#my forearms are still sore! she was enormous!

[mothmanns]

anyway even tho i was pukey i got certified to handle venomous snakes this weekend! 🥰🥰🥰

[sagasofazeria]

Stories of the Past

Song of the Seven Suns, Part 7

Summary: The gang recovers from their battle with Dymea, and head back to Koretion to celebrate their victory. Stories are shared.

Taglist (just ask to be added/removed!): @hellishhin @talesfromaurea @thelaughingstag

content warnings: slavery/child slavery, kidnapping, torture, swearing and strong language, alcohol, violence, blood, gore, death, discussion of trauma/childhood trauma, child abandonment

word count: ~6500

The clouds had finally broken, and the newly risen sun was beginning to burn off the mist and rain of the night.

As the warmth of day spilled onto the scorched camp, it found the five companions beaten, battered, exhausted, and covered in mud and blood, yet victorious all the same.

Jetra knelt silently at the top of the hill, staring at the corpse of the woman who’d killed her father. Tears were falling in rivers down her face as she gripped the hilt of her blade and pulled it free from Dymea’s skull.

Dymea’s last words would haunt her, but she’d done it. After 3 years of anguish & anger, it was done. Just like that, she was dead. Jetra had no idea how to feel, her mind was fuzzy and blank. Where did she even go from here?

Before she figured that out, though, she decided it was time to enjoy a well-earned victory, preferably with a lot of wine and a good song.

She stood, flicking the blood and brains off of her sword, and limped her way down the hill to where the rest of the group was waiting.

The others were all gathered around a large rock that jutted out of the hillside, leaning against it and breathing hard. Alejandro was grimacing in pain, holding his arm as Faulkron helped him stand, and Jetra ran to him first.

“What happened?” she asked hurriedly, seeing the wound.

“Oh nothing,” he chuckled. “Just a... agh, a spear through the shoulder. It’s not a big problem,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Heal the others.”

Jetra stared at him, incredulous. “Um, excuse me? You can barely move your arm because there’s a huge godsdamned hole in it. Shut up and let me work.”

Alejandro grunted but did as he was told, and Jetra placed her hand on his shoulder, channeling as much magic as she could. Her magic welled up inside her, waiting to flow out. and as she released it, she hummed the first song that came to mind without thinking.

She found herself humming the song her father would always sing to her mother when he returned home safe from an adventure, when they would all dance on the roof and laugh and sing and smile. She could see it painfully clearly, and her heart ached with loss and joy at once.

As the magic faded, Jetra shook herself out of her memories. She felt tears threaten to fall again, but she sniffled them away before they could, and smiled at Alejandro, hoping he hadn’t noticed. She’d save crying for later.

“Better?” she asked.

“Sí, gracias,” he said, rotating his arm a little bit. He winced slightly, but the only thing remaining was some rough scar tissue, and he assured her he’d be fine.

She moved over to the others, kneeling next to Fuego, who was still grimacing, his normal exuberant energy gone. “Fuego, are you all right?”

“I’m mostly okay, thanks to you. I’m pretty sore though, so I wouldn’t mind a bit of magic,” he smiled weakly.

Jetra looked up at Shakari, who was sprawled against the sun-warmed side of the boulder, holding in one hand a dagger that was jammed between the large scales on their chest.

“Shakari, are you okay? Do you—“

Jetra never finished her sentence, only able to watch with mouth agape as Shakari took a deep breath and pulled the dagger free with a growl.

Shakari turned to Jetra again. “I’ll be fine, spend your magic on him,” she said through gritted teeth as she tossed the blade aside.

Jetra hurriedly closed her mouth and nodded, letting the last of her magical energy flow into Fuego, and he took his first real deep breath since the battle.

“Thanks.”

“Of course, friend.”

Fuego smiled at her before pushing himself to his feet.

“Well, I gotta go find my sword and make sure all these fires are out,” he said as he stood and stretched.

Shakari nodded, standing as well. “I can help.”

They walked off, and the other three turned to each other.

“We need to free the prisoners and bring them back to Koretion as soon as we can,” Alejandro said, quickly walking towards the nearest cage.

While he and Faulkron broke locks, gathering the people near the entrance to the camp, Jetra searched the slavers’ corpses for a key. Finally finding one, she rejoined the other two in freeing the people.

As they scoured the camp, she was mortified to see how many people were imprisoned. She was glad to have gotten rid of the slavers, but she knew this would leave a wound, both with the people who would return and the people who wouldn’t.

Once they’d freed the rest of the exhausted but relieved prisoners, Jetra addressed them all where they had gathered at the bottom of the hill, taking a deep breath and composing herself.

“Good people! There’s no need to worry any longer, we’re here to help you. We’re going to bring you back to Koretion. You can rest soon,” she said, using a bit of magic to make her voice slightly louder over the confused whispers and relieved cries of the freed people.

One older dwarven woman stepped forward from the crowd, and many of the others seemed to pause, looking at her with a flash of respect in their eyes. “We owe you an enormous thanks, heroes. Who... who are you?”

Jetra looked to either side of her. Faulkron and Alejandro stood to her left, still bruised and bloodied themselves. Alejandro had a distant look in his eyes, and Faulkron was breathing deeply with arms crossed, taking in the victory even as he squinted in the sun.

Fuego and Shakari were approaching from her right, giving a signal that all the fires were out. Fuego was smiling, and jogged up to them eagerly. Shakari took their time, looking to the sky with a relieved expression of their own.

Jetra took the necklace with the blue moon symbol from around her neck, and showed it to the woman.

“Just a group of people in the right place at the right time,” she said with a smile.

The woman looked at the pendant, and there was a spark of recognition in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I was hoping,” she said, and pulled back a tattered sleeve to reveal a small blue moon tattoo on her forearm, mostly obscured by thick hair. It was a symbol Jetra knew well.

Jetra smiled back. “Let’s get you all home.”

The woman nodded, and the five companions began to lead the people back through the hills.

•••

When they returned to Koretion, they were greeted with cheers and tears of joy, as families, friends, and lovers were reunited.

They were called heroes many times that morning, and Faulkron didn’t know what to do with it.

Was he a hero? It felt good to be called that, but he wasn’t certain he had really been a hero, whatever that even meant. He’d really only come for the money. Or at least, that’s what it had been at first. Over the last few days, he’d seen so many people full of fear and despair. Now he only saw joy, and he felt a weight lifted off of his own chest as well. A satisfaction he hadn’t felt before.

The whole town was celebrating as they walked up the side of the quarry to the guard post. People were dancing in the streets, music was being played, stories of their victory were already being told and songs were being sung. The mines were empty and the town alive, as the dreary gray of Koretion became a colorful joy, banners put up and braziers lit to welcome the lost home.

Even as they entered the militia building, there were people thanking the newly crowned heroes.

Jetra led them through the curtain to the militia captain’s room. Horakes greeted them eagerly as they entered.

“So you’ve done it? They’re gone?”

Jetra nodded, smiling wide. “They are. Dymea is dead. We did it, Horakes, we fucking did it. We’re gonna need some medical attention, ‘cause magic only does so much, but until then, yes, we did it. I’ve avenged him.”

Horakes nodded and smiled, though Faulkron noticed his eyes did not hold the same joy and relief as Jetra’s. There was something else hidden within them that wasn't quite the elation of victory, though he did not know what. 

“I’m proud of you, kid. I assume these are your allies?” he asked, turning to the rest of them.

Faulkron nodded to him. “That would be us.”

“I assume you’re here for your pay?” Horakes asked, reaching onto his belt for a bag of coins.

Faulkron nodded, thanking him as he handed Faulkron the money.

“Of course, whatever it takes to save my city,” he said with a bow.

Jetra nodded back. “Thanks, Horakes,” she said, before turning to the rest of the group. “Now I do believe it’s time to go enjoy this victory, yeah?”

“Oh gods, I’m so hungry you have no idea. Let’s go,” Fuego said earnestly, already starting to head out the door.

He was cut off suddenly by a halfling woman with wild curly hair, dressed in healer’s robes with her hands on her hips.

“Uh-uh, I don’t think so. Each and every one of you is injured, and I’m not lettin’ the heroes of the town celebrate all day just to drop dead because of internal bleeding. Get over here,” she commanded, clearly not taking no for an answer, beginning to prepare bandages and medical supplies.

•••

That afternoon, after they’d been well tended to, they were welcomed with cheers and smiles back to the Bedrock & Breakfast.

They were quickly surrounded by grateful townsfolk and awestruck children, the tavern full to nearly bursting.

As the day wore on, it was easy to see that Jetra was truly in her element now. The children’s mouths hung open in rapt interest as she told them a grand, if simplified, tale of their adventure, Fuego occasionally jumping in with his own inputs.

When the tale was done, the children, as well as many of the adults, eagerly requested another story.

So she told another, a popular folktale to which no one knew the ending. She brought her stories to life in front of her, dancing colors and illusions acting out every word.

For much of the evening, they told stories to the crowd. When Jetra wasn’t weaving her epic tales, Fuego told some stories of his own. Standing on the table, he regaled the bar with sagas of sorcerer-kings and distant islands, even some of which he claimed were his own adventures. While Jetra’s stories were dramatic and evocative, Fuego’s were loud and grandiose, and filled with enough enticing details you might’ve thought he was adding more even as he told the tale. In between stories, Jetra led the celebrating townsfolk in songs and dances. With enough pestering, and a little help from the wine, she even convinced the rest of the group to join her as they danced around the bar.

When asked well into the afternoon if he would tell a story too, Faulkron simply shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t have many grand tales to share. My life until now has been rather boring--”

“Azbolutely not! You’re cool! Tell us! Tell us!” One of the kids demanded, standing to emphasize her point.

The other children began to murmur in agreement, and eventually most of the bar was encouraging him to share a story. Faulkron chuckled, sighing. “Alright, alright. I might have one story.”

“Yay!” cheered the first kid, plopping back down on the rug that had been laid out.

“It’s the story of where I’m from, and how I got there.”

“Oooh, that sounds good! Tell us!”

“Okay, here goes...”

•••

Nearly three and a half decades earlier, and an ocean away, in the middle of the dry plains of the Unterras...

Ardos had been up far too late, far too often these last few cycles. Jamie, his oldest cow, was sick again, and he was starting to worry. It’d only been getting worse despite his efforts, and he wasn’t certain she’d make it to a temple this time if it came down to that.

Just before he could justify closing his eyes and drifting off, he heard a crash and the noises of startled livestock. Ardos jolted out of drowsiness and reached for the nearest thing resembling a weapon. He fumbled around for a second before finally finding purchase on his pitchfork.

Holding it out in front of him like a spear, he searched all through the house, but couldn’t find the source of the sound.

Then, he heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn, and battle. He rushed outside to find the door to his stable broken in. He slowly approached, hands shaking and white-knuckled as he gripped the pitchfork, the sounds of swordfighting ringing from inside. When he reached the shattered door, he peered around the corner as far as he dared.

Inside, an elven man in unfamiliar garb was dueling a cloaked figure in equally unfamiliar white robes, their curved blades flashing in the moonlight.

Before Ardos could react, he watched the elf slash the other figure down, blood spattering across the ground as the horses whinnied. Ardos watched in shock as the corpse hit the ground, eyes lifeless.

The elven man’s ears swiveled at the sound of Ardos’ gasp, and he turned to Ardos with a rushed intensity. He began to speak rapidly in an unfamiliar tongue, before clearly realizing that Ardos couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

“I trust we both understand Common?” he quickly asked, grimacing in pain.

Ardos nodded, before finally noticing the wound on his chest.

“Oh my gods. Do you need help? I ca-“

“No. There is no time. You must listen to me,” he said, revealing a small bundle of colorful cloth. Ardos stared at it for a moment, puzzled, before the man turned it to show that within was a baby.

“Please. Raise my son. Keep him safe,” he said, panting and coughing. “I cannot protect him, but you can. I saw you. You care a lot about your animals, and I know you’d protect them,” he said. He gestured to the pitchfork Ardos had dropped. “Please, care for my son. I cannot, but you can.”

Ardos paused, then nodded, and the man handed him the child.

Then, the elf leaned in and whispered something to Ardos. What the father whispered that night, the baby would never hear, as Ardos nodded, staring down at the baby in his hands, and realizing his life just changed forever.

The elf stepped back. “Keep him safe.”

Then, the man ran off into the night, leaving Ardos to raise the child.

•••

The children sat around, mouths agape as Faulkron finished telling the story of his adoption.

“That’s how Ardos always said it happened, anyway. And he never did tell me what the warning was, as much as I annoyed him about it.”

“Hey mister sword man, sir? That wasn’t very boring, you were wrong,” the little girl said.

Faulkron smiled. “Well, it’s about the only story I have that isn’t, so I can’t do any more.”

Some of the other children were whispering, discussing the story in hushed awe. An older kid spoke up, scratching their head.

“Wait a minute, where did the man go?” he asked.

Faulkron waved to the mother as she cringed and attempted to shush her kid. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” Then he turned to the kid. “I don’t know where he is, to be honest. I’m not certain I want to know, though. He’s been gone long enough I don’t think it matters anymore, whatever his reasons were.”

The kid nodded, sitting back, deep in thought.

After Faulkron’s story, the tavern began to clear out, leaving the companions to themselves as the townsfolk began to return to their homes.

A few cups of wine (courtesy of the barkeep’s appreciation of the booming business), and after a while they were all reclining around a table, the day’s wounds and struggle forgotten for the moment.

Fuego grinned at them all, wine in hand. “I have to say, that plan went pretty damn well. We should do that more often.”

“Hey, you know I’m always up for a bit of righteous arson, my friend,” Jetra laughed, taking another drink.

“Agreed, we all made a pretty good team,” Alejandro said, raising his glass.

Fuego’s grin widened. “To ass well kicked, my friends.” He knocked his cup against Alejandro’s as they all joined in, laughter spilling out as if a dam had broken.

As their laughter quieted down, Shakari let out a long sigh. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

The rest of the group all nodded and muttered agreements.

Faulkron felt that strange feeling bubbling up again. Victory, success... and something else. He looked around at all these people. Not only his companions, but the barkeep, the tavern patrons. He knew he’d outlive most of them, all of them who weren’t elves. Wasn’t what he did inconsequential, then? That would make sense, but it didn’t feel that way. He had changed a part of the world today, and for the better. He had to admit, it did feel good, and he found himself smiling along with the people he had started daring to call friends.

He realized that in the swirl of confusion and new feelings, he'd forgotten about the money they’d earned.

He grabbed the coins, and they split it as they finished their drinks.

After the coin had been shared, Jetra sat back and pulled out her harp again. She had drunk the most wine out of all of them, and her eyes had begun to glass over. After a long beat of silence, she started to play a simple melody, the notes falling like water in a gentle stream, an easiness settling over all of them as Jetra wordlessly played. They sat for a while in silence, just listening to the music.

Not long after the song had finished, as the final straggling townsfolk left the tavern, Shakari stood. “I’m going to go rest. This... was a good day. Sleep in peace, friends.”

As they disappeared into their room, Jetra stood as well, stumbling slightly. “Yeah. Thanks again... means a lot. When I’m not, uh, super fuckin’ drunk, I’ll explain more.. but I’m gonna go pass out.”

They all nodded, and she walked away.

The others sat for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, before Fuego stood too.

“I should head to sleep too, doctor’s orders... we didn’t do half bad.” He clapped Faulkron on the shoulder twice, then hopped off of his chair and took his leave, walking off to his room with a smile.

After a few minutes of content silence, Faulkron suddenly realized he was more or less alone with Alejandro again.

“Thank you for saving my life,’ Alejandro said, breaking the silence.

Faulkron startled, the sudden voice shaking him out of his own slightly panicked thoughts, and preventing him from making a fool of himself in an attempt to prevent that very thing.

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

“I’m serious, I probably wouldn’t have made it without you, so I am deeply grateful.”

Faulkron looked up from his empty cup, meeting Alejandro’s eyes. “You’re welcome, but it was mostly Jetra who healed you.”

Alejandro shook his head. “You give yourself too little credit. You were awesome out there.”

Faulkron felt his face flush a bit, and he hoped Alejandro couldn’t see the embarrassed hint of purple to his cheeks.

Alejandro’s smile faded slightly, and his eyebrows creased in worry. “You are alright, though? I know the healer did her thing and all, but..?”

“Oh, yeah yeah, I’m okay,” Faulkron said. “Real question is, are you okay? I mean, there was a lot happening, but you seemed... very upset? I don’t mean to pry, I’m just worried about- I mean, concerned—“

Alejandro held up a hand. “It’s okay.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. It’s just... well, it’s complicated.” Alejandro then paused for a while, and Faulkron began to think he’d said something wrong despite Alejandro’s reassurance.

Then he spoke again. “Would you, um... would you like to go up to the roof with me? I’d feel better talking about it there.”

Faulkron was a little confused as to why the roof would be better, but he nodded and followed anyway.

•••

As Alejandro led Faulkron to the roof, he found himself going silent. He’d never shared what he was about to share with anyone besides the people who’d rescued him so long ago, and he’d really only known this man a week. They’d gone out for drinks once. Faulkron was had saved his life, though. He trusted him, and he wanted to keep trusting him, so he was taking a leap.

Alejandro took a long shaky breath as they stepped onto the roof of the inn. He looked up at the sky for a moment, still readying himself. The last two days’ clouds had cleared and the stars were shining. They were scattered like bright paint across a dark canvas, haphazard and chaotic, but beautiful all the same. He sighed, staring for a moment longer, and turned to Faulkron. “It’s... it’s a long story, really.”

“I’ve got time.”

“It’s... not a happy one, either.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m glad to listen, if that’s what you want.”

Alejandro nodded, letting his last sigh of anxiousness leave him. “I think it is. You might want to sit then.”

They both sat down, eyes cast up at the night sky.

Alejandro sighed again, and he gripped the handle of his second sword, feeling the old worn leather there. As he stared at the stars, images and memories began to flash in his mind.

Staring up through a small square window at the same stars, unable to sleep.

The smell of blood and the stench of death, hot sand beneath his feet.

The burning of a brand on his arm.

“It was a very long time ago. It was only my 12th summer...”

•••

15 years earlier, somewhere along the western Leinos coasts...

Alejandro was playing with his siblings, rolling around on the sandy beaches of his home, when the ships came. They came to the beach, and a man with a crown stepped out.

He said he would burn the village to the ground if he did not have what he wanted. When the village people asked, he said that he wanted their children, the youngest and strongest. When the villagers refused, and the militia drew their weapons, the man fulfilled his promise. Fiery arrows and spears descended upon the village, shrouding the beach in a thick black smoke. In the smoke and ashes, they grabbed Alejandro and a handful of others, dragging them onto their ships as they sailed away.

They chained them inside the hull, rough and cruel. The captured children fought of course, they spat and growled and screamed. Then the man cracked a whip, and they all were suddenly very very quiet.

They were told that their old lives were over. The man with the crown said to forget their names, forget their village. Those with defiance in their eyes were whipped. Alejandro’s back took 5 lashes before he couldn’t look up again. The ships sailed for a long time. None of the prisoners spoke.

When they eventually reached land again, they were shuffled onto a beach, surrounded by lush greenery that told lies of beauty. Dominating the center of the island they were on was a gargantuan marble arena, tall, imposing, and oppressively white, almost blinding after the darkness of the slavers’ ships. And that was what they were, the prisoners soon realized. Fifteen frightened children stood there on the beach, the full weight of all that had happened crushing down on them. Alejandro’s own shoulders felt weak and weary, and his manacled wrists only dragged him further down.

Around them, hundreds of small huts and seemingly innumerable cages. They saw hundreds of people around them, and more and more slavers, pushing them along and barking commands. The children were led through the houses and lines of people, who looked at them with flitting eyes, so full of fear and pain they were hollow, ghostly.

Their gazes didn’t linger on them long, but their eyes stayed in Alejandro’s nightmares for years.

Alejandro and the others were pushed further onward, the massive arena approaching ever faster. When they finally reached it, they were led to a series of rooms carved out of the earth beneath the structure.

In the next few months, they were trained relentlessly. How to fight, how to be strong, but most importantly, how to obey. Alejandro quickly learned that the man with the crown who was not king very much liked to act like one. He paraded the children around the arena, boasting them as the newest gladiators for his ring.

And there was the ring. The sand red from battle, the cheers and jeers of a bloodthirsty crowd. Those first few months, Alejandro and the others only watched the fights. Massive beasts, mythical and mundane, squared off in the pit against older gladiators who in turn faced both man and beast on the sands. It was not long before Alejandro had seen enough people die in the ring that he couldn’t keep track anymore.

He had heard of gladiatorial games in the big cities, way to the east. No one ever died there, as far as he knew. But this was different.

When he was 13, after the better part of a year being relentlessly trained & conditioned, he stepped into the ring for the first time. His adversary was an older kid, whose eyes were hollow like the people outside. Acting on instinct, the battle ensued, fear disappearing as it was replaced by careful training. Alejandro found himself falling into a performance, and when the dust cleared, only he was left standing.

To congratulate his first kill, the man with the crown took him to the lowest room beneath the arena, where the earth’s heat powered a burning forge. As much as he struggled, he couldn’t stop them, and heated chains were pressed onto his arms, searing away the flesh, leaving a mark that would weigh on him for the rest of his life.

Alejandro faced death in the arena constantly for the entertainment of the crowds of the cruel, and it left many scars. During the next five years, he would watch as one by one, the others from his village would fall in the arena, each death met by cheers. Not long, and Alejandro was the only one left. In his time there, he also saw more ships come and go, bringing new gladiators, always young adults and teenagers, always broken.

Pasaos told Alejandro that he was one of the youngest he’d ever seen show up there in his time. Pasaos was an older gladiator. He’d seen much, and his eyes held a great suffering, but he cared for Alejandro like a father, or as much as he could. He taught him many things. How to stay alive, how to keep his spirit going, even while broken.

Alejandro never asked how long Pasaos had been there, or how many people he’d killed. They both knew better. Alejandro also never thought twice about the moon tattoo on his arm beneath the brand, not until the day it all came crashing down.

Alejandro was 18 now, and he knew his eyes were losing their fight. He had gone a very long time without becoming a ghost, but now it was a near thing. Though they were treated well enough for slaves, it was only to keep them in fighting shape. The slavers were quick to punish if they stepped out of line, even if it meant they lost a fighter for a bit. But they had never done an execution before.

When he was shoved out onto the sands, he saw Pasaos tied to a pole in the center of the arena, and he could feel the flames closing in around him again, about to lose the one thing he could call a home.

He could do nothing but watch as the man with the crown cut free Pasaos, handing him a blade with the smug confidence of a man holding another’s life in his hand. They fought, but Pasaos had been beaten and tortured before the execution, and he stood no chance. The man with the crown, who Alejandro had come to know was named Atticus, simply knocked aside Pasaos’ blows, and when he finally ran him through, he turned to the gathered gladiators in triumph. Alejandro barely remembered what happened next.

He remembered grabbing the blade from the sands, slashing at Atticus. He remembered fighting him, losing, bleeding, pain, tears. He remembered sudden movements, brown and blue cloaks descending on the arena, shouts, commotion. He stood again before the rest of the gladiators, surrounded by chaos he couldn’t understand, and he called them to arms, screaming all their pain as it echoed throughout the pit. He remembered chasing Atticus down, but being beaten into the dirt, unable to stop him from sailing away.

There on the beach, bloodied and broken, he swore this:

“Atticus the Cruel, man who wears a crown but is no king, I will drive this dishonored blade into your wicked heart if it is the last thing I do. Your obsession with death will serve you well when the day comes that I return this blade to the evil from which it came.”

Then he was found by the cloaked people who had saved him. They called themselves Company of the Blue Moon. They helped him recover, brought him back to land. They told him Pasaos had died a hero, he had gotten them to the island. In a way, young Alejandro realized, Pasaos had sacrificed his life for Alejandro’s future. He promised himself would not let him down. The Company gave him much time to rest, and he took it, but before long he found himself on the road again, always on the lookout for any sign of the man he had sworn to destroy.

•••

“And now... I’m here.” Alejandro let out a long breath.

There were a few beats of silence, his heart loud in his ears. The relief of sharing the pain he hid so often with someone he trusted was quickly being replaced by fear, and he started to wonder if he’d overshared. He didn’t look up at Faulkron, not sure what he’d see.

“I... I’m sorry that happened to you.”

When Alejandro turned to Faulkron, he was staring at him with genuine concern. Alejandro cast his eyes away again, but he felt the fear retreat, and he was once again glad for Faulkron’s presence.

He chuckled a bit, hoping it didn't sound too bitter. “Thanks. It was hell, but I’m here, I guess, and that’s what counts.”

Faulkron nodded, and there was another pause.

“That’s the sword, then?”

“Yes.”

Alejandro unsheathed the sword, looking over the blade. The moonlight glinted eerily off of the edge, as if the night knew they spoke of death. Alejandro put the sword away, and the two fell quiet again.

“You know they taught us how to die?” Alejandro spoke suddenly.

“They what?” Faulkron exclaimed, head snapping back toward him.

“Yeah.” Alejandro sighed. “They taught us how to die for a crowd. I’ve seen it happen so many times, and it’s sad, because... you know that death isn’t that. It’s gray, it’s cold, it’s empty. But we were taught how to make it grand and flashy. I saw my mentor do it when Atticus killed him. Hells, even Dymea, this morning. No one goes out like that without being trained for it.”

“That’s... horrible.”

“It was, but it’s done now. Or at least, I had hoped it was. Knowing there might be still more of these remnant groups out there... It looks like my work is cut out for me. This is the first I’ve seen in a long time.”

Faulkron paused for a moment, deep in thought. “I... I will gladly go with you. You won’t fight Atticus alone this time. And I swear to you, you won’t die like that. Not while there’s still blood in these veins,” he promised, placing a hand over Alejandro’s.

Alejandro stared at him a moment, startled by the sudden sincerity and intensity.

“I... you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Faulkron looked at him for a moment longer, before seemingly coming to a decision. “I’m not big on hugs, but do you want one?” he asked, opening his arms.

Alejandro paused for a moment, but eventually he nodded and pressed himself into Faulkron. He let out a sigh as his arms wrapped around him, their strength anchoring him in the moment.

Alejandro eventually broke away, wiping away the tears that had streaked down his face.

“Thanks, Faulkron. I’m glad I could trust you. And... I don’t know where you’re going, or what you’re after, but I’d like to help you find it too.”

Faulkron nodded, looking back up to the stars. “I’m not sure yet... I think, a purpose, but I don’t know it yet. But I’d enjoy your company on the road either way.”

Alejandro nodded and smiled at him. He offered out a hand.

Faulkron grasped it, and Alejandro pulled him to his feet and bringing them face to face. Alejandro’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight as he laid a brief kiss on Faulkron’s cheek.

“Thank you.”

Faulkron smiled at him, and they headed back down into the inn together.

•••

The next day, the five companions woke to a far more somber Koretion. That morning, the townsfolk grieved those they had lost. The bodies that had been retrieved from the bandit camp of the missing scouts and militia were gathered. Funeral shrouds were burned, and white-crested helmets were placed on the pyres. The deepest grief, though, was of those whose loved ones there was no trace of. A messenger on horseback rode out at midday headed for the bigger cities and eventually the capitol, bearing news of what had happened and the people missing, as well as a request for help in the search. Jetra ensured the messenger, who wore a familiar crescent tattoo, carried a message of her own as well.

While the most part of the day held a stark grief and sadness, it was not all-consuming. In the face of that loss, there was still joy in knowing it wouldn’t happen again, and the people began to gather once more that evening. They celebrated the happiness in the lives of those they had lost, honoring their memory with joy rather than anguish. And so the town returned to celebration, even bittersweet as it was. Jetra played ballads of memory in death and the joys of life, songs the citizens of Koretion already knew well. Alejandro was playing games with some of the kids, the occasional toddler hanging off of his bicep as he practically juggled children, smiling and laughing all the same. Fuego was dancing around the central pavilion, putting on a beautiful display as multicolored flame swirled around him in time with the music, the people watching in awe and wonder.

