses in the comments or my inbox!

If you enjoyed, please consider a like, reblog, comment as it keeps me motivated ♡

Please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work elsewhere without my permission. ©moonchild9350 (2024)

“Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, blood and revenge are hammering in my head.” -Willam Shakespeare

“The Edge Manor, established in 1876. Prime of its time. A well respected family in the community until tragedy struck in 1896 when Clara Edge was murdered by her lover, within the very rooms of the manor. It is rumored her ghost haunts the manor and has been spotted by many guests who come to seek out the horrors that lie within its walls.”

“Babe, this seems like an adventure! Can we go? Please? Please?” You begged your boyfriend Chan, giving him the best puppy dog eyes you could muster.

You dragged your leg up his, teasing the hairs there as you looked up into his face. You and Chan were avid lovers of anything horror, and that included haunted houses. You both made it a point to visit and see for yourselves if these places were truly disturbed with the dead as reported.

You found out about Edge Manor through a website, others raving about the manor, claiming to have seen many ghosts within its walls. You were a little skeptical however, knowing that whenever people claimed multiple sightings within one house, there was bound to be a lie somewhere.

Nonetheless, you were more than ready to find out if there was truth in the rumors, leading you to the present, pleading with Chan to come with you.

“Of course baby, let’s go,” Chan said, a smirk on his face. “Maybe we’ll see all these ghosts they claim are there,” he said sarcastically, poking you in the side.

You chuckled, holding him close. You were ready for another adventure, the last one being a bust. You both decided to visit the next weekend, since you both were off from work, that way you could stay overnight and thoroughly explore the manor during the day and night.

You were excited, almost giddy, and hoped the weekend after next would come soon.

Your bags were packed and you were making your way down the winding roads, twists and turns at every corner. The lanes were empty, no one being out this far in the middle of practically nowhere.

It was a cloudy day, the sun deciding to hide within the clouds, the threat of a storm in the horizon. There was already a mist descending from the sky, the droplets covering your windshield. Trees littered both sides of the road, the leaves drifting downward and landing softly like a feather.

You were on your way to Edge Manor to meet Chan, as he had left earlier than you. You hummed the song on the radio, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel to the beat, as you focused on the road. You were almost there according to your GPS, your excitement bubbling at the prospect of a thrill of a weekend.

It didn’t take long until the manor loomed in the distance, the large structure betraying its age. The gray stones did not seem welcoming, almost as if it were an omen to anyone that approached to stay away. The shutters covering the windows were falling apart, yet hanging on, adding to the charm of the menacing manor.

You pulled into the long, gravel drive, slowly making your way to the front of the house. Your mouth hung open in awe as you came to the front door, elegant as much as it was rickety.

You put your car in park and opened the door, your foot touching the gravel below with a crunch. You slowly walked up the steps and to the door, your hand grasping the centuries old knob. Opening the door, you were met with a grand foyer, dim lighting illuminating the room.

Your eyes wandered the room, until you noticed a desk in the center, a man standing behind it, his hands placed precariously on the wood. You walked towards him, a smile steadily growing on his face as you approached.

He had long blond hair that framed his almost angelic face. His large brown eyes gazed at you, radiating with a welcoming kindness. His face was littered with freckles, the spots moving as his smile grew bigger, meeting his eyes.

“Welcome to Edge Manor. My name is Felix, the caretaker of the grounds. Will you be staying with us?”

His voice was deep, with a hint of an accent, the syllables echoing off the ornate walls.

“Yes, I’m uhh...I’m meeting someone here, he’s already checked in. Chan is his name.”

“Ah yes, he checked in a little earlier.”

You watched as he rummaged under the desk, muttering under his breath as he searched for something. Finally, he straightened up with an old fashioned key in his hand, the red label reading 325. Felix smiled and handed you the key, his cold fingers softly brushing against yours before he quickly withdrew his hand once the key was safely in yours.

“I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay. If you are in need of any assistance, please do not hesitate to let me know. The stairs to my left will take you to your room.”

You thanked Felix and grabbed your bag, heading to the stairs he mentioned. You made your way up the plush stairs, your feet feeling almost buoyant on the carpeted stairs. Your eyes wandered, looking at the paintings that lined the wall. Each frame showed a different person, each in period clothing.

Stopping at a particular frame, you took note of a young girl in a beautiful lilac dress holding lily of the valley flowers in her arms. She was beautiful with a gentle face, her eyes an illustrious green. As beautiful as she was, there was a hint of melancholy etched into her eyes, her smile not quite reaching the green orbs.

‘This must be the famous Clara Edge,’ you thought.

With one last glance at the girl, you continued down the hall, looking for your room. It didn’t take long, the room being in the center of the hall. Inserting the key, you unlocked the door, and walked inside.

The room was charming yet simple, a little bit of old charm mixed with new. You placed your bag on the dresser, noticing Chan’s bag was there as well. So he was here. You pulled out your phone to contact him, but noticed there was no service.

“Shit,” you muttered, wondering how you were going to get in contact with him. Surely he wouldn’t have started to explore the manor without you.

You decided to freshen up, while waiting for him to return, as you were feeling a little sweaty after the journey. Unzipping your bag, you pulled out your shower supplies and made your way to the in-suite bathroom. Flicking on the light, you took in the room, a simple claw tub in the corner followed by a sink and a toilet.

The bare minimum, but it would do. You turned the water on, humming a song, waiting for the water to warm up. It surprisingly didn’t take long, so you were able to fill the tub, and quickly get in, as there was a slight chill in the air.

Sinking down in the warm water, you let out a sigh, the tension slowly leaving your body. You leaned back against the tub and closed your eyes, listening to the house settle around you, the creaks of the floor boards and groans of the pipes being your background noise. You hoped Chan would come back soon, wanting to be near him in this strange house.

You were thinking of Chan still when you felt odd, like someone was watching you. The room turned colder, the edge of the tub frosting over. You shivered at the sudden change, opening your eyes in confusion at the sudden change.

You tried to get out of the tub so you could get into some warm clothes. You had your hands on either side of the tub, grasping the icy rim when you felt a hand on both of your shoulders, the fingers colder than the air around you. With force, the hands pushed you back into the water, causing some water to spill up and over the edge of the tub.

You almost slipped on your way back down, stopping your head from going completely under the tepid water. Your heart was beating rapidly within your chest, as you almost had gone under.

“Chan? Very funny babe,” you nervously chuckled.

This would be a funny idea of a joke to Chan, trying to sneak up and scare you in a vulnerable moment.

However, when you turned around to look toward the bathroom door, there was no one there, just you alone within the tub. You were confused, more than sure that someone had touched you just now. You almost went under because of it. Shaking your head, thinking it was a fluke, you tried to get up once more.

Suddenly, you were pushed down again, this time your body slipping completely below the water, your head submerged, your hair floating gently in the water like Ophelia. You were shocked, your mouth agape, water flooding your mouth as you scrambled to get out of the water. However, the more you struggled, the harder you were pushed down by the mysterious hands, your head touching the bottom of the tub.

You kicked your feet, thrashed around, trying anything you could do to get your head above water, but to no avail. You screamed, bubbles floating around you as your voice pierced the water, the sound coming out muffled.

What you saw peering down at you from the surface caused you to scream even louder. The hands pushing you down were connected to a body, a man at that.

He had dark hair that layered his head haphazardly, his fox like brown eyes wide and bloodshot. His lips were pale and shriveled, as if he held them under water for a while. His mouth was twisted in anger, his focus trained on keeping you under.

You brought your hands to his, scratching the flesh, fighting to loosen his grip on you. It was becoming harder to breathe as you had swallowed quite a lot of water, the liquid rapidly filling your lungs while fighting off your assailant.

Your vision became fuzzy, the image of the man blurring around the edges. You were about to succumb to your fate, when strong, sturdy hands grabbed you pulling you out the water.

You gasped, taking a deep breath before coughing, spewing water that was trapped within your throat onto the bathroom floor. You looked up to see Chan, who was now cradling you to his side, brushing back your soaking hair from your face.

“What the hell, y/n! What happened?” He exclaimed, a mixture of confusion and fear mixed on his face.

“I...I’m not sure,” you stuttered. “I was taking a bath when I felt a pair of hands push me down under the water. I couldn’t get back up!” You cried, as you clutched onto Chan tighter.

“Sh, sh,” Chan said as he wrapped a towel around you tight. “Let's dry you off and get you into some warm clothes.”

You nodded your head in agreement and held on tight as Chan carried you to the bedroom. He set you down gently on the bed while he rummaged through your bag for some clothes.

He tossed you your panties, some leggings and a shirt, and helped you get dressed. Once done, you both reclined against the bed, sitting in silence.

What was that? What happened? Who was that? Your mind was all over the place, shock at your run in with...with what? Was that one of the famed ghosts of the manor? The man did seem to have a glow to his frame.

You broke the silence, explaining to Chan what you saw and then explaining your theory. He looked at you skeptically, not sure if he wanted to believe it was a ghost, but what other explanation was there?

You felt adrenaline running through your veins, the feeling of fear not quite dissipating yet. Instead, you felt aroused, the brush with death stirring up feelings deep in your core. You squeezed your thighs together, seeking friction to ease the ache. Chan noticed and smirked. ���Are you turned on right now?” You smiled slyly as you looked into his eyes. You scooted closer, wrapping your arms around him before kissing him, your tongue forcing its way into his mouth. You were dripping, never having felt this type of arousal before, the balance between fear and adrenaline teetering like the scale of judgment.

You quickly pushed Chan down, his back hitting the pillows, a “mmhft” leaving his mouth at the impact. You shimmied out of your leggings, tossing them to the side and scrambled to reach into his sweats, your hands wrapping around his hardening cock.

Chan let out a groan as you stroked the tip, pushing your panties to the side, before lifting your hips and dragging his cock through your folds. You both let out a moan as you slid down onto his cock, taking him to the hilt.

There was no time for soft and sweet, but only passion, at the experience you both just went through. You braced yourself, placing your hands on his chest, as you began to bounce on his cock, the sound of skin hitting skin reverberating through the room, as you rode Chan hard and fast.

Strangled cries fell from Chan’s lips as he grabbed your hips, the pleasure quickly building within his belly. He was not going to last long. He quickly brought a finger to your clit, the digits rubbing the bud in gentle, but quick circles, bringing you closer to the edge as you fervently swiveled your hips.

You were close, Chan’s cock hitting your spot just right and his fingers toying with your clit. You braced yourself as you tipped over the edge, giving into the sweet pleasure spreading throughout your body, your release coating Chan’s cock. The spasming of your walls triggered his own release, as he loudly groaned, thrusting his hips into yours as spurts of cum coated your walls.

You sat there, your breath heavy as you came down, staring down at your boyfriend who was in no better shape.

“That was insane babe,” Chan said, a smile on his face.

You laughed agreeing and slipped off his cock, his cum dripping down your thighs as you laid down. Chan walked back to the bathroom, grabbing a towel to wipe you down with.

Once he was done, he slid next to you, cradling you to his body. You could feel the adrenaline finally subsiding, your mind returning back to normal. That was definitely a paranormal entity you had experienced, no doubt about it. But who was it?

Your mind couldn’t keep up with your constant thoughts as your eyes drifted close, sleep taking over your exhaustion body.

You awoke, your belly growling signaling to you that you were hungry. It was midday, the room dark as the sun did not shine on this side of the manor, the shadows dancing across the walls as the wind blew the trees outside.

You were still wrapped up in Chan, his arms around you, holding you close. Your mind went to what happened earlier, your body shivering at the memory of your head under water, the look of the unforgiving eyes of the man that held you under. But, your mind also wandered to after, the way Chan felt under you, the way your senses were heightened ten-fold as the adrenaline spread throughout your body. You had never felt that fear before, but then again, you had never been in this type of situation.

Your stomach growled once more, interrupting your thoughts. Carefully, you untangled your limbs from Chan and got up, deciding to find the kitchen to grab a snack.

You walked the halls, rubbing your eyes, making your way down the grand staircase. You passed by the front desk, Felix standing behind it waiting.

“How’s your stay?” Felix asked suddenly, the ever present smile on his face. “Ok,” you replied, stopping in your tracks. “That’s good to hear! If you are of need of anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” You didn’t notice this before, but now that you were settling in, you noticed how Felix spoke, as if he was programmed to say what he was saying. You decided not to think too much of it as your belly continued to growl, reminding you of your hunger.

“Felix, where is the kitchen? I’m a little hungry and would love a snack.”

Felix flashed his smile before saying, “Right down the hall here to my right. Fourth door. Take the stairs down into the kitchen.”

“Great, thank you,” you replied, making your way down the hall as directed.

The hall was dim, the flicker of light from the lamps on the walls not providing adequate lighting. There were more pictures on the wall, depicting the previous occupants of the house.

“One, two, three....and four,” you whispered, coming to the door Felix mentioned.

You opened the door to find a stone staircase, leading to beneath the house, the stairs lit with the soft glow of the lamps. There was a draft, the chilly air causing you to shiver where you stood.

Taking a breath, you began to make your descent, the promise of food spurring you on. Once at the bottom, you stepped into a simple kitchen. There was a wood stove next to the refrigerator, the wide sink basin not too far off. It seemed like the original appliances were still in use.

You padded over to a door, assuming the pantry would be located behind it. You were right as it was piled high with various types of chips, boxes of pasta, desserts, and other types of foods that must be used to cook for the guests.

You decided on a bag of chips, grabbing the bag and walking over to a stool. You opened the bag and dug in, the salty snack hitting the spot. It wasn’t very late, dinner time not yet approaching, so you didn’t have to worry about ruining your dinner.

After eating your fill, you got up to put the bag away and then made your way to the sink to wash your hands. While you ran your hands under the warm water, you heard a clink, the sound echoing off the stone walls surrounding you. You quickly turned around, your soaped up hands held in front of you, looking for the source of the sound.

Seeing no one, you went back to washing the suds off. You were almost done when you felt something press at your throat, feeling cold and solid against your skin. You attempted to turn your head, but stopped in your tracks when the solid object dug deeper into your skin.

You could feel a trickle of blood seep from the area, causing you to gasp, realizing there was a knife at your throat. Your breath became shaky, trying not to make any sudden movements and injury yourself further.

“Who’s there?” You asked, your voice trembling with each word.

You could feel your heart beating rapidly, the sound echoing in your ears. No one responded to your question as there was only silence and the occasional ‘plink plink plink’ of the water dripping from the faucet.

You knew someone was behind you however, as you could feel their breath on your neck, not hot as you would expect, but cold. Whoever it was still had the knife pressed to your throat before you heard a haunting whisper. “Turn around slowly,” the voice said.

The knife was lowered and you let out a breath before slowly turning around. You noticed another man in front of you, this one different than the one you encounter during your bath.

He had black hair like the man before, however, his eyes were almost cat like, the orbs piercing into your skull. He gripped the knife in his hand, occasionally twirling the blade.

“Aren’t you a cutie, kitten,” the man said, his eyes roaming your figure before landing back on your eyes, holding your gaze.

You were trembling in your spot in fear, not sure who the man was. The adrenaline was coursing through your system once more, your body posed to flee once the timing seemed right. You kept eyeing the knife, making sure it stayed far away from you. You must have gazed at it too long, as the man noticed, a smirk forming on his face.

“Wanna see my little friend up close?” He questioned, walking closer to you.

He didn’t stop until he was right in front of your face. You continued to stare into his brown orbs as he lightly dragged the knife up your arms, the little hairs on your arms sticking up. He continued his assault across your chest, down the valley of your breasts before coming back up to your chest.

He eyed your throat, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, almost as if he was savoring you in his head. With a quick motion, the knife was back at your throat, the blade pressing in harder than before.

You were terrified, as you felt the metal dig deeper and deeper, a more steady flow of blood seeping from the wound. With each drop of blood, you couldn't help the arousal that seeped into your panties, the material feeling damp against your core.

With each press of the knife, your pussy clenched around nothing, your body desperately seeking for some type of relief. You shouldn’t be feeling this way, but here you were with a knife at your throat, ready to slice you open and you were turned on.

You needed to get away from this man, before anymore damage could be done. You decided to run across the room and up the stairs and into the hallway, locking the man in this infernal place.

Taking a breath, you counted to three before shoving the man hard, your hands meeting the hard surface of his chest. As he stumbled backwards, you made a run for it, making it to the steps in no time. You took them two at a time, not stopping until you were in the hallway, the door closed tightly behind you.

You quickly made your way back to the foyer, your neck still dripping blood from where the knife was held against your skin. Once in the grand hall, you turned to see Felix looking at you in concern.

“Why y/n, you are bleeding! What happened?” Felix exclaimed, walking over to you with a tissue.

You gratefully accepted the cloth, holding it against the wound on your neck. “Come, this way. Let’s go the sitting room.” Felix guided you toward a room to the left of his desk, swinging open the ornate doors. He waited until you stepped in, before following behind you. “Please sit,” Felix murmured. “I will get a first aid kit to clean up your wound. You can tell me what happened then too.” You watched as Felix scurried out the room, shutting the doors behind him. Now that he was gone, you took in your surroundings, not yet having come across this room. It was large, but cozy, various arm chairs and couches strategically placed throughout. You could hear the tick tock tick tock of a clock somewhere in the room, but other than that, it was silent.

There was a large bay window at the other end of the room. You got up and walked toward it, wanting to see where it overlooked. There was a massive yard, the grass green despite the time of year. It was neatly manicured, keeping up with the prestige of the house.

You were lost in thought, your mind not yet recovered from what just occurred. You weren’t sure what was happening in this house, but you wanted nothing more than to be with your boyfriend, his warm, muscular arms wrapped around you.

As you daydreamed, your head off in the clouds, you did not notice the shift in the air, how the temperature dropped a degree or two, or how there was a presence behind you, gazing at you.

You continued to stare out the window until you felt something cover your eyes, the material soft and delicate, obscuring your eye sight.

“Chan?” You asked, your voice quivering slightly.

“Shhh, behave,” the voice responded, deep and sultry just like Chan’s can be in the bedroom.

You giggled, slightly relaxing at the fact that your boyfriend found you, and not some other person. You started to turn around when a hand stopped you, before turning you back to face what you assumed was the window.

You felt hands glide from your shoulders down your arms, causing shivers to run down your spine. It occurred again and again and again before they made their way to your belly, the digits softly splaying across your soft flesh.

The hands reached lower, reaching your thighs, caressing the supple flesh, as you let out a low moan. Your panties became even more wet, your slick soaking the material as you felt the hands continue to touch you softly, gently, slowly, building anticipation as to what was to come.

You felt a body behind you, the muscular frame pressed against your back so similar to Chan’s, hands continuing to touch you, locking you in.

“Please,” you whimpered, more than ready for him to touch you where you needed it most, to relieve the ache that had never quite gone away, as it steadily built up through your encounter with the man with the knife and now with your boyfriend’s hands touching you, teasing you.

You let out a sigh as the hand finally slipped into your leggings, pass your panties to cup your core. You tried to hold back your moans as you felt a thick finger dip through your folds, teasing your entrance before traveling up to your clit.

The slightest pressure was applied to the nub, causing you to jerk your hips into his hands. You leaned back onto the muscular frame behind you, completely surrendering yourself to the pleasure, as gentle yet firm circles were applied to your clit, bringing you closer to that high you desperately needed.

You felt your knees begin to buckle, needing to move to brace yourself against your high that was ready to explode at any moment. However you couldn't move as his muscular arm was wrapped around you, holding you up, making sure your body was flush with his.

You teetered on the edge of ecstasy, your breath shaky, your toes curling in your shoes, as your hips rocking against the finger that was pressed to your bundle of nerves. Despite the blindfold, you saw colors, the spots swirling this way and that as you tipped over the edge, your hands coming up to grab the two that were wrapped around your body.

You dug your fingernails into the flesh, riding out your high before taking a shaky breath and slowly letting go. The hand move up and out of your leggings, the other arm dropping from your body. The presence of the body behind you was gone in an instant, leaving you alone and out of breath.

You removed your blindfold, ready to turn around and wrap your arms around your boyfriend. However, when you did turn around, there was no one there, only the lingering chill was present in the air. Your eyes scanned the room confused, knowing you would have heard or caught Chan before he left the room.

That was Chan right? It sounded like him, felt like him, but now you’re not so sure. He wouldn’t leave you like this. You looked down at the blindfold that was covering your eyes a moment ago and fingered the material, soft and silky against your touch.