Faulkron watched it all from the sidelines, mostly Alejandro if he was being honest. As he watched Alejandro smile and pick up a leather ball, and toss it back to a child, he couldn't help but feel at least a little overwhelmed, in a good way. He certainly looked very very cute right now, for one. But the way the sunlight was shining on his grinning face almost made him look comfortable, at ease. And Faulkron hadn’t seen Alejandro at ease since they’d first discussed the slavers back in Corias.

Alejandro had shared so much with him last night, and it was showing him a new light. He knew now why he’d joined them on the journey, why he’d been so tense during that first ambush. Faulkron felt a new bond of trust between them, far closer than he would have expected in just a week. Alejandro had clearly been through hell, so Faulkron really wasn't sure why he’d trust him with something like this already. He wasn’t even sure he’d earned that trust, though he would admit he wanted to, badly. He had no idea what they even were yet. Given how much Alejandro had been through, and how stressful the last few days had to have been for him, Faulkron was more than willing to let him decide where this went, and he’d go along for the ride. His life had made a turn for the better and the interesting, that was for sure.

“You look like you’re deep in thought.”

Faulkron shook himself out of his reverie and turned towards the voice. 

Shakari had sat down next to him at some point, and she was watching the celebration as well.

“I was, yeah.”

“I understand. Much has happened in the last week, for all of us,” Shakari said, eyes still watching the pavilion.

“You’re not wrong. I don’t even really know how I ended up here, but it seems... good,” he mused.

“It is. We did something good. All of us.”

“It’s weird to hear that, you know. I’ve never been called a hero before, and I’m still not sure what to do about it,” Faulkron said with a small sigh.

Shakari raised an eyebrow, turning to him. “I understand that, it’s a first for me too. Yet there is no denying we are heroes to these people, and we made the world better for it.”

Faulkron nodded, unsure what to say.

Shakarin placed a hand on his shoulder. “I think you are someone who follows the path before them when it is presented, even if it is yet untraveled. You have a wanderer’s eyes.”

Faulkron creased his brow. “What makes you think all that?”

“I am the same.”

Faulkron turned back to her, and saw a deep sincerity in her eyes.

“I am going to follow this path wherever it may take me,” she said, turning back to the celebration.

Faulkron thought for a moment, staring into the crowd again. He smiled quietly to himself. He wasn’t sure what direction he’d found himself stumbling in, but it felt good, and he liked these people, and he liked being called a hero. So he supposed it wouldn’t be so bad to keep going down this road.

“I think I am too.”

Part 6 | Part 8

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 11: The Rush]

Chapter summary: Queen and Y/N attend a party and experiment with hallucinogens.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, drugs, partying, injuries, sexual references, angst, some baby stuff.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

“You’re trying to make us late, aren’t you?”

Roger looms in the doorway of the hotel bathroom, arms crossed, a baiting ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes—blue like a summer sky, like blooming delphiniums, like veins beneath skin—trace you from your black heels to your dangling diamond earrings, feasting, craving.

You smile back at him as you rearrange your hair for the fourth time. “The later we are, the drunker everyone else will be and the less agonizing small talk I’ll be forced to make with random music industry people.”

“I can assure you, they’re already drunk.”

“I don’t want to get there before the boys.” Freddie and Brian had left the hotel earlier to pregame in the bars of the French Quarter, and John is...actually, you don’t know where John is at the moment, which is unusual.

Roger chuckles, lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag as he gazes at you. “Come on, baby. You’re not getting any more stunning. It’s not possible. And you don’t want Deaks to be the first one to get there, do you? Can you imagine? He’ll end up telling his life story to the golden retriever or locking himself in a closet or something. We can’t abandon him.”

“No, of course not.” You give your reflection one final appraising glance. It’s not bad: sleek black dress, black Prada bag with a thin diamond-studded shoulder strap, smokey eyes, spritzes of Chanel No. 5. It’s pretty freaking great, actually.

Roger nods to your purse. “You got your kit, Nurse Nightingale?”

“Naturally. You think I trust eccentric and impaired musicians not to do gymnastics down a staircase or punch out misbehaving fellow guests? Oh no. Not a chance. I come well prepared.”

“Good.” Reflexively, unconsciously, he shakes his right arm a few times, stretches the hand, winces. It hurts him all the time, and you know that even if he’ll never say it. He drinks more or less constantly when Queen is on tour, and pops pills on top of that. You can’t ask him to stop; he can’t play without the booze and pills, and he can’t live without the band. He wouldn’t even want to try.

“Roger, is it—”

“I’m fine.” His eyes are on you again, everywhere, soaking up every curve and crevice like rain seeping through parched earth. Dusty ashes trickle from his cigarette onto the white tile floor.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, meditative in a way that is quiet and still and very unlike Roger. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “How much I love you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

New Orleans is cool and humid and the streetlights shine beneath the constellations of the night sky: Auriga, Cassiopeia, Ursa Minor, Orion, Perseus. The salt-tinged dampness in the air sticks to your bare forearms, your ankles, your collarbones, your cheeks; the chaotic ocean wind rolls in off the Gulf of Mexico. It’s February 14th of 1977, Valentine’s Day, a day you’ve always thought of as a sort of anniversary for you and Roger; not the day you told him yes, but the day you surrendered to the eventuality, the day you agreed to fall in love with the world he promised you.

Is surrender the right word? you wonder, because part of you doesn’t like it, part of you flinches like you’ve been hit. Yes, it is. Whether I like it or not.

You’ve never spoken of anniversaries to Roger. He’s never asked.

The mansion, a Southern-style manor with columns and fountains in the front yard, is raucous with music and trimmed with twinkling white lights; there are dozens of people—men in suits, women in gowns, strippers, drag queens, mistresses, wives, acrobats, magicians, drug dealers—mingling on the wrap-around porch, sipping drinks, shouting at each other over the music, snatching appetizers off platters that waiters balance on their shoulders as they weave from one end of the house to the other. You and Roger swim through the crowd towards Brian’s mass of dark curls and Freddie’s brash laughter that carries through the night air like smoke signals.

Some man in a lavender suit—a producer or manager or record company executive—is talking to Freddie and Brian with a cigar smoldering between his fingers. “...And it’s extraordinary, really, this new album, everyone’s talking about what a success the tour has been so far. What’s it called again?”

“A Day At The Races,” Brian offers matter-of-factly, as if he’s in a business meeting.

“Ah, that’s it!”

“What’s so interesting,” Bri continues, “is that this time around the audience has started really getting into it, singing along to almost every song, sometimes we can’t even hear ourselves! And at first we were a bit annoyed by it—”

Freddie adds: “We were thinking, ‘shut up, bitches, you paid to hear us sing!’”

“—But then we realized that we should be appreciating that enthusiasm, that maybe we could even figure out a way to harness that energy and write songs with the audience’s participation in mind.”

“Fascinating!” Lavender Suit Guy replies.

“Good evening, everyone!” Roger announces as he sails into the middle of the conversation. “Hey man, how are you? Enjoying yourself? Have you met Y/N? Yes, she’s a Yankee just like you, from Boston originally, and she can cure hangovers like nobody’s business so she’s incredibly handy to have around. Have you heard the new Eagles record yet? Jesus christ, it’s bloody brilliant...”

As they chatter, you scan the pulsing throng of strangers for John. After a moment—as Freddie is recounting the band’s escapades in Miami last week—he appears wearing a black leather jacket and hair that barely covers his ears.

“Deaky!” Fred gasps.

“John!” you squeal in delight, and he grins enormously as he wraps you in a hug. He smells like cigarettes and Manhattans and that verdant, ancient mystery of the American South.

“Hi,” he says sheepishly.

“Your hair...?!” You reach up to run your hands through it, to flip his bangs one way and then the other, to tug gently on the ends. “I’m in shock. Good shock, but definitely shock.”

“Yeah, some American girl told me once that I had good bone structure and should chop my hair off someday so people could appreciate it.”

“Hmm, who could that be?” Roger teases, turning to you.

“I believe I described the aforementioned bone structure as fantastic, not good, but close enough.” You can’t stop staring at John. You blink a few times, waiting for it to sink in. Instead, something feels unnerving in a way you can’t pin down: new, different, anomalous, inviting.

“You’ve all gone shorter, haven’t you?” Lavender Suit Guy remarks. “Well...except Brian, of course.”

“He had much shorter hair once, if you can believe it,” Freddie says. “Back in the very early days. Before John joined us. Bri would straighten it too, it was horrid, the poor man looked like a Lhasa Apso.”

“You have a new baby at home, don’t you?” Lavender Suit Guy asks John.

“I do, yes, my second. A wonderful little girl named Anna.”

“Congratulations! And Brian, you’ve got one on the way as well?”

Brian smiles proudly. “Two, actually.” Chrissie has curbed her comments concerning Veronica’s dreadfully banal, domestic, decidedly unposh existence now that Chris is bedridden with morning sickness and carrying twins. ‘I feel like the fucking Hindenburg,’ she’d told you over the phone. ‘If the Hindenburg had sore tits and smelled like vomit.’

“We’re drowning in babies,” Roger quips in a tone you can’t quite read. Annoyance? Curiosity? Disapproval? Envy?

“Well, since the wives are away and you’re free to play...” Lavender Suit Guy flags down a waiter holding a small tray of sugar cubes. “Ever dropped acid? There’s blow floating around somewhere too, if that’s more your scene.”

Brian smirks uneasily and stirs his Vesper. You look to John. John looks to Roger.

Freddie laughs and lifts a sugar cube daintily off the tray with his thumb and index finger. “Marvelous, darling! Will it make me hallucinate all my wildest dreams? Will an imaginary cheerleading squad of Farrah Fawcetts suck my cock all night?”

Lavender Suit Guy chuckles. “I make no guarantees.”

“Nothing in life ever does. Isn’t that tragic?” Freddie pops the sugar cube into his mouth and grins. “Beam me up, Scotty.”

Roger asks you: “You want to? It could be an adventure.”

LSD wasn’t exactly the adventure you’d had in mind when you agreed to follow Queen across the globe all those years ago in Boston; still, an adventure is an adventure. And if I don’t keep things interesting, he’ll find someone who will.

Oh, that’s not a thought you knew you had.

And I would like to return it to that repressed, dimly-lit, cobwebbed corner of my subconscious where I’d buried it, thank you very much.

“Is it safe?” John asks Lavender Suit Guy.

“Do you think I’d give you something that wasn’t safe? It’s perfectly safe. It can’t kill you. It’s not heroin. Worst case scenario you get a bad trip. And I’ve never gotten a bad trip from this stuff.”

You conjure up a smile for Roger. “Let’s do it.”

“Excellent,” he says, his face lighting up; and you realize that that’s what he’d wanted. He picks up a sugar cube, lays it on his tongue, and then slips it between your lips as he kisses you. Freddie whistles and claps. The cube dissolves with a pleasant, innocent, nostalgic sweetness. Then Roger turns to John. “You in, Deaks?”

John hesitates, then nods. “Alright.”

Roger passes John a sugar cube (with his hand this time), picks up one for himself, and toasts them like champagne glasses. “Cheers!” The sugar cubes disappear behind their teeth.

Freddie stares at Brian. Brian gnaws his lip and stares back. Freddie wiggles his eyebrows impishly. Finally, Bri sighs, exasperated. “Fine, okay, what the hell, I’ll do it.”

“I’m so proud!” Freddie cries, pressing his palm to his heart. “I am a proud mama.” Brian grimaces as Fred stuffs a sugar cube into his mouth.

“How long does it take to work?” you ask Lavender Suit Guy, feeling no different at all.

“It varies. Not too long, usually.” He whirls, spies someone else he recognizes, waves, and rushes off to greet whoever it is and presumably offer them illegal drugs.

After fifteen disappointingly uneventful minutes of trailing behind the band as they chat with various rich and famous party guests you don’t recognize, you depart to find a restroom.

“Don’t be gone long,” Rog calls after you. John watches with a Manhattan in his right hand. “I don’t want you to be alone if things get...you know...weird.”

“Sure thing.”

You find a small restroom just off the downstairs hallway of the mansion. The clock above the doorframe reads 9:47 p.m. You duck inside, muttering about your first acid experience being a total dud, about defective LSD and Valentine’s Days spent with strangers. As you scrub your hands with rose-scented soap, you glance up to check your makeup in the mirror. Your face isn’t there. Instead, Dominique Beyrand stares back at you.

You gasp, and Dom does too, in that delicate and prodigiously feminine way that she has. You peer penetratingly into the mirror as you gingerly tap your fingertips against your face, which is Dominique’s face now: her olive skin, her high pump cheeks, her large dark eyes like a doe’s, her pink lips. You experiment with a smile, and then a frown; you even emote the same way she does, with a charming candidness, with a rare sort of grace.

Why am I thinking about Dominique?

You’d seen her a few times since Queen’s Hyde Park concert, following Richard Branson around at industry parties and dodging mindless gossip and tedious networking, the same as you. She always greeted Freddie warmly and mostly ignored Roger. He always asked her a few questions anyway, questions you thought he already knew the answers to.

I guess the acid wasn’t a dud after all.

You titter uncertainly. You knot your fingers through your hair—Dominique’s hair—which is thick and glossy and onyx. Her eyes gaze unflinchingly back at you. They blink when you blink.

I have to find Roger, you think suddenly. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know who he’s with.

You spin, wrench open the restroom door, and stagger out into the hallway, your hands pressed against the floral wallpaper to steady yourself. The yellowed, antebellum walls breathe as you do, subtly, sighing as they exhale cool air into the soft clammy skin of your palms. The boards of the hardwood floor clang like piano keys when you step on them. You check the clock hanging above the bathroom door. It reads: 11:09 p.m.

“Uh oh.”

I have to find Roger.

You creep through the hallway as other guests pass you—some zooming by, others moving in slow motion as if they’re treading water, none apparently noticing the breathing walls or musical floor—peeking into each room to see if Roger is there. He’s not in the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, the parlor. Instead there are strangers in all of these places, laughing in each other’s arms, drinking, dancing, touching each other beneath suits and skirts and dresses, smoking cigarettes and blunts, rolling up hundred-dollar bills to snort white powder off silver trays like mirrors.

I have to find Roger. I have to find Roger. I have to find Roger.

In the backyard of the mansion is a cobblestone patio, a garden, a swimming pool which must be freezing but nevertheless has several naked guests thrashing around splashing each other in it, and a bubbling hot tub. You recognize one of the two people in the cloud of mist with their arms resting above the roiling water on the concrete rim. They’re giggling and pointing up at the stars, telling the stories of the constellations, their faces flushed and glistening with steam.

“Hi, Brian!” you cry, relieved.

He turns, sees you, summons a smile; but it’s not a true smile. It’s cagey, it’s dissatisfied, it’s nervous somehow. “Ah, there you are, love.” The girl sitting next to him in the sweltering water is very much his type and entirely unlike Chrissie: tall, slim, blonde, curly-haired. She has a tattoo of a lush, pristine peach on one tanned shoulder blade.

“Have you seen Roger?”

Brian’s brow furrows. “He didn’t find you?”

“Evidently, he did not.”

“Huh. Well, I’m sure he’s around.” Brian waits for you to leave. The blonde girl shoots you a polite but anxious smile. Peaches, you think hazily. Peaches from New Orleans. Just like the girl he told me about when I first arrived in London. Just like the girl in Now I’m Here.

“Bri, come inside with me.”

“I’m fine here,” he replies curtly.

“Bri, please. It’s late. It’s cold. We’re so far from home. There could be sharks.”

Peaches gawps at me, confounded. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Brian snorts. “Sharks can only live in cool water. Everybody knows that. We’re perfectly safe. Stay out of the pool though.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

“Good luck locating Roger.” That’s your cue to go.

“Come with me. I’m freaked out. The floor sounds like Somebody To Love.”

“That’s nothing. The bubbles in here play Beatles songs when they pop.”

“Brian...”

“Y/N,” he says harshly, darkly. “Go find Roger.” What he means is: Y/N, get lost.

What about your wife? you almost shriek at him. What about your children? What about those vows that you made three days before Christmas in 1975, the specter of global fame beckoning from the doorway of the Anglican church that Chrissie grew up attending, Roger’s arm tight around my waist and sprigs of holly in my hair?

But Brian already knows about all that, and he doesn’t care.

I have to find Roger.

You leave Brian and Peaches and slip back into the mansion. You search each room as the floorboards shift and chime beneath your feet; now they’re playing the intro to Seven Seas Of Rhye. You realize that you’ve lost your heels somewhere along the way. You aren’t terribly concerned; you have more pressing matters to attend to.

Behind the fourth door you open is a library with books and menacing portraits lining the walls. Everything inside is blue and wibbly and palpably sad. Freddie is slumped on the floor next to a grand piano, his hair in his face, each hand clutching a full champagne flute.

“Darling,” he slurs, thrusting a glass towards you. Fizzy champagne lurches over the edge and trickles down the side of the glass. “Come join me!”

“Is it the LSD or is the room actually that color? I feel like I’m trapped in Picasso’s Blue Period.”

“Do you? It’s all black and white to me. But blue fits. Welcome to my melancholy room.”

“Your melancholy blues,” you pitch with a grin.

Freddie chuckles. “Drink this champagne before I’m forced to pour it down your throat.”

You take the flute and sit on the floor beside him. “Have you seen Roger?”

“I have not.”

“Oh.”

“Darling,” Freddie asks drowsily. “Do you think one goes to hell for being gay?”

“I don’t think you’d go to hell for anything, Fred. You’re too good a person.”

“Ahhhh,” he sighs, dreamily, peacefully. “You are a delight, my dear. Truly. I adore having you around. I do hope you stay with us, even when Roger makes you want to kill yourself.”

“How would he do that, Fred?” you ask softly.

Freddie doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts your hair away from your face, tucks it behind your ear, smiles patiently at you. “I tried to warn you, you know. We all did. I know you thought we were all being insufferable pricks. But we did it out of love.”

“John never tried to warn me.”

Freddie smirks. “Well. He’s got his own demons, doesn’t he?”

You aren’t sure what Freddie means. You down the champagne and climb unsteadily to your feet. “I have to go find Roger now.”

“Of course you do.” Freddie’s umber eyes flick to the ceiling. “Good god, there are birds up there. That is not sanitary. Leave the door open when you go so they can fly away, would you dear?”

“Okay. I’ll love you no matter who you are, Freddie. We all will. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“Will you come with me? Will you help me? I’m worried about Roger.”

“You should be more worried about you.” Freddie waves goodbye. “I have to stay. I’m writing songs.”

“You don’t have a paper and pen, Fred. Do you need them?”

He grins and pokes his temple with a black fingernail. “It’s all up here.”

“Okay. See you around.”

“Au revoir,” Freddie replies, and closes his eyes as he leans back against a breathing wall.

You step out into the hallway and journey towards the main staircase. Someone has put on the new Eagles record; Hotel California rocks deafeningly through the mansion. The air quivers with slow, ghostly notes strummed on an acoustic guitar. The floorboards have abandoned their piano keys and now jolt with each drumbeat. The house has taken on a shadowy, violet hue.

“There she stood in the doorway

I heard the mission bell

And I was thinking to myself

This could be heaven or this could be hell...”

You clutch the banister as you ascend, studying each guest that passes you for a familiar face. There are none. They’re all blushing and glassy-eyed and cackling as they paw at each other, ignoring you, not seeing you at all. Emerald snakes dart between their rushing feet, forked tongues tasting the lust and impending amnesia in the air. What happens in the darkness tonight will be forgotten tomorrow. It has to be. All the world’s rules and obligations depend upon it.

“Her mind is Tiffany-twisted

She got the Mercedes Benz

She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys

That she calls friends

How they dance in the courtyard

Sweet summer sweat

Some dance to remember

Some dance to forget...”

You catch your reflection in the night-draped window halfway up the staircase. You’re you again, not Dominique. Part of you is comforted by that; part of you feels more alone than ever. You stare at yourself, beautiful, extravagant, dusted with jewels and luck. You have everything. You have nothing. You continue up the staircase.

“Mirrors on the ceiling

The pink champagne on ice

And she said, ‘We are all just prisoners here of our own device’

And in the master's chambers

They gathered for the feast

They stab it with their steely knives

But they just can't kill the beast...”

A woman in a shimmering scarlet dress is sitting on the top step and taking a drag off a cigarette excruciatingly slowly. She exhales, the smoke curling out of her red lips like tentacles, her pale eyes tracking you.

“Last thing I remember

I was running for the door

I had to find the passage back

To the place I was before

‘Relax,’ said the night man

‘We are programmed to receive

You can check out any time you like

But you can never leave.’”

You summit the staircase and peer down the hallway to your right. At the end of it is a vast, broken picture window. Cold night wind pours in through the jagged hole in the glass; you can see stars outside. A man is lying on the floor next to the window. You know him.

“John!” you shout, and sprint to his side.

“Hi.” He’s cradling his right arm to his chest. His knuckles are shredded and drenched in crimson blood. Incandescent shards of glass protrude from his hand and glint under the lights. There’s a heavy, coppery, sick-sweet scent in the air.

“John, honey, why would you attack an innocent window...?”

“It wasn’t so innocent. You should have heard what the bastard said to me.”

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up—”

“Stop,” he hisses when you try to touch him.

“John—”

“No!” he screams, pushing your hands away. “Stop it, just leave me, just fucking leave me!”

You step back, cross your arms over your chest, raise your eyebrows impatiently. “You want to tell me who you’re really so mad at?”

He frowns down at the rug, which is streaked with his blood. “Me, I guess.”

“Well you can be mad at yourself at the hospital.”

“No, no hospital,” he insists.

“Your hand is positively mangled. Your playing hand. You need to get it cleaned out.”

“You can fix it. No one else.”

“Since I’m tripping on acid, I probably shouldn’t be the one to fish glass shards out of your skin.”

“You can fix it,” he repeats, confidently now.

“Fine. Have it your way.” You help John to his feet, lead him downstairs, and sit him down at the kitchen table. You open your purse, unpack your supplies and position them in a neat row, shake out your hands to get them limber, give John a glass of water. “Are you going to have to write whoever owns this place a check for the window?”

“No one knows I’m the one who did it. No one even knows who I am.”

“I know who you are, John. Here comes the lidocaine.” You land a series of injections into the flesh surrounding his wrist, his knuckles, the back of his hand. You pause each time you get distracted by the murmurings of the table, which apparently speaks German. Okay table, this is important, kindly shut the hell up. Danke.

“Ow,” John says lethargically.

“And so what if these people don’t know who you are? Who the fuck needs them? You don’t need anyone who doesn’t know you’re the backbone of this band. Who made the Deaky Amp? Who wrote You’re My Best Friend? Who stays focused and calmly waits for the others to stop bludgeoning each other on a nearly daily basis? John fucking Deacon, that’s who.”

“Yeah. Alright,” John agrees, smiling. “Who needs them.”

“You’re gonna get your moment in the sun, don’t you worry.” You pick up your tweezers and begin plucking slivers of glass out of John’s bloody hand, plinking each into a white ceramic bowl. “Everyone is going to know you one day. You’re gonna spread your wings and write a ton of hits and unforgettable basslines and show the world what a genius you are.”

“Sounds thrilling. I’ll see what I can do.” He gazes down at his hand. “It doesn’t hurt at all now, that’s incredible.”

“That’s the magic of modern medicine.” You drop another shard of glass into the bowl. “How’s your first-ever LSD experience going so far?”

“Aside from the window business, quite well. Better now that you showed up.”

“Sorry. I spent an hour being confused by my own reflection and then tried to find Roger. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“I have not.”

After a while you set your tweezers down on the table and inspect John’s hand closely. “Does this look glass-free to you? My eyes aren’t super trustworthy at the moment. I just saw a fish swim by outside.”

“It looks perfect, in my layperson’s opinion.”

“Okay. Let’s wash and sanitize, then we’ll wrap...”

John follows you placidly to the sink, lets you scrub and towel off his hand, returns to the table so you can bandage it with gauze. It’s quieter in the house now, the guests slowly dispersing, the music turned down and something mellow by the Stones; Gimme Shelter, you think.

“What made you so angry?” you ask him. “You know. Angry enough to assault a window.”

For a long time, John doesn’t answer. He looks up at the ceiling, his gentle greyish eyes chasing something you can’t see; birds, maybe, like Freddie. Maybe he’s looking for the sun. Maybe he’s looking for himself. Finally, he says, very quietly: “I’m just so fucking tired of lying all the time.”

“You never have to lie to me, John.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I do.”

Then you hear a laugh, an untamed one, a familiar one. You turn to John. “Was that just me or...?”

“I heard it too.”

You both leap from the table and hurry after the sound. You burst outside onto the cobblestone patio. Roger is doing backstroke laps in the pool, howling up at the moon. There’s no sign of Brian or Peaches.

“Roger!” you yell.

“Hey, baby! I’m winning! I’m in the Olympics! I made the team! Do you see me winning?”

“You’re totally winning. Please come out before you get pneumonia or attacked by a shark.”

“Shark...?” John inquires.

“I’ve discovered something amazing,” Roger declares, still swimming. He flails his right arm in the air for you to see; the serrated mark that mars the underside appears to be slithering, a snake made of scar tissue and interrupted plans. “When you’re on drugs, nothing hurts!”

“Baby, please come out now.”

Roger obliges, hauling himself up the ladder and out of the pool. He’s still in his black suit; it’s ruined and clings to him and is dripping buckets of chlorine-smelling water. John yanks a towel off a chair and tosses it to Roger, who drapes it over his shoulders like a cape.

“Jesus christ, where have you been?!” you demand. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

Roger grins toothily. “A sheer one?”

Despite yourself, you smile back. “Oh yeah. A sheer heart attack. Real cardiac.”

“I had the best idea. Baby, you gotta hear my great idea. It’s so great.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

He lunges to wrap you in a cold, sopping hug. “Everyone’s having babies, right?”

“Uh, well, not everyone...”

“We should have a baby.”

John’s eyes go wide. You swallow noisily. “Roger, love, I don’t think right now is the ideal time to make a decision like that.”

“Why...? Oh. Right.”

“Yeah.”

“If I still feel this way in forty-eight hours, can we have a baby?”

“Roger, I...” You glance to John for help. He raises his hands in surrender, one bare, one clumsily bandaged. You’re on your own, kid, that look says. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. That’s a lot of responsibility. I’d have to stay home with them. I wouldn’t be the tour nurse anymore.” I would never know where you were, who you were with.

“I’ll fly you out to visit all the time. I’ll have to. I can’t do this without you.” His eyes—blue like frigid pool water, like bruises, like dreams—are euphoric, effervescent.

I can’t say no to him, you realize, and it sends a biting shudder up the rungs of your spine. I didn’t just fall in love. I took a fucking nosedive.  

Oh, this SO did not go according to plan.

You remember when you first met Queen, how independent and fearless and guarded you had been, how forcefully you had resolved not to put your happiness in a pair of wild, reckless hands like Roger’s.

What happened to that girl? How do I get her back?

And there’s something else, too: a thought you barely recognize as your own. A child would make us permanent.

John is watching you, edgy, apprehensive; but he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay,” you tell Roger. “We can try. If you still feel this way in forty-eight hours.”

“And I will.” Roger’s teeth skate up your neck and he whispers, his breath hot against the goosebumps rising on your skin: “Let me know when you’re late.”

[fanficshiddles]

His ray of sunshine, Chapter 32

‘TOM! OVER HERE!’ Charlie called.

Tom, Luke and Jeremy all ran over to where Charlie was. He was by the van, he’d found a lot of blood. Tom felt sick again…

They followed the trail of blood that led around the back of the house and over to the trees. There was an overgrown path with leaves and flowers covered in blood. The four Alphas followed it down, then just a few feet away on front of them, they saw someone trying to crawl down the path.

‘BEN!’ Tom roared and launched for him.

He grabbed Ben and turned him over, he landed a punch to his face and then held him tightly by his collar. Even though Ben was going nowhere because he was black and blue already from being beaten to a pulp by David.

‘WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS MY KEIRA?’ Tom shook him roughly to try and get an answer out of him.