It seemed to be a scarf, one that was not yours. Your started to panic, wondering who you just let touch you in such an intimate way. You didn’t have much longer to fret as the door opened, Felix entering the room with a bag in his hands.

He closed the door and walked towards you, his ever present smile on his face. “Found the first aid kit y/n. Please sit down and I can clean your wound.” You listened to what the blond said, sitting down on the closest couch, surprised that you forgot all about your wound. The blood seemed to have since stopped, the red caked onto your clammy skin.

You watched as Felix opened the kit, pulling out antiseptic, gauze, cream, and a bandage. It was almost calming watching him work, determination in his eyes as he began to clean your wound.

You couldn’t help but stare at his face, taking in his beautiful eyes, soft and gentle, focused on the task at hand. Your eyes wandered his face, taking in the hundreds of freckles that littered the area, enhancing his beauty.

You watched his lips open, as he asked, “So what happened?”

You blinked once, twice before answering, “I was attacked in the kitchens. I was cleaning up after my snack when a man with cat like eyes attacked me, holding a knife to my throat.”

Felix stopped what he was doing, taking a moment to look at you more closely.

“A man with cat eyes?” He asked skeptically.

You looked into Felix’s eyes, trying to read his expression, as it went from shock to almost a knowing look, and then back to shock as if he was trying to cover up something. You may be mistaken but it seemed as if he knew of the man that you described.

“Yes,” you responded. “Is this anyone else staying here besides Chan and I?”

“No, you two are the only ones here at the moment. No one else is supposed to be here until Monday.”

You pondered Felix’s answer as he continued to dress your wound. He was placing the bandage when the door opened again, this time Chan stepping through. When he spotted you sitting on the couch and Felix placing a bandage on, he rushed over, concern on his face.

“Baby, what happened?” He asked, sitting by your side.

You explained everything, as Felix cleaned up the wrappers and dirty linens, silently listening to your tale once more. Once you were done, you didn’t dare look at Chan. You left out what recently happened, your mind wanting to believe that it was indeed Chan who you let touch you.

“Are you sure that’s what happened?” Chan asked, uncertainty in his eyes. You nodded your head. “Yes, I am completely sure.” This was the second time he's questioned your story. Did it really sound that crazy? Who are you kidding, of course it does, you can't blame him really for not believing you. Chan looked at Felix who looked down at his hands, his fingers fiddling with the fabric of his pants. Chan didn’t know what to believe if he was being honest. First the drowning situation and now this? He didn’t want to say anything to upset you, especially in front of Felix.

“Maybe you need fresh air baby, may do you some good.”

You looked at your boyfriend, searching his face for what he was thinking. A walk to clear your head honestly sounded appealing. Maybe fresh air truly is what you needed as this manor was starting to get to you.

Felix cleared his throat, trying to get both of your attention. “There’s a garden out behind the manor. There’s a little flower garden, a mini maze, and some chaise to lounge in. You two go ahead, I’ll prepare snacks and some tea.”

You both nodded and stood up. Chan grabbed your hand, holding it tight in his. You felt comforted and reassured, squeezing his hand for good measure. Chan smiled at you before guiding you out of the sitting room, leaving Felix behind.

Felix watched both of you exit the room. He was at a loss, not sure what to do. The events were occurring again, as he thought they would with a perfectly happy couple staying at the manor. He just hoped things wouldn’t get out of hand the way they did last time.

The fresh air was exactly what you needed. It was nearing dusk, so the air was crisp, filling your lungs with each breath you took. You walked with Chan hand and hand, exploring the backyard, neither one of you in a hurry.

The birds were chittering, as they prepared for night, making last minute runs for food and flying to their homes. You both came across the garden first, taking in the hundreds of flowers resting peacefully in their home. The vibrant colors spilled over onto the walkway, their scent mixing with the cool air.

“They’re so beautiful!” You exclaimed, taking in each flower as you walked past.

Chan hummed agreeing with you, taking in the flowers as well. “This place is beautiful,” he said, “It’s old and filled with history. The manor itself feels...”

Chan paused for a moment, causing you to look up at him. “It feels alive almost,” he finished.

You couldn’t agree more. The manor did feel alive, unsettled almost. You were sure there were spirits present, given that you may have already encountered three of them. You pushed that thought from your mind however, and continued your walk.

You neared some green shrubbery, the neat hedges forming walls on either side of a dirt walkway. This must be the maze Felix mentioned.

“Wanna go in?” Chan asked, looking at you before looking back at the entrance.

“Sure,” you responded.

You thought for a moment, an idea coming to the forefront of your mind. It was probably not the best idea given everything that has occurred, but at least Chan would be in the same vicinity as you.

“Wanna split up and whoever makes it out first gets to buy ice cream when we get back home?”

Chan grinned at your suggestion, “You’re on baby.”

You smiled and then untangled your hand from his. You walked to another entrance that was a few feet away. Giving your boyfriend one last glance, you stepped into the maze, the green walls closing you in.

You walked down the path, carefully making decision after decision as to which direction you wanted to go. You thought you were doing pretty well and hopefully close to the end when you came across a small clearing in your path. In front of you was yet another man, sitting on a stool in front of a canvas, a paintbrush in his hands.

He was just staring at the canvas, the bristles not quite touching the white expanse before him. You tried to be quiet as you turned to go back the way you came, that is until your foot came down on a branch, the brown stick snapping in two.

The man looked up and turned your way, his mouth agape at the interruption. “Ah! A new muse!” He exclaimed, excitement in his eyes as he gazed at you. “Come, come! I must paint you.” He gestured for you to sit on another stool that was definitely not there a moment ago. You cautiously walked over, sitting on the stool, as you looked at the man anxiously.

He had long dark hair, the waves framing his face perfectly. His eyes seemed gentle enough as they darted from you to the canvas. He was wearing simple clothes, his shirt haphazardly hanging off of his shoulders, smattered with various colors.

You listened as he began to mutter, his plush lips opening and closing, forming syllables you couldn’t quite make out.

After mixing some colors he began to paint, the brush lightly dancing across the canvas. You sat in fear, your eyes widened, hands clasped tightly in your lap. You didn’t dare move, not sure what this man was capable of. Time passed, the sky getting darker, the stars starting to peak out in the night sky. You were growing stiff after sitting for so long. You really ought to find Chan, sure he would be worried about you.

“I’m going to...” But before you could finish your sentence, the man sprang from his seat, rushing over to you quickly.

“No, no! You must not leave. The painting is not yet finished my muse!”

You stared into the man’s eyes, now wide and crazed, a sort of desperation in them. You couldn’t help the tingling feeling that began to form in your core, the adrenaline once again coursing through you as you gazed upon his beautiful face. You should be terrified, as this man did not seem stable, however you found that the terror was mixed with desire and lust.

“Here my muse, hold these. They will complete the painting perfectly.” You opened your arms as the man produced a bouquet of flowers. They were dainty and delicate, the white petals enticing to the eye. You were not sure what type of flowers they were and as you opened your mouth to ask, you noticed the man had begun to wildly paint, the brush covering the canvas in more hurried strokes.

“What kind of flowers are these?” You asked, your eyes never leaving his back.

He smirked and continued to paint, his docile face turning over to a more crazed and sinister look. “Hemlock my muse, the perfect flower for the perfect girl on this perfect night. It will complete the painting perfectly.”

Hemlock...hemlock, you repeated in your mind. You had actually heard of the flowers, somewhere at some point in time. But...wait a minute...weren’t hemlocks poisonous, one of the deadliest flowers in the world? You quickly dropped the bouquet, fear etched on your face at what you just touched.

The man looked up, anger in his eyes. He rushed at you and gripped your shoulders, the crazed look in his eye intensified.

“Why did you drop them my muse? Why! Now the painting is ruined, ruined once more!” He screamed into your face.

He was shaking you roughly, your head bobbing back and forth like a rag doll. You had tears in your eyes, as you struggled to get away. However, every time you were able to get loose from his grip, he’d hold onto you tighter, shaking you harder. You were hysterical, clawing, thrashing, and even tried to bite the man, trying to get away so you could run.

The man suddenly stopped shaking you but still gripped your arms. He grinned, an evil look in his eyes, his tongue darting out to lick his plush lips.

“I know how I can finish my painting with my muse!”

In his hand, he produced a flower, the same ones that you were holding moments before. You shrieked as he began to try to shove the flower past your lips, trying to get you to ingest the poisonous beauty.

You kept your lips shut tight, twisting your head left and right, trying to avoid ingesting the flower. Each time you rejected his advances, the angrier and more forceful he became.

You feared for your life, worried this would be the end. Where was Chan? Can he hear your screams, your cries for help?

Just when you were about to give up, you heard a voice and multiple footsteps pound on the gravel, getting closer to you by the second.

As soon as the frenzy began, it stopped, the man and easel with the canvas gone. It was just you, standing in the middle of the path, tears streaming down your face, your hair a mess, and angry bruises beginning to form on your arms from where the man grabbed you.

“Y/n!” Chan yelled, relief in his voice as he made eye contact with you, running to your side and engulfing you with a hug.

Felix made an appearance a moment later, his eyes widened at the scene. You were shaking, hysterical as Chan tried to calm you down, holding you close as you clung onto him.

Night had now fallen, the moon shining bright in the sky, making the maze seem less friendly. You were not sure how long you had stayed on that pathway, being comforted by Chan.

Eventually, the tears stopped and you took a deep breath. You were ready to go back to the manor, the once cheery and harmless garden to you, now filled with darkness and evil lurking around every corner.

“Can we go back?” You hiccuped, looking from Chan to Felix.

Both men nodded and quickly led you away from the maze, the green shrubbery now appearing menacing in the darkness of the night. It didn’t take long for you to make it back to the manor, Felix ushering you both inside before closing the doors and locking them.

“You can both take dinner in the sitting room if you’d like.” Felix said.

Chan guided you to the large room, gently sitting you down on the couch. He sat down next to you, pulling you into his arms, cradling you. You felt much calmer, the threat of the maze gone. You were once more moments from death, which did not sit well with you.

Chan seemed none the wiser, seeming to enjoy his stay at the manor. No crazy events occurred to him. You were confused, wondering why everything was happening to you and not him. What did this place have against you?

Felix brought in dinner consisting of sandwiches and chips, topping it off with tea which you had no problems with and gratefully accepted. You nibbled on the meat and bread, your stomach still uneasy after what just occurred. Nonetheless, you finished your meal and afterwards, settled in next to Chan. “Ready for bed baby?” Chan asked with gentleness in his eyes. You nodded yes and got up, Chan grabbing your hand as you both walked back to your room. You thanked Felix for the food and his help, a smile gracing his face at the praise. He bid both of you goodnight as you started to ascend the staircase.

Once in the safety of your room, you quickly changed clothes and crawled into bed, as you were exhausted. Chan slid in next to you and pulled you close, his hand reaching up to brush your hair from your face.

“Wanna talk about what happened today? I’m worried baby,” Chan said, his eyes searching yours.

“No, I...I just want to sleep,” you whispered, lowering your eyes so he couldn’t see the pain there.

It didn’t take you long to drift off to sleep, the thoughts of men with knives pressed to your throat, unknown hands caressing you gently such as your boyfriend does, and crazed men in front of a canvas swirling around in your head. You were shocked you could sleep at all.

You hoped you could sleep through the night, hoping to maybe bring up with Chan that you both go home tomorrow, away from this place, from this cursed manor.

The next morning you arose, your eyes still heavy with sleep. You did not sleep as well as you wanted, cuddling up to Chan as close as possible each time you awoke. Chan was sitting up, on his phone, his arm draped around you as in to provide protection.

“Good morning baby,” Chan said a smile on his face.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice thick with sleep.

You sat up, stretching your arms before laying your head on Chan’s shoulders. You laid there, watching him read his book on his phone, feeling safe and warm within the comfort of his arms. You were so warm that you could drift off any moment, your eyes threatening to close.

“Wanna go downstairs to get something to eat and maybe explore a little more?” Chan eventually asked, exiting the book he was reading.

You wanted nothing more than to pack up and leave, but maybe you could bring that up after a belly full with food; therefore, you agreed, getting up to get ready. It didn’t take you long, as you threw on a t-shirt and leggings and put your hair up, not caring what you looked like.

You did take a look in the mirror, noticing the bruises on your arm, now a dark red with purple splotches littering your skin. You took in the bandage on your neck, a reminder that you were held at knife point. Your eyes looked tired, dark circles forming beneath them. You looked a wreck, like you had been through hell and back. Shaking your head, you made your way over to Chan, giving him a small smile letting him know you were ready.

Chan grabbed your hand and led you out of your room and down the stairs, making your way to the dining room. You noticed upon the table was a spread of pastries, fruit, bagels, carafes of coffee and jars of water. You picked out a pastry and poured you a cup of coffee before sitting down next to Chan who had chosen a bagel and was scarfing it down.

You ate in silence, slowly picking away at your food. You decided to bring up the topic of going home, as it was as good a time as ever.

“Chan?” You asked with uncertainty. Chan looked up at you expectedly giving you his full attention. “Can we uh...go home? I kinda have had enough of this manor,” you continued, your voice trailing off towards the end. Chan regarded you for a moment. You knew the wheels were turning in his head.

His eyes studied yours, then traveled to the bandage on your neck, to the bruises on your arm.

“We have one more night baby,” Chan replied. He didn’t really want to leave, not quite yet, as you both still had so much to explore.

You stared at Chan in disbelief, your fingers frozen as you were picking apart the last of your pastry. You really didn’t want to stay another night, not wanting to encounter anymore surprises. However, Chan looked hopeful, his eyes never wavering from yours. You’d have to suck it up and endure one more night...for him.

“Fine...” you said in disdain, quickly looking away. Chan reached out to grab your hand in his, his thumb gliding over your knuckles. “One more night baby and then we’ll be home.” One more night.

Sure, you can do this...right?

After breakfast, Chan explained he needed to run back to your room to grab his phone since he left it on the bedside table. He kissed the top of your hand, ensuring you he would be right back.

You watched as he ascended the stairs, taking two at a time. You turned away, seeing Felix standing behind the front desk.

He offered you a smile before going back to his book. You were going to wait for Chan, until you heard a soft melody playing off in one of the rooms. You looked to Felix to see if he heard the music, but he was engrossed in his book, not even looking up.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to investigate the music, following the melancholic notes to a door near the door that led to the kitchen. Twisting the knob, it silently opened, giving way to a beautiful, yet empty room. There were stained glassed windows, the beautiful depictions of cherubs, gods, and goddesses causing a glow in the room.

Your eyes wandered to the center of the room, where there was a white Baby Grande Piano, a man sitting on the bench. His fingers were dancing gracefully amongst the keys, the resulting music sounding hauntingly beautiful. You stood in the doorway as if in a trance, the notes flowing into one ear and out the other.

Whoever it was played beautifully, as they told a story through their fingertips. You carefully walked toward the man, putting one foot in front of the other. You were getting closer and closer, noticing that he had curly brown hair. You wanted to get a look at his face, so you continued to walk, as he continued to play.

You were almost upon him when he suddenly stopped playing and before you knew it, swiveled around on the bench, his arm outstretched with a pistol in his hand. You froze on the spot, your eyes wide, as your brain tried to register that a gun was pointed at you, straight at your heart.

The man didn’t speak but stared at you, his gaze never wavering. He didn’t even blink. He had on glasses, the sun’s rays radiating off the rims. His cheeks were round, with heart shaped lips in between.

Time passed, as you stayed frozen, not daring to move, the man staring you down, his arm never lowering. Your heart was beating rapidly in your chest, the sound so loud that surely it could be heard from where the man was standing. You needed to get out of here before something bad happens.

Trying to be careful, you took a step back, your toe touching the ground first followed by the ball of your foot and then your heel. Your eyes never left the mans, hoping he wouldn’t notice your movement.

However, you knew you had made a mistake when you heard him cock the pistol, the sound ringing out loudly in the near empty room, his arm steady throughout the whole process. Were you really going to die here? You had no way out, not knowing if you could make it out before he fired the gun.

“Please!” You pleaded, tears starting to form in your eyes, “Please let me go!”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears however, as the man simply smiled and pulled the trigger, a gunshot reverberating in the empty room. You stumbled backwards as you let out a scream. You looked up and saw smoke raising from the barrel, obscuring the sneer on the man’s face.

He was preparing to fire at you again, the ‘click’ echoing loud and clear in your ears. You took your chances and made a run for it, running as fast as you could to the door. It didn’t take long, but right as you exited the room, pulling the doors shut, another shot rang out, causing you to duck.

You whimpered as you saw a bullet size hole in the door, right where you were standing only moments before. Standing up, you made a run for it, running towards a door across the hall.

Once safely inside, you sank to the floor, hugging your knees as you tried to regulate your breathing. You almost died, the phrase repeating over and over in your brain. There was a gun pointed to your head, the trigger pulled.

But what’s new? Right? You were so busy in your thoughts, you didn’t notice you had taken refuge in a library. There were book shelves lining the walls, the shelves stacking all the way to the ceiling. Each shelf was filled with books, the smell only books can give off permeating the room.

You got up, and started to look around, your current predicament forgotten. It didn’t seem as if the man was going to follow you. You were safe. You browsed shelf after shelf, noticing various themes of books, the topics catching your interests.

However, the book that caught your interest the most was a large green book, laying on a large wooden desk in the center of the room. You gently brushed your fingers over the cover, taking in the delicate details that were drawn on. There was no title to the book.

You looked at the door to ensure no one was coming in and then opened the book to see what was inside.

Victims of Edge Manor

Read the title on the first page. You thought this strange, but continued to read on, noticing there was a list of names.

Lee Felix Yang Jeongin Lee Minho Seo Changbin Hwang Hyunjin Kim Seungmin Han Jisung

What did these names mean? What did it mean by victims? There was no other information besides the names, leaving you quite confused. You continued to flip through the book, searching for any other information that you may have missed.

“You won’t find anything in there,” a voice said, startling you.

You looked up to see yet another man, with a docile face, his hair short. He reminded you of a golden retriever, which was odd. Yet again, you did not hear him come in.

“What do you mean?” You asked, as you carefully closed the book.

You were on edge, not sure who this person was and why they decided to sneak up on you. You eyed him closely as he slowly walked toward you, his hands behind his back.

“There’s nothing in there but names,” the man calmly said. “But why? Who are they?” He didn’t answer but continued to walk towards you. “You’ll know soon enough,” he cooed, a smirk appearing on his face. He was close to you now, just on the other side of the desk. Your warning bells were going off, telling you to proceed with caution, especially since you didn’t know what was behind his back.

“It’ll soon be over y/n, don’t worry.”

How did he know your name? Did Felix tell him? Was he a new guest? You did not know and frankly you didn’t want to find out.

“Ok...” You said, making your way towards the door. “I’m going to leave now.”

The man eyed you, the smile still plastered on his face. You backed away, never turning your back towards him. You felt you were almost there until you bumped into something, the item brushing against your head.

With a moment’s notice, the man was next to you, grabbing the item that bumped against you. You barely had time to react while he attempted to force a rope around your neck. However, you made it just in time, keeping your hand up at the level of your eye.

The man struggled against you, as he sneered, attempting to lower your head so he could tighten the rope. You tried to scratch at his eyes, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, your brain telling you to survive.

One of your swipes made contact, your nails digging into the skin of his face. He yelled in pain, his hands dropping the rope to instead protect his eyes. You used this opportunity to run the rest of the way to the door, flinging it open and running down the hall, away from the man, away from the library, away from the rope that would have made it’s home around your neck if you hadn’t gotten away.

You weren’t paying attention to where you were going bumping into something... or someone. You yelped and stopped in your tracks, looking up to see Chan, his hands holding you up. Felix looked on in shock, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

“Baby, what happened? Why are you running?” Chan exclaimed.

“There were two men! One in some sort of music room, the other in the library... they both tried to kill me!” You yelled.

You noticed Felix’s face blanche at your outburst, the color draining from his face. He knew something, you just knew it, and you were going to demand he tell you what he knew.

“You know something!” You said, pointing your finger at Felix accusingly.

Felix stuttered at your accusation, not knowing what to say. Eventually, he gave up and hung his head.

“Very well, I shall tell you everything I know.”

Felix walked around the desk and gestured towards the sitting room. “Let’s talk in here.”

You and Chan followed him, sitting down on a couch while Felix sat in a chair across from you. You looked expectedly at Felix, waiting for him to speak.

Felix cleared his throat before beginning.

“You all know that the Edge’s lived in this manor, the most prestigious family of its time. Clara Edge was the mistress of the house and the heir. She needed to marry quickly so the deed could go to her husband, as women were not able to own the manor back in that time period.”

Felix looked at you and Chan, making sure you were both still listening. You nodded at him, signaling he had both of your undivided attention. Felix nodded and continued.

“Clara did indeed find her true love, one she could marry and pass on the family’s good name. The date was set for them to marry, everything was in order. It was a happy time for the household. That is...until Clara found out her husband to be was being unfaithful, catching him with a girl from town.”

“She was heartbroken, her spirit crushed. The wedding was canceled, as she could not be with an adulterer. She was sad, but also angry, her fury getting the best of her whenever he appeared at the manor or when she saw him in town. She’d badger him, ask him again and again ‘why, why, why.’ He never did answer her, just brushed her away, taking the new girl’s hand in his.”

You listened intently. You could feel you were close to the answer, you just needed to listen a little more. You looked at Chan who squeezed your hand in response. You both turned to look at Felix once more, as he continued the tale.

“One day, Clara invited him to the manor, under the pretext that she wanted to make amends. He came right away, happy to put everything behind him so he could move on with his new lover. No one really knows what was said between the two, but before you know it, he walks out of her room, holding a bloody knife, his face grief-stricken. They found Clara on the floor, riddled with fifteen stab wounds. She died instantly, one of the wounds puncturing her lungs. As time went on, those who visited the house and stayed here, report spirits of men and sometimes Clara herself. It seems she goes after couples, her heart full of malice, still distraught that her relationship didn’t work out.”

“We speculate that if she couldn’t be happy, then why should other couples be happy. There have been other deaths within these walls since then, all at the hands of Clara’s ghost. It started with the women and then progressed to the men. Now she enlists the spirits of the men who passed within these walls to target the guests, having them kill in the manner in which they were murdered.”

Felix stopped, taking a breath and looking at both of you. You were in shock, your brain trying to catch up with this information.

“So, all of the men I’ve encountered...” you didn’t finish the sentence, willing to hear it confirmed by Felix. It all made sense…the violent mannerisms you’ve experienced at the hands of the men, all except for one; but, you willed yourself not to think of him, how you gave yourself up so willingly to a stranger.

“Yes, all are victims of Clara and the manor, enlisted to carry out her revenge.” Felix responded.

You watched as he fiddled his thumbs, not looking at you. Something seemed off with him, but you weren’t sure what.

“I saw names in a book, were those the name of those that died here?” You asked, scooting to the edge of your seat.

Felix meerly nodded, still not looking at you and Chan.

“Thank you Felix, I think we will take our leave now. I don’t think we’ll be staying the extra night after all,” you said.

Chan looked at you in shock, but said nothing. You pulled him along, past Felix, through the doors and up the stairs. Once behind the doors of your room, you began to pack, throwing everything in your bag, not caring about folding anything.

You were scurrying around the room when Chan stopped you, his hand on your wrist.

“Y/n, stop!” He said, pulling you to him. “Will you wait, let’s talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about?” You asked in a frenzy. “We’re being targeted, we need to leave. Now.”

Chan regarded you for a moment, his eyes looking deeply into yours. He rubbed soothing circles on your hips, attempting to calm you down. You hated when he did this, knowing the effect it has on you.

You were starting to calm down, your breathing slowing, your mind clearing of the horrors you just learned, but you also felt something else build within. You felt the heat within your core slowly spread throughout your body.

Chan pulled you closer until your lips met, the kiss gentle at first before turning more frenzied. You mewled as you felt Chan pull your leggings and panties down hurriedly, pushing you onto the bed. You watched in anticipation as he pulled his sweats down enough to free his cock.

You spread your legs, your slick leaking out, coating your folds causing them to glisten. You realized it never really stopped since you arrived at this retched place. He grinned at how wet you were, dragging his cock from your clit to your entrance, pushing his cock into your little hole, the slide easy with how wet you were, taking him to the hilt.

You both groaned in unison, as he began to pummel into you, as he dragged his lips along your neck, placing uncoordinated kisses on your skin. You gripped the edges of his hair, holding his head to you as he continued to thrust quickly, his cock brushing against your spongy spot, taking you higher and higher.

You were lost in Chan, your mind forgetting about what you just heard, everything you’ve learned. You were wrapped up in Chan, letting yourself go as Chan’s cock bullied itself within your walls. You felt close, and you knew Chan was too as his thrusts became more sporadic as he tried to get you both over the edge.

You were so close to your release until you opened your eyes and noticed a figure above you.

A beautiful woman in period clothing, the gown stained in a dark maroon, holes scattered throughout the fabric. Her brown hair hung down her face in ringlets, causing her face to appear pale in comparison. She had a glow around her frame, giving her a ghoulish appearance. There was malice in her eyes as she stared down at you, as Chan continued to pump his cock into you, none the wiser to who stood behind him.

You screamed and pushed Chan off of you, watching as he stumbled, his eyes in disbelief. You scrambled to get your clothes back on as Chan stuttered, wondeing what was wrong.

“Let’s go!” You said, rushing to grab your bag even though you weren’t done packing.

Chan couldn’t get a word in, but pulled his sweats up and followed after you, running to catch up with you. You both made it down the stairs, pass the desk, pass Felix who watched you both in shock. You flung open the front doors and continued to run, not stopping until you got to your car.

“I guess I’ll follow you home,” Chan said, confusion still on his face.

You nodded as you got into your car, throwing your bag into the back seat. You started your car and pulled away, exhaling with relief as the manor grew smaller behind you.

As you got closer to the entrance, you gasped as you looked through the rearview mirror at the manor. What you saw made the color drain from your face.

Not only was Felix standing on the stairs, but also the other victims, Jeongin, Minho, Changbin, Jisung, Seungmin, and Clara. They all watched you drive away, not happy their victims got away.

Of course Felix was there, as you just realized he was a victim too. Your mind briefly wondered how he became a victim, but you stopped yourself immediately, not really caring.

You shook your head and faced forward, driving away from the weekend from hell, never to look back again.

Taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @simpforleeknaur @armystay89 @palindrome969 @slut4hee @ivydoesit23 @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @seungfl0wer @velvetmoonlght

[i-am-still-bb]

FiKi Week by @gatheringfiki - Day 2 - 06.23.24

“Love doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints; it takes and it takes and we keep loving anyway.” 

NEW AU - Outlander (1940s) AU

“So what will you do today?” 

“Probably just read, and take whatever tea and treats that Mrs. Baird offers. And I might go out for a walk to look for that henge that Thorin mentioned last night.” Kili sat in the upholstered armchair in the corner of their room. His feet were tucked beneath him and he was curled forward around his book. It always reminded Fili of when they first met. Kili had been sitting in such a position, shoes off, and bare toes wedged between the seat cushion and the arm of the chair. Fine if it was your own chair, but decidedly not fine when said chair was in the University library. Fili had been instructed to inform this wayward patron that he needed to collect his things and leave and not to plan on returning unless he was going to remain fully clothed. 

“Stone circle,” Fili corrected absently. He was doing up the buttons on his white shirt. 

“What?”

“It’s a stone circle, not a henge. A henge is a circular earthen wall or ditch. A henge can have a stone circle, but you can have either without the other. Stonehenge has both.”

There was a spark of sarcasm in Kili’s reply, “Interesting.” He was decidedly more interested in how the circles were used and decorated than how they were constructed. 

“It is,” Fili responded earnestly. 

“I’ll go looking for a stone circle then.”

“Just don’t get lost. I can join you if you care to wait.”

Kili snorted.

“You’re right,” Fili acknowledged. “But do ask for directions, please? You’re as bad as Thorin.”

“I am not.”

“You both got lost on a street that had no intersecting streets. More than once.”

“I promise I’ll ask for directions.” Kili turned back to his book. 

“Good.”

“I’ll see you later,” Kili said, not looking up from his book. “Don’t stay out too late looking at old and moldy papers.”

“I won’t,” Fili straightened his tie. “Don’t forget to eat something,” he teased. 

Kili hummed and turned his face up for the quick kiss that he knew was coming without tearing his eyes off the page of his book. 

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

—

“Kili!” Fili shouted into the rain. His voice was echoed by DI Fundinson and the handful of constables that he had been able to gather for a search party on such short notice.

Mrs. Baird had not seen Kili since he had gone out shortly after midday. When the hour had gotten late and the rain had gone from a gentle mist to a pounding deluge she had assumed that he had been with Fili at the Manor House. It had not been until Fili returned, dripping and cursing and willing to murder for a cup of hot tea, that anyone had realized that Kili was missing and had been for hours.

The locals knew the location of the stone circle that Kili had gone in search of. And one of the constables had quickly spotted the bicycle that Kili had borrowed leaned up against a tree near the main road out of town. 

“Kili!”

Fili’s hair dripped in his eyes. His torch lit a small circle that was tightly enclosed by fat drops of rain. 

“KILI!”

Mud sucked at his shoes. Heather and low hanging branches pulled at his clothes which were soaked all the way through. 

He shouldn’t have let Kili go alone. He should have put personal projects and genealogy aside to indulge Kili’s interests.

Fili did enjoy seeing the old stones, looking at and trying to puzzle out what animals or figures  had been carved into the stones. Carvings that were interspersed with far newer scratchings of dates and initials that simultaneously amused and annoyed them both. But the stones did not hold his interest as long as they held Kili’s. Kili had notebooks filled with the painstakingly copied designs. His letters during the war frequently had at least one doodle in the margins, sometimes that doodle would take up an entire page or more as Kili worked through visual problems. Fili saw them so often that he even began to draw them when his mind drifted during some interminable meeting or another. 

Fili could not see far in the rain. He did see other lights bobbing in the distance appearing and disappearing around trees, other searchers, or a low hill. It was dark in a way that Fili had hated for many years. The dark that seemed to suck and absorb any light that someone dared to put forth. He preferred to stay under the streetlights of Inverness, London, or any other city. But now that darkness made the search even harder.

Kili. 

His voice was raw with shouting when a hand gripped his shoulder.

“They’re calling it a night, lad.”

“Did they find him?” Fili looked over Thorin’s shoulder where he could see the lights gathering together.

Thorin shook his head, flicking rain from the brim of his hat. “Dwalin said that he will have men out here with the first light. With as dark as it is we would only be feet away from him and we wouldn’t see him.”

But he’d hear us. Fili did not say that. Because if Kili could not hear them that opened the door to a whole host of possibilities that Fili did not even want to consider. “I should stay. Keep look—”

“You should go home,” DI Fundinson gruffly interrupted. “You’ll be no use to anybody if you are dead on your feet.”

Fili started to protest.

“Stay at the Manor House,” Thorin said. “It is closer.”

—

The next day brought sun.

But no sight of Kili.

They did find his old jacket with the frayed cuffs that he refused to replace inside of  the stone circle.

—

After a week of no new information DI Fundinson had trained dog handlers brought in from Edinburgh.

—

“I have more in my other account, but I’d have to go down to Oxford to access it.”

“That is a handsome sum,” DI Fundinson said. “I wouldn’t offer too much otherwise you’ll start to attract all kinds of malarkey. As it is, most of the calls won’t lead us anywhere.”

Fili roughly ran his hands through his hair and paced the study in the Manor House. He was aware of how he looked. He hadn’t properly slept in over two weeks. He could barely eat. He was wearing his belt a notch tighter than when he and Kili had arrived what seemed like an age ago.”

“I would give everything I have to find him.”

“Dwalin’s right,” Thorin said. 

“We can always increase the amount in the future. It’s harder to decrease the amount.”

“Why would I want to decrease the reward?” Fili snapped.

Dwalin and Thorin shared a look, but said nothing. 

—

“They’re saying that if I don’t take up my post with the new term then they’re going to find a replacement!” Fili shook the letter on the University letterhead.

Thorin looked up from his book. He closed it on his thumb. “It has been two terms…”

“But we haven’t found Kili yet.” Fili dropped into an open armchair. Most of the flat surfaces in the study were covered with books, papers, and other detritus of academic life. He scowled and stared out the windows at the snow capped hills and the low clouds that threatened more.

“There’s nothing to do but wait now.”

“I still look!”

“Those hills have been scoured. You can wait for news just as well at Oxford as you can here.”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll keep you up to date. I’ll send along any news no matter how small. You need to start living again. Refill yourself a bit rather than just pouring yourself into this search. I know you love him, but you can’t just stay like this forever.”

Fili’s voice was small when he spoke, “I don’t know how much more I have to give.”

Thorin does not push him to explain.

—

Fili leaves in the end.

He moves into the small flat above the bakery that they had picked out together. It was a short walk for the college where Fili would be teaching and only a handful of steps from a grocer and a pub, and a bit further along there was the library and the green.

Kili had been excited to begin exploring the town; absorbing inspiration for his work from the architecture.

—

Fili did not jump up when the phone rang.

He would have leapt to his feet when he first arrived here. But he’s well settled into his faculty apartments at this point having been teaching for several terms already. The snow doesn’t stick around for long here. But even those dustings have ceased now that  spring has started to creep in. The apartment is less cold and drafty than it was a few weeks back.

But he sat down heavily when he heard the words that came down the line.

“We found him. He’s here.”

“Is he…?”

“He’s alive.”

—

Fili was on the next train north. 

He thought that this was the end. He thought he had given all he would have to give.

But it was just the beginning. 

Fili would give and  he would continue to give until he was no longer breathing.

--

Everything @silvermoon-scrolls @metztlilua @I-am-pinkie

Fili/Kili @dubhlachen

[bobbinrobins]

fic/Au idea. It takes place in a fantasy or normal Au where Wayne manor is considered a local myth nobody can find do to it being curse(and the magic mist). Bruce lives in the manor with Alfred, both can't leave. When People manage to find and get into the manor it becomes gigantic to them(they shrink). Also Bruce looks Like a shadow monster(think darkest knight). It would be top bad if children started showing up one by one.

Ooh 👀 I adore AUs where Batman is some kind of mysterious/spooky eldritch being, especially if he still has a soft side.

Rolling with this idea, what if the reason no one can find Wayne Manor is because it only reveals itself when someone is in great need, or something along those lines?

So Dick, after witnessing his parents' murder, is filled with rage and decides to try and avenge them by going after Zucco and his gang. Without Batman to help him channel his anger more productively, this does not go well, and he ends up deep in hot water with the mob on his tail. He tries to shake them off by venturing into the woods, but they're persistent, and in his desperation, when he comes across some kind of enormous, eerie, abandoned-looking manor he decides to sneak inside. (His pursuers only see trees and a rapidly-growing mist, and are forced to head back.)

Dick is thanking his lucky stars that his pursuers seem to have given up, but now he has a new problem: the entrance through which he came is definitely not where it just was several minutes ago. In fact, he can't seem to find any kind of exit anywhere, forcing him to try and navigate this creepy old building full of shadows. The ceilings are definitely getting taller, too, and he's really starting to panic when suddenly the shadows coalesce into a hulking, living silhouette, and Dick is certain he's going to die.

Batman, however, is just confused/curious about a child appearing in the manor when there haven't been any visitors for years. (Alfred is thrilled he has a chance to break out the fine tea sets). It's very hard to convince Dick he's not going to hurt him when he looks like an eldritch shadow-being, but thankfully he's got Alfred in his corner, who prepares Dick some hot chocolate and coaxes a story out of him.

Dick ends up staying for awhile. Eventually, one by one, more and more lost children wind up appearing in the manor's entrance, and before long the house is livelier than it has been in years.

[dictacontrion]

Draco's passions are perilously seductive. He teaches Harry spells that would be illegal even under a Voldemort regime and takes Harry to the Knockturn Allies of the world where Draco buys him beguiling things: a saifani-handled jambiya used to cut out the tongues of apostates, potions that smell of twilight, and iridescent seashells whose voices murmur necrologies of people yet to die. They visit places that later become the backdrops to Harry’s worst nightmares and darkest fantasies. The unmarked graves of suicides and the scenes of unsolved murders. Cafés that serve Mandrake tea with their Belladonna scones. Circles of standing stones that from a distance look like broken teeth. Monastic crypts, the winter gardens of Drumbeg Manor, and the mass crematoriums for London’s Victorian whores. Moors haunted by the ghosts of doomed lovers and wind-gnawed mountains littered with the bones of Sherpa. Mist-shrouded fens, ancient forests roamed by wolves, and the ribcages of ships that foundered on rocks so jagged they rend the waves that thunder into their waiting jaws. Draco’s tongue and cock and fingers dowse for the bottled up desire in Harry’s veins. His hips move between Harry’s thighs as he moans promises which, if kept, would force him to sell his soul to the lowest bidder. He’s a prophet, divining Harry’s needs before Harry himself even feels them. He’s an ascetic surrendering austerity for the moment of oblivion when he comes. Draco’s gentlest charms sting like hornets, and his taunts are spoonfuls of vinegar. Twice Harry’s submitted his resignation to the Minister and once he told Ron to go fuck himself just because Draco dared him to. He gives Draco passwords and charms and the addresses of criminals. He lies and denies and then turns a blind eye. Draco often fucks him too hard and binds him too tightly. He sucks stormy bruises to the surface of Harry’s skin, and the scratches he leaves are deep and sometimes get infected. Come on, Potter he urges into their kisses.  Stop being a git, Potter he says as he rolls his eyes.  You’ll love it, Potter he says when he knows Harry will hate it.  Are you scared, Potter? he asks despite knowing the answer is yes. Draco has a dozen Muggle passports and a dozen aliases in a dozen different languages, but he once told Harry that Harry’s the only one who knows who he really is. Harry’s desires are unfathomable in their ordinariness. He comes home with blood on his clothes and a wand humming with curses, but all he wants are puppies and kittens and babies and breakfast. In the winter, he wears lumpy jumpers and a Gryffindor scarf and in summer he wears faded shorts and scuffed leather sandals. He whistles Muggle pop songs and sings – not altogether badly – in the shower. He likes old films, pub quizzes, flying in the rain, and holding Draco’s hand. He takes Draco to boring places that later become sweet wistful memories. Muggle museums full of dusty crystals and dinosaur bones, Quidditch matches, and unremarkable parks with sad-looking trees. Pubs with mirrors advertising lagers and hand-written notices on blackboards of karaoke on Thursday nights. Beaches with boardwalks and carnival rides, zoos with lots of snakes and bats, restaurants where at least half the menu is fried, and bars decorated with Premier League memorabilia and televisions the size of Lichtenstein. Harry strips his t-shirts off over his head, blushes when Draco growls, and smells of skin and sex and shampoo. He whimpers when Draco kisses him and goes down on Draco eagerly, and when Draco finally thrusts against the resistance of his body, he shouts pleas into his pillow that would make the devil blush. Harry insults are childish and his temper is terrible. Twice he goaded Draco into fucking in loos and once he demanded Draco send flowers to Granger after he’d called her a Mudblood. He bakes him cookies and can recite Quidditch statistics going back to the War of the Roses, but the bruises he leaves on Draco’s biceps are dark and painful and don’t fade for weeks. Damn it, Malfoy he grumbles when Draco teases a Muggle.  Piss off, Malfoy he says when he’s had all he can take.  C’mere, Malfoy he beckons when he lies on his stomach and opens his legs.  Scared, Malfoy? he asks even though he knows the answer is yes. Harry has a fan club of hundreds and friends who would die for him, but he once told Draco that Draco’s the only one who knows what he really wants.

Let Me Have You and I’ll Let You Save Me by Frayach

[whereflowersbloom]

Alfred’s farewell

The sky had begun gloomy since even before the sun had the chance to rise. Mist was overshadowing the city of Gotham, and drops of dew are still littering every surface. The birds were unusually quiet, nestling safely under the warmth of their nest. A large group of grey clouds lingering above the place, promising unpleasant weather to deal with later on. Lighting crackled in the grey sky and snatched away any hope of a golden day. Only songs of sadness spread around, feeling the sorrow taking place. Even the world is holding its breath and everything is still, the earth seemed to be mourning as well the unexpected loss. The atmosphere was exceptionally dark and lifeless, each face filled with silent and bitter grief and regret. Tears do not fall, there’s a blackhole forming in place of his heart. This date…this date would be burned into his soul for the rest of his existence, it would be a permanent reminder to himself of how foolish he was, how everything…could change in matter of seconds. Seconds only a few more seconds would have made the difference. The tree that was once full of life, the one Alfred looked after kindly, because he planted it himself after coming to work for Thomas and Martha Wayne, was now barren as the weather grew colder and the icy wind blew the leaves away.