Ben coughed up some blood. He weakly raised his hand and pointed down the overgrown path. ‘He… He has her… There’s a river… down there… a boat.’ He struggled to speak, that was all he could muster up before passing out.

Tom snarled as he let go of him and stepped over his body to go and find Keira.

-

Keira was shaking like a leaf after seeing the way David fought against Ben, winning rather easily. Even though Ben had put up a pretty good fight.

David dragged her down an old path through the trees. They came to a really wide river and there was a small boat house at the edge of it. When David tried to get her over towards the boat, she started putting up another fight. She managed to press her fingers onto his sore arm, that he had wrapped up with a piece of clothing. But it hurt like hell when she touched it.

‘Arghhh! You little bitch!’ He snarled as he clutched at his arm. ‘You need to be taught a lesson to respect your Alpha!’

She tried to run, but he pounced on her and easily got her down on the ground. To keep her from fighting back against him, he grabbed both of her wrists and held them down above her on the ground. He knelt on her, not caring about his weight against her much smaller body.

Keira felt an enormous surge of pain in her ribs as his knee holding her down cracked them. She spluttered and coughed in agony, but it only hurt more when she did so. She tried to take short breaths, but there was a sharp pain each time she did. It was even sorer because he was still leaning on her heavily.

David realised she was badly hurt, so he knew she wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. He grinned wickedly to himself as he moved off her, much to her relief. But she still couldn’t move, the pain was simply unbearable.

Then he started pulling and tearing at her clothes. Her weakened attempts at stopping him wasn’t enough.

But then from seemingly nowhere, Tom flew into David and body slammed him hard off of Keira. She had never felt such relief before upon seeing her Alpha come to her rescue.

‘Tom!’ She croaked and tried to sit up, but she couldn’t because of the blinding pain from her ribs.

Tom rushed back over to her and knelt down at her side. ‘It’s ok, little one. I’m here.’

David jumped on Tom’s back, so Tom had to deal with him away from Keira. Making sure she wasn’t caught up in the fight.

Charlie rushed over to Keira when he got down to the riverside. ‘It’s ok. I’ve got you.’ He said softly as he draped his coat around her, because she was half naked from her torn clothes.

He then scooped her up carefully into his arms. She whined a little because of the pain, but she turned her head more into Charlie for comfort as he carried her back up through the trees to the house, passing Luke and Jeremy on the way who were running down.

Exhaustion overcame her. She knew she was safe now with her pack, so she let it pull her under to rest. The adrenaline she’d experienced had taken it all out of her, along with the pain. It was like her body went into shut down mode to let her rest.

‘Holy shit. What did he do to her?’ Michael growled angrily upon seeing her when Charlie carefully laid her in the back of the car.

‘Where’s Ben?’ Charlie asked.

Michael tipped his head to the left. Ben’s body had been propped up against the side of the house. His injuries from David’s attack had been too much for him.

‘Tom is going to need help down there… But it’s not my fight. It is yours, though.’ Charlie said, looking at Idris and Michael.

Tom landed another punch to David’s chest. The piece of fabric that was around David’s forearm had fell, so Tom was able to see the painful chunk that had been bitten out of him. He used that to his advantage whenever he could, pressing down on it harshly.

But David managed to get the upper hand. He kicked Tom in the shin and got him to the ground.

Luckily Jeremy and Luke then moved in on the fight. Normally it was just one on one, but this wasn’t a legal fight, and under the circumstances of what David did, he was dangerous and just had to be stopped. At whatever cost.

Jeremy and Luke dragged David off Tom and they held him down. When Tom got up, spitting a tooth and blood out to the side, Michael and Idris walked up behind him, ready to help fight.

Jeremy and Luke shared a look together, then let David go. They knew this wasn’t their fight. It was Tom, Michael and Idris’.

The three Alphas squared up to David. David glared at them, his face bloody. But what they hadn’t been expecting him to do, however, was to make a run for it towards the river instead of fighting back. He jumped straight into the water and did his best to swim away, which wasn’t easy.

Idris went to make a move, but Tom put his arm out on front of him to stop him. ‘He won’t get far. Leave it for the authorities now. Besides, the current is too strong today. He won’t be able to swim well with that arm.’

And Tom was right. The current was quick to sweep David away downstream. And he struggled to stay above the water because of his bad arm.

The three Alphas returned to the car, to their awaiting omegas.

Tom slid into the back and gently stroked Keira’s hair. He started crying in relief that she was ok. He had her back.

They had to wait there for the authorities to arrive before they could leave. They explained everything that happened, and were then told that they’d been clocking David for a few days now. They were going to make sure to catch him.

It also came to light that they’d recently found a house that David owned, inside were five omegas that had been kidnapped by David. He’d claimed four of them already, but one was new so had a bit of a lucky escape in that regards.

On the drive home, the omegas had to curl up on their Alphas laps because there wasn’t enough seats in the car, while Luke drove.

But Tom didn’t mind one bit, he didn’t want Keira anywhere else. She slept the whole way, only waking once or twice briefly in a slight panic. But she quickly relaxed when she saw Tom and could smell his scent all around her.

Tilda and Jessica told the Alphas about what happened from their point of view.

‘If Keira hadn’t taken her phone with her, I dread to think what would’ve happened. And she’s the one who got us out of there.’ Tilda said and Jessica nodded in agreement.

Tom smiled as he gazed down at her in his lap. He felt his heart swell with so much pride for his brave omega.

[thicctails]

Come Hell Or High Waters, I'll Stay By Your Side

Chapter 1: Escape

Dark clouds brewed in the dull olive sky, bubbling and churning as a sort of horrible rumble began to build on the ground below. Many voices began to chant as they migrated towards a single location, a great tree surrounded by an enormous steel cage. No movement could be seen from within the great gray bars, but the knowledge of life existing in that singular space was what was drawing the crowd in. They growled, all of their voices making an attempt to harmonize as they repeated a mantra comprised of one word.

"Trolls! Trolls! Trolls! Trolls!" The bergens' chanted, their eyes gleaming with hunger as they stood outside of the Troll Tree.

Today was a day that every bergen young or old looked forward to, the one day where they could taste happiness. Today was the 200th anniversary of Trollstice, and this one was going to be special, as it was the young prince Gristle's first Trollstice. The crowd watched as the Royal Chef's assistants lit the ceremonial barbecues, cheers of joy ringing out as the flames roared skyward. A caped figure stood proudly in front of the Troll Tree gate, a shining scepter clasped in her gnarled fist. She bared her yellowed teeth at the crowd in a frightful smile, her eyes flashing with a sort of hunger. Whether it was for trolls or for power, no one could quite say.

"This is a very special Trollstice, as there is one amongst us who has never tasted a troll." The Head Chef addressed the crowd, her voice carrying out across the town square.

Behind her, the slightest flicker of movement might have been seen if all eyes hadn’t been focused on Prince Gristle and Chef. A flash of unusually dark fur darted out of a pink, flower-like pod, a small object nestled into it’s chest.

Branch skidded to a stop, the young trolling’s precious passenger clinging tightly to his oddly fluffy ruff. Princess Poppy’s bright pink fur stuck out like a sore thumb against his dull grays and blacks, but she was far safer with him than any other troll, at least until they got under ground. He glanced down at the wide-eyed trolling in his arms.

“Don’t worry princess, I’ve got you.” He reassured her, causing the baby to smile.

His ears flicked towards the front gate of the enormous cage he, along with all other trolls, had been trapped in their whole lives, and paled when he saw two bergens enter. Luckily, his dark colours allowed them to blend into the shadows, and Branch took advantage of that fact as he sprinted towards the tunnel entrance. As soon as his paws hit the cool dirt, he let out a sigh of relief, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he navigated the dark passage way. While other trolls relied on torchlight to see in the dark, his eyes adjusted to the inky blackness naturally. Still, he felt a sense of safety roll over him as he spotted a light just up ahead.

“I’ve got Poppy!” He called out, running up to a silvery Glitter Troll. The adult, who he recognized to be Glitz Diamond, had his son, Guy, with him, a tiny little thing that could have only hatched a few months ago, and the nervous look on his face melted into one of relief as Branch and Poppy appeared.

“Oh thank the stars! Here, let me take the princess, we need to move quickly. Can you keep up, or do you want me to carry you as well?” Glitz asked, gently taking Poppy from Branch.

“I can keep up. Lets go.” Branch said, already starting to run.

Glitz nodded and, after making sure the two trollings in his arms were secure, ran after Branch, quickly passing him, but making sure not to run too far, lest the younger male be left behind. They managed to catch up to some of the other trolls without incident, and Glitz passed Poppy on so that she could reach her father. For a moment, Branch thought that their escape somehow went unnoticed. Unfortunately, he was about to be shown just how wrong that line of thinking was.

Just as they entered the halfway point in the tunnels, an enormous shovel blade crashed down and caused part of the tunnel to collapse. The nearby trolls screamed and scattered, sprinting through the tunnel and trying to dodge falling dirt and rocks. Glitz, who was half blind, tucked his son into his hair and stuck to one side, using the wall as a sort of guide. Branch chose to give Glitz more room and stuck to the middle part of the tunnel. Perhaps if he had stuck to the sides like his glimmering guardian, he might have avoided what happened next.

It happened so fast that Branch barely even had time to blink. There was a flash of silver, and then a splatter of bright, crimson red. Branch hit a root hard as he fell, his small form crumpling instantly as he let out a heart-stopping scream. His eyes were blown wide as the noise of the world faded into a harsh, unwavering ringing sound. Although he could see what was in front of him, he could comprehend what was happening, nor did he hear Glitz skidding to a stop behind him.

About a foot away from where he now lay was a shovel blade, slightly embedded in the moist dirt. The lower edge of the blade was dripping with a scarlet liquid, the dim sunlight beaming through the freshly made hole in the tunnel making the liquid shine. It soaked into the tunnel floor and reeked of cherries and copper. Branch knew what it was, but couldn’t understand why he was seeing it. Suddenly, he was lifted upwards, his cheek now pressed into a fuzzy forearm. The movement made his right leg erupt with a pain unlike any he had never known. The ringing in his now flattened ears waned, and Branch could finally hear Glitz’s panicked voice as well as his own pained cries.

“Oh Ancestors! Just, just don’t look! Close your eyes, we’re almost there!” Glitz stuttered out, dashing to the side as another blade pierced the ceiling.

Fear and pain ruled Branch’s mind, so he ignored the Glitter Troll’s words and glanced down at his leg.

He immediately regretted his decision.

Branch could barley even recognize his leg due to the state of it. A gash that started at his hip and ended just before his knee was gushing blood, dark and matted fur sticking to the sides of the wound. His leg muscles were torn open and flecks of white were visible beneath the carnage. The sight of his mangled limb caused Branch’s stomach to flip, and he only managed to mewl a quick warning to Glitz before he vomited onto the ground, his minuscule breakfast coming back up with a vengeance. Glitz paused only long enough to let Branch finish, quickly picking up the pace after the poor gray trolling had finally emptied his stomach of all it’s contents.

Branch weakly wiped at his mouth, all the strength leaving his body as he panted, pained whines escaping him as he went limp. Vaguely, he was aware that he shouldn’t be feeling this numb, the pain in his leg now a series of sharp throbs as his breaths started to become shallow. He thought he heard Glitz swear, but he wasn’t sure, as sound was becoming kinda muffled. His flexible ears were now flopped downwards, his body not having the energy to keep them pinned tightly against his head. Glitz jolted to the left, startling Branch and rousing him slightly, fresh tears spilling from his eyes as he accidentally jostled his leg.

Suddenly, there was more voices, one in particular catching Branch’s attention. King Peppy’s voice rang out as he helped the slower trolls get out of the tunnel faster. Surprisingly, the ruler was nearly naked, and Branch might have snickered if he hadn’t felt like he was at death’s door. When Peppy spotted Glitz, he smiled, but his happy expression dropped like a rock once he saw Branch. The King’s orange fur seemed to pale as he registered what he was seeing. Immediately, he rushed forward and took the torch from Glitz, allowing the other adult to better support Branch.

“By the Ancestors, what happened?!” He asked as they ran.

“One of the shovel blades got him in the leg. I didn’t have time to warn him.” Glitz said, his ears pinned back as far as they could go.

“We need to get him to Plum. Quickly, this way!” Peppy called, sliding down a steep drop and using his hair to propel himself and a few others, including Glitz and Branch, up and over the large uphill section and twisty turns of the tunnel.

Branch mentally questioned why they had dug it that way, but he soon forgot his criticizing thoughts when a bright light came into view, every troll rushing towards it.

‘Freedom.’ Branch thought hopefully, his ears perking up slightly. A deep, primal need for sunlight and fresh air gripped him, and he felt himself struggling to raise himself up enough to get a good look at the outside world.

Glitz gently lifted his arm so that Branch could rest his head and still be able to see. As the light drew closer, he shut his eyes so that he didn’t get blinded by the sunlight. He slowly reopened them when a breeze blew through his downy coat, his tail swaying slightly. If it hadn’t agitated his leg beyond belief, he might have enjoyed it. Through gritted teeth he took in his new surroundings, enraptured by the colourful yet intimidating forest towering above them.

Around him were a few more injured trolls, many sporting cuts and bruises. One troll had a broken leg, much like his own, minus all the blood and mangled flesh. A purple troll with green hairs was putting a makeshift, non-permanent cast on the other troll’s broken leg. Branch recognized her to be the tribe’s doctor, and he winced at the thought of having someone touch his leg, even if it was to treat it. He instinctively shrunk back, flattening himself as much as he could, even if it was a useless endeavor.

“Plum! I need you over here, its urgent!” King Peppy called out, gesturing to Branch.

Dr. Plum quickly finished up with her current patient and hurried over. “Okay, what seems to be the OH MY GOODNESS!” She took a step back in surprise, her pupils flickering into slits momentarily. Her ears went back as she examined Branch’s leg, her hands hovering over the still heavily bleeding gash.

“This needs to be treated immediately or he’s going to go into shock. Branch, can you hear me?” She asked, gently tapping him on the arm. When Branch made a quiet noise of acknowledgement, she continued. “I need to give you some berries that will knock you out for a few hours, do you think you can sit up?”

The gray trolling huffed and managed to push himself up, baring his teeth and hissing as he adjusted himself, his limp leg flopping uselessly. Plum sucked in air through her teeth, now seeing that the bone had been badly broken. This would require surgery to fix, and the scar would never fully fade. She turned her attention back to her bag and retrieved a few small green berries. She handed them to Branch, who made a face but still ate them, his nose wrinkling at the bitter taste. After a few moments, his eyelids began to droop, and he slipped into unconsciousness. Plum took Branch from a now bloodstained Glitz, who pulled Guy out of his hair, the infant mewling fearfully as he clung to his father’s ruff. Glitz groomed his son’s puffed up fur, smoothing it down with his rough tongue.

Dr. Plum quickly wrapped Branch’s leg in what little leaf gauze she had left. She could make more later, and she would need it for when she actually finished operating on his leg, but this would have to do for now. They needed to move and find somewhere safe to rest before the sun went down. She shifted Branch in her arms and quickly rejoined the now moving group, Glitz and Guy following close behind her. Up ahead, she could see little princess Poppy waving and babbling at everyone, and the doctor couldn’t help the smile that formed on her face. The princess hadn’t been harmed, and they all had Branch to thank for that. Despite his dull colours and less than friendly attitude, he was a kind soul, and he truly did not deserve what had happened to him. She just hoped that she would be able to fix his leg, and that the injury wouldn’t permanently cripple him.

‘He’s strong.’ She thought to herself. ‘If anyone can survive a wound like that, it’s Branch.’

[rosethesongbird]

Lady of the Lake Chapter III (final)

Chapter I here, Chapter II here

“What do you mean, a grotto? There’s nowhere for it to be,” 

“Yeah, isn’t this an island? In a lake? Where the hell are you going to hide a grotto?” 

“I know I explain everything away with this, but it’s enchanted,” Epione tugged a weathered linen shirt over Jaskier’s head. “Look, bard, the thing about arm holes is that they’re where your arms are supposed to go.” 

“I know how to put on a shirt, thank you very much, and I very well could have done it myself—“

“No you couldn’t,” Geralt was leaning up against the wall, arms crossed. “You’re not exceptionally coordinated on a good day, and with all this—“ he gestured flippantly toward the indignant bard—“your arms may as well be attached to someone else.” 

“Coordinated enough to write a song popular all over the Continent,” he muttered. Epione burst out laughing. 

“And stupid enough to waste your talents on an absolute bastard, hm?” 

Geralt scoffed.

“Ha! What have you to say about that, Geralt? No more little quips for me? Hm? Hmm? Ow,” Jaskier grimaced as his hand came to rest on his bandaged abdomen.

“Now, now, don’t get too excited. You’re still wounded. Come on, can you walk?” The redheaded woman extended a hand to the bard. “Here, let’s try,” 

Jaskier reached out, grasping the woman’s forearm, steadying himself on her shoulder as she leaned back, pulling him up. 

“Oh gods, fffuck,” he hissed. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s hand was suddenly on his waist, the touch far less gentle than Epione’s but much stronger. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just… still a little sore,” 

Epione slipped his arm over her shoulder. “Here, we’ll walk part of the way, as practice. Then one of us can carry you.” 

“He’s hurting,” Geralt growled. He knew Jaskier well, better than this woman, and he was not ready to walk. “I’ll carry him.” 

“He does not leave here before he can walk on his own, Witcher. I wasn’t aware you wanted to extend your stay.” her green eyes met catlike golden, daring him to test her. 

Geralt clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to simply cast Axii on her. “Fine. Do what you wish.” 

“Awkward,” Jaskier remarked. 

“Oh hush, you. Come now, one foot after the other.” 

The two walked—well, Epione walked, Jaskier more hobbled—out of the front door, rounding the corner, Geralt following at a distance, still wary of potential threats. They meandered down a cobblestone path; past the horse stable, past Epione’s vegetable garden, past the chicken coop—reaching a lone stone arch, covered in ancient runes, eroding by the sands of time. Jaskier was winded now and limping, Epione cooing and muttering “very good, very good, not much further now, hang in there,” as they stepped through the arch, disappearing into thin air.  

“Fuck! Jaskier!” Geralt drew his sword, grateful to himself for insisting on it. The girl—no, witch, foul, cruel witch, monster now—had assured him it wasn’t necessary, he could leave it at the cottage, really, there was no danger here, she said. He bolted toward the arch, already calculating first how he could run her through with his weapon yet miss Jaskier, and second where the nearest actual mage was, to make sure she hadn’t permanently damaged anything in his bard. Crossing the stone threshold, he disappeared also—leaving nothing on the island but a few goats, chickens, and a thoroughly confused Roach.

—

“Wow.” 

The hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck stood up. Epione sighed in relief, her hair suddenly loose from its braid, flowing without gravity as if it was in water. Before them stood a cave, cool air and light leaking slowly through a hole in the high ceiling. There was an enormous statue of a naked woman carved out of the stone making up the cave, and below her, a pool of water that seemed to glow. A low hole to the far right allowed passage of more light, and water flowed through, small gentle ripples causing the water to wash up and down the shore. Jaskier looked over his shoulder to see a bare rock wall, the shape of the stone arch carved into it. They took a step toward the pool, and Jaskier realized his feet were caked with well-worn fine sand.

“Can you feel it?” 

“Sorry, what?” His mind was preoccupied with the sight before him. 

“The enchantment,” Epione’s smile was glowing now, too, her eyes taking on a quality near otherworldly. “Not everyone can feel it.” She removed an aged leather bag from her shoulder, tossing it onto the sandy floor. 

“I’m not sure what it is but I feel something,” 

“Mm, good.” They took another step, bare feet touching the water, pleasantly cool to the touch. “How’s your wound?” 

“Sore,” he thought for a moment. “But I do feel stronger,” 

“Good, good! Here, now get in,” she tugged him down to the water. The two were waist deep, the cool water stinging Jaskier’s wound, and Epione let him go, diving into the depths of the pool. She emerged from the water a moment later with a joyous laugh, curls still standing weightless despite being soaked; Jaskier quickly averted his eyes as her white dress was just as soaked as the rest of her and left nothing to the imagination. 

Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin when Geralt came through the arch, shouting. 

As Geralt passed under the arch, the enchantment that guarded the pool wrapped itself around him, comforting him. Although he resisted, once he was on the other side, he quickly realized his mistake; epithets and curses trailing off as he met Jaskier’s frightened blue eyes and Epione’s head bobbing up over the water, confused. 

The three shared a beat of stifling silence. 

“I guess I should have warned you,” said the woman, sheepishly. 

“You’re damn right you should have.” The white-haired man sheathed his sword. 

Jaskier’s mouth fell open, the wheels in his head turning slowly, weakly, but turning nonetheless. 

“Geralt, were you going to kill her?” his voice rose as near screech as he could manage. “I can’t believe you,”

“I thought you were being harmed or-or kidnapped, Jaskier,” anger rose in Geralt’s throat. 

“She wouldn’t, Geralt! After all this and you still don’t trust her?” Jaskier began wading out of the water, squaring his shoulders. 

“Oh, and you do? You’re naive, Jask. Naive and stupid,”  

“Well you… you don’t trust anyone! Gods, open up a little, Geralt!” The two men were face to face now, Geralt baring his teeth and Jaskier gripping his side.

“You have no idea what I’ve been through! If you knew what’s good for you, you wouldn’t trust so blindly!” 

The cave began to shake, dust falling from the ceiling, a deep rumble echoing throughout the grotto.

“Stop.” 

A thousand voices, each as old as the earth. 

Jaskier turned back toward the water, his wide eyes tracing a line from the rippling waters of the pool up to the statue, stone vibrating with some intense force of energy. 

“Cease this foolishness at once.” 

The statue’s eyes were glowing the same color as the water, stone shimmering with reflection, the hair appearing to flow like waves. Epione had also risen out of the water, her eyes glowing the same shade of aqua, lips moving with the voice, although it didn’t appear to be coming from her. 

“Have you heard Us, Geralt of Rivia? Have you, Julian Pankratz?”

“Y-yes, uh, ma’am,” Jaskier stammered. Geralt did not respond, preoccupied with the sensory overload that Jaskier could not distinguish. It was as if he had been thrown into a lake, or was being pressed on all sides by an impossibly heavy weight—the stifling, crushing aura of long-forgotten magic. 

“This is not a place for disgusting human pissing contests,” the voices would have spit, if they were connected to a body. “We have the power to crush you into dust; and by Us you will treat Our place with reverence.” 

“Yes, of course, I-I’m sorry, your, um, y-your Holiness, and, er, I’m sure I speak for my-my friend here, when I—“

“Silence. You have heard Our voice, now take heed of it.”

The cave was still. Geralt released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Epione fell into the water as if she was pulled under, then jerked out, coughing. 

“Oh, Mother,” Epione choked out between breaths. “Wow, that hasn’t happened in centuries. Sorry, they’re a little particular.” 

“Uh, no problem, totally, uh, totally fine. We come across stuff like this all the time, right, Geralt?” Jaskier met Geralt’s eyes, wordlessly pleading “Please tell me that was normal for you.”

“You’re all connected,” Geralt stepped toward the water, Epione wading out to meet him. 

“That’s right,” Epione nonchalantly started removing her wet clothes as Jaskier turned red and suddenly became very fascinated with the ground. “For centuries, the oldest daughters of my family have tended this place.” She reached in the leather pack, still slumped on the floor, and pulled out a fresh garment, pulling it on in a fluid motion (much to the relief of the two travelers). “If you believe in old legends, that statue is our Mother. The one who supposedly was a Siren.” 

“Makes sense. As much sense as any other old legend, anyway. I’ve learned not to question them.” 

“I wouldn’t believe in stuff like that either, except I am one,” she shrugged. “How’s your wound, Jaskier?” 

“Oh, it feels fine, now that you mention it.” 

“Let’s take a look.” She crouched down, reaching under Jaskier’s shirt and pulling the bandage aside. “Wow,” she breathed. “Check it out,” 

Jaskier craned his neck to look at the sliced skin as Geralt circled around, trying desperately to look unperturbed. 

The skin was unmarked, the thread Epione had used to seal the bloody, gaping opening gone, leaving not even a scar. 

Epione stroked the skin gently with her thumb. “Mother, thank you,” she whispered. “Well,” she stood up, placing a hand on each man’s upper arm. “Shall we?” 

—

The passage out through the archway was much less eventful than the passage in. The three walked in silence—even Jaskier—in awe of the powerful display they had just witnessed. Roach gave a questioning whinny as they walked past the stable, Geralt looking at her, eyebrows raised, in an “I’ll tell you later” gesture. They reached the front step of the small cottage, the wooden bridge rising from the still water of the lake. 

“You seem fine, so you have my blessing to go,” said Epione, wet hair moving without her touch, pulling its own tangles out.

“Thanks for your help,” Geralt remarked. “I’ll go get Roach.” 

“Geralt, wait.” The brown-haired man was nervously worrying his ring. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Geralt stopped, already walking towards the horse stable; turning back towards Jaskier, rolling his eyes.

“Take your time, I’ll be inside. Just say goodbye before you go.” 

The door shut behind her. Jaskier stepped toward Geralt, already halfway to Roach’s pen.

“Geralt, I want to stay. Just one more day, please,” Jaskier erupted in a flow of sudden speech. He had been uncharacteristically silent since the incident in the cave. “This might be the last time for a while we get to stay somewhere nice, and she’s friendly, I can tell you don’t mind her, Geralt, please please please—“ 

Geralt sighed, rolled his eyes, and gave a half-smile; saying only “Hm,” relishing getting to watch Jaskier sweat, waiting eagerly for his answer like a child asking their mother for a piece of candy. 

“Only if she doesn’t mind,” he said. 

“Yes! Yes, thank you Geralt, thank you so much, I’m sorry for the stuff I said by the way, really not nice of me to say, but I wasn’t feeling well, and anyway, thanks so much I’mgonnaaskherrightnow!” The last few words ran together as Jaskier ran back to the house, Geralt following slowly, already hearing Epione laughing, asking Jaskier if she hadn’t scared him away, yet. 

Geralt walked through the front door, left open in Jaskier’s hurry, not at all uncomfortable with the idea of staying another night in the cozy cottage with the mage (not that he would ever admit, of course). Epione enjoyed the company, making it clear to the two men that they were welcome to return any time, she would even adjust the enchantment on the bridge to appear for them. 

The witcher and the bard stayed that night, on soft beds of hay, near a smoldering fire, bellies full of broth and wine. 

Geralt slept better than he had in weeks. 

[shadydreamerdonut]

Sweeney Todd Drabble

"I want him to see the flowers in my eyes and hear the songs in my hands."

Mrs. Lovett sat up with a yawn, wiping the drool from her chin with the back of wrist. She swallowed, reaching for the glass of water beside her bed as her mouth tasted dry. Pausing briefly as she recognized the familiar dull ache between her legs. The absent space beside her made the bed feel colder than ever as she pulled the covers up, holding them tight to her body. 

 Her body hurt to the touch to be honest but not from last night. Instead the drag and haul of each day, they made her limbs feel like lead, sinking into the mattress like deadweight, Mrs. Lovett was tempted to lay back down. Her head was heavy but she knew that she would fall back asleep in seconds if she did. She longed to succumb back into that gentle blackness where there was no pain. The despair was tight in her chest made it difficult to breathe. But when she was asleep, her lungs inflated with as much air as she needed, fatigue fading off. Soon she was as light as a cloud, floating in the sky. Carefree. 

Shaking out those ridiculous ideals like cobwebs, she stood and picked up the dress from the floor. Pushing herself up by her hands and throwing herself into another day. With a strength and determination that could not be paralleled. Doing her best to forget that she’d waken up alone. Having been what caused her to shrink back like a frightened child in the first place.  

Grunting, the petite baker climbed up to the parlor, her knees protesting each creaking step. Bringing the barber his breakfast on a long slate. She got the door open by pushing with her shoulder and sighing as it swung shut behind her. Placing the meal down carefully on the antique mahogany chest. Wiping her hands on her apron before looking up toward him as he faced the window. Staring outside. She waited with baited breath for any kind of response. There was none even after she’d stood there for minutes. Finally turning on her heel, letting the door slam shut behind her harder than necessary.