There’s people gathering, familiar faces and unknown ones. The solemn mode had settled between them, and soon the ceremony comes to an end. It’s time to say farewell.

Will I always, from now on, be this cold? Was Pennyworth really gone? He didn’t dare to pronounce his name. He discerned the sounds of footsteps slowly fading away and all that was heard afterwards was the thud of knees hitting the ground. Grayson. Even Dick was so lost and crushed, the man who always looked so high-spirited and brave, so even-tempered and filled with honor, seemed so weak now.

“Alfred, I am so sorry…” Richard whispered with a low-pitched and desperate sob as he caressed the stone with his trembling hand. His face, marred for life, had an even more painful expression plastered on his face as tears started to fall slowly onto the dirt. But it’s not your fault. Damian wanted to let him know. He wasn’t there to stop it. Unlike you his mind whispered.

Jason Todd remained silent. Todd had always been quick to emotion in general, to tears when someone else was sad, to contagious laughter when their siblings were smiling, quick-tempered, choleric when provoked. Surprisingly an empathetic sensitive soul, spent many years alone, hungry for tenderness and familial ties. And yet he was wearing an expressionless mask, but his body betrayed his affliction, shaking so badly that Tim had to grasp tightly at his arms to prevent him from going down. Drake. Tim was clearly having so much invisible burden on his shoulders. His curved jaw clenching tight, and his dark blue eyes cast downwards and unblinking. He didn’t have his daily cup of black coffee. No, he didn’t have a single drop of his precious caffeine today. He kept his head low the entire ceremony, maybe he didn’t have the heart to look up at the crying mess everyone was. Perhaps he thought somebody had to tough it out, specially considering Father’s absence.

Stephanie standing close to him, blonde curls dancing with the autumn wind, biting her lips the entire time. Stephanie who tried to be strong and now, after holding in for too long, the tears break out like a leaking dam. She was devastated and weeped openly, clinging to Tim’s coat as if her life depended on it, as if she were drowning, the sight made the hole in Damian’s chest squeeze around his heart. Guilt. Distress.

Cassandra was hardly moving from her spot. She had a deep crease on her brow, and face as hard as rock. She hugged herself in the arms, shielding her frame from the icy wind, when Duke swiftly placed his Armani cashmere coat on her shoulders, her hands were going cold, and the moment Duke noticed the way she shivers with small movements. He considerately held them between his, providing temporary warmth, trying to find some kind of comfort in each other, but Cassandra avoided making eye contact with anyone, her mind was really blank as a void. Possibly still attempting to process the reality. Duke Thomas, the only one that hasn’t lost his mind amid this consequent emotional instability, drops of tears still hanging from the corner of his eyes, while the rests were slowly drying on his cheeks. Damian wasn’t exactly close to Duke but he wondered how he managed to carry on. Where did he find the strength to persist? Damian walked closer to the tombstone, feeling resignation seep into his bones.

Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth, beloved father, grandfather, mentor, friend, heroic veteran, a talented cook, a man of family, with a great big heart. Alfred Pennyworth had been a man with many facets. He brought balance to this dysfunctional family, he was the peace and voice of reason. Alfred who made Dick stay in bed when he was badly injured and encouraged him to eat proper meals, lectured Jason for his vulgar language, introduced Jason into the culinary arts, trusting him with the top secret Pennyworth recipes, who secretly switched Tim’s coffee for decaffeinated when he had too much, who prepared Stephanie waffles after a night out patrolling, didn’t say a word of the nights she sneaked out with Kara, who enjoyed the company of Cassandra lurking around the manor, when she’s having a bad day he used to watch the stars with her, listening to Cass make up stories about each star, Alfred who never had to fix anything Duke broke because Thomas instantly apologized and offered to fix it himself, Alfred that found intriguing sudden Duke’s interest in gardening. Alfred... who who spend each and every Damian’s birthdays with him ‘every birthday is special and must be celebrated Master Damian’, gifted him a cat because it made him think of him, offered him a cup of hot chocolate or tea sleepless nights. Alfred, who told him he was proud of him. Alfred, who raised him and loved him wholeheartedly until his last breath.

Damian ran his hand down a large polished stone, ‘Wayne’ carved into it expertly. He sighed wearily and stood beside a gravestone, right next to the family stone, he absentmindedly ran his fingertips along the engraved letters.

‘Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth’

August 16, 1943

-

October 10, 2019

‘The light of our household is gone. Leaving only haunting echoes lingering in this home. A place is vacant in our hearts, which will never be filled.’

It was indeed fitting. Their light was Alfred and he was gone for good. For good the words echoed in his head like an incessant prayer. He felt a pang of pain surge through him as he recalled his last moments with the man who raised him. It felt as if his life was torn apart just yesterday.

‘I miss him already.’ Cassandra gestured in sign language, a single tear rolling down her cheeks. Damian didn’t know if she was saying it to him or his siblings, maybe she just wished to get the weight off her chest, when he didn’t think it could, his heart broke even more.

“Fuck.” Jason swore with pained voice, his turquoise eyes blurring with angry tears that he wiped away roughly. Not particularly at his siblings but himself. For not being able to protect the man who offered a ray of kindness to him, who nurtured his severely malnourished body to health. He didn’t blame Bruce or the others. He was supposed to be better, strong enough to defend his father. Dick was a fucking mess in the dirt,embracing the tombstone with all his strength, like it would somehow bring the dead man back to life. Steph wouldn’t stop crying. Tim was silently punishing himself in his own way, and Cass had been in a mental limbo until a a minute ago. Bruce wouldn’t leave his room for Pete’s sake. He isolated himself from everything and everyone, he simply existed in his bedroom. Not surprised. He should be here, saying goodbye to Alfred, who dedicate his entire life to help him, instead of retreating to a dark room and lying in bed, brooding over his problems. Damian. Damian was so young, he looked like hell, devastated as everyone else. Jason could detect the shadow of regret in his green eyes. He’s seen it before because he experienced it and he saw it every day in Bruce’s eyes. But at least Damian was here, dealing with the crude reality and his anguish.

It felt unreal, like this was only a horrible slow-motion nightmare and they would wake up any minute, a sharp knife that bore a hole through their hearts yet they kept on standing still.

Perhaps it was time to fulfill Alfred’s wishes. He wanted Bruce to set his thirst for justice aside and find happiness, maybe a companion, spend quality time with the children, who clearly weren’t children anymore. The youngest being Damian, who just turned fifteen a couple of months ago. He wanted Richard to start a family of his own with Barbara. He wanted Jason to come back home and stop fighting with a Bruce. He wanted a Tim to seek professional help, see a counselor, quit drinking that damned coffee in excess. Stephanie to stop denying her feelings for Tim and give their relationship a chance. Cassandra constantly suppressing her emotions, fearing to get attached, she was human not a machine trained to commit murder when ordered. Duke should leave behind any doubts to forge his own path and accept he was loved by their family. Damian who Alfred loved like his own grandchild, no matter what he did or what type of person he decided to become, Alfred would always be proud of Damian. ‘In the end, you makes you. No one else, Master Damian.’

“How are you holding up, shortstack?” Jason asked him unexpectedly, snapping out of it, he didn’t know how long his mind had been replaying fond memories with Alfred, he felt the weight of Jason’s hand falling on his shoulder, wearing a genuinely concerned expression.

A cold wind passed by, gracing the leaves and making some brief sounds. The wind leaving with a trail in the form of chilly, close to freezing air. Damian weighted the question in his head. There was only ever-growing emptiness in his chest. After a long moment he spoke.

“I will live.” Damian answered softly, eyes completely fixed on the stone. “I’ll miss him, too...brother.” The young Robin unreservedly confessed, Jason looked slightly taken aback at the words Damian muttered. Damian’s emotions were expressed with snarky comments, throwing daggers and knives, making deadly threats and intimidating stares. He had an aggressive and confrontational demeanor. Damian has never called Jason brother, but it made his lips curl into a small smile. Yes, he was his brother.

Damian was vaguely aware of Jason’s body heat now at his side, followed by Richard who was helped by Tim to stand up, his chest sore from sobbing, black suit covered in dirt but he didn’t seem to care. Meaningless material assets, nothing compared to the irreparable loss they suffered hours ago. Steph took a couple of steps closer to them, her eyes, twins pools of sadness, red and swollen, soon the Wayne siblings gathered around their youngest brother. Embracing tightly the teenager into a group hug.

They shared the same deep numbing pain, but it's more agonizing for Damian because he had been there when it happened, they all knew Damian was suffering so much. The feeling ate him inside, consuming and breaking every part of him miserably. But he isn’t alone anymore, he has his family with him. Damian’s tears are hot and travel down his tanned cheeks, he didn’t want to cry but he couldn’t hold it in any longer, the heartache, the loss, agony, guilt, everything was hitting him all at once. It hurt so much knowing full well that Alfred won't wake up ever again from this neverending deep sleep, buried under the ground lonely and cold and breathless. His grandfather.

It'll be just the the eight of them and it is frightening to accept the truth, that Alfred wouldn’t be around anymore to look after them like he did after all these years. Ever since he first set foot in the Wayne manor. He would me missed every single day. Rchard’s heart broke at the sight of Damian in such crumbling state, his characteristic composure fallen and so alien after living together so many years. Damian was broken too. Dick did the only thing he could think of, patted him affectionately on the back, rubbing it soothingly, mumbling quietly “We are here, Dami.” Letting him know they were all there for him in every possible way. They would try to carry our Alfred’s last wish, for them to get along, integrate, be an harmonious family. Be true siblings. Always Alfred’s children. Together they sang farewell to Alfred with broken chords.

I am not sure if I want to edit this later but here s the progress. I might add Bruce’s part later or tomorrow. My tribute to Alfred 💜❤️❤️❤️

@sofiii @chromium7sky @deep-in-mind67

[motiveandthemeans]

Laurelworth

Chapter I: Mrs. Holmes

Margaret Louise Holmes (nee Hooper), known as Mrs. Holmes, Mistress, Missus ‘olmes, Missus Molly, Doctor Holmes, Doctor Molly, or just Molly, woke to early spring mist clouding the large, frost-tinged window adjacent her bed in her room at Laurelworth Manor. The room was quite large and one of her favorite in the entire 13,000 square foot house. Complete with a lovely window seat overlooking an ancient oak tree and side yard, a large fireplace (currently nearing embers), an impressive closet for her everyday clothes and shoes, a wardrobe for her finer things and a vanity. Several book shelves lined the walls littered with books, pictures and knick-knacks, a sitting area and a beautiful marble tiled en suite; she really could not ask for more. Her large canopy bed served as the loveliest of escapes from real life and each night she looked forward to her feather mattress.

A little over a year ago, Molly had come to Laurelworth seeking refuge and had not returned to London since. The 23 room manor upon a 10,000 acre estate was a wedding gift from her brother-in-law, Lord Mycroft Holmes. The estate was a three hour carriage ride from London, it contained two lakes and a large pond, 16 orchards and grew (that they knew of) 59 varieties of plants. Surrounded by mountains, Laurelworth Manor itself was at an elevation of 1,400 meters. The sweeping landscape never ceased to take Molly’s breath away, no matter how many times she saw it.

Her husband, the infamously brilliant (and equaling infuriating) William Sherlock Scott Holmes, spent his days in London at 221 B Baker Street solving crimes and conducting experiments with his closest friend and confidant Dr. John H. Watson. Her father Sir Charles Barrett Hooper, a respected and knighted Colonel Physician in Her Majesty’s Royal Army, God rest his soul, had arranged for the marriage with the hearty consent of Lord and Lady Holmes. Her father had been a war hero and his living children were considered to be the most eligible bachelor and bachelorettes when they had been introduced to society.

Molly let out a sleepy chuckle, remembering the letter her father had sent while she was abroad in America at the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania informing her of the engagement. She was stunned, she’d never met the man, only reading about his many cases and brilliance in newspaper articles. Begrudgingly, she left at the end of her spring semester and returned to England within a fortnight. Two months later they married, she twenty and Sherlock twenty-five, in a small ceremony, much to the displeasure of the paparazzi and gossips in London society.

With the apathetic blessing of her new husband, Molly returned to America five days after their wedding to complete her education. She attempted to keep in regular correspondence with the Consulting Detective, but found he only wrote short replies back to satiate her desire to know he was doing well and breathing. After two more years of continuous study, Molly returned to England a Doctor. However, she was only allowed to practice in obstetrics at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital as it was a “womanly profession”. She was grateful to be able to put her skill to use anywhere and enjoyed her career, but her heart had always been in the field of pathology.

In the fourteen months she’d been at Laurelworth, Molly had made a happy life for herself, free from the constraints of social niceties and peerage. She ran the estate like a well-oiled machine and was loved by all in its employ. Every third day she spent at the village surgery looking after the women of the surrounding areas and delivering their babies if on duty at the time.

 Molly’s gaze drifted to the pictures on her bedside table which contained four framed photographs close to her heart. The first in an old, simple frame was a picture of her family when they lived in India before her mother and younger brother Rupert had died of Malaria. In her mind’s eyes, she could still see the fiery red of their hair.

The second photo in a lovely painted frame was of Mrs. Hudson and their dearest friends John and Mary Watson (nee Morstan) on their wedding day. Mary was a nurse midwife she’d met during Molly’s time at St. Bart’s, the two had become instant friends. Sherlock and John had been on a case involving the murder of a heavily pregnant woman who had been under Molly’s care. Despite the rather gruesome circumstances, love had blossomed between John and Mary and within six months, the pair were married. The blonde beauty had visited her at least half a dozen times while their husbands had been out for days on end chasing a case. However, she’d not visited since entering her third trimester at the behest of both John and Molly, not wanting to risk her well-being during this delicate time. Mrs. Hudson, the beloved landlady -not housekeeper- of 221 B Baker Street had visited three times and would have come more often had it not been for her troubling hip.

The third photograph set in a gilded frame was of Molly and her two living siblings in the parlor of their London townhome 10 days prior to the announcement of her engagement to Sherlock was put in the papers.

Standing in proper English fashion behind his two seated sisters was her elder brother, Mr. David Charles Hooper, his cocoa-colored hair slicked back and mouth set in a firm line. He was an Oxford educated solicitor and now a founding partner in one of London’s top law firms.  At twenty two he married Sarah Jane Turner, the daughter of the Lieutenant Colonel in their father’s regimen. The pair were childhood sweethearts and would have married sooner if David hadn’t been so determined to make something of himself to support Sarah on his own without the financial aid of their parents. Molly loved her sister-in-law and their three children dearly. Their eldest Andrew David was 6 and a half, Margaret Jane (known as Maggie), four, and Eleanor Kaye was now 18 months old. The family had come to visit twice and only two weeks ago Sarah had written they were expecting their fourth in October!

Her younger sister, Viscountess Camilla Marie Poitier had visited for three months while her husband, the Viscount Raul Poitiers was in Parliament at Paris ardently fighting for the rights of the lowest class. Molly could only roll her eyes and smile indulgently, remembering how sixteen year old Camilla had begged David to let her marry the obscenely handsome, romantic, enlightened, artistic twenty-one year old aristocrat who was in England visiting his mother’s family. Raul had fallen hopelessly in love with her beautiful golden haired sister at first sight; they spent the evening dancing together as if they were the only two in the ballroom.

The older siblings, however, were not ignorant to the Frenchman’s reputation for being a serial philanderer. So it came as no surprise that when the offer of marriage was made two weeks later, Molly sought out Mycroft for his opinion on the Viscount’s character. She was disheartened to discover that even the British Government’s sources had reported that while he was a religious man and much loved by the people, fidelity was not in Raul’s nature. David had reluctantly given his consent (after many rounds of tears and threats of elopement) and the two were married within a fortnight in a grand ceremony. The pair had not yet been married a year and were already expecting their first child in August.

The last picture was of her and Sherlock on their wedding day. Molly’s chest constricted at the impassive expression juxtaposed with the earnest hope so evident on her face as she gazed up at him. Sherlock had only stayed at Laurelworth twice since she’d taken up residence there permanently, the first time was at Easter, the second at Christmas and neither were of his own volition. In the year she spent at Baker Street, the young obstetrician had fallen deeply in love with his genius and (under several layers of sarcasm, impatience and a surely disposition) kindness. The latter had never been directed towards her but she’d witnessed it on several occasions in his interactions with Dr. Watson, Mary (who he’d taken a genuine, friendly shine to), Mycroft’s wife Anthea, and even on occasion Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Molly’s reminiscing was broken when a knock sounded at her door.

“Come-in!” She called, rising from the warmth of her sheets as her ladies maid, Anna, entered with a tea tray in hand.

“Good Morning, Mistress Holmes. Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you. I dreamed of lemon cakes and swimming on the moon.” Molly laughed at the amused expression on Anna’s lovely face, her wheat colored hair in a tight bun, the standard black ladies maid dress she wore was adjusted to accommodate the slight swell of her belly. “What did you dream of, Anna?”

“Ducklings, ma’am. Odd, I know but I’m told it’s normal to have funny dreams when expecting.” She replied, setting the tray down on the coffee table and helping Molly into her berry colored dressing gown before scurrying off to replenish the fire.

“No stranger than swimming on the moon, I assure you.” Molly chuckled, settling down on the chair with her leather bound diary, sipping her tea. “Anna, if you so much as put a log on that fire I will force you to take an extra week’s leave fully paid when the baby arrives.”

“Mrs. Holmes, you know I’m perfectly well enough to lift a few logs.” Anna admonished. “I like to earn my keep, ma’am-“

“Anna, you do not have to prove your worth to me.” Molly said earnestly, rising to grasp her hands. “Your place at Laurelworth is set in stone, my dear. Having a baby will not prompt me to eject you from your positon, I assure you.”

Anna’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Yes, Mrs. Holmes…Thank you.”

Molly nodded with a smile. “I think the blue riding habit with the white linen blouse will do today, a bit dressy for me, I know, I’m scheduled to inspect the orchards and ensure none of those confounding beetles have eaten away the peaches, but I’m also to visit the estate’s accountant so I suppose some effort couldn’t hurt.”

“Yes ma’am.” The lady’s maid gave a rueful smile. “What would you like for breakfast this morning?”

“Scrambled eggs, sausage, tomatoes and porridge with cinnamon sugar. I’m positively famished this morning. In the sunroom as well, it’s too lovely a day not to look out at the view.”

“Right away ma’am. I’ll be back in a mo’ to help you dress.” Anna smiled once more and left the room.

Molly went to the washing bowl and splashed her face, cleaning herself with a soaped wash cloth. Anna returned just as she had finished, helping her into her petty coats, corset and blue riding habit. They had just finished brushing Molly’s thick, sandy auburn locks into a simple ponytail when a knock resounded followed by a series of barks.

“We’re decent Mrs. Lyle, you can come in!” Molly called.

First through the door were Molly’s three favorite companions, her beloved pets. Brutus, her 90 pound three year old Great Pyrenees-Shepherd who always wanted to play and somehow always managed to find mud puddles to jump into (frustrating Mrs. Lyle to no end). Freida, her 30 pound seven year old beagle mix that loved to cuddle and worm her way into places she had no business being in (much to the amusement of the groundskeepers). Third was Toby, her 10 year old tortoiseshell Calico cat that spent his days lazing in the sun, ignoring everyone (save for Molly, he always made a point to know her location if she was in the Manor) and chasing mice for cream.

“Good morning, my loves!” Molly greeted each with several loving belly rubs and affectionate kisses, laughing at their licks on her cheek. “Shall we go and see what wonders Mrs. Honeycutt has made of our breakfast?”

“Mrs. Holmes, I wanted to inform you that Mister H-“ Mrs. Lyle, the head housekeeper, started but Molly was already gone, racing the dogs down the main staircase, greeting various members of the household staff by name and with a warm smile. They in turn greeted her happily and chuckled watching their mistress race her beloved mutts, Toby - aloof as ever- maintained a decent pace behind. The glowing smile was still upon her face as the four rounded the corner to the sunroom; laughter echoing in the halls of the house, she entered to see a familiar, yet estranged figure seated at the head of the table. He looked just as he had the last time Molly had seen him, dressed in a finely tailored dark suit under a scarlet dressing gown, sipping coffee as his blue-green eyes looked up from his paper and locked with hers.