Every minute that followed felt like an hour, the whole day feeling like a month that Mrs. Lovett had spent on her feet. Wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm. That stung enough to make her gasp. Against the little bruises and cuts from utensils and manual labor that littered her skin. But she grew not to mind, the pain reminded her that she was alive. For a fleeting moment, air would fill her lungs and so she could exhale a shaking breath. If only to be brought back under into the endless drowning waters of despair. That suffocated her, she couldn’t breathe, always on the verge of falling to her knees and crying. In giving up. It was all becoming too much. Constantly sweating through the fabric of her dresses, her face sore from smiling all the time at impatient customers. Feet throbbing from hurrying up and down the hell soaked stairs. Digging her meat cleaver into the hard bones of strangers. Hauling the remains of their corpse over her shoulder to be burned in the devil’s maw.  

The crimson-haired demoness was exhausted. 

That night she collapsed into her bed, falling face first into the pillows. Not even bothering to change out of her dress as she fisted her hands in the sheet. Sleep washed over her, an enormous wave, drowning into the blue depths and arriving in a safe haven. She could almost taste the salty air on her tongue. 

Jumping when she was jostled awake by a shake of her shoulder. Lurching herself upright, blinking away the blackness. Eyes adjusting to the dim lighting and meeting a dark obsidian stare. Void of emotion. Burning holes into her forehead. She frowned and swatted him away like a mosquito. Ignoring the longing that melted inside her like candlewax.

“I’m not in the mood.”

He paused, not moving away from her bedside. But didn’t try to touch her again either.

“Are you ailing?”

Mrs. Lovett snorted, of course, a woman would have to be suffering from the plague to not want sex.

“No. Just don’t feel like it.”

He didn’t push the issue further. Turning on his heel, leaving without another word. With a click of her bedroom door closing. Mrs. Lovett let out a breath that she didn’t realizing she had been holding in. Rolling over onto her side and finding it frustratingly difficult to fall back asleep. She reached out her hand toward the empty side of her bed and felt a single tear roll down her cheek.

It was just another morning, the sky gray as usual. The air was cold against her cheeks as she brought him his breakfast the next day as if nothing had happened the night before. Which also fell neatly into the routine as they never spoke about what took place when the sun went down and all was silent around them.

“Good morning, Mistah T. Did you sleep well?” She tried to sound unaffected. She waited only to just to be greeted by the birds chipping outside. Adverting her eyes to stare absently at the breakfast that now sat on his chest and would probably still be untouched when she came for it in the afternoon. She balled her tiny hands into fists. He’d moved to sit in his chair, his hands folded neatly in front of him as he fixed his attention solely to the wall opposite him.

She, Mrs. Lovett picked the tray back up with everything still on it. The freshly brewed tea, steam clouding from it. The piece of toast with a spread of marmalade and half of a sliced apple. Furiously raging toward the indifferent barber. Originally she was going to force it into his lap but seeing that even still standing right fucking next to him, he ignored her. She raised the slate above him. Then smashed it over his head with a thunderous clang. The sound echoed in for miles, the room shook as if there had been an earthquake. Everything was sent flying. The hot tea scalded his leg and the glass shattered. The slate split in half with the force of impact. The food haphazardly decorated the immaculate floor.

“FUCKING ANSWER WHEN SOMEBODY TALKS TO YOU!”

Sweeney was breathless with pain and shock. Silence was deafening.  It was one, two, thirty seconds before he was standing and turning to Mrs. Lovett, shoving her to the floor without hardly having to use any force. Falling back onto her hands and feet. Eyes wide. The petite redhead looked up at him. Hissing when she felt the hot liquid burn her through the fabric of her skirts.

Growling, he pulled her back up by the front of her dress and corralled her into the wall. Her knees were weak so that if he wasn’t holding her, the grief-stricken widow would still be a puddle of mush on the floor. He brought his razor to her throat, so that she could feel the cold silver against her warm skin. The sharp edge barely digging into her skin.. Struggling to catch her breath already. Both of her gloved hands flat against the wall. She stared at him with doe eyes. Her rage having deflated from her like a popped balloon. She could feel her heart ache again, feel it throbbing loud between her ears only for him.

“If you were not so indispensable to my revenge, I would kill you where you stand, Mrs. Lovett.” He hissed every syllable of her name.

His breath hot against her cheek as the longest moment of her life passed. Soon as he was there, he wasn’t. Pacing back to the window, standing astute. Brushing off the mess of the confrontation like dust from his sleeves. Meanwhile, Mrs. Lovett couldn’t move. Everything hurt, she clutched her chest and dry-heaved several times, nearly lurching forward. Tears fell from her eyes and she brought her knees up and began to sob into her lap. Letting out loud, heart-wrenching wails that were barely muffled from her curled up position.

Uncomfortable, Sweeney barked. “Leave me. And I expect you to come back to clean up this mess.” Truthfully, lacking the threatening tone he had intended. He rocked on the heels of his feet. Hoping she didn’t notice the slight hesitation.

Mrs. Lovett didn’t notice, instead she moved to stand up. Beginning to crawl like an injured animal. Soon using the wall to hoist herself onto her feet, head still bowed. Limping down the stairs like she had been beaten within an inch of her life. She did her best to wipe away her tearstained face with her sleeve before stepping back inside her home, the warmth surrounding her instantly. 

When Toby peaked his head from the kitchen and asked what had happened, she shrugged. Then he asked about preparing for the dinner rush, Mrs. Lovett rasped with a weak smile. “I’m sorry, son. We’re not opening tonight. Nothing to fret over, just do whatever you’d fancy instead.” Toby wanted to protest but gave a respectful nod. Not bothering his Mother any further.

Stepping into her bedroom, Mrs. Lovett winced at the light that poured in from her window. Drawing the curtains shut and sitting onto her bed. Still trembling like mad, as she did her best to calm herself. Reaching for the cold mug of tea beside her but found her hands shook too much to take hold of it. Sitting unmoving for how long, the heartbroken baker didn’t know. But when she finally came to she was filled with grief. And found her spirit had shattered like glass, just the same as the glass against the floor above her. Moving from the edge of her bed, she went to her cupboard and pulled from it a bottle of painkillers. From when Albert had gout in his leg. They were probably out of date now but that didn’t matter for her purposes.  

Moving to sit back on her bed she popped off the cap and poured the remaining capsules out onto her open hand. Every beat of her heart hurt and soon she realized that more tears had begun to fall, tasting the salt on her lips. Before she could change her mind brought the handful of pills to her mouth and swallowed them all down with a large gulp of tea. Gasping. Then taking another drink of the tangy beverage to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the pills. Laying down onto her bed, the sheets were cool against her skin. The petite baker ignored that her skirt was still damp and she smelled heavy of sweat. Instead she was lulled to sleep, peacefully by the heavy weight of the pills. Quickly metabolized by the sheer heat of her being.

There were eight seashells on the table beside Mrs. Lovett’s hospital bed. One for every day that she had been asleep. One for every morning that Sweeney had visited. He would only ever buy one at a time, hoping that he wouldn’t need to come back for another. Sometimes, he’d stay from breakfast until visiting hours were over. Other times, he was forced to return to his parlor so that he could continue to have an income. He wanted to make sure that they were still comfortable financially when she woke up so that she wouldn’t feel the need to push too hard, she would either way. That was just her nature, he thought with a frown. He hadn’t ever noticed, he hadn’t paid mind to anything about her. Even though she was what made it possible not only for him to complete his revenge, but to have a place to stay and meals to eat and live a somewhat functioning life. He owed her his life. And he had threatened to kill her.

He deserved the pain that her death would cause him. For all the grief he’d brought upon her. It would only be fitting that the last part of his former life be so cruelly torn away from him. Then, he really would have nothing left. And the judge wouldn’t be to blame this time. He held her cold hand in his own and rubbed little circles in the inside of her wrist.

Now he knew what it was like to have loved someone and be met with silence. Surprised she didn’t smash a slate over his head sooner, he thought with a sad smirk. He even started to notice little things. Her long lashes, the curve of her cheekbone, full lips and red hair that shined like fire under the sunlight. How small she was in comparison to him, which made him wince internally for every time that he was rough with her. When she woke up, he would treat her more carefully. With tenderness and gentle touches. He would make things right when she woke up. If she ever did.

[theotherbloodfart]

Token Pt 4

The final part of the request made by @craftygoateeprincess oml this is some shameless self indulgent fluff right here. Hope you like!

He sits placidly in the lotus pose. Even in the gloom of her darkening living room, every detail is as clear and bright and new to her as the first time she saw it. Her eyes start from his boots and travel upward.

The tips of his boots are scuffed and nestled in the silk of his pantaloons atop his knees, the orange puffs she knows are there are not visible with his feet in this position. Her gaze travels to his gloved hands, which are resting palm up just next to each boot. His fingers are curled gently, the pointer fingers just touching the silken tips of his thumbs.

His head is facing directly forward, tho his eyes are closed. His face is smooth and peaceful. His body isn’t moving at all. Quite noticeable in this quiet place. No human twitching. No breathing. Just a marble statue posing to look like a clown.

Ellie cannot believe he has consented to this. To sit still and calm and allow her to touch him like this. The clock ticking on her wall sounds like tiny explosions, each click reverberating around her living room, bouncing off of the silvery being before her.

She drops to her knees, directly before him. He is so tall that, even on her knees, she still has to crane her neck to gaze up at his face. She focuses on his long dark lashes, fanned out over the tops of his cheeks like 2 tiny palm leaves.

As she reaches towards him her breath catches. She feels like a worm daring to touch some keen and deadly predator. She supposes that’s just what she is. Oh! But what a beautiful predator! And such a foolish worm. Her hand falters and drops. Her head drops, her confidence wilting.

“Do not be afraid, Ellie.” The rumble of his voice makes every hair upon her body stand on end. “There is much to fear. But not me. Never me.”

She looks up to his face. Meeting his brilliant blue eyes. Basks in the bottomless glow before she watches the pale lids glide down once again to close them. Then reaches forward again. And falters again.

But this time, a gloved hand snaps forward, the long fingers wrapping around her wrist, soft yet vice like. She doesn’t struggle, but pulls against him softly as he mercilessly places her open, trembling hand upon his chest, as if the silk here might burn her skin. They sit like this for some time. The clown holding her hand firm and the girl slowly calming, the quaking in her hands slowly subsiding.

After he has decided that she’ll not pull away, he releases her wrist and returns his hand to it’s original pose, his face still relaxed and his eyes still closed.

His flesh, under the suit, feels cool and iron like, the lean muscle and sinew contrasting with the smooth thick silk of his doublet. She runs her finger tips up and down, pressing in to feel the ribs, her thumb brushing one of the orange puffs. Her throat feels so dry that she coughs. He doesn’t react. Gingerly, she lifts the other hand, which had been sitting numbly in her lap, to join it’s sister in exploring his chest.

Her heart thunders so loudly that she can no longer hear the ticking of her clock. The air in her living room suddenly feels icy, and her skin prickles with gooseflesh. She doesn’t realize her lower lip is quivering. She doesn’t realize her eyes are tearing until a falsely warm drop slides down her cheek.

The clown's nostrils flare and she feels his chest expand rapidly. Once. Twice. He’s scenting her.

“Not fear. But so similar.” His words confirm her thoughts.

“I’m nervous, Penny.” Her voice cracks from dryness.

“Why?” His voice is a comfortable rumble.

“Because…… you’re REAL. All this time. All these years. I KNEW but I somehow still didn’t believe. But here you are. With me.” This confession spurs a flash of bravery as her hands leave his chest, her finger tips trailing down the soft silk of his arms. She feels the hot sting of more tears upon her cheeks as she continues.

“Don’t you understand? When I was a little girl, I believed in magic. I believed angels were real. I believed that my will alone could make things change. I even believed I could fly! But then life happened. Darkness and pain. Lies and deceit. Survival. And I lost that belief. I grew up. Oh, don’t you see?? If you’re REAL……… then that means that MAGIC is real.”

Her heart thunders on as Pennywise responds to her words, and her tailing finger tips, only by slowly raising his forearms, spreading his long fingers, his palms facing her. She gulps down anxious bile and places her palms against his. And they sit like this. Very still. The girl breathing shallowly. The eldritch clown not breathing at all. Touching palms. And Ellie’s knees press against his shins as she leans forward, sliding her fingers down between his. He responds in kind, entwining his fingers with her own.

Only the sore cramping in her cheeks tells Ellie that her face is creased in an enormous smile. She’s holding hands with her sewer angel. And she’s crying.

As her gaze settles upon his face, she feels her breath catch. His eyes are no longer closed. His expression is solemn and watchful. His periwinkle blue eyes are……. Almost soulful…….. As he watches her.

It is now that he moves, still very slowly, unwrapping the fingers of one hand from hers and reaching for her face. Time itself seems to freeze as Ellie feels his palm cup her chin. Every nerve ending in her skin seems to take on its own static life as she feels the silk of his glove brush along her jaw bone. As his finger tips stretch along one cheek and his thumb along the other.

“I can see your thoughts, Ellie. They are disjointed and strange. A dream. I, myself, enjoy dreams.” For a moment, his gaze is vacant. Looking thru her, into another time. Another reality. “You will stay, won’t you Ellie? You will stay in my Derry?” His gaze bores into her own.

She simply cannot speak as her emotions twirl and clench at her heart. His wide eyed gaze is childlike and lonely.

“Stay?” It is not a command, but a supplication. “I have existed longer than your mind could ever comprehend. I am not human. I kill and feast and dance. I am the Eater of Worlds little Ellie. I’ve giggled at sobbing mothers while slurping the marrow from the bones of their tender babies. I have watched races die and new races emerge from their dusty graves. I have watched, in idle boredom, as stars sputtered their death song.” The blue of his irises bursts into burning gold as he speaks. Saliva dribbles from his plump lips as the tiniest snippets of his memories are laid bare before her.

A tingling sensation flutters within the contact of his hand with her skin. Her vision disjoints. She gazes upon Pennywise before her. Yet, when her eyes close, she can see flashes of these things he speaks of. Only for these images to fade as she opens her eyes again.

It is as if she’s existing in 2 places at once. The reality of this beautiful being before her, in the fading light of her living room. And the shadowy realm of the eternal dreams of his long rests whenever her lids close. But she is not afraid. He continues.

“I have seen many things, Ellie. Felt many sensations. But I have never felt this. I have never felt this desire for my presence. And it is very pleasant. I do not wish for this sensation to cease. Stay? Stay with me?” He breaks the contact with her by removing his hand from her chin and folding it, with the other hand, in his lap. And watches her expectantly.

She realizes she is leaning forward so far that she’s nearly losing balance. As if her body has begun to gravitate towards his. She feels empty somehow without those visions of his dreams that she’d seen as he’d touched her. The dawning realization that he had CHOSEN to share those images with her leaves her breathless, the tears now flowing freely now.

“Pennywise,” her voice is unsteady as she speaks. “I’d rather die than leave this place. I have nothing left outside of this place. Outside of you. You’ve saved my life literally every time I’ve seen you. That’s more than any person has ever cared to do. I don’t care about what you’ve done. I don’t CARE. I LOVE you. I always have. I always will.” The desperate need to express this to him overrides her nervousness.

He tilts his head at her, the gold in his eyes returning to their gentle blue.

“I do not know that I can love, child. The emotion is a meaningless concept to me. Or at least, it always was….” His sentence is cut off as, with the most sudden impulse she’s ever had, she leans forward, extending as far up as she can on her knees, to kiss him.

He stiffens and she feels his large hands grip her waist as her arms snake around his neck. The material of his neck ruff pricks and tickles her skin. His lips do not respond as she presses her own to them, but they are soft and compliant. He allows this action although it is obvious that he’s unsure of what he should be doing in response. She feels the nervousness overwhelm her as she goes to pull away.

Then, she feels his palm on the back of her head now, as he applies gentle pressure to keep her in place. And slowly, with great care, as if she were made of the most delicate material, he returns her kiss. It is sloppy and wet and inexperienced and wonderful. And when he finally pulls away, she can feel her tears mixing with the saliva upon her own chin.

“Ellie……. Stay?” Again the question.

“Yes. I will stay.”

[freedom-of-writing]

You’re all I want, all I need

Chapter 1 - I’m ready now

Chapter 2 - The 13th clan

Chapter 3 - Soulmates

Chapter 4 - Your enemy is our enemy

Chapter 5 - Costia

Chapter 6 - The calm before a storm

Chapter 7 - Hurts like hell

Chapter 8: Shouldn’t be a good in goodbye

“Clarke...” Abby calls her gently as she comes to stand next to her daughter.

Clarke doesn’t move, she just stands there looking down blankly. For how creepy it might sound, she has spent the entire night in the medical center by Lexa’s side, never once letting go of her limp hand. Abby’s not sure whether Clarke is holding onto Lexa to feel like she’s still here somehow, or just in the desperate hope of being able to transfer some warmth back into her cold body. Looking in her daughter’s eyes, though, she’s not even sure Clarke has any reason at all. Her eyes are cast down, but not quite looking at Lexa’s figure. Those blue orbs that had been so full of life just the day before, as she and Lexa were holding each other so lovingly, are now completely empty. They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul, and maybe it’s true. Because Clarke cannot feel a thing right now, she’s just empty.

Abby gently places a hand on her daughter’s forearm in an attempt to get some kind of reaction from her. In a way it works, because Clarke murmurs something to her. Abby almost misses it, because Clarke speaks without raising her head, and her voice is very low.

“We should take her back to the capital. Her people deserve a chance to say goodbye properly.”

“Okay.” Abby lowers her hand slowly, until it’s resting on Clarke and Lexa’s joined ones. She waits a second there without moving. When she’s positive Clarke won’t object, she takes hold of her daughter’s hand, and she pull it away from Lexa’s. To be honest, Abby was hoping such a move would earn her some kind of protest from her daughter. Anything, really. But Clarke does nothing, and it breaks Abby’s heart to see her kid so lost and broken. She caresses the top of Clarke’s hand with her thumb for a moment before talking.

“The funeral ceremony is starting in a moment. Do you think you can come say one last goodbye to your people? Hers and yours. Both the grounders and our people would appreciate you being there.” It’s a good thing Abby’s staring closely at Clarke, or she would’ve missed the almost imperceptible nod she gives her in response. With that Abby starts walking towards the door bringing her daughter out of the room along with her.

As soon as Clarke is out in the main yard, where a funeral pile has been set, Octavia and Raven rush towards her to bring her in for a hug. The broken girl doesn’t move, though. She doesn’t return the embrace, and she doesn’t even seem to acknowledge the presence of her friends. Her gaze is simply staring blankly at somewhere in front of her. Octavia and Raven look at her worriedly for a moment, and then they turn to Abby in a silent question of how Clarke is holding on. The woman’s eyes water as she shakes her head sadly, because her daughter isn’t holding on at all. She’s falling to pieces, and Abby doesn’t know what to do to help.

As Commander of Death, it is Clarke honor to light the pyre on fire. It’s one of Lexa’s general to pass her the torch. Clarke takes it without acknowledging what she’s doing. Her hand takes the torch from the man, and her legs begin to move towards the pyre, but it’s all on their accord. Her muscles are moving automatically, as if they remember what to do from that time she had to burn Finn’s body in TonDC. Suddenly, Clarke finds herself in front of an enormous pyre, above which are settled the bodies of hundreds of dead warriors. Everyone’s eyes are on her. Many of the warriors are surprised to see the supposedly mighty Wanheda looking so vulnerable and broken, but most people are now aware of her feelings for the Lexa. Somehow, Clarke manages to hold her head up high, and to mutter in the most commander-like tone she can master: “Yu gonplei ste odon.” She doesn’t remember herself lowering the torch on the pyre, but a moment later all she can see in front of her eyes are its flames.

After the ceremony, Lexa's generals, Clarke, Abby, and Kane reunite in the council room to discuss how to bring the Commander's body back to Polis. They also need to decide who of the Sky People is going to go to the capital to attend the ceremony. It takes them a good half an hour to come to an agreement. Clarke doesn't say a single word, she just stands there in a corner of the room, staring blankly at the arguing people. No one tries to ask for her opinion, both because they know she wouldn’t answer, and because they're not even sure she's hearing anything they’re saying. In the end, the grounder warriors give in, and they agree that the safest way to transport the body is with the Skaikru's rover. Kane will drive, and Abby will be in the car with him, while Clarke will be riding her horse alongside the generals. Wanheda’s presence was never in question, as per Kane he was chosen to take part in the funeral ceremony because he’s the assigned leader of the 13th clan. With a bit of insistence, Abby was able to convince the generals to let her come as well, because she didn’t want to leave Clarke alone as she's mourning Lexa's death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clarke is standing by her horse, putting the last of her things in the saddlebags, when a man approaches her from behind.

"You know, I might have a way for you to see your precious Commander again..."

Jaha. It's been forever since she last saw the man. Not that she’s missed his presence, that is. Clarke knew he wasn't completely normal when he started talking about a City of Light he planned to find, but this… this is a whole new level of craziness. Something in her eyes must have given away what she's thinking, because the man, who is now standing in front of her, immediately adds: "You think I'm crazy… but I'm not. There's this place, the City of Light, where there's no death. Everyone who died on this Earth is there. I've seen it myself."

"You're high."

"I'm not. I've never been more sober." With that Jaha takes something from his pants pocket, and hands it to Clarke. It looks like some sort of chip. Clarke eyes it for a moment before looking back at Jaha, as if to ask what the hell she is supposed to do with that thing.

"I just want to help you, Clarke. Take it. It's the key to the City of Light. You just have to swallow it. Then, you close your eyes, and just focus on the person you want to see again. Before you know it, you’ll find yourself in this virtual world that knows no death. Everyone you’ve lost here… will be there waiting for you.”

“That easy, eh? Thanks, but I’m not taking that thing.” She says harshly.

“Well… that’s a pity.” He states before putting the chip back into his pocket. “Her death doesn’t have to be the end, Clarke.”

Don’t be afraid, Clarke. Death is not the end.

“Shut up!” She’s not even sure whether she’s saying it to Jaha, or to the voice inside her head repeating Lexa’s words.

“You’re just afraid, Clarke.”

Don’t be afraid, Clarke.

“I said shut up!” She cries out shaking her head in order to get rid of the small voice that’s haunting her mind. The man realizes he must’ve touched a sore spot, but he doesn’t let Clarke’s words stop him from placing the chip in Clarke’s hand.

“What are you doing?! I don’t want your stupid key to this damn City of Light!”

“Yes, you do.” With that, Jaha closes Clarke’s hand around the chip, and he turns to go back inside the walls of Arkadia.

Clarke stares at him for a while before turning back to her horse, and raising her hand over her head to throw the chip into the woods. She’s about to let it go, when she remembers another conversation she and Lexa had right before the battle.

What I can promise is that I'm going to do anything in my power to come back to you, ai hodness.

I’ll do anything in my power to come back to you too.

Maybe she should keep the chip with her. If Jaha is right, it might be her only way to get back to Lexa as she promised.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once in Polis, Lexa’s body is cleaned by a few handmaids, and redressed in clean clothes. A small altar is built in the throne room, so that the Nightbloods and the clan leaders can say their own personal goodbyes to the late Commander before the public ceremony begins.

The second Clarke enters the room, the youngest Natblida rush towards her to embrace her tightly in a group hug. Abby and Kane, who are standing by the doors, are shocked by how much affection these children are showing for Clarke. But what surprises them the most is that, in this moment, Clarke’s eyes don’t look as blank and lost as before. They are suddenly filled emotion, with love, and Abby wants to cry because she was really beginning to think she’d never see life in those beautiful blue eyes again. It’s clear to her and Marcus that a lot of things have changed when Clarke was here in Polis, before the battle. Clearly in that week, she and the Nightbloods had formed a strong bond.

When the first group of children lets her go, another group of older-looking kids moves to hug her. They take their time, each one patiently waiting for their turn to embrace the Sky girl. The last one to move is a boy whom Clarke addresses as Aden. Something in the way the two of them hold each other lets Abby and Kane image he must be one Clarke is closest to. They can barely see his face from they’re standing by the doors, but it’s enough for them to notice he’s trying hard to hold back his tears. Once more, Kane and Abby are surprised by the change of attitude displayed by Clarke. She does not look broken anymore, but rather it looks like she’s trying to act as strong as possible for these kids standing in front of her. It’s such a mother-like action to put her pain aside momentarily, in order to infuse strength into these children and teens she obviously loves so much.

Once all the Nightbloods, including Aden, are done greeting Clarke, Titus makes his presence noticed. He’s kept to the side all the time, but now he moves from his spot to go speak to Clarke.

“I believe the Natblida have something for you, Wanheda.”

At those words, Clarke turns to look at the kids questioningly. No one seems to want to say a thing, until it’s Aden to clear his throat asking for attention. When Clarke looks at him, Aden holds out a knife, offering it to her. At first, she doesn’t understand what’s going on, but then it clicks.

“Lexa’s knife.” She whispers in surprise. “Doesn’t it belong to the one of you who’ll be the next Commander?”

“It does.” Aden smiles softly at her before adding: “We’ve talked about it, and… we’ve all agreed it should be yours.” Clarke knows that by “all” they do not mean Titus as well, and the look of disapproval on the man’s face is proving her right.

While Clarke is looking at Titus, Aden comes to stand right in front of her. Still holding out the knife, he continues. “So whenever you use it it’ll be like Lexa is protecting you.” Murmurs of agreement come from the other Natblida when he takes Clarke’s hand to pass her the knife.

Clarke is at a loss of words. All she can do is stand there looking at the knife Aden has just placed in her hand. When her gaze comes up again to look at the kids, her eyes are wet with tears, but she doesn’t let them fall. Her voice shakes with emotion when she finally manages to say something. “Mochof.” Thank you.

The emotional moment, though, is soon interrupted by a guard, who enters the room to announce it’s time for the ceremony. With him are other three guards, carrying a wooden stretcher. As gently as it can be expected by four warriors, they move Lexa’s body onto the stretcher, and then they lift it up to place it on their shoulders. They exit the room first, with everyone else in tow, and they walk to the main square where a pyre is ready. The crowd of grounders is standing in a circle around it, but leaving enough space for all of the clan leaders to stand on the step that was built all around the pyre. Roan is there too, having been nominated King of Azgeda in the wake of his mother’s death. Each clan leader is holding a torch. Since Lexa was the Commander of the 13th clans, they should all have the honor to light the funeral pyre on fire. Clarke and Titus receive their torches as well. Since they are the Commander of Death and the Flamekeeper, they are to be considered at the same level as the clan leaders.

When Lexa’s body is adjusted above the pyre, and everyone is in place, Titus raises his hand asking for attention. He waits for the people around them to fall silent, and then he speaks.

“People of Polis, members of the Coalition, it is with a sad heart that we stand here today to say goodbye to our beloved Commander. I’m sure you all can agree when I say Lexa was special. She was a visionary, and no Commander before had ever been as wise as her. She believed in a world where we could live in peace, united as one. It is now our duty to keep this union alive, in honor of her hard work.” He pauses for a moment as the crowd is cheering. When everyone grows quiet again, he concludes. “Yu gonplei ste odon, Leksa kom Trikru. Gonplei kom Heda kigon feva.”

Your fight is over, Lexa of the Tree People. The Commander's fight goes on.

“Yu gonplei ste odon, Heda.” The crowd exclaims in chorus.

“Maybe Wanheda wishes to say something as well…” Titus offers looking at the woman standing next to him. Clarke nods gratefully before turning to glance at Kane, standing in the circle with the other clan leaders. He looks back at her questioningly, but when she starts talking, he understands.

“I’d like to say something on behalf of people. It’s our way of bidding farewell to the ones we have passed away.” She waits for Kane to catch up, so they can say the next words together. Joined by Abby, who’s standing in the crowd behind them.

“In peace, may you leave the shore. In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey on the ground. May we meet again.”

And with that, they all lower their torches to light the pyre on fire, and they step away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s sunset when the last of the flames has died down. A pile of ashes is all that’s left of Lexa’s body and of the wood that formed the pyre. Everyone is gone back to their homes, except for Aden and Clarke. They are the only ones left in the square. They stand there, silently staring at the fuming ashes, for what feels like an eternity. When at last, Aden makes a move to turn and leave, the sound of Clarke’s voice stops him in his tracks.

"Why is there a good in goodbye…?” She asks looking up at the boy for a second. She knows Aden doesn’t understand what she’s trying to say, so she continues. “I mean, there's absolutely nothing good about it. It's like… whenever we say goodbye, it just feels like something bad that's going to get even worse. Like a storm that’s never ending, or like that last moment of composure before the inevitable break. It's not gracious, and it's definitely not meant to give you hope that something good might come out of that moment. A goodbye is just the proof that you're already drowning. And the worst part is that you haven’t even hit the bottom of that ocean floor yet."

When she’s done, Clarke moves her gaze back on Aden, to see if he understands what means now. He does. The boy gives her a small nod of agreement. Then he turns his head to look down at Lexa’s ashes.

“You’re right. There shouldn't be a good in goodbye." And with that, he finally turns to walk towards the tower, leaving Clarke alone.

 Author’s note: I know, i know. That last speech from Clarke makes little to no sense, but here’s the song it was inspired from. Hopefully reading/listening to it will help you understand the meaning. 

Jason Walker – Shouldn’t Be a Good in Goodbye

After the silence, After the last words. Caught in the silence. Caught in between.

After the madness. After the slow shock. Before the wave hits, The flood comes rushing in.

This is the bad before the worse. This is the storm before the storm. I haven't even hit the bottom of this ocean floor. This is the bend before the break. This is the mercy not the grace. This is the proof, and not the faith I try to find. There shouldn't be a good in goodbye.

If I never loved you, If I never felt your kiss. If I never had you. I know that I... I still would have mourned you. I would have missed your smile. If it wasn't so worth it, This wouldn't be... Oh, this wouldn't be

The bad before the worse. And the storm before the storm. I haven't even hit the bottom of this ocean floor. This is the bend before the break. This is the mercy not the grace. This is the proof and not the faith I try to find. There shouldn't be a good in goodbye.

I know this is gonna get better, oh. I know this is gonna get better, oh. I know...

This is the bitter not the sweet. This is the take, and not the keep. And I haven't even reached the bottom of this ocean floor. This is the bend before the break. This is the mercy not the grace. This is the proof and not the faith I try to find. There shouldn't be a good in goodbye.

Yeah. There shouldn't be good in goodbye. There shouldn't be a good in goodbye. 

Chapter 9 - The Conclave

[day-en-las-nubes]

“I was the rich, spoiled princess. You turned out to be more than just the help” Part II

“Excuse me?!” I threw my head back dismissively and turned around to admire my darling mare some more. She lifted her majestic neck from her trough, her funny looking mouth dripping with its crystalline contents. She had always been most dear to me. I raised my hand toward her slim, tranquil cheek but his hand stopped me cold as his fingers curled securely around my forearm. A whimper tore through my lips when he pulled me to the side, roughly.

“What the fuck?” I protested while he yanked me away hard, towards the door of the stable. I tried to free myself from his iron grip, my feet digging a trail through the mud and the hay as he dragged me by. “Have you lost your mind!?” I yelled at him, my mind spinning in disbelief. He kept walking, his face away from me.

“You sure have a dirty mouth for looking all fancy and shit.” He said as we approached the exit. My arm getting increasingly sore as his fingers tightened even harder around it.

“When my parents find out about this…”I threatened, getting ready to scream as soon as we were outside.

He abruptly stopped walking, an audible sigh made his broad shoulders go up and down slowly. He spun around and locked me in place with each of his enormous hands on my shoulders.  His head came down to my level, his huge eyes focused on me.

“If you had listened to my instructions, it wouldn’t have come down to this.” He explained, through clenched teeth. “And by the way, you honestly think your mother cares? She left you in the hands of a total stranger.” He rolled his eyes. I hated to admit it, but he had a point. “I’ve been tasked with being your damn watch dog by my employer, how this goes is up to you. “ He explained, seemingly more calm.

Now that I could see him closely, I noticed he was quite attractive. There was something almost exquisite about him, despite his unkempt appearance.

“I will not be handled like the cattle you are used to being around.” I said, as an attempt to wound him. I instinctively rubbed my aching wrist, his fingers still imprinted on my pale skin. His eyes followed the movements of my hands.

“I can promise you I won’t lay a hand on you again.” He uttered, sounding regretful. “If you promise to listen from now on.” He raised his eyebrows. In his body language I found what I needed to find.

I could fool him, he was just a male, just like any other. It would prove difficult, but not entirely impossible. I needed to manipulate him just long enough for my mother’s little tantrum to run its course.

In hindsight, exerting my will upon him might not have been my brightest move, so I nodded, feigning a truce I did not intend to keep.

“Do you mind taking your hands off of me?” I requested, diplomatically. Stable-boy pulled his hands back as if he had forgotten they were still there.

“Does that mean you are willing to work with me?” He asked, a spark flashed across his face, his features melting into the vivid picture of relief.

The tables were turned again, and I felt myself gaining control of the situation.

“Shall we head to my bedroom then…ummm…I didn’t catch you name.” I forced a smile.

“Blake.” He replied, hopeful, eating up my act of candor like the most decadent desert. “Sounds great.” He added, sliding his hands in his jean pockets.

I gifted him another smile for good measure and strode across my parents vast lawn, Stable-boy right at my heels.

We entered through the back door, wiping our feet on the thick rug before stepping foot inside the kitchen.

I made an effort to sway my hips extra-alluringly as I headed for the huge, wooden stairs that lead to my room. I heard the sound of him clearing his throat as we climbed, the anticipated response. He was not different or special, and in only a few hours I would be vanishing from within his grasp for real this time.

“Is she really making you stay out here all afternoon?” I turned around to address him before entering my room. He shrugged, his full lips twisting into a pouty frown.

“I guess we will find out.” He sat on the bench that rested across from my door. His long legs bended, his knees sticking way out into the hallway.

“If it’s any consolation you won’t be the only one dying of boredom, ‘Blaine’.” I waltzed inside, taking a peek at him before closing the door.

“It’s Blake.” I heard him correcting me after I had slammed the door behind me.

---- ------ ----

I headed straight for the bathroom. I let out a loud “UGH” of pure frustration, the sound of the shower drowned it out as I turned it on. I threw my soiled, black jeans and my purple tank top in my dirty clothes basket.

Once naked I entered the soothing warm curtain of water. My anger melted away as I lathered my long blonde hair.

I closed my eyes, attempting to brew a plan to meet my boyfriend, but all that I could think about was Stable-boy’s sultry green eyes.

I could still feel his massive hands on my shoulders, his breathing ragged from struggling to drag me along.  As I ran my sponge around my perfectly round breasts, the twinge between my legs took me utterly by surprise.

I bit my bottom lip, pressing my back against the cold tile trying to find some stability.

“What in the…” I whispered to myself as the urge to place my sponge down below intensified.

I wanted to rinse off and get out, but my hands had a different idea. They glided past my soapy belly button, all the while the memory of my “bodyguard’s” face overtaking my thoughts and bending my will.

I touched my already swollen clit with the tip of my finger, my whole body shuddered with the contact. I massaged it ever so gently at first, the soap making my movements delightfully slick. My breathing became unsteady and uneven, a small moan burst against my teeth.

I forced Luke into my head, as the moment of my undoing was approaching, but I was shocked to discover that this caused my blissful moment to be abruptly interrupted instead.

I had been so close… but a moment of lucidity was all I needed to snap back from the absurdity of being sexually turn on by the last person on Earth I would’ve chosen to be turned on by.

I finished rinsing off and hopped out. Still confused, but willing to forget the strange incident ever happened.

I had to keep my head clear…

I needed to harness my energy and use it on freeing myself from Stable-boy and my overbearing parents, but here I was, fantasizing about his stupid lips instead.

To my dismay, his looks could present as a distraction, but nothing that couldn’t be dealt with. I was used to beautiful men, having been surrounded by models and celebrities my entire life.

His appeal would wear off... sooner rather than later.

---- ----- ----

 I glanced sleepily at my alarm clock. It indicated it was already 10:30 at night. I placed the book I had been reading on my night stand and messed up my still slightly damp hair. I had to check on Stable-boy before I ventured out my bedroom’s window. Chances were, he wasn’t even there and I could sneak out the front as usual.

“You still here?” I cracked the door open, but just enough so he could take a good look at my pajama and nest hair. He nodded, glancing up from his beat up cell phone and running his pupils up my body.

“Still here.” He muttered, with a yawn. I almost felt sorry for him.

“It’s official then.” I commented, pointing at his new outfit. He was now wearing a button down light green shirt and khaki cargo pants. He looked bored.

“Seems that way.” He grunted, staring back at his mobile device.

“I just wanted to say, good night!” I told him, faking an exaggerate yawn.

“Night.” He responded quietly. He seemed relaxed, his guard down. Just as I wanted him.

I hurriedly closed the door and slipped my black leggings on. I removed my hideous sleepwear and put my push-up bra on as well as my Queen t-shirt. I braided my hair swiftly and tied the laces of my sporty tennis shoes.

I had to be as comfortable as possible to make the climb.

My spirit was no longer fueled necessarily by my desire to see Luke, but more to prove to them, that I was not to be held down. I was nobody’s prisoner.

I turned on the fan as loud as I could for noise purposes and opened the French doors that led to my balcony. If I were to go over the ledge and climb my way down, just enough I could jump into the soft grass underneath.

If I landed on my feet, I knew I would be just fine. The distance between the bottom of my balcony and the ground was not too high at all.

I threw one foot over the edge, then the other. I turned my head both ways to make sure that the coast was clear before going down any further. I held firmly to the concrete pillars as I started to descend.

Those useless gymnastics classes were finally coming in handy, I thought, as I dangled from the bottom of the balcony. I looked down at the grass. Just as I had calculated, if I were to drop down, it would be about four or five feet to land.

I squeezed my eyes and hoped for the best as I released my hands from their grip. I felt my adrenaline rushing through me as my body dived toward the grass. My feet prepared to find footing.

His arms intercepted me midair.

[djduttyj]

Craig's story (A powerlifting motivation post not my own)

He was a quiet guy. The type of guy you pictured one day taking a gun out and going on a shooting rampage. He never spoke, just came to the gym in his dull, dingy attire and quietly lifted. From what I saw he was a forty something year old guy, who was overweight and worked out somewhat to keep in shape. Although he never bothered anyone I noticed that he was the butt of many insults and jokes in the gym, most the members had given him the name ‘Pigpen’ since no one seemed to know his real name and he never conversed with the members of the gym.

He was quite simply an enigma in the gym.

I was young, had been lifting for about 4 years or so, thought I knew everything, thought steroids were evil, but I was enthusiastic and trained harder than the average gym goer. Our gym, although well equipped, was at the heart a fitness club. Most the members were more concerned with their hair, and clothing, being coordinated for the gym social scene. Pigpen simply stuck out like sore thumb, I thought many times that he may know the things people said about him, it was obvious to me so I figured he must pick up on it. The members were cruel, a snicker here, a pinched nose there, all in jest of the quiet guy in his drab, baggy clothing. I didn’t see it as funny, more like insecure bullying, but Pigpen simply ignored it and kept on.

The owner was a friend of mine named Chris. He and I had worked together at another gym, he had been a competitive bodybuilder, but had since gone into the gym business and had a side business refurbishing homes. I usually spoke to Chris a couple times a week when I saw him, usually on the way out after I had finished my workout.

One such evening I was at the front desk talking with Chris and some of the front desk staff. Pigpen was walking by us to leave the gym, as he grasped the handle for the door, one of the staff made a coughing gesture and under his breath said “PIGPEN!”.

Pigpen didn’t ever flinch but I saw his eyes cut to his right, and I knew he definitely heard it, he walked out the door without even a hitch.

As the door shut, the girl at the front desk said to Chris “I don’t understand why you even let him workout here.” Chris looked at her with a glare and said calmly “As long as I am owner he will always be welcome here…do you understand?” she replied sheepishly “yes”. Chris wasn’t finished, and I could tell he was pissed, but he kept his cool and looked at the two of them and said “That guy has been through hell and back, you need to show some fucking respect. Just because your mommy and daddy pay your bills doesn’t give you the right to judge someone you cannot understand!”. They looked completely astonished, and embarrassed, and they should have been.

I asked Chris what Pigpens deal was. Chris told us that Pigpen had been a successful guy at one time in his life, good career, was a competitive bodybuilder and had pro-potential. So I asked “what happened?” Chris replied “Life.”. As Chris went on to explain he had been raised by his father, he had no other family, his mother had died when he was only a toddler. His father had developed a rare type of cancer, he had spent every penny he could trying to get medical care for his dad and keep him comfortable, in the end his father passed and he lost a good bit of money, his wife left him, and he had to quit competition. He went through a struggle financially after that, and never really recovered, and then about five years ago he was in a car accident and he was nearly killed, he was in a coma for several months. The insurance settlement was enormous enough to help pay for his rehab and get him financially set for life, but not to the point where he was living on the high hog, just enough to live off.

We were all floored, I was speechless, I didn’t even know what to say. Chris looked at me and said “if you ever want to know something about bodybuilding…that’s the guy to ask”.

For several weeks after that, when I saw Pigpen at the gym, I really felt bad, I didn’t even know how to look at him anymore. People still poked fun at him, and it made me upset, but I just kept my head down and trained. Then one day, I was doing chest, and Pigpen was right there doing some seated dumbbell curls, he was only using 30’s, never made sense to me how the guy looked like he was big, overweight, but big shoulders and chest, he must have weight near 280-290.

So I saw Pigpen pull up his long sleeve to scratch his arm, guess the big fella had an itch, but what I saw was one of the biggest fucking forearms I have ever seen on a man, it was lumped with a system of hose veins. I was simply captivated by it.

So I walked up to Pigpen after his next set and said “Scuse me”. He turned slowly too look at me, almost as if there was something wrong with his neck, I felt nervous so I extended my hand and said “My name is Jay”.

He just looked at me, his face was almost expressionless. Chris had said he had gone through all that hard time, but he didn’t mention if he was still mentally all there.

Then he spoke. A gravely voice said “Craig…my name is Craig”. It was as if, he hadn’t been asked his name in so long that he had almost forgotten what it was-then he shook my hand with the most callous of hand I think I can ever remember shaking, he had a strong grip and his hands were as muscular as his forearm.

I asked him “How did you get your forearms so developed?” Craig told me he went to another gym to train heavy, that it was an old powerlifting gym and most of his forearm development had come from heavy deadlifts, rows, and shrugs. He asked me if I had ever done deadlifts, and I had but not on regularly, he looked at me and said “Gotta do deads kid”.

So you can understand as I was young and impressionable that the next back workout I hit deadlifts right away. I was weak at them, I thought 315 was going to break my back but I hung in there and pushed, or should I say, pulled.

I noticed Craig had been watching me while I was doing them.

After many months of practicing I got very good at them, I was up to 475 on deadlifts and my shoulders and traps were growing and people kept mentioning my forearms. I was so impressed by the results from one simple thing that I went to Craig frequently to get advice to him. His advice was always so simple, seemed like it was always too easy of an answer, but it was always solid advice. People in the gym still treated him like shit, but I was always cool to him, he had helped me out with great advice on many occasions and in the last year and a half I had gotten not only bigger but much stronger too, I was beginning to have the look of an actual bodybuilder. And it was mostly due to the enigmatic man who no one spoke to, except me.

Then one day as I was walking into the gym, Chris got my attention from his office, waiving his hand for me too come over.

So I came in, and Chris informed me that the powerlifting gym Craig went to closed. He asked me if I had spoken to Craig, I said I hadn’t seen him that day. He said “ok” and I went back into the gym to lift. I thought that Craig must be disappointed his other gym would be closed. I looked back to the front and I saw Craig talking with Chris, I couldn’t hear what they were saying but Chris kept nodding his head, they both walked to a locked set of double doors where old broken gym equipment was kept, after about 30 seconds they both came out and Craig had a chrome 50 lb bar for powerlifting. Craig walked up to me and said “Kid, you want to do some deads with me?” I responded “Hell Yeah!”.

We warmed up with 135 each, Craig had the chrome bar and I used a standard gym bar.

I didn’t know how long I would last with deads, the most I had done was 475 and that was one time, hadn’t touched it since, as of late 455 was about as much as I could do.

As we warmed up with 2 plates, I looked at Craig and the weights looked like toys he was picking up, for me they were already feeling somewhat heavier.

As I finished 405 I was feeling good, I had nailed 9 reps, which at the time was a good set for me, Craig was still just warming up.

As I finished 405 I was feeling good, I had nailed 9 reps, which at the time was a good set for me, Craig was still just warming up.

Then Craig looks at me and says “C'mon, I need your help for a minute”. We walk back to the other side of the gym to the double doors, he goes in and I follow, in the storage room was a myriad of old stationary bikes, rusted bars, broken plates, and snapped cables.

I see Craig crouch down and pick up a large object, it looks like a 45 lb plate but it says 100lbs on it, he motions his head down to the place he picked it up and says “Get the other one.” I grab the rusty plate and its thick and heavy, difficult to carry but Ill be damned if I let Craig see me struggle with it, I carry it back to where our bars were and he puts one on each side of his bar.

He squats down in front of the bar, rolls it back and forth in his grip, then with a sudden surge peels the bar from the floor, I can hear the plates rattling and he bangs out 15 reps. I don’t know how much weight he had on the bar, but it had to be in excess of 600 lbs. I cant let him see me not go heavier so I grab a 25 and start to put it on the bar, but before I can bend down to slide it on Craig looks at me and says shaking his head from side to side “Kid” and he’s holding his hand up with 5 fingers showing. I look at him with a doubtful look and say “Five plates? seriously?” he simply nods in affirmation.

So I returned the 25 to the tree and grab a 45lb plate, the whole time thinking 'no fucking way!’. So I get ready to do my set, I shake my head with doubt and I hear Craig say 'Kid, don’t let that bar punk you". Now, I don’t know what it was about the way he said it but I thought 'hell no, I’m not going to let this fucker beat me down’ I grabbed the bar, I took a deep breath and cleared my mind, I pulled up and back and the bar came up and slowly ascended, it scraped my shins and I could feel it hit my knee caps but the shit was moving and I thought I might shit my pants. I stood straight up with the bar in hand, and then let the weight down with a crash. I was psyched, 495 was a new personal best, I looked at Craig and he was actually smiling, he nodded and said “very nice”.

Some people had taken notice of what we were doing, the fitness gym crowd wasn’t used to seeing big weights getting lifted like that. I saw Chris walking to us and he had a yellow rubber coated 100 lb powerlifting plate in his hands. He looked at Craig and said “look what I found”. Craig nodded and put the plate on the end of the bar, Chris looked at me and said “Jay there’s another one in my office, can you grab it?”. I nodded and went to his office and grabbed the bulky plate returning to them both and putting it on for Craig.

Chris looked at the bar, then turned to Craig and said “810”. Craig simply nodded. I couldn’t believe my eyes, I had never seen a bar with that much weight on it.

Craig stared at the bar, it was a cold stare, he was breathing deeply, and exhaling slowly, it was like some meditation, he was going somewhere else, somewhere deep in his mind that he had to draw upon for strength.

Onlookers had gathered, there must have been a dozen men and women looking on as Craig squatted down to grab hold of the bar.

I could feel my own heart beating in anticipation, then he methodically exploded up, his face turning a shade of red like I had never seen on him. His neck veins bulged out so far I thought they may burst. It was an awesome spectacle of raw power but the even more impressive feat was that he didn’t do it only one time, no, he repped it six times, with the finally coming with an explosive crash that must have registered on a Richter scale.

Craig remained prone for a moment his breathing more like panting, he slowly recovered and stood nodding his head. The he looked over to me and said “Your turn” pointing to my bar with 495 still loaded. I looked at him in disbelief and said “Again??”, he looked at me blankly and said “No, with more”.

I really didn’t think I could do any better than 495, that was a personal best for gods sake! So I grabbed a 25 lb plate and looked at Craig with my eyebrows raised as if to make sure it was enough weight to satisfy him, he nodded, and I put on two 25 lb plates, one per side.

At this point I was shitting my pants, no way I could do this, I would try it, but when I failed I would just have to fail.

Craig said something to me that I will never forget, he said to me with a calm like a parent to a child “Kid, that weight isn’t shit, there’s a lot worse things than that” I stood there for a moment contemplating his words, then it hit me. He was right, a weight is a simple small thing, life is an unfair, motherfucker and it will beat you down again and again, its unpredictable and unyielding, this bar full of iron is just a thing, its nothing compared to the difficulties of life.

I grabbed the bar, I could feel a lump in my throat, and my adrenaline was pumping hard. I took hold of the weight and tightened my grip and straps around the bar, becoming one with it. The onlookers watched but it was like that moment I was by myself, just me and that bar. Like a jolt of electricity I yanked the bar up, it started to move but stalled on my shins, Craig yelled “UUPPP!!!” I pulled I could feel my heels digging in and my traps stinging, it slowly started to move, centimeter by centimeter I pulled the bar up, it was as if it took 20 minutes and then I had it all the way there. I could see my face was blood red, and my veins in my neck were also pushing out. I dropped the weight and collapsed to my knee with it.

I could hear people talking but my ears were ringing, I recovered and stood up, as I looked around Craig was smiling again and looked at me saying “See?”.

Chris came up and patted me on the back. I was amazed I couldn’t believe I actually did that.

Now Craig got up, he walked over to the tree and grabbed two more 45’s. He slid one on each end of his bar, I looked at him like I was watching a man be led to the gas chamber. Chris looked at Craig calmly saying “900 pounds, just like the old days brother.” Craig grinned and nodded in acknowledgement.

Now there must have been thirty people back there watching, there were odd whispers, people asking others how much it is, and others simply astonished that this silent giant possessed such strength.

Craig kneeled down in front of that bar, it was like someone bowing down to an executioner.

Then he stood up. Was something wrong? He reached down and pulled up the bottom of his sweatshirt and pulled it up and off. What I saw was unbelievable. The man was a mass of slabs of muscle and covered in tattoos. Down the backs of his arms were words. On the right arm it read “I am nothing” and down the left “I feel nothing.” His traps were like two huge camel humps side by side on the back of his neck and he wasn’t 'fat’ or 'overweight’ no, he was just fucking huge. His body was like his hand, lumps of callous muscles from the years of pain and toil in his life and in the gym, it was simply unbelievable.

Craig adjusted his belt, and strapped back onto his bar. It was very quiet, and then I head Chris say “You got this shit Craig!” People started cheering him on, I could hear people saying “C'mon Craig”, “You got it bro!” It was amazing, all the while Craig was breathing very deep, very methodically, rolling the bar back and forth in his hands.

He stared into the mirror, I don’t know what he saw but his nostrils started to flare, and he looked like he was getting pissed, his eyes started to well up, almost like he may cry, and he stared blankly at a spot on the floor just in front of the bar. Wherever he was, he wasn’t with us, I imagine he was in that very dark place that his life had taken him drawing upon a well of emotions full of hate, anguish and pain. It was as if he was channeling all of that into the bar, he was breathing harder, and he hadn’t even lifted the bar yet, he was shaking all over. I looked to his reflection in the mirror and said “this is nothing for you brother” he nodded and then growled “I GOT THIS SHIT!!”, then it was as if his entire body uncoiled driven by the hydraulics of his emotion, the bar bent, his traps were spotted with purple spots through the hew of red he cried out “FUUUCCKKKK YYOOUU!” and the weight stalled, I thought he may drop it, but his eyes closed and his face winced in anguish and the bar moved upwards, I don’t know it was the sweat from his face but I could have sworn tears came out of his eyes, and bar traveled further up until he had it midriff. He stood there and he opened his eyes back up, they were bloodshot and tear filled and his pupils were so dilated that the blue of his eyes was gone and it was pure black, it reminded me of one of those videos of a great white shark taking a bite.

Then he and the bar dropped. At first I thought he may have passed out but he didn’t, he put his hand up to let us know he was ok. People started to fucking clap, I looked around at them and couldn’t believe what I was witnessing.

As he kneel down catching his breath, I walked up and crouched next to him, and said “That was the most spectacular thing I have ever seen in my life, nice lift bro.” He was still panting but he nodded, so I know he heard me.

Then one of the gym tards yelled out “DAMN PIGPEN GET OFF THE JUICE DUDE!!!” I swung around, I didn’t even think about what I was doing, some 30 some year old yuppie fuck with an underarmour tank top and a fucked up stick physique. I grabbed him by his arm as he tried to walk away, he swung around looking at me in surprise and I looked him in the eyes and I said “HIS FUCKING NAME IS CRAIG…C-R-A-I-G…CAN YOU SPELL ASSHOLE?!!”.

The idiot looked at me embarrassed and replied in a low tone “I’m sorry man, his name is Craig” then he looked at my hand still grasping into his flesh and I quickly let him go. I turned to look back at Craig and he was sitting on a bench and staring at me, he just looked at me and nodded, I nodded back.

Craig still went to the gym for about another year, I talked to him frequently there about training and bodybuilding, I often reminisced about the day we did deadlifts, at this point I was lifting 585 on deads, and all because of Craig’s tutelage.

After that year Craig disappeared, Chris told me he hadn’t seen him, but heard he moved to another state. Craig and I only spoke at the gym, he had no cell phone, I had never seen his place and I had never even had any clue where he lived.

But though I barely knew the guy, I considered him one of my closest friends.

The years went by and I trained hard entered my first show, even managed to make it to Nationals. I always wondered what happened to Craig, I wanted to talk to my old friend and get his advice like I had when I was just starting out, he always had the simple answers, so many of the training gurus tried to make things complicated, and Craig just had a sentence or two to say and was spot on with his advice.

Then one day after a workout I went home, there was a police car in front of my house. I walked up and there were two officers walking towards me, they asked me if I was Jay, I told them I was, they informed me Craig had passed. I asked how, they told me he died in his sleep. So I asked them why they were telling me this, and the one officer replied that Craig had no known family members still living and that his only will and testament stated that I was his next of kin.

I didn’t know what to say, they told me they were sorry for my loss, but I didn’t even really hear them. They got in their car and pulled away, I stood motionless in my yard, then I snapped out of the shock I was in and went inside, I called Chris to tell him and he was saddened by the news.

I sat down and reflected on my mentor of young, the guy that no one understood, the person who people made fun of and taunted and he had been one of the biggest impacts on my life. He was a man of very few words but his words had such a great impression on me. I felt very saddened like the world had just lost something very good, and didn’t even realize it.

The next day I was in a fog, I really had no clue how to act, my co-workers asked me if everything was ok I told them “My good friend passed away yesterday”.

Later that week as I came to grips with my friends death, I came home from work to find an mail envelope package on my doorstep.

I opened it up and it was a letter and several photos. I read the letter and it was handwritten in pencil on notebook paper.

“Dear Jay,

If you are reading this, I have died. My life was hard, very hard. For a long time I felt empty and the gym was the only thing I had to remind me that I was still alive. The pain of working out and pushing myself reminded me every day that I was still alive. I have been keeping my eye on your competitive career, and have seen some of your shows. I’m proud of you kid.

I always wanted to thank you, but I’m not very good at conversation as you know. I wanted to thank you for the day we did deadlifts. That one day I felt like I was a human being again, I felt the best I have felt in my entire life. You were a great inspiration to me, at a time when I was losing hope.

Thanks for being my friend.

Your good bro.

Craig”

By the time I finished reading the letter I was crying badly, I hadn’t cried in years, but I was weeping like a baby.

I looked at the photos from my shows, they were taken from the audience, Craig had been at my shows, and I hadn’t even known it. I guess he was keeping his eye on me making sure I was progressing not sitting back being lazy…I don’t know why exactly he was there, but he was there, and I’m glad that he got to see that.