They never ceased to take her breath away.

“S-Sherlock!” She stuttered confusedly. “I-I mean, Mr. Holmes. Welcome back.”

He smirked, obviously satisfied with his surprise appearance. “Good Morning, Mrs. Holmes.”

[shirewalker]

🎂 + crime/mystery + passionate, adventurous, silly + csenge/theleiaskywalker (happy early birthday vee!! 💖)

thank you csengeeee!! :D :D :D

book blurb:

Adventurous and with endless passion for travelling to unknown places, Csenge finds it extremely silly to be forced to spend her summer in a aunt’s elegant manor. Surrounded by friends of said aunt and whatnot, Csenge soon realises there’s more to these people than appearances tell.

When her aunt’s favourite ring disappears and the butler shows up with his throat slit, she knows her gut was on to something.

Pairing up with her aunt and her young protege, Csenge will have to race time if she wants to find the ring and the murderer before anything else happens. And it looks like the murderer won’t stop.

blograte:

⏲️ time: dawn / dusk / noontide / twilight / midnight / to shine / eternal

📚 book: magical standalone / duology of feels / the perfect trilogy / neverending series yes / short and sweet novella /  the first manuscript of legend  

🎡 magical place: coffee shop au / ancient forest / private garden / cathedral of legend / time museum / meadow in spring / rooftop under the stars / magical library / a lake at midnight / crystal cave / theatre with floating candles and live music but no orchestra / old cinema where you can step into the film / noir train station

✨ element: air / energy / water / fire / earth

🎼 sounds: rain falling outside / ocean waves / thunderstorm / owls in the night / crackling of wood in the fireplace / train in the distance / wind through the trees / rustling pages of an open book / blissful laughter / birds at sunrise / music from another room / wind chimes / howl of a wolf / purring kitten / footsteps in a cathedral

🍂scent: petrichor / wild flowers / sea mist / freshly brewed coffee / lavender / vanilla / wood / clean sheets / gasoline / cookies in the oven / almonds / burning fire / cinnamon / parchment / freshly cut grass / pinewood

🌸 fabric: silk / cashmere / velvet / satin / egyptian cotton / vicuña wool / cambric / muslin / shot silk / chantilly lace

🌌 space: comet / starry night / mini black hole / milky way / pluto / full moon / meteor shower / supernova / nebula / constellation / black hole / sun / asteroid / spaceship / antimatter / dark matter / quasar / zodiacal light / cosmic dust

want your own?

[multifandom-damnation]

He Remembers pt2

He remembered feeling tired.

A tiredness that ran through his veins and shifted his bones, which carried him by muscle memory to his old room in the Manor.

He remembered that no one followed him as he made his room through the darkened hallways that never seemed to end, warping into a maze of fear and regret and exhaustion. He didn’t remember walking to his bed, discarding his clothes in a mess on the floor, or locking the door behind him, but he remembered falling into bed and feeling liquid, like his body had melted.

He tried to think back to all the things that had gone wrong since leaving the court of Owls and their brainwashing. He thought he was getting better. But after listening to all the things his family had done for him, had sacrificed for him…

He’d been getting worse all along.

He wanted to cry, but he felt that all the crying he did downstairs had made him desert dry and empty. His tongue was dry, his eyes were dry and all he wanted to do was sleep. He wondered if his family and the people of Gotham City would ever forgive him for the wrongs he did to them? He hoped so.

That night, he dreamt of blood. Deep crimson and flaky brown, there was enough blood to fill the River Nile. And he was surrounded by it, the knife in his hand dripping a constant flow of red and filling the river to overflow. He was wearing the mask, that dreaded mask of black layers that flowed around him, the brass covers over the eyes, the metal beak that took on the real form of an owl. The blood felt like it was on his skin, making it slick and dripping down his face to the tip of his nose.

He heard that nursery rhyme, in the sing-song voice of a child.

“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time—”

The river was rising, swirling up to his knees. He couldn’t move.

“—ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch—”

Hands started rising up out of the river, grabbing onto his legs, his arms, anything they could reach and tried to pull him down.

“—behind granite and lime.”

There was a tree above his head and he leapt up to catch it, arms outspread towards a branch, but every time he got close, the branch pulled away.

“They watch you at your hearth—”

Eyes appeared from the darkness, bright yellow and dripping malice.

“—they watch you at your bed—”

He was drowning, blood filling his lungs as the hands succeeded in pulling him down.

“Speak not a whispered word of them—”

He saw bodies floating when he opened his eyes, he knew those bodies. He remembered plunging his knife into them and the warmth of the blood on his hands. He wanted to gag.

“—or they’ll send The Talon for your head.”

There was a body above him and he didn’t know who it was but it was right above him and he was drowning, drowning, drowning…

He woke with a gasp. Well… he thought he did. He must still be dreaming. The mask was still on his face, the knife still in his hand. The body he didn’t recognise was still above him. He felt blood, dripping from above him to soak into the fabric and land on his forehead. He couldn’t move.

He remembered the horror, the petrification he felt as he watched the corpse on his ceiling open its eyes, glowing a stoplight red. It opened its mouth to speak and a dark green mist escaped. “You are a Talon,” it rasped, voice deep and hoarse. “And you will never leave the Court of Owls as long as you live, Grey Son!”

Jason heard Dick scream from the front door. He was leaving for the night, giving up his room for Harper and Cullen. The shrill sound stopped him dead, and he was already halfway up the stairs when the rest of the family started rushing out of the library.

The door was locked. He spun on his heel and backed up to the other end of the hallway so he could run and ram his shoulder into the door. It still didn’t budge. He did it again. Nothing.

Dick’s screaming was getting worse, and when Jason finally broke the door open with a thump, he thought he was hallucinating.

Dick was on his bed, Talon suit on like he had slept in it. There was a knife on his hand, the one he used to murder so many people. He wasn’t moving, and Jason couldn’t understand because if there was a body on his ceiling, he sure as hell would be running away.

There was a steady dripping of blood coming from the body and it looked like it was falling on Dick. Jason rushed forward and grabbed Dick by his shoulders, yanking him off the bed and out of the room. He slammed the door behind him.

Dick fell to his knees in a crumpled heap, reaching up to claw desperately at the mask. It wouldn’t budge.

Dick remembered the fabric of the mask burning his face like acid. He thought he could feel it melting through his skin, burning and bubbling and dissolving his bones to mush. Through his screaming and his fingers working desperately at the edges and folds to find the latches that would unclasp the mask, he was dimly reminded of a man who he had poured acid on to get him to stop screaming.

He screamed harder.

He remembered Bruce rushing up the stairs and blocking the landing so nobody else could see. He remembered the needle in his hand, which he threw to Jason and his brother put in in his neck, pulling the plunger and holding his shoulders. Dick’s sight faded and his hearing fizzled out like a dud bomb. He saw a man on a noose in the corner, arms outstretched towards Dick’s throat. “Join us.” He hissed and Dick’s world went black as he screamed his fears of the dark.

He remembered waking up cold, his face no longer burning. His wrists and ankles had been tied to a metal work bench by chains. It felt strangely familiar. Is vision dimmed and green smoke danced around his eyes. Men and women in white masks and black suits, blue dresses and fancy ties were standing around the table. One was holding a needle full of green liquid in one hand and a knife in the other. Both the needle and the knife came down upon his chest and he drew in a gasp to lose his last ever scream as a free man-

A blink and the image was gone.

He was in the cave, the Batcave, and he was on the medical bed. Not a sacrificial stone. Not a dank cave in a mountain where nobody would hear his cries. He was chained to a med-bay bed.

He looked around, straining his ears to hear any movement in the cave. He could hear the pitter-patter of fast typing from the space to his right- Tim. He swallowed and started testing his chains quietly.

They were metal, not the soft padded ones they usually used in the med-bay, more like the ones in the containment chamber. He let out a soft curse as he relived images of Bruce, high off his head on Ivy’s cocktails, thrashing in those cuffs. Dick would never break out of them. He needed help. He needed to get out of the cave. He can’t…Jesus, he can’t hurt his family anymore.

“Tim.” he called hoarsely, his voice was scratched and small, so he tried again, “Timmy.”

The fingers stopped on the keyboard, his brother hesitating for several minutes, then Dick heard the sound of the chair across the stone floor, and Tim was at Dick’s side, still in his Red Robin suit, sans mask, his hand gravitating to Dick’s forehead to check his temperature, Dick felt a hysterical laugh brew in his chest, as if only he could take a few antibiotics and wake up better; he leaned into the touch anyway.

He let Tim see him struggle to turn on his side, and rattled the chain harder than it needs to, Tim flinched.

“Tim what happened?” he asked, willing his voice to be scared and low, he noticed the slight shift behind Tim’s eyes when he decided to lie.

“You were screaming, nightmares, I think. We were scared you would hurt yourself.”

Dick hummed and rubbed his hair further into Tim’s fingers. He shifted again and let out a deliberate small moan of pain. Tim frowned, then checked his cuffs. Dick repressed his grin and manoeuvred his fingers into Tim’s glove as he leaned to check across the bed.

“It’s fine Timmy. Where’s Jason?” he asked, letting his eyes well up in tears, and looking around the room. Tim hugged himself and took a step back.

“I’ll go find him for you, he’s still here.”

Dick nodded several more times than he needed to and Tim was gone in a second, feet running across to the entrance of the Cave.

It took Dick four minutes to get rid of the lock picks around his hands and feet, and he quickly got dressed, forcing himself to stop imagining how betrayed Tim would be when he got back.

He slipped into his boots, put on his mask and grabbed his spare escrima sticks, then walked to his bike. He slowly walked it through the tunnels and out through the mouth of the cave, into the dirty Gotham air. When he was far enough out, he jumped on his bike and rode off, away from the house with concerned glances and worried eyes.

Tim froze, the breath knocking out of him when he heard the roar of a bike echoing across the cave walls. He started running, and he could hear Jason’s heavy footsteps behind him. Jason, who was about to see the empty bed and kill Tim where he stands. How could he be so stupid? He could feel his teeth clenching painfully, and he didn’t even glance at the med-bay before he sounded the alarm through the manor.

Jason’s muttered curses hit him like wounds, and he didn’t look up from the computer as he ran his search algorithm for Nightwing’s uniform around the manor and the surrounding areas.

Bruce’s sharp breath hit him even worse, as the man himself reviewed the security footage of Dick’s escape.

“I’m so sorry.” Tim forced himself to look up at the two men. He wished fiercely for his mask to be covering his face. Nobody should have to withstand Bruce’s disappointed glare this exposed, he thought.

Jason sighed, and Tim turned to look at him, “It’s fine replacement, it’s the puppy dog eyes, anyone could fall for those stupid baby-blues.” and it sounded sincere, if a little reluctant, and Tim felt his limbs moving before he realized he was barreling into Jason for a hug. He felt the gloved fingers in his hair and let out a little sob into the older man’s chest. This night has been way longer than it had any right to be.

The alert broke the moment, and they all turned to the computer where Dick, in his Nightwing uniform, stood in an ally ten minutes away from the Manor in front of a cluster of children with torn clothes and blood stained skin, huddled together as he shielded them from the men in front of them. His face was a mask of fury, his hands and escrima sticks covered in dark splashes.

The men approached and the children shrieked.

Dick lunged.

Lightning flashed from his escrima sticks, exploding on each impact. Thuds, cracks, thumps, whacks, men went down in a flurry of electricity and pain. Blood welled up and bruises boiled to the surface of their skin. Men went down, red soared, blue and black lashed out to collide with dark green and brown. Gun shots and the littering of bullet casings hitting the floor. A bullet flew straight at the surveillance camera, smashing the screen and turning the picture dark.

Jason was out of the cave before the bullet hit

Dick’s vision was shrouded in a wave of anger, deep red covering the world in a fury burning hot as fire. His hands, tingling, shaking, waiting to be used at his sides. He thought he could hear himself growling, snarling as he stood in front of the children. Felt the screaming in his head of enough is enough.

He remembered the satisfaction he felt when his sticks make contact with a man’s face and he crumpled to the floor like a tonne of bricks. Out cold and bleeding.

He couldn’t remember what happened next, except for the slick feeling of warm blood turning his skin slippery and the sounds he made when he buried his foot into a man’s ribcage and felt a sickly crunch. The pressure when he lashed out and connected somebodies face with his stick and the electricity that bounced around the alley lighting the darkness in deathly white and illuminating the bloodbath that Dick was creating.

The last man fell to the floor as the children from behind him whimpered out of fear. He stayed out of the light so they couldn’t see the blood caking his uniform and told them that they were safe. They stopped shaking and they fearfully thanked him, almost as though they thought he would hurt them too if they didn’t. He would never hurt them, he was Nightwing, the uniform meant hope, didn’t it? Something deep in the pit of his stomach stirred and he steadied himself with a shaking hand on the brick wall. His hand was so bloody. When had that happened? He felt sick, and when he looked to his side again, the children were already at the end of the alley, sprinting on trembling legs into the cold Gotham night, not even looking behind.

He remembered hearing a rumble from behind him and he spun around, escrima at the ready. Dick remembered that he saw the blazing red of Jason’s bike and saw the headlights glisten as they came up to the ally.

He started running towards the dead end at the other side of the alleyway, ignoring Jason’s desperate pleas of “Come back please we can get through this together, you don’t need to do this!”

Dick leapt off of the wall and connected with the next one, using the momentum to carry him up, up, up until he could catch hold of a fire escape and swing off of a clothes line and barrel roll onto a roof. He didn’t look back as he sprinted away from his brother, didn’t look back as he dived off of the edge of the building and out of sight of Jason’s desperate eyes.

Jason made it to the opening and got off his bike just as the last flecks of blue disappeared over the edge of a far away roof.

Hi! So, I wrote this for the amazing @fishfingersandjellybabies, who waited ever so patiently for part 2! Bee, I hope this is ok. Thank you as always to @goshparticle and @the-casual-cheesecake for helping me edit xx. I love all three of you!! Everyone else- here. Have some broken Dick, some desperate batfam and a tired D’Arcy. Love you!  Bye!

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Decoy

Summary: When Lady Belle’s father betrothes her to Sir Gaston, it seems that her plan to marry the spinner she truly loves will come to nothing. Her friends, however, have other ideas, and are determined to ensure Belle and Rumpel receive their happy ending in the most ingenious of ways… Lady!Belle x Spinner!Rum, with a side order of Scarlet Queen.

Rated: T

Happy Valentine’s Day! Have a slightly belated fic for Fluffapalooza! Silliness abounds! I got the idea for this whilst writing one of my many Monthly Rumbelling fics...

======

Decoy

The Marchlands were currently experiencing what the scholars would call ‘the perfect day’. The sun was shining, with just enough of a sweet May breeze to make the temperature pleasant, rather than stifling. The birds were singing in the trees, there were no signs of any ogres anywhere near the horizon, and the scent of honey-blossom hung thick in the air. In the castle stables, the horses were languidly munching their feed, flicking away the flies with their long tails, and in the cool, dark hayloft above, a young couple were having a bit of a fumble.

Everything would have been pretty much idyllic, were it not for the very loud and very shrill and very heartfelt scream of frustration that echoed through the stables.

The young woman in the hayloft popped her head up out of the straw on hearing the scream, and looked around, hastily relacing the front of her dress. Her paramour followed her up a few seconds later, and they looked at each other with a mixture of worry and amusement.

“That sounded like Belle,” they said, in almost perfect unison.

A few moments later and they were both down the ladder from the hayloft and venturing further into the stable to find the source of the scream.

It was indeed, Lady Belle, who was standing in front of a large grey horse, clenching and unclenching her fists and breathing heavily, a somewhat murderous expression on her face.

“Belle?” the young man ventured. “Everything all right?”

Belle’s shoulders sagged from their angry hunch, and she let out a long breath, letting her hands fall limply to her sides.

“Sorry, Will, I didn’t mean to disturb you two.” Belle turned away politely as the young woman surreptitiously picked bits of straw out of her hair. “I’ll just take Philippe and go out for a ride to clear my head.”

“Are you sure?” Will asked. He had known Lady Belle long enough to know that for all she was impulsive and easily frustrated with the injustices of the world, it generally took a lot to get her to the screaming stage. “You know you can tell us anything.”

It was a strange little motley crew that they had formed. The lady, the groom, and the lady’s maid. They’d all grown up together, grown close in spite of the differences between their ranks, and even as they had grown into the roles that society had imposed upon them, they had remained at heart the three mischievous children who had always played together in the stables. Naturally, that was before Belle’s mother had died, as she was the one to recognise her daughter’s need for companionship her own age, and for freedom to be a child, rather than a young lady. Lord Maurice didn’t take such a sensible view of proceedings and after Lady Colette’s death, Belle’s time with her friends had decreased dramatically. But as long as she had Anastasia as her maid, and as long as Anastasia could sneak her out of the castle, then the three of them continued to be as thick as thieves. When Anastasia and Will had shown signs of being more than friends, Belle was all too happy to encourage their courtship in any way she could, including contriving the flimsiest of excuses to get the two of them alone together. Naturally, Belle was rather put out to discover that she had just interrupted one of those very occasions, but neither Will nor Anastasia seemed to mind. Ana came over and put an arm around her dejected friend.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Is it Sir Gaston again?”

Belle nodded.

“Your father’s still nagging at you for an answer?” Will suggested, taking a moment whilst the two ladies were hugging to check the front of his trousers for decency.

“It’s worse than that.” Belle could hear the wobble in her voice and she tried to swallow it down and stay strong in front of her oldest friends. “He’s taken it upon himself to accept on my behalf. The wedding is in two weeks.”

“Can he even do that?” Ana asked. “Surely he can’t just make you marry someone without your consent?”

“Ana, he’s lord of the manor,” Will said, his voice despondent. “He can do just about anything he likes. And since Belle’s nominately part of his estate, well, it doesn’t really matter what she thinks. His decision goes.”

Ana grimaced. “Sometimes, just sometimes, I’m glad I don’t have any family.” She turned back to Belle. “So… Sir Gaston.”

“I’m sure he’s not that bad,” Will said, trying to put a positive spin on the situation. “Maybe once you’ve got to know him, he’ll grow on you a bit.”

Belle shuddered. “I don’t want him doing anything on me, thank you very much. Besides, I don’t think that you can really get to know a man who possesses neither an ounce of common sense nor any intelligent conversation. At all. The only things he knows how to talk about are himself and his hunting triumphs. If I have to spend the rest of my life listening to lists of dead animals and deeds of impossible - and I mean physically impossible - daring, then I’ll throw myself in the lake.”

“Now, let’s not be drastic here,” Ana said hastily. “There’s got to be something that we can do.”

For all the three of them might have got into childish scrapes when they were younger, there was definitely something to be said for their combined intelligence, resourcefulness and cunning. As the other servants around the castle had quickly found out, individually they were a handful, and together they were lethal.

Belle gave a long sigh. “I don’t know what there is. I can hardly go to my father and say that I won’t marry Gaston because I’d rather marry a spinner from the village. Moreover one with a son and a reputation as a coward.”

Ana squeezed Belle’s shoulder. “I think you need to go and see him,” she said. “Rumpel, I mean, not your father.”

“What can I say to him?” Belle exclaimed. “Sorry, I love you so much but this can’t go on, because my father’s practically sold me to Sir Gaston and I’ll be off to Avonlea to bear him six children?”

“Just… tell him what’s happened,” Ana soothed. “He’ll understand that you’re not happy about it and don’t want to go through with it. We’ll cover for you if anyone comes looking.”

Belle gave a melancholy nod, and moved away to saddle Philippe.

“In the meantime, we’ll think about what we can do.” It would be untrue to say that they had never yet failed to get each other out of the various scrapes they’d found themselves in over the years, but they had never yet failed to try.

After watching Belle ride off furiously towards the village, Ana and Will returned to the hayloft, but neither of them held any desire to continue what the afternoon had first promised. The threat of Sir Gaston, and of Belle being made to marry in general, had been hanging over them for a while, but it was not one that any of them liked to think about, and so they had spent more time mulling over the possibility of Ana marrying Will and thinking about a happy future in which that had happened. Now, the thing they had avoided thinking about was upon them, and more suddenly than they had expected. They had so little time in which to plan things, and so much to plan.