Under the photos was a legal document, it was Craig’s will, I read through the legal jargon and towards the end it started to itemize all the belongings that Craig had left behind, and that since I was his only kin that I would be getting these possessions.

He left a sizeable amount of cash, a truck, his house, and his personal belongings in the house, but the last item on the list was the most priceless of all…one chrome fifty pound powerlifting bar.

[lotus0kid]

OUaT: A Real Hero follow-up

((A little bit more about the lady of Collioure and her steadfast knight. NSFW))

When the castle’s towers appear between the trees, a sound escapes Belle that’s somewhere between a laugh, a gasp, and a sob.  She covers it with a cough when the nearest guard throws her a curious glance.  But her heart still flutters in her chest and she resists the fierce urge to spur her horse into a gallop so she can make it home just a few minutes faster.

It feels like years since she last saw Collioure, and indeed it has been about a quarter of one.  But it was her duty to tour the region once the army completed their southern campaign, to see what villages survived and offer assistance, and discuss the re-establishment of trade.  The novelty of travel itself made the work fascinating, but Belle has been aching for home, and all the people she left behind.  Her mother, Brevet, Verna.  Rumpel. Belle’s stomach does a flip as both anticipation and anxiety shoot through her.  There is another duty that’s been on her mind.

Belle and her guards follow the cleared road through tilled and seeded fields.  She nods and smiles at the farmers who wave their hats and shout greetings before she rides into the new construction.  She counts six buildings that have gone up in her absence. Very soon, all evidence of the ruins will be gone.  The library will be the last, as the largest of the wrecked hulks.  But it will be done, and Belle is already setting aside funds for its replacement.

 People abandon their work and stream out of houses to follow Belle through the gate and into town, their voices rising in a chorus of cheers and the new poems and songs Belle pretends she doesn’t know every word of.  They’ve almost made an impromptu festival by the time they reach the castle entrance. Belle waves to them all before guiding her horse to a waiting groom and dismounting.

 Verna skips out to meet her in seconds, less a sergeant-at-arms in this moment than an excited young woman.  Belle collects an enthusiastic hug with a wide smile before pulling away.  “Right, I’ll need to meet with the council.”

 Verna gapes at her.  “What?  You’ve just returned!  And it’s almost time for supper.  Surely it can wait.”

 Belle lets her smile fade into a mildly stern look.

 Verna holds up her hands. “All right, all right, I’ll gather them up, shall I?”

 The pair enter the castle and split off so Verna can hunt down the council and Belle can go to her office.  This place- she knows every inch of it, and yet coming back makes it all new, down to the smell of old wood and parchment in the air.  Belle winces a bit as she bends sore legs to sit behind her desk. Her hands automatically reach for reports that aren’t there.  She twists her lips and leans back in her seat, gaze wandering to the ceiling as familiarity slowly returns, accompanied by fatigue from the day’s ride.

 She startles into alertness as the door swings open, revealing the panting form of her husband. Belle smiles around a bitten lip before murmuring, “Hey.”

 Rumpel takes two wide steps toward her but freezes when Brevet arrives with Colette.

 “Oh, Mother!” Belle exclaims, “I- I was coming to see you for supper.”

 Colette raises an eyebrow while stepping around the desk to drop a kiss on Belle’s cheek.  “I am capable of leaving my chambers if the reason is compelling enough,” she quips, “Such as seeing my daughter for the first time this season.”

 Belle gives her a humble nod.  “It’s good to see you too, Mother.  It’s good to see all of you,” she says to Brevet, and Martine and Victurnien who file in behind him, and to Rumpel.  “Please sit, everyone.  This won’t be a long meeting, just a quick update and then off to supper.  Firstly, let it be witnessed here that I resume my duties as governor of Collioure, and thank Sir Rumpelstiltskin for his service.”

 There’s a murmur of acknowledgement, but Belle hardly hears it when her gaze catches Rumpel’s.  A wave of warmth rolls through her as she sinks into the dark depth of his eyes.  He blinks, and she manages to look away and cough gently, only able then to reorganize her thoughts and carry on with the meeting.

 Happily no catastrophes befell Collioure while she was away.  Rejuvenating the village has progressed on schedule.  Belle and Martine decide to postpone a discussion of food inventory until she has tomorrow’s reports.  Victurnien informs her that he’s making preparations a month in advance for Olene’s day, certain that it will be even livelier than last year. Brevet has no crimes of note to report. Belle gives them a brief outline of her travels, remarking on a shared desire among neighboring villages for Collioure’s fish, which will no doubt thrill Arnaud when he returns from his latest voyage.

 “Very well, I think we can bring this meeting to a close,” Belle says, “I’m very glad to be back, glad to know everything is running smoothly.  Thank you all.”

 The council give their nods and soft words of departure before beginning to file out.

 Belle holds up a hand as Rumpel rises.  “Wait, could you?  For just a moment?”

 “Of course,” he says, lowering himself back down.

 Belle turns to Colette, “Mother, we’ll join you for supper in a little while.  Is that all right?”

 “Certainly, dear,” she replies with a smile, even as her eyes dart between Belle and Rumpel.  She pads from the office, joining Brevet where he waits by the door.  He pulls it shut behind her, leaving an enormous silence to bloom in the office.

 Belle glances in Rumpel’s direction, then frowns at the wide expanse of her desk between them.  This is definitely the wrong arrangement for this conversation.  She stands and rounds the desk, settling on the chair beside him.

 He watches her, his face calm but not free of an undercurrent of worry.  He likely can’t imagine what might come out of her mouth. “Welcome home,” he ventures with a crooked smile.

 “Thank you,” Belle says, a ball of warmth settling in her stomach, alongside the nerves.  “You’re well?”

 “I am.  And you?”

 “Tired,” she admits, “It was a long ride today.  But, that’s the end of it.  No more travelling.”

 Rumpel’s smile widens. “Home for good.”

 “Yes, for a while. And, uh...  Seeing as that’s been decided, I’ve been thinking about what should happen next.”

 Rumpel’s eyebrows jump and he sits forward in his chair.  “Right, of course.  The library, yes?  Have you considered the idea of expansion more?  A university, you said, maybe.”

 “Maybe.  I think we’ll need to wait on that though, until we know how much money we can spend on it.”

 Rumpel shrinks back a bit. “Ah, all right.  So, is there something else?”

 Do the brave thing, Belle reminds herself.  She swallows and lifts her chin and says, “Yes.  I’ve been thinking about...  about the, uh... the next generation.  If there is to be one, now would be a- a good time to...”  Her bravery fails, leaving her to flap her hands vaguely.

 She might have dumped a bucket of ice water on Rumpel.  He sits motionless but for a single gulp and a slow blink of his wide eyes. Eventually, he unfreezes enough to mutter, “Oh.  I see.”

 “It’s just a thought really,” Belle hurries to explain, “I mean, I’m here.  I’m not going anywhere.  And the campaign’s done.  We’re rebuilding.  Growing, even.  Our neighbors will rebuild too.  We’ve turned the corner now, I think.  And I... I’m ready.  But if you’re not, I completely understand.”  She unthinkingly lays a hand on Rumpel’s forearm.  His fingers curl into a loose fist, but before she can draw away, his other hand covers hers.

 His eyes are trained on the floor as he draws in and releases a breath.  “Yes, I’m ready.”

 Belle’s brow furrows as she leans forward slightly, trying to catch his gaze.  “You’ve never told me what you thought I wanted to hear before, Rumpel.  Don’t start now.”

 He huffs out a laugh, and his gaze leaves the floor, but still doesn’t seem quite able to land on Belle. “Gods forbid.  No, I... performing your duties these past few months, I’ve come to see that you’re right.  We have turned a corner.  This is no longer a village at war.  Collioure is growing, and I...  I would like our family to grow with it.”

 At last he looks at her, and his eyes are steady and clear.  Belle tries to meet them with a smile, as a host of new nerves colonizes her stomach.

 It’s no good.  Worry clouds Rumpel’s face again.  “Are you certain you’re ready?” he asks softly, “It’s a great deal more work for you than it is for me.  More dangerous too.”

 Belle directs a heavy stare at a corner of the office.  “I know. But that’s how it is.  Nothing will change it.  I’ll have more support than most.  My mother, our healers, a whole castle to rest and recuperate in.” She turns to Rumpel again, and lays her other hand over his.  “Anything that’s worth having is worth fighting for.  I’m ready to fight for this, if I have to.”

 A wondering glow comes to Rumpel’s eyes and his hand between hers squeezes.  But then his chin dips and his gaze darts away as he mumbles, “Right, well, ah...  I suppose it’s just a question of when.  When we should... start.”

 Yes.  Indeed.  Gods, the awkwardness ratcheting up between them is bloody ridiculous, as if she and Rumpel have never so much as touched before.  They’ve been as intimate as possible with their mouths and hands.  Belle isn’t afraid that Rumpel will hurt her. He never has and she knows he never will, not if there’s any way to avoid it.  But this would be about so much more than them.  Their whole future hangs over it like dark clouds that could bring nourishing rain or a terrible storm, and they won’t know which until it’s far too late.

 Belle’s bravery collapses again and she mutters, “We- we’ll just see.  Nothing must happen right away.”

 “Yes, of course.”

 “Supper then?”

 “Supper.”

 They bolt from the office and hide for a while in Colette’s chambers, making desperately light conversation over their meals and sipping tea for over an hour.  Colette must eventually and ever so politely kick them out so she can go to sleep.  They meander back to their chambers and prepare for bed in silence, gazes firmly averted from each other.

 When finally confronted with the fact of their empty, waiting bed, Belle hears herself blurt out, “I might visit the library...” just as Rumpel says, “I think I’ll do some reading before...”

 They both trail off, exchanging abashed looks across the mattress.

 Belle is the first to break the silence, briskly announcing, “Yes, let’s go.”

 They pull on enough clothes to be decent, and escape from their bedroom.  Once in the library, they scurry among the shelves, emerging with no less than three books each.  Belle stirs the embers in the hearth until they catch and she and Rumpel drop with twin sighs into their respective chairs.  They plunge into their books without another word, and for a while achieve a measure of peace.

 It was a mistake, Belle thinks, to drop the notion of a child on Rumpel the moment she arrived home. If she’d only waited, they could’ve reunited properly.  They could be in bed right now giving each other a real hello.  Her cheeks burn even as she wonders what she’s embarrassed about. There’s nothing wrong with what she and Rumpel have been doing, but she fears they might have lost it, if the threat of the future chases them from their own bed.

 Belle’s so lost in her fretting she barely hears Rumpel softly call her name.  “Oh, uh, yes?”

 “I just recalled, there was a book I was looking for the other day, but I couldn’t find it.  Can you help me track it down?”

 “Yes, of course,” she replies, beyond grateful to have a simple task to complete, “What was it?”

 “Well, I’m not sure it had a title.  It was something Victurnien told me about, a kind of compendium of Marshland gods.  He said it was one of the oldest books in the library.  Do you know it?”

 “One of the oldest...” Belle echoes as she mentally runs through the library’s collection.  “I think I know what he meant, come with me.”

 She takes his hand and a lit candle from the hearth’s mantle and leads him deep into the shelves.  She pauses at the end of one to set the candle in a brass holder, then continues along the row with her free hand skimming over the spines.  Soon she pauses again and gingerly slides a book from a shelf just above her head. It is clearly old, with a worn leather cover and yellowed pages that crinkle at the edges.  “This is about as old as it gets,” she murmurs, holding it in both hands, “We don’t even know who wrote it exactly.  They did a beautiful job, though.  Look.”

 Rumpel comes to stand close behind her so he can watch as she opens the book, revealing a page that’s dense with elaborate calligraphy.  “Hunh,” he says, and his warm breath puffs over Belle’s neck, sending a shiver down her body, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to read it.  I’ve never seen writing like that.”

 “It can be a bit of a struggle,” Belle concedes, “The illustrations help.  See?”

 She turns more pages until they come upon an intricate image of Rohion with his plow and winged horses. “That is beautiful,” Rumpel says as he moves a little closer, peering over her shoulder while just the pads of his fingers come to rest on her lower back.  Belle’s breath stutters.

 “It- it would look better in sunlight,” she whispers, “You could see more of the colors.”

 “But that would damage the paper, wouldn’t it?”

 Belle can hardly believe he was actually listening when she subjected him to one of her lectures on book preservation.  Her heart melts, and she lets herself lean back against him slightly.  “Yes, it would.”

 “Tragic.”

 Belle turns a few more pages, and lets out a gasped laugh as a new illustration is revealed, this one featuring several people at varying levels of nakedness intimately entwined under a tree.  A goddess watches over them benevolently while holding a garland of red roses in her raised hands.  Cheeks aflame, Belle mumbles, “That’s- ah, that’s Olene.  It seems she was very busy that day.”

 She begins to turn the page, but Rumpel’s hand appears, covering her own at the top of the book, holding it open.  The hand on her back spreads until his full palm radiates heat into her skin.  He moves even closer, and his lips almost brush her neck as he breathes, “I- I just wanted... I wanted...”

 Belle bites her lip to hold in a whimper as warmth flows through her, pooling between her legs. She gazes through slitted eyes at the illustration, the people there so free to love and be loved.  Newlyweds, like her and Rumpel.  Yes, it has been over a year, but they’re still discovering new things about each other.  Belle doubts that will ever stop, or at least she hopes not.  They could discover something else, right here, right now, if they're brave enough.  Suddenly Belle is feeling very brave.

 All she has to do is turn her head, and Rumpel’s mouth meets hers hotly.  He lets out a deep groan as she turns fully and wraps an arm around his neck, her other arm dangling at her side still holding the book.  Rumpel surges forward until Belle’s back meets the shelves.  Their cold press allows her to regain her faculties long enough to mutter, “Wait, wait...”  Rumpel leans away a few inches while Belle lifts the book up and returns it safely to its place on the shelf without looking.  “There, that’s better.”

 Rumpel stares at her, lips parted and eyes dark.  “I love you so much.”

 Belle’s heart thuds heavily and she gapes at him.  “What?”

 Helplessness spreads across his face as his head tilts to one side.  “Was there ever a doubt in your mind?”

 Doubt?  No.  Fear? Always.  Fear that if she let this thing between them be all that it could be, she’d lose it, like she lost nearly everything in the war.  Her father.  Her mother, as Belle once knew her.  Any sense of peace or safety.  Her innocence.  It almost destroyed her to lose so much- what would be left if she lost this too?  It’s the desperate act of a traumatized mind, but she’s always held back from Rumpel, just in case.  Kept a part of her heart as cold and hard as iron, ready to let the lady of Collioure take over, and weather the blows of a cruel world while Belle hides.

 But the war has ended. There is new life everywhere she looks. And Rumpel is still here.  Holding her, smiling at her, opening his heart to her. Forever, that’s what he told her. Perhaps it’s safe now.  Perhaps she isn’t alone anymore.  Perhaps she can take that last step into the light.  She wraps her arms around Rumpel and clings as tightly as she can.  His arms band around her just as tight.  “I love you, Belle,” he whispers the words, but she thinks she’d hear him even if she was standing on top of the Blue Mountains.

 “Yes.  And I love you too.”  Her heart throbs as if it’s taking on a new beat.  Tears seep from her squeezed-shut eyes and she trembles against Rumpel like she’s made of twigs.

 He leans back, trailing his lips feather-light across her cheek, through the tracks of her tears. He pauses and licks the salt from his lips, and his thumbs come up to wipe her cheeks clean.  “My love, my beautiful Belle,” he murmurs, seeming entirely sincere as he gazes at her blotchy, damp, overheated face.

 “Rumpel...” she sighs, and closes the distance between them again, kissing him firmly while both arms loop around his neck and she arches against him and hooks a leg around his thigh.

 She can feel him start to rake up her skirt when the library door opens and the chatter of two maids floats over to them.  Belle tears her mouth from Rumpel’s, her body gone rigid as she listens.

 “Let her ask again, I’ll give her a piece of my mind,” one maid is saying, “Thinks everyone ought to bend over backwards doing favors for her.  Have you ever seen her help out in the laundry?”

 The other maid scoffs. “Hardly.”

 “Too right.  Little Miss Lucille will have to- oh, look at all this left out.  And the fire still burning, my goodness.”

 “Might have been the lady and her knight.”

 “Nah, they clean up better than this.”

 “Well, maybe they were in a hurry,” the second maid slyly quips, “She did come home just today.”

 Rumpel snorts into Belle’s shoulder.  She pokes an elbow into his gut, lips twisting to hide a giggle.

 “Maybe.  Anyway, I’ll bank down the fire and straighten this mess up. You put out the candles.  All of them, mind.”

 “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it...”

 Belle’s eyes widen as she stares at the candle lighting this particular row of shelves.  She shrugs out of Rumpel’s arms and scurries to the brass holder.  One quick blow snuffs the flame, and sheltering darkness closes in.  Rumpel soon follows, taking hold of Belle again and walking her backwards into the deepest shadows.  Belle lets herself be taken, grinning as Rumpel’s hands glide over her body.  She swallows a gasp as one ventures between her legs.  It stills there, above her overdress and nightdress, a simple statement of what could happen once they’re alone.  Belle can’t help rocking into it for a zing of sweet friction.  Rumpel’s other arm tightens around her waist, and she can feel the thick line of his cock at her backside.  For once she wishes her maids weren’t so thorough in their work.

 Belle silently endures their gossip and the row of soft kisses Rumpel lays along her neck until finally the library door shuts and she turns so Rumpel’s back hits the shelves. Her head falls to his shoulder while they both drag up her skirts.  Rumpel’s hand sweeps over her abdomen once before moving down to slide his fingers through her damp folds.  Belle jolts and moans at the first rush of pleasure, one leg bending and falling open in fervent invitation for more.  She hastily plucks at the laces of her bodice, and the moment there’s enough space Rumpel’s other hand reaches in to squeeze her breast in time with his thumb brushing her clit.  It’s all Belle can do to stay upright on one foot while the rest of her body melts with pleasure.

 Her hips tilt and she feels herself rising on her toes, in search of more though she isn’t sure of what. Her hand dives down to cover Rumpel’s, stopping the thorough exploration of his fingers and instead pressing his whole palm against her flesh, giving her something to rock against while one finger pushes inside her.

 “Yes,” Belle sighs as he strokes along her inner walls. Rumpel’s breath shudders at her neck as his hips match the roll of hers and the thrust of his finger.

 “More?” he quietly suggests after some unknowable span of time.

 Belle hums her agreement, letting out a slow breath as another finger slips into her.  Rumpel’s other hand moves her knee, holding it up and open as her leg has started to shake with the effort.  It’s good, so good, more than enough to send her over the edge in a minute or two.  But she knows, as languid and euphoric as she’ll feel afterwards, there will still be a tiny part of her that isn’t quite satisfied.  So she weakly grasps at Rumpel’s wrist and mutters, “S-stop, wait.”

 “What?” There’s a note of panic in his voice, even as he does as told.

 Belle gently removes his hand from between her legs, shivering as her electrified nerves let out a cry of protest.  “This way,” she says, and walks as well as she can to the far wall of the library, traveling along it to the corner where her old cot stands in pale moonlight. Her stomach flutters once again, but there’s no anxiety now.  This is exactly what she wants.  Still, that’s not the only thing that matters.  She turns to face Rumpel and rest a hand on his cheek.  “Ready?”

 “Yes,” he replies before tugging Belle into his arms for a deep kiss they lose themselves in for a while.

 As pleasant as that is, she knows he must be aching as much as her, and so guides Rumpel to sit on the cot with his back pressed against some out-of-date atlases.  Belle pulls her loosened overdress off, hikes up her nightdress, and straddles Rumpel’s lap.  He watches with a heated smile while she unlaces his vest, and sits up obediently to let her push it off his shoulders, staying there to steal a kiss. Belle grins and swiftly steals it back and soon enough they’re both giggling between messy pecks while their hands grip and pull off more clothing.

 The thought that she’s never been naked in the library before occurs to Belle somewhere in the haze of her arousal, but it doesn’t rank nearly as high as her delight in the smooth warmth of Rumpel’s bare skin.  Her hands glide over his chest and arms, catching here and there on old scars. He’ll gain no more of those, if she has her way.  She’ll keep him safe, forever.

 “Belle, please...” Rumpel sighs as he grasps at her hips, not quite thrusting against her but clearly asking to.

 “Sorry,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to his while undoing the laces of his trousers.  She dips her hand in to free his erection and he casts his head back against the books with a groan.  She strokes him slowly, using her thumb to spread around the moisture dripping from the tip.  A little anxiety darts through her stomach then- he is definitely bigger than two fingers, or even three.  But she does want him.  Stopping now might make her weep.  “Come here,” she murmurs.

 Rumpel rocks forward and his mouth meets hers in a kiss Belle quickly deepens.  She rises onto her knees while still holding Rumpel’s cock and bracing her other hand on his shoulder.  Once he’s pushed his trousers down to his thighs, and she has the head nestled just inside her, she lowers herself slowly, breaking their kiss to breathe through the stretch.  Rumpel seems to have stopped breathing, holding statue-still as Belle sinks down on him.  After the final inch or two she lets her forehead fall to his shoulder as she makes sense of what she’s feeling.  It’s not bad, but it is odd.  Rumpel loops his arms around her waist and asks in a small, tense voice, “A-are you all right?”

 Belle swallows, and says, “Yes.”  She lifts her head to nuzzle her nose against Rumpel’s and wrap her arms around his shoulders.  His hold on her tightens slightly and he shifts beneath her, which sends a small rush of sensation rolling from where they’re joined, causing her to gasp.

 “Belle?”

 “No, I’m- I just...”  She shifts against him, and some of the oddness falls away as her body remembers how it’s always reacted to his touch. This isn’t really so different.

 “Ah, gods, Belle,” Rumpel gasps as she finds a rhythm that pleases them both.  She smiles to see how even her tentative movements bring him pleasure.  She gets the same sense of pride when she uses her hands or mouth on him, but it’s somehow different like this, face to face and with her own pleasure soaring alongside his.  He grasps her thighs and meets her rolling hips with his own thrusts, hitting some place within Belle that has her biting back a ragged cry.  No one’s meant to come into the library after the night maids have done their rounds, but a noise like that might be enough to attract the castle guard.

 Their movements grow frantic as pleasure mounts higher and higher and it’s soon a race to reach their climaxes.  Belle buries her hands in Rumpel’s hair, seals her mouth over his, and strokes at her clit until the pressure inside bursts and orgasm roars through her.  An instant later Rumpel’s hands clench hard and his body tenses around and inside her.  They sag against each other as the last aftershocks fade, hands lazily roaming over arms and backs.

 “So... seems like tha’ went well,” Rumpel remarks, words a bit slurred.

 “Seems like,” Belle echoes faintly.  “Though, we may want to try again.  Once or twice.  Just to be sure.”

 His chuckle vibrates into her.  “Very prudent, my love.”

 Belle grins, “I try, my love.”

 She settles herself more comfortably in Rumpel’s arms as her eyes slip shut.  They can’t stay here the whole night- even without the risk of being caught by the morning maids, the cot isn’t nearly big enough for two people to stretch out on.  But Belle lets that worry drift into the distance for now.  All she wants is to stay right here, wrapped up in the man she loves, dreaming of their happy future.

[starlingstory]

Starling: Chapter Twenty-Nine

«First Next>

Kenna pulled over on the shoulder somewhere more dust than sidewalk. She killed the ignition and half-leaned, half-crawled into the back seat to stare at Roy’s screen. Elliott and Alex had both abandoned their sulks to look too, which totaled three enormous people craning into his space, reading and rereading Laura’s message over his shoulder.

“What does that mean, rescue will be complete by dawn?” said Kenna, jabbing a claw at the phrase in question.

“Before sunrise,” Roy rephrased, unsure if that was what she was really asking, but unable to understand anything more complex about it himself. His voice sounded flat and distant even to him.

"Did something happen?” demanded Elliott.

Kenna withdrew to the front to fiddle with her own comp for a moment. "Nothing in the news,” she reported.

Roy sank slowly in his seat and let the conversation flow over his head.

“Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know. It means no loud loud violence has happened, so I say good.”

Alex was baring their teeth. “What do we do?"

Roy entertained a brief fantasy of intervening personally: arriving just ahead of a team of soldiers in tactical gear, at some kind of warehouse where his classmates sat bound and pale; jumping out to confront the kidnappers, yelling at them to attract their attention, drawing them away with his famous face and keeping them occupied while the authorities extracted everyone to safety.

But even if he really believed himself capable of something like that, it wouldn’t matter. There was no way to get there. This was going to happen at a complete remove from him.

“Nothing,” he said, examining the suede on the seat in front of him. “Right?”

No one answered.

Roy tried to compose a response. The only thing he was able to come up with, after a good two minutes of thought, was:

"??????”

He didn’t really expect a reply. Certainly none was forthcoming.

*

In the end, for lack of any real information, they decided to proceed with the hotel plan. Kenna hadn't been kidding about the place being inexpensive; it was just off the side of the road, a squat structure with peeling paint and a dozen other well-used cars parked out front.

All four of them went in together, to distract from Roy, who kept his chin buried in the same scarf he'd hidden behind back at the museum. It was possible the Gold at the front desk didn’t notice he was there at all, between his companions’ height and brightness and the clearly aggressive way Elliott was asking for a room.

They escorted him down the dim hallway like guards without even consulting each other, Elliott taking the lead while Alex and Kenna flanked him. The lock stuck twice before they made it inside.

The room came off as antique to Roy, and not in a good way, all plasticky faux-wood and matted shag carpeting. These were probably the cheapest lodgings he'd ever stayed in, including when he and Kira had slummed it upstate for a week the previous summer. It was cramped and smelled of cigarettes, but at least it had beds, and human-style ones at that: blankets, mattresses, all of it. His body ached just looking at them, but he wasn’t inclined to relax just now, nor had he been in the past several weeks, nor would he be maybe ever again. He stayed on his feet.

Elliott took off his cloak and threw it over the back of a simple, vaguely ergonomic-looking chair. He and Kenna exchanged some low words while Alex stalked the perimeter of the room for no reason Roy could discern, although he could relate to the impulse.

He didn't think Alex would appreciate the sentiment, though, so he kept his eyes trained on Kenna. Of all the people in the room, her demeanor was the calmest, and he hadn't personally yelled at her in the last 24 hours.

She dominated the conversation with Elliott, moving closer and closer until she was holding his wrists in a loose grip, swinging his arms gently to and fro. He relaxed his tense shoulders just enough to allow it, looking down into her eyes like they were tethering him to the earth, his crest laid back flat and miserable.

When she was done telling Elliott whatever it was she had to say, Kenna noticed Roy watching her. She squeezed Elliott's wrists and let them drop, reached up as though to touch his face, then seemed to change her mind and stepped away.

She turned to Roy. "Rest," she ordered in English.

She whistled sharply at Alex, who drifted to her side like a great unmoored sailboat.

"Don't fight," Kenna added, pointing twice, looking stern, and then they were both gone, leaving a comparatively drab patch of carpet behind them, and Roy and Elliott alone together, and the room feeling somehow smaller.

There was an analogue TV against the far wall, either ancient or alien, Roy wasn't expert enough to say. He managed to turn it on after a few moments’ fumbling, and he couldn't find a channel that wasn't staticky past comprehension. Even if the covert rescue operation were being broadcast live, there’d be no way to tell.

Grinding his teeth, he turned the white noise down—not off, in case something did come through. He set his comp out on the table between the two beds where he would notice any new messages.

Despite looking everywhere in the room but at Elliott, he couldn’t help observing that Elliott’s hands were trembling. His arms were crossed and he was scratching fretfully his forearms, yanking out small feathers here and there.

Roy walked past him and into the small bathroom.

The plumbing here was foreign but basically resembled what he was used to; after a moment’s experimentation, he was able to turn the shower on as high and hot as it would go.