On the face of it, it seemed to be impossible, but if there was one thing that had always characterised the trio, it was determination.

X

Philippe’s hooves thundered against the ground as Belle galloped towards the village, knees digging into his flanks and spurring him on. Tears misted her vision, but Philippe had raced along these roads often enough that he didn’t need her to direct him. It was on one of her frantic rides away from the castle that she had first met Rumpelstiltskin. Philippe was not as used to the roads and trails, and Belle had turned him sharply to avoid splashing into the river. Philippe had reared, and it was all Belle could do to hold on. A man had been there, washing sheep fleeces in the river, and he had helped her to calm Philippe down. He had seen how distraught Belle was, and although she had long since forgotten the exact cause of her distress on that particular occasion, she would never forget the kindness with which he had treated her, leading her back to his home and giving her sweet tea and sympathy.

That man was Rumpelstiltskin, the village spinner, and over time, as Belle had escaped from the castle more and more and come down to the river to think, she had got to know him. Over the last few months, this friendship had turned into something more, with Will and Anastasia covering for her ever more frequently as she slipped out of the castle’s confines under cover of darkness to make her way down to the river to meet Rumpel; to take tea with him in his small cottage and share soft, slightly nervous kisses once Rumpel’s son had gone to bed.

Slowing Philippe to a walk as she neared the village, Belle wiped her eyes and made sure that her hood was pulled up to hide her face. Bae was outside the cottage, and despite her meagre precautions at concealment, his face lit up in recognition immediately and he rushed inside to alert his father. By the time Belle had tethered Philippe to the fence a few yards from the cottage, Rumpel was standing in the doorway, waiting for her. There was such a hopeful smile on his face, and it pained Belle to know that all too soon, that smile would vanish as she told him her terrible news.

As soon as she saw her face, the expression dropped.

“Belle?” He could tell that she’d been crying. “Belle, come inside, whatever is the matter?”

Belle didn’t even get to a chair before the entire sorry story came gushing out, her words falling over themselves in her haste to get them out before she finally collapsed into a fresh round of shuddering sobs, burying her face in Rumpel’s chest as he held her close, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing nothings to her. He was trying to keep her spirits up, she knew that, but at the same time, she knew that it was a lost cause. He had never been a good liar, Rumpel, and she knew that when he said that it was all going to be all right, there was a distinct lack of conviction in his words.

“What are we going to do, Rumpel?” she asked once she was finally sitting down, Bae making tea and looking on, worried.

“We’ll think of something,” Rumpel said desperately, but there wasn’t much hope in his voice. “You’re the cleverest person I know, Belle, I’m sure you and Ana and Will together can think up something.”

Belle could only hope that he was right, and take what comfort she could from the warmth of his arms around her.

X

It was dusk by the time Belle made it back to the stables, and she knew that she was going to have to hurry if she was going to make it back into the castle and change in time for dinner with her father and her fiancé. She shuddered at the thought, hastily unsaddling Philippe and hoping that at some point in the next two weeks someone would think up a solution to this terrible situation. Although Rumpel had given her his reassurances that no matter what, she was always welcome at his door, he did seem to be embracing the inevitable, and most of their talk during the afternoon had held the veiled feeling of making the most of the limited time that they had left together.

Belle squawked with alarm as a strong hand around her arm pulled her out of her melancholy train of thought and into the tack room at the side of the stables.

“Shh!” The voice, and indeed the hand, belonged to Anastasia, and in the dim light of the lamp in the tack room, Belle could see that Will was also there. She could also see something that made the tiniest flicker of hope spark in her chest from where she had thought it extinguished forever. Both of her friends were grinning from ear to ear.

“We’ve been thinking,” Anastasia began, “and we think we’ve got a plan.”

Belle felt a smile begin to break over her own face.

“What is it?”

“It is a bit far-fetched,” Will warned. “And it does rely on Rumpelstiltskin’s co-operation.”

“I’m sure Rumpel would be persuaded to help,” Belle replied, “as long as it wouldn’t put Bae in danger.” For all her spinner was decried as the village coward, she knew that he would do anything for the ones he loved.

“Not at all,” Will said. “We’re just going to need his particular expertise.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. Rumpel was a spinner and he had been a weaver; he knew sheep and textiles but there wasn’t much more he was especially well-versed in. “Well, any plan is a good plan, no matter how farfetched.”

The church bells chimed out the hour, and Anastasia sighed.

“We’d better get back to the castle, but I’ll tell you on the way,” she said. “We might have to get slightly creative with your wedding dress, but that’s where Rumpel comes in.”

As Anastasia outlined their plan, Belle began to see what they meant about it being rather out of the ordinary.

“So you can slip out of the castle unnoticed, and we’ll meet you at Rumpelstiltskin’s cottage once we manage to escape from the crisis.”

Belle shook her head, even though inside she was rejoicing at the thought of this harebrained scheme going ahead.

“Ana, I can’t ask you to risk yourself like that. You know that if it all goes ahead, it would be legally binding.”

“I know.” Ana grinned. “That’s why I won’t be putting myself in the line of fire. Besides, I’d need to be out and about lending credibility to the entire situation. Don’t you worry about that.”

“Even so, Papa will turn you out of the castle when he realises what’s happened.”

“Yes.” Ana’s face was earnest in the flickering firelight of Belle’s bedchamber. “Yes, we already knew that. But we know, we’ve always known, that we’re destined for other things, me and Will. We’re adventurers at heart, all of us, and this is our chance. And after all, as long as we’ve got each other, I know that everything will be all right.”

Belle smiled and pulled her friend into a hug.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you so much. I’ll make sure that you get the best start in your new life.”

The two women stayed in their embrace for a long moment, until the bell for dinner sounded.

“Go on,” Ana said, releasing Belle and giving her a little push towards the door. “You go on and play nice with Gaston. We’ve got a lot to organise.”

X

The gown was beautiful, and Belle was a little bit rueful that she would not actually wear it to get married in. The best seamstresses in the realm had worked around the clock to produce such a splendid ensemble in the short time available to them, and Belle had felt heartily sorry that their work had then been tampered with and pulled apart by Rumpel’s needles and threads and shears. Still, the end result was something entirely spectacular, and hopefully it would serve their purpose well.

“It’s a shame that we’re sabotaging today,” Ana said as she finished brushing out Belle’s curls and placed the heavy veil down on her head, clipping it in place. “Because you do look truly beautiful.”

“Thank you, Ana.”

She glanced at herself in the glass, and tried to smile, but her expression was pensive instead. It was the last moment, only a few short minutes before the ceremony in the castle’s main hall was due to begin. The guests had been arriving all morning, and Belle had already got a glimpse of Sir Gaston in his full finery. It didn’t add anything, it just made his ridiculously large frame look even more out of proportion.

“Can’t we get it over and done with now?” she asked, turning to Ana, who shook her head with a smile.

“No, no, your father has to see you in your gown first. We can’t give him any reason to suspect that something’s not as it seems.”

Almost on cue, there was a knock at the window, and Anastasia rushed over to open it. Will fell into the room, having clambered up the climbing ivy up the wall outside.

“You know, you could just have come in the normal way,” Anastasia observed as she pulled him off the floor.

“I was trying to be surreptitious!” Will exclaimed, most put out at the slight against his efforts at secrecy.

“Yes, because a young man climbing the castle walls and throwing himself into the lady of the castle’s bedchamber isn’t at all suspicious,” Ana said dryly, brushing him down. “Did you bring the things?”

“Of course.” Will handed her the package of clothing he was carrying. “We’re all set.”

There was a knock on the door and Belle recognised her father’s voice.

“Bluebell? Are you decent?”

Anastasia bundled Will under the bed for concealment and went over to open the door. Maurice was wearing his best clothes ready for the ceremony, and his smile grew even wider when he saw Belle in her wedding dress.

“Ah, Belle, you look as lovely as your mother did on our wedding day.” He came over and wrapped his arms around his daughter, drawing her in close against his chest. Belle breathed in the dusty smell of his best jacket and closed her eyes. For all they did not agree and for all she might never forgive him for the engagement to Gaston, her father was her only family and after today, she might never see him again. It was still hard to come to terms with, although her decision had already been made. “Forgive an old man his sentimentality. This is the last time we’ll have together like this, and then you’ll be lady of a different castle.” As he pulled back, his brow furrowed, and he turned Belle’s face up towards him with two fingers under her chin. “What’s the matter, Belle? You should be smiling today. Can you give your Papa a smile?”

Belle managed a weak smile, knowing that she probably wouldn’t smile properly again until they were completely out of the woods, which might not be for a while.

“I’m just nervous, I guess,” she said. “You should get back to the guests; they’ll need directing.”

Maurice sighed. “Yes, you’re right. If only Colette was here. She’d know what to do.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage, Papa.” Belle kissed his cheek as he moved away towards the door again. “I love you,” she added, feeling that it really needed to be said before the grand scheme was enacted. “I’ll always love you, Papa.”

Maurice smiled indulgently. “I love you too, Bluebell.”

As soon as he was out of the room and his heavy footfalls had faded away along the corridor, Belle let out a long sigh of relief that she didn’t even realise she’d been holding, and Ana came over, rubbing her arm gently as Will extricated himself from under the bed.

“He’ll understand, when it all comes out,” Ana said. “I’m sure he will, in the end.”

Belle nodded. “I know. That doesn’t make it any easier, but at the same time, this is what I want.”

“Yes. This is it. Come on, we don’t have much time.”

Will politely turned his back as Ana got started on unlacing Belle out of her gown again, and soon she was dressed in the soft trousers and jerkin of a stablehand, her hair tucked up under a cap.

“Go!” Ana said, fiddling with the dress and gesturing frantically towards the door. “You need to get a head start!”

Belle peeped out of the door and checked that the coast was clear before slipping out and turning back to her friends.

“Thank you both, so much.”

Will winked at her.

“You’d do the same for us.”

And with that, she was gone, speeding unnoticed through the castle as she weaved through the crowds of guests and out into the fresh spring air.

A few minutes later found Philippe’s hooves pounding the path that they had taken so many times before, with no-one any the wiser.

X

If anyone thought that Lady Belle’s maid was wearing a rather too-smug smile when she entered the great hall, holding up her mistress’s long train, then they put it down to the fact that it was a joyous day that she had an important role in, and she was happy to be a part of such a wonderful celebration. If anyone looking at the bride thought that perhaps Lady Belle was looking a little different to usual, then again, they put it down to the effects of the day and the cut of the gown - such a beautiful gown, truly breathtaking to behold. If anyone thought that Lady Belle’s voice sounded a little high and squeaky as she repeated her vows, they put it down to the choked tears of happiness that every bride was supposed to have on her wedding day.

So no-one really, truly noticed anything out of the ordinary, and if they did, then they put it to the back of their minds.

It was only once the ceremony was complete and Sir Gaston was pushing back Lady Belle’s veil that anyone really realised that they should have listened to their gut feeling that something wasn’t quite right about the entire thing.

For a start, the bride was not Lady Belle.

More importantly, the bride was in fact a man wearing a wig and grinning wickedly at Gaston, who looked as if he was about to faint.

“Can’t I get a kiss, husband?” the young man asked without a hint of irony, puckering his lips.

Sir Gaston’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell backwards, landing on the stone floor of the great hall with a loud thud.

It took a good half a minute for the guests to realise what had happened and for the uproar to begin, and in the midst of all the shouting and demanding of explanations, Lady Belle’s maid grabbed the imposter bride’s hand and pulled him away, wig and all.

X

Belle was looking out of Rumpelstiltskin’s cottage window nervously, and had been doing ever since she had arrived there. She had smuggled some of her things out of the castle over the course of the past two weeks, just the things that she would truly miss. Some of her books, and the small portrait of her mother. Rumpel had passed the fine silks from some of her gowns to a trader he knew at the market in the next town over and had received a good price for them, keeping a little money aside for their life together and using the rest to make their home ready for her. She took a step back from the window and looked around the small cottage. Home. This was her home now, and Belle couldn’t be happier with the situation. Well, she’d be happier knowing that Ana and Will had suffered no repercussions from their plan.

She had not taken any of her father’s money, preferring to find her own capital since she was already deceiving him. This was the path she had chosen and she was going to make her own way down it. She had Rumpel and Bae, after all, and they were all that she needed. Of course it wasn’t going to be plain sailing, but life never was, and at least in this life, she had love to help her through. Beautiful, pure, true love, borne from friendship, not a relationship forged in the name of politics and alliances.

The sound of hooves alerted her to the window again, and Bae was already going to open the door. Ana and Will stumbled in, giggling all over.

Will, Belle noticed, was still wearing the wedding dress that Rumpel had so deftly altered to be able to expand and fit Will’s broader frame.

“Well, I think that went about as well as can be expected,” he said. He’d lost the wig at some point during their journey, and set about pulling out the padding that had been stuffed down the bodice. Wryly, Belle thought it something of a blessing that she was not particularly well-endowed in the décolletage.

“Tea?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, setting the pot over the fire.

“That sounds lovely, but we’d probably better be getting on our way soon,” Ana said. “They’ll come to their senses and start looking for us soon. Provided they’ve picked Gaston up off the floor…”

Will and Ana described the scene in hilarious detail as they drank their tea and Will continued to divest himself of the wedding dress and return to his usual attire; Belle having changed into plain, peasant clothing that Rumpel had been making for her. The tale almost made Belle sad that she hadn’t been there to see the entire spectacle.

At length, though, it was time to leave before they were discovered, and Belle pressed a bag of coins, proceeds from the sale of her smuggled out silks, into Ana’s hands.

“Be safe, and send word when you can,” she said, pulling her oldest friends into a fierce hug.

“Of course.” Will turned to Rumpelstiltskin. “Keep her safe,” he said, his tone somewhat warning.

“I intend to do nothing else,” Rumpel said. “Good luck, Mr Scarlet, Miss Tremaine.”

It was a bittersweet moment of goodbye as Belle watched her friends ride off into the setting sun together, but then she felt Rumpel’s arm come around her back and she turned to him, smiling and leaning in to capture the kiss he readily provided. (Bae excused himself to the other side of the room at that point.)

It was all coming together, with happiness snatched from the jaws of despair. Despite everything, Belle knew that she had made the right choice. It was not running away, she reasoned, welcoming Rumpel’s lips against hers once more. It was running towards something, running towards a life of love and contentment.

Running towards a life that was hers to share with whosoever she chose.

She smiled at Rumpel, and he smiled back.

She’d chosen well.

[the-broken-truth]

The Ghost of the Departed

Broken Truth: What's common but important in every person's life who's willing to kill any and everyone who talks down upon the person they love more than life itself? Someone to tell them they are going down a dark path. But what happens when it's not a person...but a fragment of them that still lingers with you - remaining unseen?

Behold - The Beneviento Family Portrait (Before Diedre By Snowwy): Link

[Diedre closed the door to Beneviento Manor late one morning as she needed to head into the village for something. The young girl smiled at the nearly dead trees of the forest that surrounded her home as well as the dark mist that suffocated the air. She loved it - it was just like her mother: Mysterious and calm. But...thinking of her mother made her think about what happened this morning.]

[During breakfast - Diedre looked at her mother and saw her eye trained on the portrait of the young mother and newborn that hung on the wall - it was painted the day the heiress was born. While Diedre would be happy that her mother was looking at the past, thinking of her time together with her daughter; something wasn't right. Her mother looked at the portrait with a sadness in her eye, as if she saw something that Diedre could not see and it made her angry to see her mother upset. Diedre asked her what was wrong but the Matriarch of House Beneviento dismissed it and continued to eat. This angered her further - she didn't like it when her mother hid things from her.]

Broken Truth: But aren't you doing the same thing?!

Snowwy: Senior, no breaking the 4th wall!

Broken Truth: Sorry! [Repairs Fourth Wall]

[After breakfast - Diedre told her mother she was going into the village to meet up with Eliza - stating that the girl was going to get something for Daniela after accidentally hurting her feelings. Donna wished her daughter a good day and the girl was gone.]

[Which returned us to now - Diedre was walking down the long path, where the gate over the forest and the other side were thick dry bushes. Her mind couldn't stop thinking about her mother's face as she looking upon that painting: was there something else there that she couldn't see? Was her mother hiding something from her? Whatever it was, she would find out and if her mother was hiding something from her that was making her sad then Diedre would find it and rid her mother of it.]

Diedre (Thinking - With a sinister smile on her face): 'There is nothing I won't do for mother...nor is there anyone I won't hurt to make sure she's safe.'

??? (Echoing Voice): And that is your problem, Heiress Beneviento.

[The sudden voice made the girl stop in her tracks as she began to look around frantically for whoever made that voice]

Diedre (Angry): WHO'S THERE?! HOW DARE YOU TRESPASS IN BENEVIENTO TERRITORY?! SHOW YOURSELF AND I'LL END YOU QUICKLY!

??? (Echoing voice): So quick to anger. So eager to kill. I didn't think the little baby I laid my eyes on would turn into this.

Diedre (Began summoning her Puppeteer Strings): Come out!

??? (Echoing Voice - coming from behind Diedre): No need to scream.

[Diedre turns on her heel and sees a figure - A tall man, at least 6 feet tall; her other is 5'10 and he was a few heads taller than her. He was dressed in a grey dress shirt with a black vest over it with a black tie, black pants, and shoes. His hair was black and was pulled into a back ponytail. His eyes - they were white, soulless, void...dead. He stood there, looking at Diedre who just glared at him.]

Diedre (Growling): Who the hell are you and why are you here?

Man: So vulgar. I know Donna didn't raise you like that.

Diedre (Growls): That's Lady Beneviento to you, bastard! You shall not speak of my mother so casually as if you know her!

Man: But I do know Donna, very well. Just as I know you, Diedre Beneviento.

Diedre (Eyes widen then narrow): How do you know my name?!

Man (Stands there with his hands in his pockets): I know more about you than just your name - You are Diedre Beneviento, 20 Years Old, Only Child...and a mass murderer.

Diedre: WHAT?

Man: As I've said, I know everything about you, child. I've seen all the lives you have taken with those strings alongside your cousins - and for what? To 'protect' your parents from rude words? No - I can see it in your eyes, Diedre; you love the power to kill, to take someone's life because, besides your cousins, you see yourself as small and weak.

Deidre (Grinds her teeth): No, I'm not weak. I'm a Young Lord.

Man: Just a title, child; it's worth nothing unless you prove you have the worth to make it something but all you and your cousins are doing...is staining the names you have been born into.

Diedre: Shut up...

Man: You know I speak the truth, Diedre. Why don't you stop this meaningless slaughter and make something more of yourself isn't of a murderer who gets offended by words? For your mother's sake.

Diedre: Everything I do is for her! Never question me!

[In her anger - Diedre lashed her hand out to let the strings attack the man but before they could touch him, an unknown force caught them before they would pierce his skin.]

Diedre (Wide-eyed): WHAT?!

Man (Lifts one hand to the strings): Impressive...but as you are now...useless.

[The man flicked the strings and they shattered, the backlash sending the girl to the ground.]

Diedre (Grunting as she lifts herself off the ground, a small string of blood out of the corner of her mouth): Who...the hell are you?

Man: There's so much you don't know. Speak to Donna, ask her about Adam and you shall know everything. It's never too late to change.

[With that - the man disappeared in raven's feathers that dissolved, leaving the girl alone to pick her aching body off the ground and continue on her way. The Cousins would need to know about this...but not before she tailed to her mother.]

Thoughts, @snowflakestree

[jeremiahdowney]

I found a lost little girl at a Halloween attraction

God, I wish we hadn’t changed our Halloween routine last year.

For three years, ever since they have been old enough, we have done the same thing, go trick or treating in the village with some of my daughter’s school friends. Last year we decided to mix it up a little and try a local Halloween attraction. The girls are bit older now, so we thought we could up the scare factor.

We live in Yorkshire, England, and a manor house near us puts on an event each year. There is a spooky forest walk, a haunted maze, pumpkin carving the works. The highlight is the ghost tour, the house has a long and bloody history. Murders, assassinations, and suicides have all taken place there. Actors take you around the house and grounds to bring the macabre events to life. Tickets are expensive and limited, so we were really looking forward to it.

It is pitch black by five-pm at that time of year. It was a bleak, miserable day with driving rain and a biting wind. A small road takes you to the forlorn and uninviting gatehouse, with its carved stone gargoyles and high spiked wrought-iron fence.

A track then leads to the house through a dark and foreboding stretch of woodland, before opening up to provide the first vista of the manor house. A dark sentinel alone on its hill. A grey stone monolith, master of all it surveys from its lonely isolation. It has a haunting beauty, the type that drives men to murder and worse.

Scarecrows had been set up along the side of the track, each pointing the Halloween revelers to their fate, every head a carved and lit lantern of increasingly gruesome intricacy. I will say this now, we have grown blasé to the sight of a Jack-o-lantern, a symbol of candy and fun now. But here, on a bleak Yorkshire hillside, they instilled a primal fear. Their leering faces shifting and alive in their flickering candlelight.

In the short drive through the covering of the woods, the weather had changed dramatically. An eerie stillness had replaced the buffeting winds and, as is so often the case at this time of year, the ground had given up its moisture to form a thick mist that blanketed the earth reaching out with wispy tendrils and beginning to climb the trees and outbuildings.

The children sat in uncharacteristic silence and I wondered if this was a little much for Seven- and five-year-olds, a little much for me even. Still, once we made it to the parking area the mood changed. People were walking about in costume and the area glowed warmly with the light of hundreds of pumpkin lanterns.

We got out and blended straight in. I’m a traditionalist, so it’s a zombie costume every year for me. I say costume, but truly, all I do is cut up whatever clothes my expanding waistline have made too cozy and liberally douse them with fake blood. The girls dressed as a devil / witch, and as Elsa, with dia del muerto-style face paint. My daughters have eclectic tastes and are far too opinionated for their own good; they get it from their mother.

It was worth the steep ticket price. The girls carved pumpkins and the haunted maze was a blast. Everyone loves a hog roast, and there were hot, baked cinnamon apples.

The night was going great and everyone gathered for the ghost walk.

I was skeptical before the event, but I have to say being there, on that foggy Yorkshire night in such a bleak setting, really added to things. The actors were excellent, sometimes these things get hammed up too much, but they really nailed it. The stories were fascinating and gruesome in equal measure; people really can do the most horrific things to each other.

We were out of the house heading towards ‘the hanging cottage’ when my eldest whispered those fateful words that all parents dread on trips out. “Daddy, I need a poo.”

Going back to the house was a non-starter. It was too far, and we would miss the rest of the tour. We quickly headed into a thicket of trees at the side of the track. We could catch up to the group easily enough. We only went in a little way, just enough to get us out of sight of the group.

It was dark and tangled, I used my mobile phone as a torch, its meagre light allowing us to navigate. We finished and cleaned up, wet wipes are a parent’s best friend, and were about to head back to the group when I heard crying.

It was very close, just a little further into the woods. I took my daughter’s hand. “We’d better see what that is, in case someone needs help.”

The noise was easy to follow despite the oppressive overgrowth and we arrived at an arched gateway, part of an old crumbling wall. The gate itself hung crookedly from just one of its three hinges.

It was a small graveyard, presumably for manor house family members back in the day.

The tombstones were ancient, bent crooked as hags at all angles where the earth had moved and subsided over the years. The blanket of fog was so thick it covered our feet as we walked. At the far end, we could see a small figure behind one of the headstones. It was small, plain stone and unmarked, no engraved name to honor its resident corpse.

“Hello, are you okay?” I asked.

The figure turned, it was a little girl, about my daughter’s age. Her costume was excellent, old fashioned clothes, from the 1960s maybe. But it was the makeup that made it. Her skin was marble-white, her eyes ringed in black, and blood-red tear streaks ran down her cheeks. Across her throat an incredibly realistic slash with just the right amount of fake blood trickling from it.

She didn’t reply.

“Are your mummy or daddy here?” I asked again.

Nothing, she just looked down at the floor. I noticed she had on one of the wrist bands we all received on the way in. It had a space for writing a parent’s phone number on for just such an occasion.

“What’s your name little one?”

Still no reply.

“Can I look at your wristband please sweetheart, see if I can call your parents?”

She held up her arm, her skin was icy to touch when I held it to see the number clearly. Poor thing, I took off my jacket and draped it around her whilst I dialed. It was a landline number which worried me. The parents would have to be at home to take the call which would be impossible if they were here for the night.

The phone rang three times then

“Hello” croaked an old-sounding voice, a grandfather perhaps? The line was crackly and poor, reception not great in this remote location.

“Hi, can I just check I’ve dialed the correct number please, is this 01936 416428?” I wanted to make sure I was talking to the right person before giving out details of a lost child.

“Hello, can you speak up?” he asked. He sounded so old, not what I was expecting at all.

I repeated myself slowly and this time he confirmed I had called the right number.

“I’ve found a little girl who is lost. This was the number on her wristband. Are you missing your daughter or granddaughter?” I said.

“I don’t have a daughter, I don’t have any children” he replied.

“She’s about six or seven, all dressed for Halloween. Vintage 60’s clothes, and a slashed neck.”

There was a long pause, I thought he hadn’t heard me, and I was about to repeat myself when he started to speak.

“I didn’t…. It was an acci…. I never meant it to be like that, to happen that way.”

“Sir, is this your child?”

“She looked so perfect, I wanted her to be mine, but then she struggled. How did you know it was me? All those years, how did you find me now?”

I stood in stunned silence, my mind was reeling. I wasn’t sure what was happening, what I was hearing.

Suddenly, from behind us in the clearing the evocative hoot of an Owl and a flapping of wings. I turned, momentarily distracted, when I turned back the girl was gone.

My coat lay draped over the gravestone. Written on the previously unmarked stone in fresh blood was the name Sally Turnbull.

In my shock, it took a moment to register that the phone had gone dead.

I spent a panicked few minutes looking for the little girl, eventually conceding defeat. I took a photo of the gravestone before scooping my daughter onto my shoulders and running back to find the main group. Every time I tried to redial the man’s number the phone gave an engaged tone, as though the phone were off the hook.

The evening was drawing to a close anyway, so it wasn’t long before I was telling my wife about the incident in the car. My wife googled the name Sally Turnbull; she found an article from a few years ago in the local paper talking about the tragic and unsolved case of six-year-old Sally who went missing in 1967.

We agreed we should call the police, hoping that somehow, this was all some elaborate Halloween prank. They didn’t come out until the next morning, Halloween is a busy night for the police. They took a statement and I saw the annoyed look on their face when I pulled up the photo of the gravestone on my phone and it was unmarked stone. There was no name written on there.

They asked my daughter what happened and that didn’t help. She told them that she and daddy had been in the woods, so she could go to the toilet, but that she couldn’t hear the crying that I could. She said she didn’t see a little girl in the private cemetery, just daddy looking at a gravestone before putting his jacket on it.

The police gave me a lecture about wasting police time, but I insisted they took down the number I had dialed and agreed to follow up on it. I thought they were humoring me until three weeks later when I got a call from the office who had visited us. She said that they identified the number I had dialed as belonging to Mr. Brian Carter a retired widower who lived a couple of villages away. The police went to his house as a routine follow up, but after getting no response and based on an overpowering smell coming from the small cottage forced entry.

Brian was found hanging in his lounge. Next to him, still beeping, the phone, its receiver on the floor. He had written two words on a pad “I’m sorry” and police had timed his death as within an hour of the phone call I made to him on that Halloween night.

[gardnerffox]

Read chapter One from The Gentleman Rogue

Chapter One

  He was garbed in black, from the tricolor hat that shaded his masked face to the jack boots on his legs.  A long cloak, falling from the widespread of his shoulders to the loins of his black mare, rippled in the faint breeze that came swirling down off Hounslow Heath.  The moonlight that fell in dappled patterns across the road did not touch him in the shadows, or the long-barreled horse pistol he held in a gloved hand.

  The sack and canary he had consumed in the Brentwood Arms were still warm in the middle.  It held the whimsical smile fixed on his mouth, which showed wide and humorous under the lace frill of his mummer's mask.  Ian Montrose told himself, I look like Nicks the tobyman, with this barker in my hand and this domino on my face. John Nevison, known as Nicks all over England, had been a highwayman before they hanged him high on the gallows at Tyburn, years before.  He had been a hightoby rider for the gold and jewels he could steal. Ian Montrose was here to steal a garter.

  The English countryside was still at this hour of midnight.  Faintly, across the lea that separated Strand Green from Hanger Hill, he could hear the mournful ke'wick of a tawny owl.  Crickets chirped from patches of course grass, and once he heard the faint whinny of a distant horse.  The moon was a slim crescent, touching the bracken and the gorse on the heath with silver radiance. This was open country, filled with mists and great barren trees reaching upward like brown skeletal hands, and rocks the size of boulders.  Only in the far distance was their mellow light, from a farm cottage.

  "Lud!  It's a lonely place, this heath," the lone rider whispered to his black mare.  "Cold and damp and probably haunted, too, by the highwaymen they hang here. Still, it's good to be home again, even if I find myself poor as a church mouse, and asked my half brother's parties only because of my name."

  It had been at such a party, at Brentwood Arms on Fleet Street, that he had matched thirsts with the Duke of Amberston and the Earls of Lorwich and Kent.  There had been a sack, heavy with its Spanish grapes, and Madeira, and gins and whiskeys from the north countries, and hot posset drunk in chinaware pots. He remembered singing,  and dancing the gavotte with Lady Diana Loring, Viscountess of Blasfordshire, and of being warmly aware of her powdered arms and shoulders, disclosed so modishly by a daringly low bodice.  Her body had been soft and disturbing to a man who had stepped off a sailing bark from India less than a week before. He had kissed the Viscountess in the shelter of a garden hedge, and the taste of her moist lips on his own, and their heat as they trailed a path from the corner of his mouth to his ear had aroused a slow fire in him.

  That fire, and the sack and rich wines, had brought him here at midnight, onto this open stretch of barren heath.

  It had been Lady Diana that suggested the prank.

  "Most of us try to steal the bride's garter after she's married," she said with a laugh to the dandies surrounding her.  "You gentlemen fancy yourselves as rakehells! Why not steal it before she's wedded?"

  Their laughter was loud, but not so loud as the hammer of Ian Montrose's heart as he let his thoughts dwell on that idle challenge.  More than once that evening his admiring eyes had moved to the woman who was to be the Countess of Southend at the end of this summer of 1714.  She had been introduced as Lady Joan Sheldon, daughter of the late Earl of Harewood, ward and betrothed of Harold Montrose, Earl of Southend, Lord Somerset, his half-brother.  Her height was the height of his heart, and the manner in which her blue eyes had smiled at him above her red, wide mouth, with its beauty patch set so close to the corner of her lips, added fuel to the liquors that bubbled in his middle.

  He drowsed a little in his black leather saddle, waiting for the sound of coach wheels, letting himself dream of the manner in which her thick yellow hair had curled around her bared shoulders, and of the velvet fontange and scented ribbons that bedecked it.  She wore a gown of mulberry taffety, low enough to disclose a hint of her full young bosom. Her satin stomacher and peplum clung to round hips whose sway added mightily to the dizziness already induced in him by the wines and whiskeys he had consumed.

  Ian Montrose was not an envious man, but in this moment of his dreaming, he felt a mad, hot jealousy toward Lord Somerset.

  If his fortune were mine, he thought, I'd not be sitting a cold saddle here in the middle of the night, waiting to steal Lady Joan's garter, but riding snug and comfortable, close behind her in the coach itself!

  The lone rider straightened suddenly, standing in his iron stirrups.  He could hear the creak of coach wheels approaching from the east, from London town.  Lady Joan Sheldon would be in that coach, with Milord Somerset seated at her side. As his fingers tightened on the curving butt of his horse pistol, Ian Montrose grinned.  It was worth the risk of hanging for this night's adventure, to anticipate the look that would cross his half brother's arrogant powdered face when he poked this barker under his nose!  The creaking grew louder. Now he could hear the thud and pound of the horses' hoofs on the hard dirt road. Candle lamps winked in the night, and then the great gilded carriage was sweeping toward him along the Hounslow road, the driver in his blue Somerset livery tall and rigid on the seat, hands holding the reins stretched out before him.

  Ian toed the black mare to a mincing walk.  He came out of the shadows into the moonlight, as an apparition might spring from a witch's herbs tossed on a Beltane fire.  He was tall and black, bulking ominously dark and silent by the crossroads.

  "Stand and deliver,"  he called out harshly.

  His pistol came into the moonlight, aimed at the driver.  

  The coach rolled to a stop in drifted dust powdered by moonlight into silvery motes.  Brakes grated, squealing. A voice cried out from inside the coach.

  "Come down and lie flat on your belly," Ian told the driver.  He walked the mare forward as the coach door opened and Lord Somerset came out.

  "God's wounds!  What's this?" he asked, imperious eyes moving from the dark figure on the black mare to his serving man prone in the road.

  "A robbery, milord," explained Ian with a smile.  "There's no need for worry, however. I've a compunction against shedding blood, providing there's no call for it."

  "A hightoby rider," snapped Somerset.  "I'll see you hanged for this. You may know me for Harold Montrose, Earl of Southend, Lord Somerset, fellow!  I've the Duke's ear, as Boling-broke had Queen Anne's! I've influence at court!"

  The Earl of Southend, Viscount of Pensey and Litchfield, Baron of Borne, Lord Somerset, was a man of arrogance.  It lay revealed in the flaring spread of his patrician nostrils, in the tilt of his handsome face with its thin mouth and dark, flashing eyes.  Looking at him, Ian thought, this is my brother, this man in his fancy satin waistcoat and clocked silk stockings, with his slippers buckled in diamonds and the rings on his fingers worth a small fortune!  Only I know the streak of cruelty in him. I've seen him blind a horse that displeased him. Only I know the lust for money and power that governs his life.

  As Lord Somerset glowered at him, Ian let his memory linger on those days when he and Harold had matched dueling pistols side by side in a Sussex meadow and had stamped across half the halls in Southend Manor with their blunted rapiers.  Dour Harold Montrose, son to the woman the Earl of Southend made his second wife, had always resented Ian's lighthearted, easy way with the wenches. In his envy, he conceived himself abused. Abuse brought hatred after it, and when Ian had boarded the brig Royal William for India, he and his half-brother were not even nodding to each other.

  Ian's trigger finger itched.  It would be easy to put a ball between his half brother's eyes, easy to doff his mask and black clothes and step into his half brother's estates without suspicion of murder.  He acknowledged this temptation that flared in him even as he fought against it.

  Ian leaned forward in the saddle, placing the round muzzle of his horse pistol close to the nobleman's face.  His voice was calm and soft. "Keep your tongue quiet, by heaven, of I'll put a ball in your mouth!"

  He was not aware of it, but his dark blue eyes were bright with drink, and reckless with the dislike that had been building in him for this half-brother who owned the Somerset fortune, and was to wed Milady Joan.  They glittered through the slits of his mask with the feral hunger of a wolf.

  Lord Somerset caught the hot recklessness of those eyes, but he shouted savagely, "Drop that barker, you huff!  Drop it and I'll—"

  "Into the coach, milord, and mind your conduct!  I've no time to bandy words right now!"

  Lord Somerset lapsed into silence, his face reddening above the ruffled jabot at his throat.  In his injured pride, which saw him humiliated before the two women in his chaise, he would have hurled himself at this wolf's head, wrestling with him for that long pistol; but the bright eyes and something in the chin of the man told him he would live only so long as he obeyed his commands.  In his plum velvet coat and breeches he stood rigidly, head flung back, his face taut and hard. At a wave of the pistol, he moved stiffly into the coach, to fling himself against its thick upholstery and gnaw at a thin lip as he watched the highwayman come down out of his saddle.

  There were two women in the coach with Lord Somerset.  Ian let his eyes dwell on the golden loveliness of Lady Joan Sheldon, seeing her pale face framed in the ermine collar of her velvet wrap, studying the manner in which her round bodice hugged the swells of her bosom and the sheer fichu through which he could glimpse the white sheen of its flesh.

  The other woman was leaning forward, her own fichu falling away from the lifting mounds of her scarcely hidden breasts, showing them full and pale above the silver brocade that rimmed her taffety gown.  She was possessed of a sultry beauty, this viscountess, and her green eyes were bold and predatory under their long red lashes.

  "Joan, darling!"  exclaimed Lady Diana Loring.  "Isn't it too romantic? A tobyman!"

  Lady Joan tried to still the trembling of her white fingers by clasping them in a scented lace kerchief.  Her eyes were wide and frightened as they studied the masked face thrust into the doorway of the coach. She whispered, "I-I don't think it's so romantic, Di!  He's a robber!"

  The highwayman laughed softly.  "But not such a robber as you ever saw before, milady!  I take it you're Lady Joan Sheldon, Milord Somerset's intended.  In that case, perhaps I should not be stealing from you, but rather giving you a wedding present."

  The woman with the bright red hair was laughing softly.  "A very gentleman of a rogue! He speaks of wedding presents while he takes our treasures!"  She was busy stripping rings from her fingers.

  Ian looked at Lady Diana Loring and at the wide red mouth that had scorched his lips and face earlier this evening in the little yew garden off the inner piazza at Brentwood Arms.  She was regarding him almost with hypnotic attention, as though she expected him to vanish momentarily before the eyes that studied him so closely. Deep in those green depths, he could read mockery and a vast amusement.

  He turned from that mockery toward Lady Joan, aware that a chill sense of foreboding was gathering in him.

  Ian said, "I'll not attend your wedding, milady.  Unable to remove your garter then, I propose to take it now."

  Lady Joan gasped and threw herself back into a corner of the coach, lifting her ankles to tuck them under her thighs.  Lord Somerset leaned forward, his mouth a thin, hard line. He rasped, "Damn your impertinence! I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  I'll not rest content until you hang for your crimes from Tyburn gallows!"

  The horse pistol swung toward Lord Somerset.  The masked man smiled. "I can kill your bridegroom at a touch of a finger on my trigger, milady.  Do me a favor of removing your garter, before haste forces me to trespass under your petticoats myself."

  "Never!"  whispered Lady Joan, shrinking against the flowered upholstery of the chaise.  "I-I'll never do it!"

  Ian Montrose moved forward, resting one knee on the floor of the coach, heart thudding wildly.  With his pistol gripped in his left hand, he slid the right hand forward under that billowing skirt.  He felt a warm silken calf and knee beneath his fingers, then the swell of the smooth thigh. For one long instant, his palm lay hot against her thigh, so that he could feel it tremble.  Then his fingers lifted and gripped the ribboned garter and slid it down, past the knee and over the ankle.

  It dangled in the moonlight, a round and delicate thing of scarlet ribbon frilled with black lace.  The scent on its silk, and the warmth that had been imparted to it from the flesh it clasped made his hand tremble.

  Lady Joan never took her gaze from the bright eyes of the masked man.  She sat like a cobra before the flute, swaying a little, held by some inner paralysis.  Even the flush on her cheeks looked painted. In the bodice of her gown, her bosom lifted, heaving, as she bent her head forward into her hands and sat like that, her little ears turning beet red.

  The Viscountess moved forward then, thrusting her rings and necklet of matched pearls, together with a velvet purse heavy with golden guineas, into Ian's hand, which still held the garter.  "Please!" she whispered hoarsely. "Please take my things and Milord Somerset's purse, and let us be! Milord was a heavy winner at the piquet tables tonight. You'll find his purse fat enough to please you!"

  Ian said, "But I—" when he realized, with his right-hand heavy with diamond earrings and emerald rings, velvet purse and that frilly garter, that there was nothing he could say to the Viscountess.  If he denied his membership in the ranks of the night riders, he would as good as admit his identity. Yet if he took these riches that were being thrust on him, he would subject himself to pursuit by the queen's men, and a future hanging on Tyburn Tree.

  Milord Somerset said thickly, "Yes, yes!  Take my purse and go! Here, catch it."

  Somerset brought his hand out from under his gold embroidered coat.  There was no purse bulging in his palm, but a small pistol gripped solidly in tight fingers.

  Had he been less shaken with jealous rage, he would have put a ball between Ian Montrose's eyes, but the hand that held so steady on the dueling lawns of Lincoln's Inn Fields at Hyde Park trembled slightly here in the mad fury that shook him.

  His little pistol erupted in a belch of flame and smoke.

  Ian staggered slightly as the ball plowed into his chest, scraping along his ribs.  The pain came up like a red mist around him and drove his breath from his lungs. Then his right hand was sweeping up and the barrel of his pistol came hard against the pointed, arrogant chin of Harold Montrose, Lord Somerset.