He locked the door behind him and peeled off the clothes he’d been wearing for days. He grimaced; they were steeped with the sour, unpleasant tang of panic sweat, plus a heavy base of regular B.O. He threw it all in the sink with half a mini bottle of shampoo and scrubbed till the suds were gone and the dingy water drained away. He avoided looking in the mirror until it was partially clouded over, but he still cringed at what he saw. His hair was greasy, his face haggard, and Alex Red had given him a truly spectacular shiner. He didn’t look like himself. He looked desperate and violent, maybe the way Jet Calabi had at his age.

He looked away and stepped into the shower. The pressure was weak but the water was punishingly hot, the steam thick and scouring to breathe in. He let himself cook under the tap until his thoughts were dull and fuzzy—but his body didn't receive the message and was still on high alert. His heart was pounding still, his stomach churning.

Roy picked a sturdy-looking patch of tile on the floor, gripped the top of the shower to keep from slipping, and slammed his foot into it over and over: carefully, so he wouldn’t injure himself, but as hard as he could, sending sharp, satisfying shocks up his shins. He doubted the sound of the running water would mask his tantrum, but at least it would be muffled some.

He stayed in the shower till his legs were sore and his breathing was labored and his skin was a dark, bruised red. He felt wrung-out and exhausted, but he'd exorcised at least a little of that sick, nervous energy.

When he came out, Elliott was lying on the bed furthest from the window, curled up as well as his bulky shoulders would allow. He’d taken off the rest of his outdoor clothes, and Roy could see that his feathers were unkempt and ill-maintained.

He felt a strange sort of vertigo, looking down instead of up to meet Elliott's eyes, and for a split second he was transported. Six months ago, he never would have thought he'd ache for the simplicity of taking the elevator to Elliott’s chilly dorm room, getting in a stupid, gut-wrenching argument, and then coming back for more the next night.

Roy dragged his eyes away and turned around to lay his dripping clothes out on the carpet with a series of faint wet slaps. He identified the device in the wall that had to be the hair dryer, and made sure the towel around his waist was secure before he squatted and took aim, switching it on to generate a faint hum and a fainter heat. He tried to concentrate on drying the clothes, but lost focus immediately when he heard Elliott’s mattress shift and saw, out of the corner of his eye, as he walked away from him.

His stomach swooped at the thought that Elliott would leave, but he only moved to the chair where his cloak was draped and reached into its pockets, silently pulling out fistfuls of cash and small gadgets and setting them on the side table. When it was empty, he turned without a word and held the cloak out out to Roy.

Roy swallowed and stood to accept it. He retreated a couple steps before dragging it on over his head. He had no way of knowing if this was the same cloak he’d borrowed after being shot at, but against his bare skin it felt thick and well-worn. It was warm enough and long enough, he decided, that he could lose the damp towel without sacrificing his modesty.

He turned to add the towel to the lineup, took a look at the sodden little heaps on the floor and realized his plan was stupid—not to mention a surefire recipe for mildew. He stepped back into the bathroom to wring them out over the sink, then hung everything over the towel rack to air dry.

This time when he came back, Elliott was perched on the bed, sitting straight and regarding him carefully. Roy stared back without flinching. Flinching would have been a waste of movement, and he didn’t have the energy to spare.

“I’m not…” began Roy. He could have sat, but he just leaned back against the wall, which creaked a little under his weight. “I’m not trying to fight. I'm not sure it matters anymore. But can you at least tell me who Ty Gold is to you?"

Elliott nodded, slowly. "My grandfather," he said. His voice sounded like gravel, even its softest pitch coming out far too harsh.

“Oh,” said Roy.

“Shit,” he added, in a general kind of way.

Elliott nodded, but couldn’t quite maintain the eye contact. "I didn’t know," he said.

Roy bit the tip of his tongue.

"It's all out of our hands now, isn't it,” he said finally.

Elliott made a sound so low Roy could barely hear it. “What do you think was in our hands, exactly?”

Roy sighed. So much for grace in dishonor.

But Elliott was right. There was no point getting into it again, tired and helpless as they were. So all he said was, “Well… now what?”

Elliott shrugged without affect.

Roy clasped his hands behind his back, tracing the rough grout with his fingertips. “Let’s just say everything goes according to plan,” he said. “In the morning I'll go back to the hotel, right? The other one, I mean."

"I don't know," said Elliott. "I guess so."

“Astris will probably cut our visit short,” he prompted. "Head home early. Abandon the whole, you know, itinerary."

"Probably."

Roy frowned. "Okay… What about the worst case scenario, though. What if we have to keep hiding for another day, another week. Do we stay here?"

Elliot took a moment to consider this.

"I have the funds for about a month," he said finally, gesturing at the pile of cash. "Maybe we should move to different places—or maybe we should hole up here, keep you hidden. I guess it depends on what happens.”

“Oh,” said Roy, taken aback. He hadn’t thought nearly that far ahead. “Okay."

They fell silent again.

If he was being honest, Roy hadn’t said the real worst-case scenario. He’d never said it out loud; it felt like a bad omen. But it had been festering for days, and it now it burst from his mouth.

"What if they all die?" he said. "What if something goes wrong—"

Elliott shook his head urgently. "It doesn't matter," he began.

"It matters—" said Roy shrilly.

"No, I mean—we'll still get you back to your mother somehow," Elliott said. "She'll take you home. You'll be safe."

Roy stopped.

“It’s out of our hands, right?” insisted Elliott. "Let’s just concentrate on you.”

Roy tried to imagine leaving Empyrean alone as a sole survivor, facing his mother and the press and the rest of his life on Earth, growing old and remembering Kira as someone he lost young.

He cleared his throat and pushed his wet hair back in a way that rubbed his eyes against his sleeves.

“What if,” he croaked. He blinked up at the stucco ceiling and tried to fish for some other, even more extreme thing. "What if we can't get back. What if the hotel is bombed and travel is restricted and war is declared, and I'm stranded here forever?"

Elliott didn't speak for a long moment, long enough that Roy started to worry he'd invoked Elliott's own worst nightmare.

Then he said, "We'd go on the run."

Roy looked back down at him and frowned.

“We'd what now?"

Elliott spread his hands. "I think we could do it. We have the resources—money, connections."

"How could that possibly work in the long term," Roy objected.

"We could make our way to a different city," said Elliott, slowly, the way he did when he was working out a problem aloud. "Or maybe the countryside. Assume new names.” He tipped his head. "I always wanted to try being a Reggie."

Roy burst out laughing in spite of himself, in spite of everything. Elliott jumped nervously, but his crest lifted a few inches.

The TV guttered and clarified for a moment and they both turned toward it, like it was the third person in the conversation finally making its opinion known.

It was nothing but a weather report, which faded away as they watched to an ad for... Roy wasn't sure. Some kind of soap, maybe.

He moved to try flipping channels again, but Elliott straightened suddenly. "Don't," he said.

Roy froze.

"Please," Elliott said, reining in his voice a little. "Let's just... distract ourselves."

Roy moved cautiously to his own bed and sat with a slight squeak of springs. They faced each other across the small aisle, knees almost touching.

“What, uh. What would we eat?” he asked. "On the run."

Elliott considered this just as seriously. “I’ll learn how to cook," he decided. "You can study Empyrean botany. Learn how to farm.”

“I—me?” Roy actually pointed at himself. "A farmer?"

Elliott didn’t blink.

Roy squinted and gave it some thought. “I guess I could like that,” he said dubiously. “I’d learn more about the planet without having to talk to too many people. And I’d get really strong."

“Exactly,” said Elliott with an approving nod.

Roy cast about for some even worse scenario.

“Okay, what if,” he said, “we had to go for a second round. Like if the schoolbus just crashed through that window, right now, and those guys jumped out at us again, still fully armed.”

Elliott’s crest settled down a little before he shrugged. “Well, we have experience with that now," he said, almost breezily. "I think I could probably fight all of them off this time.”

“Oh, well,” said Roy. “Me too."

Elliott scoffed.

“I was taken by surprise before!” Roy protested. “I—I have a very powerful kick, you know.”

“Fine,” said Elliott, waving a hand. “So we beat them all up. And after that we go—"

“First we steal their stuff,” interrupted Roy.

“—Yes, naturally we take their stuff first,” he agreed. "Any money we find on them, we can add to our fugitive fund.”

Roy scooted forward. “I say we blow half of it on a really nice meal first.”

Elliott opened his mouth to object, then closed it thoughtfully. “You know, there is this place I’ve wanted to try, but I could never justify the travel. We could stop there on the way. Do you eat meat?”

“That really depends what kind of creature you try to feed me,” said Roy, surprising him into raising his crest again. “But—I trust you.”

The pause was brief but heavy.

“Anyway,” said Roy quickly. “Yeah. I’m in. Incognito. I could grow a beard."

“You could?”

“Well," he amended. "Maybe.”

They looked at each other until they couldn’t anymore, and then they looked at the TV instead.

A different ad was playing now, though possibly for the same product. This one was accompanied by a jingle in the same style of music they’d used to listen to together on Elliott’s speakers. At the time, Roy had assumed it was some kind of woodwind instrument, but he realized now it was a cappella.

“Hey,” said Elliott.

Roy turned back to him. “Yeah?”

“Turn it off,” he said.

Roy raised his eyebrows, but Elliott did have a point. If they were deciding not to chase news they may as well commit.

He got up without complaining and snapped off the power. The garbled music gave way to the muted sounds of traffic and rain outside.

“Sit down,” said Elliott, pointing not at the bed across from him, but at the floor in front of him.

Roy looked at the spot, then back at Elliott, who was holding still and staring steady.

"Why?" he said suspiciously.

Elliott inhaled. “With your permission, I’d like to teach you what I neglected to, back at school. About how we touch.”

Roy crossed his arms. “Why.”

Elliott let his breath out in a frustrated puff. “Because… I never reciprocated, before. I let you do all the work, which was almost as rude of me as not explaining what we were doing."

“But I thought you said it was, you know—inappropriate?"

“Not usually,” protested Elliott. “Not when everyone knows.”

Roy wavered.

“It's called raking,” Elliott said. “Families do it. Parents, siblings… close friends.”

But they both knew that wasn’t all, and Roy opened his mouth to say so. What came out was: “What about arrogant cowards?”

Elliott’s eyes widened.

Roy almost laughed. It made him sound like such a petty asshole, but. Well. “Your words.”

“Just sit down,” Elliott snapped, gracious as ever.

Roy rolled his eyes. He settled cross-legged onto the carpet, which had once been fluffy but now was sort of ropy. He faced away from Elliott and tried to relax his shoulders, but physically couldn't force himself to. He tangled his fingers in the carpet and fidgeted with it, waiting.

He expected to jump when he was touched, but the hand that settled on his crown was just firm enough to reassure him.

Elliott gave him an experimental scritch on the top of his head. His claws were hard, but blunt.

“Okay?” he checked.

“Sure,” said Roy.

He found the part in Roy’s hair and followed it outward as far as the tips of Roy’s ears, then retreated and started over. He did it again and again until Roy lost count. After a while he seemed to get distracted by the texture of Roy’s hair, twisting it and turning it over in his fingers.

“So?” said Roy finally.

“So what?” said Elliott. His hands didn’t stop moving, but they did return to a more deliberate scratching pattern.

“So tell me.”

There was a pause. “It’s calming,” Elliott explained. “It keeps you looking neat and it keeps you in contact with people. You know you’re doing well in life when you have someone to do this for you at least once a day.”

Roy didn't try to talk, just listened, tried to appreciate the sensation.

“More, if you’re little,” Elliott added. “You saw the state of the babies.”

Roy hadn’t necessarily thought of Elliott’s little nieces and nephews as unkempt—it certainly wasn’t the first word that sprang to mind—but he nodded anyway.

Eyes half-lidded, he allowed himself to be hypnotized by the play of light from the parking lot through falling water and flimsy curtains. His mind went blank and hazy the way it had under the showerhead, but this time his body began to follow suit.

Elliott's own legs were crossed, and there was room for Roy to lean back against the bed. He realized this when a soft palm cupped his forehead and pulled him gently backward to get at his hairline. At first he held himself tense and awkward, but the massage was doing its job, and the hot shower and exhaustion were catching up to him, and it was a surprisingly short while before he was fully limp, head tipped back onto the mattress.

"I am sorry, of course," said Elliott, very quietly.

Roy didn't sit up, but he heard his own teeth click together. "Don't,” he said. "I know, I don't want to—"

"Okay," said Elliott quickly, retreating, sounding relieved. “Forget it."

Roy’s shoulders had hunched involuntarily. He let them stay that way.

“So where does it start to get risqué?" he said.

Elliott paused for just a second too long. “Excuse me?” he said.

Roy kept his eyes forward. “You know, how sexy was it when I touched your ears?” he pressed. “Show me.”

“I…”

“Since it doesn’t mean the same thing to me.”

Maybe this was risky territory, but it was just about the only risk Roy was in a position to take at the moment.

“Okay,” said Elliott slowly. “Well, this would be more intimate, here.” And his hands drifted lower.

He took his time, running his claw very lightly over the shell of Roy’s ear. He stroked the soft pad of his finger over the tender spot just below it, then moved forward to rub a little harder, to scrape gently over the pulse point on Roy’s throat.

Roy shivered, and Elliott paused, but didn’t move away.

“Does it feel good?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Roy murmured. His voice was hoarse. "Maybe not in the same way as... but yeah, it's nice."

Elliott hummed his approval and dragged his fingertips from Roy’s forehead all the way down the back of his neck, humming again when Roy arched into his touch involuntarily. Then he focused on tracing soft circles on his temples. After that, he seemed to lose his nerve, and his hands returned chastely to the top of his head.

With Elliott’s hands back in safe territory, Roy’s mind began to wander: out of the room, through the city, to wherever the Astris kids were. He wondered if they were cold. Were they hungry? Were they frightened, were they hurt—

“Hey, Elliott?" Roy asked suddenly. "You ever been kissed?”

When Elliott didn’t answer, he hastened to add, "Other than. That one time didn't count, that was just...." He gave up on finishing the thought when Elliott withdrew his hands.

"I guess I haven’t,” said Elliott.

Roy swallowed, and turned around to get a look at him. His hands were hovering uncertainly. He looked exhausted.

“Are you curious?” Roy heard himself say.

“...Why?” said Elliott cautiously.

“I mean. It just seems fair."

Elliott squinted at him, then shrugged and scooted back to make room on the bedspread. “You can’t trick me if you’re bad at it,” he warned. "I know what it’s supposed to be like, I’ve seen your movies.”

Roy scoffed and clambered up. “Wow, no pressure! Just a movie kiss, please, Roy—” he began, but stopped when Elliott’s words caught up with him.

“Hold on. Are you saying you were tricking me just now? Are you like... bad at raking or something?”

Elliott hesitated, his feathers drawing in until he seemed almost small. “No, I—Kenna just said that once.”

This time Roy couldn't stop the sheer vindictive grin that burst across his face. "Did she really? Oh, Elliott."

“Shut up,” said Elliott. “You would never have known."

“No, that’s true,” said Roy, still grinning. “You’re the best rake I’ve ever had.”

Elliott was unimpressed.

Roy’s smile faded. “So, um.”

“Are you going to do it?” Elliott said, just as Roy lunged across the bed to plant one on him.

Since Elliott was in the middle of speaking, he got business end of a tooth, but he powered through, pressing hard and coming away with an audible smack.

They looked at each other.

“Oh,” said Elliott.

“Uh. What’d you think?” said Roy, rubbing at his lip where he'd pinched it.

Elliott’s crest gave one dubious twitch. “It was fine,” he said politely.

Roy frowned, pride stung. “Okay, wait, hold still. I want to try again.”

He scooted closer, sitting up on his heels. He tried to think of all the best-looking kisses he’d seen, and took a steadying breath. This time, he started with a press of his palm against Elliott’s downy cheek. Tipping his chin up would’ve been counterproductive, so instead he pulled him closer, guiding their mouths together. He tried to err on the side of softness this time. Since Elliott's lips weren’t plump so much as they were flat, smooth lines, Roy deposited a very small peck on the corner of his mouth.

Elliott’s breath smelled oddly tart, like he’d been chewing on flower petals.

When neither of them pulled back, Roy was compelled to do another one, even lighter, just for punctuation.

They moved just far enough apart to look at each other. Roy didn't know how to arrange his face, but maybe that didn't matter.

“Well?”

Elliott’s eyes were black wells under an iridescent film. They were still too close for Roy to see his crest, but he could feel the prickle of his finest feathers rising minutely under his hand.

“Better,” he said.

Roy swallowed.

“Can I…?” he said. He wasn’t sure what the question was, exactly, but he knew what he wanted the answer to be.

So did Elliott. He took Roy’s hands and brought them to his own throat, back behind his jaw, where the feathers were still fine and soft, and where Roy could feel heat and a quickening pulse beneath.

“Yes,” said  Elliott, voice coming not hoarse but thready. Musical.

Roy moved his fingers, massaging little circles, tickling. Knowing, now, what he was doing. Tired as he was, he imagined he was manipulating the magnetic fields around Elliott’s head, creating sweeps and arcs of sensation.

They settled into a trance, breathing together.

“Okay,” said Roy softly. “Okay. I have no idea what to do next.”

“This,” said Elliott. Slowly, giving Roy a chance to withdraw, he leaned in to slide his cheek against Roy's. It was like rubbing his face on velvet.

Acting on instinct—and on what he had glimpsed of that private moment with Dar—he leaned hard into Elliott, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck. It felt good; warm and soft, of course, with an interesting variety of textures, but the best part was the way Elliott was melting underneath him.

When a steady, liquid thrumming sound started deep in Elliott’s chest, Roy laughed in startled triumph and pulled back. He hadn’t intended to go far, but Elliott kept him close with a grip on his upper arm, just in case. They clutched at each other, brows pressed together.

“So what’s that mean?” said Roy, touching Elliott’s throat to see if it was vibrating. It was.

“It means it feels really good,” said Elliott. The sound hardly seemed to interfere with his speech. If anything, his mumble seemed to come from embarrassment. Roy felt giddy.

“You always,” continued Elliott, with some effort. “Before, I mean. You always had a very thoughtful touch.”

“Pfft, thanks,” said Roy. He paused.

“So when we did this back at school,” he began with a weak smile, “was I just a warm body to you, or….”

“No,” said Elliott without hesitation. “It’s never been just that, with you.”

Roy huffed out a breath of half-laughter and dropped his eyes. “Yeah, well. That’s for sure.”

Things had been complicated between them before they ever met. It wasn’t fair, he thought.

“Do you even…” Roy started.

“What?" said Elliott.

But he'd already thought better of it, was already shaking his head. “Never mind."

It felt too good. He was too hungry for this, for simple, animal comfort, to keep up the enumeration of his useless fears. He closed his eyes.

“I don’t care,” he heard himself say. “Just distract me.”

*

They touched each other for what seemed like hours, ebbing and flowing between exploration and urgency. It was clumsy, imprecise, but for Roy at least, it was intoxicating. His sharpest most uncomfortable thoughts were slowly softened to mush, his galaxy narrowed to two nervous bodies on an ugly bedspread.

They asked each other questions, sometimes half-aloud, like when Roy said, “Wanna, uh…?" and then they worked together to push the cloak off his shoulders. Elliott traced the muscles on his back with interest, which raised goosebumps up and down Roy’s arms, which were apparently doubly fascinating.

Roy kept noticing himself grinning, thrilled and jittery. He touched every place on Elliott that he’d ever been curious to, which turned out to be far more than he’d have thought; he pressed his palms to his chest, which was broad and solid under the soft give of the feathers. Rolled his fingers over all the joints whose unearthly movements he’d observed, the knees and elbows and ankles. Compared their hands—Elliott’s were bigger, long and tapered, but Roy’s were almost as broad.

While he was occupied with this, Elliott had the brilliant idea of depositing kisses of his own on Roy’s neck, or at least pressing his cool mouth to his skin, which chased language almost completely from his mind.

Roy waited until he was near dizzy with adrenaline to ask a question with no words at all. He pushed at the one piece of clothing Elliott had on, the one around his waist. Elliott helped him immediately, like he’d been waiting.

“Oh,” said Roy. “You’re, uh… asymmetrical.”

“What? I promise I am not.”

“No? Oh. You have two—”

“Shut up, shut up, come here.”

Roy cackled in genuine terror and threw himself into Elliott’s arms.

The morning rushed toward them. They helped it along.

«First Next>

[alchemisland]

Moors Mutt - Chapter I part II

The tavern's proprietor Lar was a man out of time. With mauling arms folded across a simian chest, those big lugs like trophy handles either side of his substantial forehead, he could have easily passed for a saxon reaver. He stood against a backdrop of coloured glasses, bottles and casks in strange order and shape as decor an alchemist's laboratory. He stirred to life with a scowl, seemingly perturbed by my proposed custom, and when his grim eyes flitted toward the doorframe where I stood they never left me, tracing my gait, measuring my intent by my caution. Unlike the merry keep of fireside tales, he offered no warmth in greeting. That you were found fit to sit his barstool was kindness enough.

Inebriates remained nursing drams, glowering at their respective lecterns. I sat pacified. A loud mind had been quieted briefly. I contended only with the surprising potency of his ale. Lar, though tireless, worked without grace or speed. Machinelike, he filled the chalices of his regulars to the brim, every interaction wordless but for a grunt.

In a rare idle moment I signalled to him. 'This is probably going to sound strange, possibly it is, but hear me out first. Have you ever heard or seen anything strange around here? On the moor perhaps?'

Widened like an owl, Lar's right eye scanned me once, twice, three times before he stirred. 'I have, in fact. Not now. Too crowded. Later.' His lips barely moved, his eyes fixed on a distant point, a picture of practiced subterfuge.

I tipped my nose. 'Mum.' Tantalised and impatient, I was nonetheless pleased as my integration thus far. Lar hadn't time of day to speak of books or art, he was a philistine it seemed, but the mere mention of high strangeness set his eyes burning, every inch of his forearm torqued and tight to the bone.

Nearer closing, he poured a cup and sat, remaining on the business side opposite, across the lay of defaced oak. Wide-shouldered and stacked in flabby layers like a wedding cake, he had the look of an old warrior too worn to die in battle, ballooned and sore, fierce still. He seemed to strain at the weight of his own bulk. How the desires of youth, to be fierce and feared and pleasant to observe, we wear like shackles at the winter wilting.

When at last Lar mounted his stool, a difficult task as he was forced each time to rediscover the centre point of his vast behind to avoid tumbling backward, he leaned in close. 'The beast, you say?' One eyebrow he raised, its shape the arching rod of a hooked line. 'I could tell you more than a tale about the beast.'

'Prithee speak, my curiosity burns. I won't rest until it's satiated. Tourist talk begone, do you believe, as men do God, a beast prowls these lands?' I inched forward, that as if by closer proximity the truths would be made truer.

'Regular Theseus, is that it? Of monster hunters we know much. Lovers of dark arts also. All are served here. Kings and paupers. Did you come all this way to hear me say that?' Lar spoke with great confidence. The particular manner of his prattling compounded my sense that the tales he told were perhaps practiced.

'No.' I replied 'I have business in the cottage. Let me state directly; I am neither quack nor séance holder. I am not of low learning, a prover of falsehoods; rather I am a lover of stories. Pray, continue your captivating narrative.'

Lar continued. 'Let it be said I was coaxed. You asked.'

In this ominous portent he let slip a mask of deft craft. There was artifice in his smile, a cheshire grin that touched either cheekbone. A whispered suggestion of hidden intent.

'Enough pussyfooting. Spill it. I'll need all the advice I can get.' Like a drill tip, I pressed my index finger into the bar.

'No matter what image I conjure in your mind's eye, the beast is yet more ferocious and terrible in the flesh. It's the great unreality of it.' He tapped his forehead. 'Your mind doubts what it's seeing, unable to comprehend its stimulus. Brave men are made mice in its gaze.'

'What evidence have you of such a creature?' I asked, draining my tankard. He looked me over once, as if to ask who I was to question. I returned a withering gaze, maneuvering my features to convey a similar message. For a moment the air felt charged with kinetic possibility. As when two pugilists circle to begin a contest, lead hands pawing.

Lar broke the armistice. 'Evidence? If you didn't think it weren't here, you wouldn't have come. If you believed in your heart you'd be contending with a monster this week, you'd have stayed at home in your jams.'

'Nonsense, man! You forget I am not here of my own volition. Business has portended our introduction. What we speak of is.. Extracurricular.'

'We, each of us, tell ourselves sweet little lies to justify how our limited time is spent. I have a right mind to think if the lady yet lived up in the big house, you and I might still have met. On a yawning stretch such as this, arriving as you have: alone and curious. If there's one thing I can't respect, it's a self-hating believer. Swanning around with all the cynicism of a non-believer, clad in the robes of an adherent, so that when the hobby is proved spurious you can point to your skepticism. You'd be first to the papers tomorrow if scientists verified the beast's existence, how you had journeyed and studied on your own dime to further the science.' Lar pursed his lips, knowing he'd cut me to the quick, vanished was his earlier reticence.

I hated how right he was. I was exactly this sort. Insulting people who believed the same things as me. First to refuse to enter a haunted house for fear a demon might take my soul.

I'd never concede his point though. I riposted, 'Few are more loathed than the opinionated barman. You speak much too readily. Do so again, I'll see your manners are checked for the next weary traveler willing to pay good coin.'

Lar's eyes lit, bulging with imagined riches. 'Let me fill your drink, sir. I meant no offence. We speak freely here. Manners soften. Soon one finds truths cannot be digested unperfumed. Here in the wilds, it's a duty to voice quarrel. Far from crown and court, unaired anger festers.' Lar, as soon I would learn, dispensed his pearls of rural wisdom free of charge.

'Really, man. Every idea can be made ridiculous if extrapolated to that degree. Manners take the edge off. I'm not offended by your candor. I intend to find the creature, if such exists. Have you no doubt about that.' I watched him pull another drink.

The returned tankard was too full to raise without spilling. I bent to the lip and like a pulled plug, drained half in a gulp.

'What evidence is sufficient? Look around you.' Lar held aloft his hands, urging me toward his empty business, still cast in a sickly light from the last flickering sentinels. He pointed toward the empty seats. A single patron remained hidden in the shadows. A local by his boots.

'We did a roaring trade before that bloody woman inherited the place. Once she came, the trade died. When I was a lad, that land was free to roam. No walls. She had them built to spite us. Worse rumours too I have heard, that those walls were built to contain it.'

'It?' I asked

'It.' His voice lowered to a whisper. 'A cage for a pet beyond control. That's your sort all over.'

'Her sort.' I corrected, 'I'm not aristocratic. You're a presumptuous sort, you know.'

'Believe you're not the first to say. Her sort, whatever pleases. I don't subscribe to this particular theory. Me personally, I think it's from hell. One thing's for certain, it got worse when they shifted the stone.'

'You say you have seen it?' Part of me thought I was stringing him along, but another more gullible me firmly believed he had seen something. 'With your own eyes if you saw it, you must swear it. Did you see it as I see you now, or as one sees distant stars and erroneously assumes knowledge.'

'As I stand.' Lar gestured to his stained apron, which he promptly removed and slung on a hook overhead. He nodded to the sole barfly, who stumbled from his seat and shot the bolt across the lock, an angry black mechanism like a bas-relief. 'That's Fergus.'

Fergus lurched over. One leg trailed behind him. I couldn't help imagining him a gothic manservant, dragging corpses to the laboratory in pursuit of higher knowledge. He came to stand beside me. There were giants on the earth in those days. Though our eyes observed the same setpiece, his countenance betrayed little comprehension. With the chiseled jaw of a bust in profile, head-on his mouth, ringed by ever moist lips, was pursed like a fish. He placed one enormous hand at my shoulder. Such space was permitted between his fingers splayed that ten legions abreast might find passage unmolested. His knuckles protruded unnaturally, evidence of labour or something harder than masonry. Mayhaps soldiering.

He never looked at my face. I coughed, first mannerly, then more harshly, thinking to approach cautiously lest my assumption prove provident, that he had lost his sound during foreign campaigns, of whose spoils we all were beneficiaries.