  That blow made a sodden sound in the night.  Lord Somerset went back bonelessly, to recline like a dead man against the velvet quarterings of his coach.  Ian stared down, dismayed by the savage fury that had been in him as he swung that pistol.

  Lady Joan Sheldon screamed.

  The Viscountess leaned forward, her slim white fingers moving gently as they fumbled under the many-buttoned lapel of Somerset's plum-colored coat.  They came out with a velvet purse ornate with silver stitching and the iron pheon of the house of Southend.

  "Take this purse," she cried out, thrusting the sack into Ian's hand.  "Take it and go, for the love of heaven!"

  Ian stared blankly at his half-brother, lolling so lifelessly on the cushions.  Despair hammered its way up through the pain racking his ribs. Did I kill him, striking like that in anger?  Am I to end in the hempen rope for murder, as a result of this night's jest? He could see the blood trickling down across Somerset's mouth and chin and dripping redly onto his jabot, and the drunken recklessness of the sack and whiskey fled from him, leaving him shaken and pale.

  He grew aware that Lady Joan had lifted her face from her hands and was staring at him.  Ian found himself unable to read her eyes, but he knew suddenly through the momentary fright in him that there was no fear in them.

  He staggered as he backed away from the coach.  Sliding a boot into an iron stirrup, he tried to lift himself into his saddle.  The wound in his chest throbbed and pulsed, making him bend double. The mare sidled nervously, and he had to grab at her thick black mane.  His teeth grated in the effort of will that lifted him upward and into the black saddle. Reins in a gloved hand, he toed the mare to a canter, aware that the Viscountess was standing in the moonlight, calling to the driver, and turning to stare curiously after him as he disappeared between the oaks and cedars bordering the road to West Action.

  He rode at a canter, bent over to ease the fire in his side.  There was wet stickiness on the fingers that he thrust into the tear in his coat, where they touched his bloody ribs.  A little higher and to one side, he thought, and I'd be stretched out lifeless on the ground back there. The thought made him grimace wryly.  Word would have been all over London, then. Ian Montrose, the poor relation of Lord Somerset, had turned highwayman to add to the fortune of which fate had seen fit to deprive him.  At least, none knew who it was that trotted away from the crossroads tree with two purses, fat with gold, thrust into his saddlebag, with the jewels that had adorned the ears and throat and fingers of the Viscountess of Blasfordshire nestling close beside them.

  He dismounted at a stile to remove coat and lingerie shirt and make a bandage of the shirt, which he wrapped tightly about his chest with trembling fingers.  In the bright moonlight, he discovered that his wound was more painful than dangerous, for the break in his skin was clean where the ball had glanced against a rib and torn out through his flesh.

  My loving brother would give much to see me stripped to my buff before him, he thought wryly.  It would be all the proof he'd need to send me to the gibbet. He wondered if Hal were alive, even, and shuddered at the thought.

  Ian Montrose debated with himself, seated on a flat milestone in the shadow of the stile.  To return now to the Red Hart Inn, which had been his starting point an hour before midnight, would be to reveal to Ebenezer Gunn and his pretty daughter, Nancy, that young Ian Montrose was on the high road, with the black mare and the horse pistols he had brought with him from India.

  Rather ride back to London, where one more late rider will pass unnoticed, then let them see me this way, he decided.

  He owned treasured boyhood memories of the old tavern that stood on the road to Bockhorst Hill, with its timbered walls wreathed in green ivy, its stone lintel smoothed by a hundred years of boots and slippers moving across its surface.  The Red Hart Inn had been built in the days of Drake and Hawkins, and its musty cellars were labyrinths of passageways once used by the smugglers who had brought coffee and tea, canary and Madeira, silks and satins from France and the Lowlands, Spain and Denmark, to their storage spaces.  Behind its sprawling walls were the stables, and a buttery with matching wash house and brewery. In the days when he sought refuge from a tutor who used a ferrule overmuch, he found those cellars and those stables alive with a thousand nooks and crannies to be investigated, always with young Nancy Gunn tagging at his heels.

  Later, when he had come home to Southend Hall from Oxford and Christ Church, he discovered that Nancy Gunn had grown up.  Her lips were like sweet fire, and her soft arms clung with a frenzied strength, to assuage a little of his loneliness. His mother, a Marchioness in her own right, had died when he was two, and his father, the old Earl of Southend, was a sporting buck who thought more of his fighting cocks and racehorses than he did of his son, who was left alone to raise himself according to the dictates of his rebellious blood.

  The Red Hart Inn became a home to him in that first year of Oxford.  Ebenezer Gunn was a more understanding man than the elder Ian Montrose.  When the Earl discovered that young Ian was spending his weekends galloping across the leas of Bockhorst on horses borrowed from the Red Hart stables, he went to the Lord of the Admiralty and made arrangements to secure passage for Ian Montrose on the bark Royal William, bound for India.

  That voyage had taken four years and included the shipwreck of the Royal William, a rescue at sea, and a docking of the rescue brig at Calicut.  There, in the alabaster temples and zenana gardens, silken bazaars and hill forts, he worked long and hard for the East India Company. He made lasting friendships with the naiks of Mysore and the Nawab of Arcot, aiding the Nizam al Mulk to found his dynasty at Hyderabad, and laying a solid foundation for the English against the French, who were penetrating into Pondicherry and the Carnatic lowlands.

  He was aware that the strange fascination of India was in his blood.  He had been the Inglisi khan too long not to acquire a taste for sugared ginger and buttered kichri, and a hunger for coppery women in clinging silken saris.  He found himself dreaming with a touch of nostalgia, on the quarterdeck of the barkentine that brought him back to Europe, of golden howdahs and silver palanquins set with blood rubies, of high silken turbans and the fragile veils of women who wore the circular red caste marks on their foreheads, of mullahs and rupees, and the bronze figure of the Dancer, six-armed Siva.  He had seen black pearls the size of fingertips taken from the seas off Ceylon, precious jade carvings from Cathay, and great bronze chests filled with diamonds and emeralds.

  Those pearls and jades, diamonds and golden howdahs were symbols to him of the natural riches of that vast country stretching from the snowy peaks of the Himalayas to the warm blue waters of the Indian Ocean.

  It was a land of waiting for the man who possessed enough strength in his fist to take it.  Ian Montrose wanted that man to be an Englishman. A colony like India, together with the vast New World over which England and France were fighting, would mean the first rank among the nations of the world for the land that owned them.

  "A nation that strong will need a strong hand to guide it," he whispered to the heath below Mile End Road.  "Anne is a woman grown old with age. A lonely woman, too, now that Prince George, her husband, is dead, and her quarrellings with the Duchess of Marlborough out in the open."

  When Queen Anne died childless, the throne would be vacant for the taker.  Even now, court gossip suggested that the son of James II would sit that throne.  Here and there, men like Lords Stanhope and Townsend were mentioning the name of George of Hanover as an aspirant to the crown.

  In his youth, Ian Montrose had visited at the court of Zell with his father, the Earl of Southend.  He had known Count Konigsmark and the Princess Sophia Dorothea. This George of Hanover was a strong man, a man with convictions and enough strength of character to maintain them.

  And so Ian, in his first flush of enthusiasm about India, had stopped in Denmark for an audience with the Electoral Prince.  He had met the gross, fleshy George, had talked with him five hours and had been introduced to the Earl of Morley, who was in Denmark to explain that Anne of England was a sick woman.  She had not long to live. If George wanted the throne, he must act now, or not at all.

  "I have enemies in England," the Prince of Hanover announced the Ian, staring across the richly paneled audience room with protruding eyes.  "Bolling-broke and Oxford. Enemies who are powerful men at court."

  Ian protested, with the conviction that this man would make a good king strong within him.  "You have friends too, your grace. Men such as Stanhope and Townsend. The Whig party is strong.  All it needs is your consent to work on your behalf. Sire, England is approaching a crisis with destiny.  India awaits a conqueror. So does the world. Great lands. Lands a hundred times England's size!"

  George of Hanover let his thick lips loosen in a faint smile.  "You are an enthusiast, Montrose. Well, enthusiasm is a good thing in a man.  Especially in a man who sees king material in me. Do as you want. Befriend me in London, among court circles.  I'll not be ungrateful if the time ever comes for remembering friends."

  Within two days of his arrival in Bristol, Ian Montrose was being shown the will made by the old Earl, his father.  It left Ian penniless, his father believing him dead on the high seas. The will left the title and the vast Southend fortunes to his half-brother, Harold.

  As he cantered his mare over the wooden arch of Knight's Bridge and along the pasture lands of St. Giles' Fields, he thought back on the high hopes with which he had left India.  Instead of finding wealth and a title, he came back to England to find himself penniless, without funds other than what he had managed to save from his sojourn in Calicut.

  He knew, of course, that, as the old Earl's elder son, he had only to claim the title to make it his.  The Earl could bequeath his estates to whomever he wished, but the title he could not dispose of in so cavalier a fashion.  That could be inherited only by his eldest living son, and that son was Ian.

  Yet, thought Ian, of what use was a title to him without the estates and the money to back it up?  A penniless earl, with nothing but a name and a few suits of clothes to his back, a brace of horse pistols and this black mare between his thighs—he would be the laughingstock of England, and, worse, a man lost in a limbo between two worlds, unable to live comfortably in the society that the title made his, separated from the great mass of men by the same title.

  No, Ian reflected, under the circumstances, the title would be more of a liability to him than an asset.  Let Hal keep it, along with everything else. For the present, at least...

  He dismounted and unsaddled in the small stable under the little townhouse that was his sole inheritance from his mother.  Upending the worn leather feed bag, he dumped out the dried dust and dirt that was the accumulation of the years.

  "There's not even a bit of grain in the bag for you, girl," he said to the mare, stroking her soft nose.  "In the morning I'll visit the livery stable and obtain credit. I'll put a good meal under your hide before we go back to Bockhorst, my word on it!"

  A narrow wooden stair led upward from the stables to the kitchen.  With black saddlebags slung over a shoulder, he mounted past a wide landing fronted by a leaded window to the second story.

  He turned into the bedroom and struck the flint to steel, wincing as the sudden movement sent pain through his wound.  A standing lamp revealed a wide room the width of the house, with a great oak poster bed and wall hangings of Mortlake tapestry.  A marquetry chest-on-chest fronted a section of paneling fitted with frame paintings, opposite a silvered mirror.

  Ian took the saddlebags to a walnut side table with cabriole legs and unfastened the straps.  Shaking them out, he stared down at diamonds and emerald rings, at a pearl necklace worth the yearly rental of a prosperous farm, and two velvet purses heavy with golden guineas.

  Then he lifted out the ribboned garter that had come from the leg of Lady Joan Sheldon.  For a moment he stared down at the tiny lace rosettes and ruffled pleatings. He sniffed the faint fragrance of perfume on its lacy frills.

  "A dainty pretty indeed, Ian Montrose," called a mocking voice, "but a dangerous thing to be caught with, in the privacy of your own bedroom!  It proves you the highwayman who hit Lord Somerset with a pistol barrel a few hours ago, outside Hounslow Heath!"

  He whirled, fingers tensing on the scarlet garter.  The Viscountess of Blasfordshire stood with a knee braced on a Windsor chair, her tippet-edged wrap fallen from a white shoulder.  There was a cruel smile on her wide red mouth.

  In her right hand, she held a small, silver-mounted pistol.  It was aimed at Ian Montrose where the buckle of his leather belt was fastened at his middle.

[rainbow-squirrels-7]

Highlights from tonight’s murder mystery episode of my DND campaign, The Kleos Guild!

-We began with the PCs waiting for word when to go out to set the trap for the Song Thief

-My Druid (Bec, half-orc) was cheating at playing pool

-My Paladin (Gixa, white dragonborn) was eating ice in the cafeteria 

-And my Bard (Alexander, half-dark elf) was actually composing a sincere apology for acting so shady behind Peregrine and Gixa;s backs last episode. It was very sweet actually

-He said that his bardic mentor said ‘words have power, especially for bards’ or something, and that gave me SO much backstory fodder. But it’s kind of ironic because none of them know their backstories actually happened in the future

-Anyway, then Daisy (the orc guildmaster of the Sapphire Division) came in and announced that at the location of the last Song Crystal... there’s been a murder

-So the crew warps out there and ends up in the ski-lodge like town of King’s Reach. Gixa is very happy to finally be in a place that is not sweltering 

-They go up to Bremen manor and admire the Tree of Life and none of my players get the Musicians of Bremen reference I made with the statue of the animals on top of the fountains and I had to explain it to those heathens 

-Agatha Bremen, daughter of the murdered man Edgar Bremen is outside waiting for them. Inside, they meet the suspects: Beatrice the tabaxi maid, Crispin the human who’s a one-armed retired Paladin, Darren the human (Agatha’s child), and Jeremy the halfling chef

-Agatha shows them the scene of the crime, seeing some impressionist paintings on the walls of the portrait gallery just before

-They find Edgar Bremen dead from three parallel slash marks on his throat. I was hoping this would make them immediately suspect Beatrice, but alas

-Right as they left that room, they heard a crash from downstairs and a scream

-Alexander and Bec then Feather Fall over the balcony, and Gixa slides down the bannister

-They go into the kitchen to find that Jeremy the chef has just been murdered in the same way as Edgar was. It was Beatrice who screamed

-Beatrice had a high, very scared of everything voice. She was constantly freaking out (as I was trying to hype up her red herring-ness). Crispin had my very best Barry Bluejeans impression voice. If Darren talked, I don’t remember their voice, and I don’t think Jeremy talked at all. Agatha just had a regular voice, but Gixa’s player said she pictured her with a British accent. I did a British accent for another character back in episode 3, and I didn’t like it, so I didn’t do it again. 

-Crispin also talked with Gixa at one point, as they have Paladin in common, and Crispin explained that he was part of Phineas’ legion when they were defending Bard City a few months back from the monster attack, and the monster bit off his arm, so he retired from being a Paladin. 

-The players then began going through all the Clue-style rooms (my original plan was to just plop down a Clue board, but I didn’t have one) looking for clues

-I did manage to red herring them with the silverware set up, which was really just Jeremy not getting to set the rest of the table, but Alexander thought it was suspicious that six of the knives were missing, and there were six slash marks total. 

-They found Edgar’s will in the study, which included the name Leonard, whom was someone who wasn’t present in the manor, and also had one crossed off name at the bottom. In the lounge, they found more paintings, and found that they were signed by Leonard. Agatha then told them Leonard is her husband and a painter who works in Ferryrock. She also says he’s been into music lately, and that they just got a new piano. In one of the paintings, they see the staff of the manor, and one tabaxi man who isn’t present either, but he’s dressed like a butler 

-In the ballroom, they found a grand piano and some sheet music. It’s described to have been written in pencil and a title was there but erased and rewritten multiple times before the writer just wrote ‘title goes here’. The writer turned out to be Charlie Jones, the bard kid who travels with the salesman Gerald, and who is a fan favorite. He and Gerald came through town recently, and Charlie had been working on this composition, and Leonard had asked for a copy to try to learn to play. The song was unfinished though, and is the first 30 seconds of this:

-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=arIymDYA2y8

-Anyway, they ask Agatha about the butler, and she says that he’s Virgil, and he worked for Edgar, but he was fired a few years back after he was caught embezzling money

-The PCs then go upstairs to continue the investigation, only after Alexander goes back in the kitchen and finds the flatware that had not been set. He takes the knives

-Upstairs, they find Darren’s room, which is a typical messy teenager room. They also find some papers that we would recognize as characters sheets, and also a set of dice. It’s all from the hot tabletop fantasy game popular across The Land: Suburbs and Sedans

-In Agatha and Leonard’s room, they find a book called Bardic Inspiration: For Dummies. Gixa shows it to Alexander saying “Hey, this’ll be your next birthday present.”

-They also find some messed up wallpaper, but nothing but a wall behind it

-Down the hallway, they find the library, which is the first real library they’ve been to, since the other library in the very first episode in the Town of Heroes was full of fake books

-They find that the wallpaper in this room has been messed up too, and behind it, they find a door that leads to the vault room

-Inside, they find the floating cat ghost form of Virgil, trying to steal the money from the safe. I tried to give Virgil an impression of Jenkins’ voice, but idk if it was accurate. Either way, it was pretty good.

-And it all freaking dissolved into ghost humor

-”Why does a ghost need money? IS THERE GHOST CAPITALISM??”

-But yeah, they fought the ghost Virgil, and I quickly realized that my fights are way too easy. Virgil didn’t even land a hit on them. I made a mental note to make my enemies stronger

-Anyway, after Virgil “went poof into a poof of ghost mist”, there was a bit of banter when Alexander opened the safe and Gixa was afraid he would steal the money. She poked him with her halberd, and Alexander then closed the door on the other two and Mended the wallpaper back. They got out pretty quickly, though.

-Once they got back to the balcony, they heard music coming from outside. Alexander’s player immediately said he was going to the window so he could climb on the roof, but then I realized I forgot to say that it wasn’t piano music (which would point to the Song Thief), but cello and violin music.

-Bec and Alexander Feather Fall off the balcony again and Gixa Misty Steps (or she “BAMFs down to the first floor like Nightcrawler” as I described it) and they all rush outside

-Just in time to see Daisy swing around her cello and konk the Song Thief in the back of the head. Bec immediately falls in love

-Agatha gives the players a 150 gold reward for solving the crime and ghostbusting, and Peregrine reminds everyone of the urgent Song Thief business and they all head back to Ferryrock

-Bec also asked Daisy if when this all is over, if they could get drinks sometime. Daisy was flustered and it was real cute and she said “Yeah, that would be really nice,”

-Though in my head I was thinking ‘oh heck they’re about to be sent to the future I’m wrecking this date’ even though I really want it to happen. I’ll make it happen later, after they save the world. Because I really like it. Reminds me of Aubrey and Danny

-Anyway, they warp back to Ferryrock, and Peregrine calls another town meeting to tell everyone of the Song Thief’s capture. My players manage to find Leonard in the crowd and inform him “your wife’s okay! the butler did it!”

-Oh and the Song Thief is paraded down to the city center, and my players see him without his mask for the first time. So that’s cool

-Peregrine then makes a speech about the hard work of the Kleos Guild and everything good and all that, but that she has to leave and take the Song Thief back to the future

-my players laughed too much at the ‘back to the future’ line

-She then does a magic prayer, making a time portal doorway appear. It looks like a floating rectangle of white light with a circle in the middle. Not exactly a PMD Dimensional Hole

-She was praying to Mother Time, by the way

-And she pushes the Song Thief into the portal and calls up the PCs for heroic recognition. She thanks them and the crowd loves them. And she echoes Alexander saying ‘words have power’ and she says that she wants to play one more song for them

-and she plays the Tree of Life

-which freezes them in place

-and she pushes them into the portal

-they all black out and wake up in complete darkness. not even Darkvision people could see. And they couldn’t hear anything. They tried to make sound, but it didn’t work. Any light spells they cast only lasted for a fraction of the time they’re supposed to. I ‘opened up this can of worms’ when Gixa also tried to pray to her goddess, Selune, but it didn’t work, she didn’t get any response a la Merle in The Suffering Game

-it’s cause all the gods except for Mother Time abandoned the silent future

-They all also decided that Peregrine was the evil one now (no one is evil stop putting my complex morality story into such black and white terms) and Gica tried to stumble around in the dark to release the Song Thief who was still knocked out in the room with them. 

-and I ended with “and thus begins... Arc Three.”

-I want this time in the silent future to be like as bad as the hero and partner felt in their dark future, or maybe even something like The Suffering Game. I want there to be real stakes. I’m planning to make the enemies harder and have there actually be danger. And they’re going to have to decide where they stand and who they trust. Because they thought they knew Peregrine was ‘good’ and the Song Theif was ‘bad’ but Peregrine just pushed them into the portal so...

-I also accidentally established immediate silence, which I didn’t want to do because it’s going to make the next part difficult. I did need some dialogue. But Peregrine and Kes know Drow sign language, and it was already established that Alexander knows a bit of it. So maybe that’ll work. It’ll at least give me the added bonus of the PCs only getting part of the information since they’ll only be able to get fractured conversations. 

-at least I have three months to figure it out. This was my last session before summer vacation. So I left them on a cliffhanger ahah. I really want Kes in the next episode to do K E S in sign language to them, so they at least know his name. 

-but yeah! I’m gonna construct a very bad time for my players in this silent future! fun times!