'Don't mind him.' Lar said. He spoke softly in the presence of his friend, observing his movements closely, ready to interject with a steadying hand or a warning to the cruelly curious. I wondered were they brothers. They bore little resemblance, though stranger things I had heard. Lar took Fergus' wrist and pressed gently, disturbing the folds of his motheaten jacket. They shared a moment I could but observe, radiating warmth and glad tidings in a wordless wave.

'I mean not to speak boldly, and lash me with spite if I transgress overmuch, but I must know or I should forever wonder, are you kin?' I asked.

Fergus shared Lar's laugh with a similar look of bemused ignorance.

'Hear that? Fancy man reckons we're brothers. Probly thinks we're all related down this end. Not in a godly way either.' Lar let a viking bellow.

Lar released his grip and the folds of Fergus' sleeve righted. He spoke an octave lower, miming offence at my observance. I poised to explain I had intended no hidden subtext, which Lar waved to indicate all had been taken as delivered.

'We are not brothers. Close friends. Known Fergus here forever.' He gently tapped the giant's hand, slapped on the bar like an enormous muddy bird print. 'Used to be a keen cookie once upon a forever ago. Loved languages, Welsh mostly. Pugilism he loved more. One passion consumed the other. Anything burning intensely inevitably cannibalises itself. Took one knock too many, stole his wits in an instant. A left hook across the bar sent him erstwhile. Twenty five minutes he was on the shores of night, learning the landscape of the dreamworlds, while we fanned his rigid form, wet his brow and whispered familiar names in his ear. When at last he woke a part of him was left forever in that place. I like to think, boyishly perhaps, it awaits him upon leaving this plain of lousy strife, like the belongings awaiting a homeward jailbird. The cloak of a lost lifetime. Not for him. He'll slide right into it, fit like a tailored piece, and all of eternity to speak. Not here though.'

Tears welled in his eyes. I took the reins, 'Think nothing of your emotions, man. We each have them. Doubtless I will shed a tear up in the old witch's place. Another life awaits, that much is sure. Grander than this. I'm sure he makes a fine man. Built like a gladiator. I am sorry to have dredged unpleasantness. I meant only to satisfy a selfish curiosity. Forgive me. Please continue.'

'I will at that.' He cleared his throat.

'It were one cold night three years ago. Fergus was there. We'd been called out on account of strange noises near the workers' cottages. They wouldn't work until the supposed evil was driven away. We came down from the high road proper and there it stood bold in the copse. Like a horse it stood, with clumsy stilts supporting an ursine bulk that swayed as it shambled. It drank shadows to conceal its dread presence. Blackness it took for robes. In walking its front paws propelled its cumbersome form, while the rear set, less lengthy, dredged channels in the dirt. In motion it arched to reveal a belly spun of lighter felt, ashen in the scant moonlight. Bundled it became an orb of shadow, nothingness. Unbeknownst we watched it watching, green eyes like blazing protostars probing for movement. Well it knew to choose this place, with one of only two wells located nearby. In a flash it was gone, satin-shoed away into the night.'

The tale Lar knew was a scorcher paused. He beamed, an actor awaiting applause. I gathered my jaw from the floor, brushed and set it properly.

Each word drew me closer, which Fergus mirrored, until we three sat as witches about the bubbling lip of a cauldron, a coven of pallid specters.

Lar sipped and nodded we join.

I wondered had my hobby in a blink become too dangerous to justify. It was well telling my employers of ghost hunts, but a wild beast - my insurance wouldn't have it! If it turned out some menagerie escapee, what then was it? Quest for wonder or recklesss folly? Weiss, Wellie and Wardun insurance, even in their most obscure policies, don't pay out for fools. That's why I chose them!

As Lar went on, a fresh cigarette painted the air blue in his articulation, 'Each shifting moon we came to that spot. We had taken it upon ourselves to rid the land of danger. Fergus knows a bit about a bit, that's what's left to him, God bless. What he knows is knots. Army training dictates every officer have at least passing knowledge of ten or more useful fastenings. Me? I know about animals.'

'A fierce duo, I'm sure.' I beamed, ensorcelled.

'We inquired about a reward, to which the estate responded agreeably, so we set off with rope overshoulder and the angriest traps the furmen could spare, determined to snare it. We planted snares all about its presumed domain. Nothing came. Not a rat. Not a wisp. Not never again. It's the mystery disturbs me most. I'd die happy knowing.'

In his voice a single note of longing rang and dispelled the subterfuge of his intentions, and twas far from the sinister goldlust I had silently attributed him.

I observed Lar, now powerful and straight. I asked 'Do I sense an unfinished quest?'

'Aye. Not too subtle, mind.' Lar flashed a toothy smile, the sort a condemned man spits at his executioner. 'You seem a serious man. I didn't know when you first came in parading your manners like fancy knickers. You can't be too sure about a man who gives too many pleases. You're not that sort and have proved such twice over.' Lar imagined that was a compliment from the look he gave. Expectant almost, between child submitting scribbles for display and cat batting dead mouse onto pillow.

Well, of course I had something to say. Cats were hissing. A donnybrook of claws and torn fur not even a hearty stock of iodine could salve. 'And I might say also that I too had cast aspersions on your character, maintaining you were of sinister country stock. As you claim to have been rapturously convinced otherwise, as have I.'

'Once the lady's estate is divided and bequeathed I'll receive my own. I mean to inherit a substantial bursar. I will pay to you a fair sum. In exchange, you will guide me to the hotpots. When we find it, you're in charge until it's bound.' If he came, it would be on my terms.

'Find it? Slow down. We've seen it once in a hundred times. I'll take you gladly all the same.' Lar agreed, quite fairly.

Wordless, we shook and drained our horns.

'Tomorrow?' Lar asked. He drew my gaze to an unopened bottle of whiskey, which I declined.

'Not so, good man. Tomorrow I will tend my affairs. In the evening, if all is ordered, I will return to discuss further a plan of action. Have you a room I might rent?' I yawned, suddenly quite exhausted.

'Not for everyone so don't go saying. There's one in the back. I'll light the fire.' Lar's manners had briefly returned at the notion of payment.

'Please do.'

I left a generous tip. A productive evening assuredly. Before following the publican to his warm hollow, I shook Fergus' hand, assuming he too would be part of our fortean friendship.

While I slumbered the nightmare broke free her paddock and thundered across the veil of my somnambulant phantasmagoria, its clanging hooves rang shrill terror.

I saw spined creatures oozing pus, many-eyed. Edgeless orbs hissing like flying snakes from one black abyss to another.

Cats with human faces screamed. A hairless man with a tail curled upwards like a scorpions pike disemboweled himself with a broken mirror.

Last came the bestial form, not unlike that which Lar had described, striding evilly. Two venom coated fangs, uncontained by its snarling mouth, curved inward toward its breast. Catlike claws glinted menacingly. Turning my third eye downwards as if to look upon my feet, I found myself formless, yet the beast circled knowingly around the space my corporeal form should occupy.

I knew instinctively this reverie was more tangible than the other eerie visitations, and that if the beast should strike I would die or wake screaming with a crimson pool spreading below. It sniffed the air, pawing closer.

I woke to my beastless chamber. Sodden, I sought a candle and in its gloam chronicled my nightmare. That night sleep ne'er returned, making groggy my morning plod toward Cairn Cottage.

More.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Will we get a Hail Mary update soon?? Claire need to get back to Jamie and set things right!! :-)

Hail Mary

Premise: What if Jamie and Claire had 1) been more openly affectionate, and 2) not *had* to get married? 

Part I  Part II  Part III  Part IV

Part V

It was eight days later that I rode into the courtyard of Castle Leoch, just as dawn was breaking.  

I could have gotten there sooner, certainly, but I had kept off the main roads to the greatest extent possible, taking no chances of falling into the hands of strangers. I’d had quite enough of that, thank you very much, and while my stint with one highland clan had turned out rather well on the whole, I had no desire to try my luck with another, let alone the English army. 

And, despite the danger and the fatigue of the journey, my heart had been light and ready to burst for all eight of those days.

…’Rather well’…

Understatement to the extreme.

It had brought me Jamie.

As foolish and romantic a notion as it perhaps was, I had found myself many times on that hopeful, frantic journey wondering….was it fate that I had come through the stones? That I hadn’t been able to get back to Frank?  Had some bizarre destiny planted the fascination with wildflowers in my mind that morning so that I could be brought to Jamie, and him to me? Or had it all been mere luck? Could chance alone truly have resulted in this wonder? Could I honestly believe that mere odds should have allowed two people— so exquisitely attuned to one another, and yet separated by centuries and custom and country—to find one another in a dangerous, lonely universe?

But even as I had wondered endlessly in the long hours and days and nights on the Highland tracks, I knew it didn’t matter; made no true difference why or how by what means I had found myself in this place, this time. What mattered was the burning in my chest as I swung down from the horse; the need of him singing out from my heart; that he was the only thing my bleary eyes sought among the dozens of faces that gaped staring—glaring—at me from around the mist-laden courtyard.

“Mary, Michael, and Bride–CLAIRE!”

It was not Jamie but Mrs. Fitz barreling toward me from the kitchen dooryard, eyes wide…and wary.  

So, my suspicions had been right, then— the rent party had come directly back to Leoch. Part of me had hoped against hope that they would have continued further north, upon the secondary loop that Ned had pointed out to me that night upon the map. If they had, I would have arrived well before them—giving me precious, valuable time to convince Colum of the perfectly logical (and fictitious) explanation for how I had been so tragically and unexpectedly abducted from Ned and Murtagh and the rest and then escaped. It would have worked, I thought; as long as Jamie kept his silence. Would he?

I care for you, Claire.

My mind snapped back into awareness, back to the cold, stark realities of the present. I hadn’t arrived first, and thus the entire castle knew of my desertion.

Nonetheless, Mrs. Fitz had genuine affection in her voice as she clasped me hard to her bread-and-herb-scented bosom. “Oh, m’dear,” she said, sniffing, and voice tremulous with emotion, “they said—Och, child, they said such terrible things—!“

I returned the embrace, feeling affection flood my heart, even in the same moment as fear and dead-panic. “What—what have they said about me, Mrs. Fitz?”

Forewarned is forearmed, after all. 

She pulled back to stare searchingly up into my face, whispering each word so as not to be overheard by the many watchful onlookers. “That ye’re an English spy—and that ye made off in the night wi’ no warning—and that ye came among us tae do the Mackenzie harm wi’ the knowledge ye’ve gleaned in our midst…”

Well, all things considered, I suppose I couldn’t expect fairer than that. I’d carefully formulated my story, rehearsed the details forward and back—all I could do was pray that Colum would buy it. And that I could talk to Jamie at the first possible moment.  

“I’m not a spy, Mrs. Fitz,” I said, as confidently and reassuringly as I could, bending to kiss her warmly on the cheek. “I can assure you, it’s all a dreadful misunderstanding.”

Lord knew I was not a grand actress, but Mrs. Fitz gave an enormous exhale of relief, looked both flustered and pleased as she took both my hands in hers. “I didna wish tae believe it of ye, m’dear—Such treacherous behavior, I couldna—No, I DIDNA myself believe it, child, but Dougal said–”

“I understand perfectly, Mrs Fitz, truly I do. I promise that I’ll explain the truth as soon as possible to Colum—I mean the laird. In the meantime,” I was literally swaying where I stood, “might I—trouble you for some food?—and perhaps a basin of water to wash? Before I attract more attention?”

The water would be pleasant, but it was food that I needed desperately. The bannocks I had filched from camp were long gone when I reached Craigh na Dun. Having no skill as a hunter, I had had to make do with what roots and berries and other edibles I could forage along the roadside. I had made it to Leoch on stubbornness and hope alone; but the reality was that I was very close to spent from hunger, and was having trouble keeping my legs and my vision aright.  

“Of course, of course!” Mrs Fitz said, already guiding me toward the kitchens. “Sweet child, starved and half-frozen.” She stopped sharply as we reached the doorway, looking apologetic. “Of course, I will have tae send word tae Himself at once that ye’ve arrived, Claire….given….weel….”

Given that I was still a presumed English spy who had just sauntered back into MacKenzie Clan HQ.

“Of course, Mrs. Fitz,” I said gently, “it’s the right thing to do.”

While she commissioned the boy known as Young Alec to take the message to the laird’s cambers and deliver my few belongings up to a spare chamber, my eyes swung once more around and around the courtyard. No Jamie.

Ten minutes was all I needed—ten minutes to explain how wrong I’d been to run; that everything I’d spat at him that night had been a dreadful, vicious lie; that I missed him; that I wanted him; that I wanted to stay. And failing that, even one minute just to be in his arms; to lay my head against his chest and feel his arms pulling me safe and warm against him. One minute just to hold him, and tell him with the gentle softness of my touch, with my eyes, that he hadn’t misjudged my affections; that he hadn’t been…’mistaken.’

Come find me, Jamie, I prayed upward into the walls of Leoch. Find me. Let me tell you what’s in my heart. What was there all along.

I followed Mrs. Fitz inside and down the familiar corridors to the kitchens. She ushered me—ignoring the stares and whispers from the kitchen staff—into a small room behind the kitchen hearth that I had never noticed before. Less than a minute later, I was gulping a mug of thick beef broth (“Drink slowly, m’dear, ye dinna want griping  in yer wame, aye?”), while she and a teenage girl drew me a warm bath in a small wooden tub before the fire. While I had protested that cold water was perfectly sufficient, the warmth of it and the sweet scent of the chamomile soap were together as comforting and bracing as brandy to my weary body. She helped me wash and rinse my hair, then wrapped me thick towels with a second mug of broth as she conjured a clean gown, shift, and stays for me, and then helped me herself to dress.

She sat with me by the fire as I inhaled porridge with honey and a small loaf with soft cheese. Her manner was still kind and sympathetic, but her eyes remained sharp and leery.

“I willna hide from ye, Claire, that the laird is no’ likely tae speak your name with kindness. Dougal was cursing ye roundly tae anyone that would listen—Old Mr. Gowan has scarcely ceased wi’ shaking his head and bemoaning yer actions— and wee Jamie, weel, he’s barely spoken, hasn’t he?”

That jolted my heart into a frenzy. “Has he?” I said lightly, not meeting her eye.

“Jamie? Och, aye,” she said, nodding gravely. “He must ha’ been sore affected by it. I suppose ‘tis only right, wi’ his loyalty to his uncles, ken? But my Laoghaire— she was sae glad tae see him return (she carries quite the torch for him, ye see)—but he’s been silent and lifeless as a stone these past days—Has scarcely given her as much as a ‘Good day.’”

Perversely, that made my heart leap. He doesn’t want Laoghaire, not even for comfort. He doesn’t want just any woman. He wants…

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Fitz.” Young Alec’s head appeared around the door. “The Mackenzie requests Mistress Beauchamp’s presence in his study at her earliest convenience.”

I didn’t have the balls to ask Mrs. Fitz for a heaping four-finger glass of whisky, but Jesus H. CHRIST how I needed one.

‘Her earliest convenience.’ Which was to say, immediately. Which was to say my fate was to be decided at once. Which meant that if it were the laird’s pleasure, I would be expelled from the castle before I’d had the chance to even lay eyes on Jamie. Which meant—

Dammit. God bloody fucking dammit.

“Will ye do me the honor of sitting with me a time, Mistress Beauchamp?”

I sat in the proffered armchair across the broad desk from Colum MacKenzie. The laird of Castle Leoch was—outwardly, at least— as serene as ever, his appearance decorous and tidy, despite the earliness of the hour. Despite my earlier need for a stiff drink, I couldn’t bring myself to touch the glass he’d had a servant bring me.

He sat there surveying me, that quiet, wry smile playing at his lips. I lowered my eyes and waited, looking awkwardly around the room by way of distraction from the tension in the room. The laird’s study was just the same: luxuriously crammed with its beautiful furnishings befitting the MacKenzie’s station and wealth. His birds cheeped and chirruped eagerly, apparently not at all sensible of the tension pervading the room.

“Déja vu,” Colum said at last.

“What? I mean—“ I stammered, trying to recover from his startlingly calm non-sequitur. “I beg your pardon, my laird?”

“Déja vu. It’s French,” Colum said evenly, eyes twinkling. “It means, ’already seen.’ But surely—“ he said, gracefully arcing an eyebrow, “you, having family in France, would know that?”

I returned his level gaze with one of my own, though I smiled sweetly. “I do apologize, my laird, I simply was taken off-guard. Yes, I do know what the word means.”

“Aye, verra good…excellent.” He nodded sagely, lacing his fingers together on the tabletop, not breaking eye contact. “Then you’ll perhaps know, too, why I should be experiencing such a phenomenon at this moment….”

I knew precisely what he was getting at, but I feigned polite ignorance, waiting for him to continue, to make the first move. 

He did. “You…in my study…playing the harmless ingénue…after appearing on clan lands under highly suspicious circumstances.” He raised his eyebrows. “It does seem—to ring a certain bell, does it not?”

My heart was racing with adrenaline, but I smiled a smile of simple regret and opened my mouth to speak—I had rehearsed this all the way from Craigh na Dun, after all—but a pounding on the door made me all but jump out of my skin. 

“Enter,” Colum said, not seeming in the least bit surprised by the interruption. I regained my composure and remained facing forward. 

There came the squeal of hinges and the unmistakable snort behind me. “So it’s true then,” Dougal MacKenzie’s voice said said, low and hissing, “the prodigal wench has returned.”

My mind was a constant stream of all the curses I’d ever learned, in every tongue, and I’d played with street urchins in countless countries.It shouldn’t have surprised me, now that I came to think of it—Dougal was Colum’s right-hand, after all, and I had officially been in his charge when I’d made my escape— but it did. I had prepared for Colum, for his savage cunning masked in level-headed civility; I was equipped for that: for the turn of phrase and the traps of language and logic. But Dougal was another matter entirely—I couldn’t trust myself to remain calm and collected in the face of his pugnacious and irreverent manner. But I had to bloody do it, prepared or no. 

I didn’t bother to turn around, just said simply, “I’m not a wench, Mr. MacKenzie. And yes, I have returned.” This exchange was too important to let him raise my ire. 

“Prodigal liar, then,” he said, appearing to my left and coming to stand next to his brother, arms crossed and eyes blazing as he glared down at me. “Conspirator. Agent.”

My gaze was still cool, my voice still polite, but I could feel the shards of glass in it, dangerous to both of us. “I swear to you, Mr. Mackenzie: I’m none of those things.”

He laughed, cruelly and vicious, bending at the waist to put his face mere inches from mine. “Ye expect us to just believe the mere word of a lying, filthy wh–”

“Will ye tell us, Mistress Beauchamp,” Colum said, his sharp tone a silent warning which Dougal must have comprehended at once, for he stepped back from me, and came to stand at Colum’s right hand, his own hand resting on his dirk handle.

Colum continued. “Will ye tell us what it was, exactly, that made ye suddenly choose to leave the rent party….and just as suddenly return?”

I took a deep breath, ready. “You will certainly recall, my laird, that since my—“ (Filthy, barbarous abduction). “—Arrival— with the Clan MacKenzie, so shortly after the death of my husband, it has been my desire to reach Inverness.”

The laird nodded. 

“It was my intention to join with friends there in hopes of beginning a new life among those I trusted. It was to them that I went the night I departed from the rent party. My longing for familiar faces had grown so strong, that I could no longer bear to wait. That is why I left. The simple desire to be among friends once more.” 

Dougal made a sound of deep derision, but Colum only nodded. “Would ye be so kind as to share with us their names?”

“Reverend Reginald Wakefield and his wife, Catherine, both old friends of my departed parents. I was a child, the last time I met with them, but there was no doubt in my mind that they would receive me. However–” I heaved a deep breath, pleased to feel a lump in my throat that lent emotion to my voice as I revealed the ‘sad’ news. “Upon arriving in Inverness, I learned that the Wakefields had taken ship for the Indies three years ago, to begin a Presbyterian mission on the island of—”

“How daft do ye think we are, woman?” Dougal growled, with a gesture so violent I shrunk back instinctively into my chair. “Ye dinna have friends in Inverness and ye NEVER did. Else you’d have written to them upon your first arrival here.”

I straightened once more and did my best to appear innocently perplexed. “What makes you think I didn’t write to them, Mr. Mackenzie?”

“Because—“ Colum interjected, his calm—earlier, such an asset to my nerves— now terrifying. Not a hand of clemency: a razor-thin knife,“—I make it my business to be aware of all correspondence in and out of the castle. Oh, not necessarily the contents,” he said, seeing the shock and disapproval on my face, “just who is writing to whom while enjoying my hospitality—as is my right as laird.” He folded his hands. “And there has been no letter to or from a Claire Beauchamp at any point since you arrived on MacKenzie lands.” 

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a soft, “—And if ye did manage to communicate with them… it does make one wonder…” He gave me his most piercing gaze yet, stealing my breath, “—why a woman with nothing to conceal should go to such lengths to do so…undetected?”

No. No no no no no, this was slipping so quickly away from my control.

“I do appreciate how all this must appear on the surface.” I could feel my heart racing with panic as I grasped at straws, desperate to remain calm and failing miserably. There was an audible quaver in my voice—damn it, damn ME!—“All I can do, my laird, is swear that I mean you and your clan no ill will, I have no ties or contact with the English government, whatsoever and I am willing to attest to those truths on anything you wish to name. The simple fact, however it may appear, is I saw a chance to reach Inverness and I took it. That is all.”

“Liar,” Dougal hissed. “Admit it: You’re a paid informant for the English. Ye left our company ten days ago to report our goings-on to your superiors, and now you’re back, despite your sweet face and claim to innocence, wi’ fresh orders and OPEN EARS.”

I was panicking. “That—that is simply not—”

He was looming over me again. I could smell his breath and feel it hot on my forehead. “Admit the truth, woman, and we’ll perhaps show ye some mercy. SPEAK!” 

A cacophony of sound filled the room and startled the birds. 

Dougal’s violent snarling: “Liar! LIAR!”

A whimpering sound. Me? 

Colum’s sharp, commanding, “I can think of no just reason—”

“LIAR!”

“—that a woman wi’ nothing to hide, should—” 

“Please—please—you must believe–”

Dougal’s hands on the arms of my chair. 

My eyes closed, the colors roaring in the dark. 

Stop. Just make it stop. Stop.  

“—DUNGEONS–”

“Please—“

“—Loosen your tongue–”

“JUST TELL THEM, Claire!”

I felt his voice jolt through my body like a wave of electricity and I whirled my head to see him standing in the corner, arms crossed. 

JAMIE. 

I nearly sunk to the floor in abject relief. He must have entered with Dougal, remaining silent. But he was here. HERE. 

Jamie. MY Jamie.

Floor be damned: I wanted to leap out of the chair and fly into his arms—those strong arms that had held me and warmed me and kept me; Wanted to feel his skin against mine. Wanted—wanted so badly it felt like physical pain in my chest—to kiss him and feel his fingers in my hair. To talk. To tell. JAMIE. 

I forced myself to remain still, but inside I was thrumming with relief and joy. Everything would be alright, now—Jamie was here.

“Tell them, Mistress,” he said, and the coldness in that voice was so shocking I blinked as though struck. 

He had stepped forward a pace or two, so I could see that his eyes, too, were hard and icy, revealing none of his usual bright eagerness. Even more disturbing than this, they held an alarming intensity, some silent meaning I couldn’t comprehend. “It’s alright, mistress. Tell them the truth of why ye fled.”

Another jolt, and I could do nothing but stare, my mouth gobbling open and shut. The truth? 

For one wild, ludicrous moment, I was screaming: ‘how does he know I was trying to get through the stones?’

But he didn’t know; he couldn’t know; he could never know that truth.

“I….CAN’T.” I finally said, teeth gritted and voice tight. (Because I don’t know what in bloody hell you mean, you damned, wonderful—)

“Ye can,” he said, walking around to my right to stand with his uncles. “Go on, Mistress. There’s less shame in it than being mistaken and hung for a spy.”

“What’s this about, Jamie?” Colum demanded, his eyes flashing.

Dougal, too, was mounting in his own brand of fury. He took a menacing step toward his nephew. “D’ye mean to say that ye had further knowledge of her departure—Information that you chose to withhold??”

“Aye,” Jamie said, his eyes downcast. “Though it wasna mine to disclose, before.”

Dougal gave a guttural roar and made as if to lunge for Jamie behind Colum’s chair, but before he could say another word, Jamie raised a hand and looked directly at me with that same hard eye as before. “With your permission, Mistress?”

I saw it now, what that look meant.  

It said: be silent.

I nodded and dropped my eyes to my lap, seeing the three of them behind the desk only from the upper periphery of my vision.

“Mistress Beauchamp fled that night…because I spurned her advances.”

I couldn’t have spoken a word if I’d tried. If I could have, it might have been a gut-punched, ‘…Jesus.’

He went on, quiet and careful. “I begged her to forgive me—Told her truly what a fine, beautiful lady she is, and how much I admired and respected her—but that—my allegiances lay elsewhere.”

He placed a hard emphasis on that word, and I thought I saw a shifting, enough so that I chanced a glance upward to witness the significant look Jamie was sharing with Colum. To my astonishment and relief, I thought I saw something dawning in the laird’s expression. Jesus Christ…this was going to work!

“And—being, as we all know—a verra strong-willed and reckless sort of woman, Mistress Beauchamp departed in the night—” He turned his gaze to me, “—too hurt …and vexed to remain…That’s how it was….aye, Mistress?”

I felt myself nodding but I was still staring down at my hands . I could see him in my periphery, his image blurring and distorting as the tears gathered. My throat was burning. With shame.

That’s how it was. Despite his phrasing, he wasn’t asking me. He was telling. Hurt and vexed—the mildest words possible for what I had done to him. His eyes told me the truth: Furious. Heartbroken.

God, what a fool I was. I’d come back, free in my own heart, ready to sing out a ‘ten-minute’ apology, then throw myself into his arms with hardly a thought for just how deeply I had savaged him with my words, my rejection.

His eyes were on the floor, now, and I wanted to tear my own guts out. 

Beauchamp, look at yourself.

I was.

And I saw—vividly—how I had ground his heart into the dirt when he’d handed it to me so tenderly and freely.

I had had my reasons at the time, yes. But God, how I had twisted the knife in his flesh. How I had ripped him.  

He’d made me a gift of himself and everything he would ever be, and to his eyes, I hadn’t even glanced at it before flinging it into the fire.

I did, Jamie! God, I DID glance. I looked and looked and it frightened me because I WANTED it. And I ran because I was married—because of Frank. But he’s gone now. He’s gone and I want YOU. 

Can’t you see that in my face? LOOK, Jamie. Find me, here.

“Well… that does seem to explain things.”

I looked up at Colum in surprise, wiping my eyes, which had been streaming. Apparently my regret and shame over what I’d done to Jamie was playing off rather nicely in support of the narrative that I was the lover that had been spurned. Even Dougal’s hostile posture had softened, though his look of distaste had not.

Colum, however, was not done. “Though it doesna altogether account for your return, this morning. If it was our Jamie’s disregard that prompted ye to flee…why come back?”

“I knew almost immediately,” I said quickly, marshaling my tremulous voice and picking up the narrative from Jamie, thanking him silently for handing me a lie with a fighting chance of success, “that it would look dreadful—as it indeed does, I am well aware—to have forsaken my word to the MacKenzies on a mere affaire de coeur.”  

I met eyes with Jamie and lost my breath for a moment. He seemed to sense that my looking at him disrupted my train of thought, and he casually began pacing before the bookshelves, moving to my right and slowly out of my line of sight.

I carried on. “Upon learning that my friends were unreachable, I did consider going south to England—or to Edinburgh or some other place I might have cause to use my skills as a healer, but my honor prompted me to return–”

“Honor,” scoffed Dougal.

“—and to beg the forgiveness of the laird and permission to remain in his service. Which I do now, humbly, under whatever terms you demand.”

Silence reigned, interrupted only by the chirping of the birds.

Colum and Dougal  leaned their heads together, sharing a heated, whispered conference. I wanted desperately to turn in my chair and look at Jamie, touch his hand, thank him, but I forced myself to stay still.

At last, Colum straightened with a look of decision, and surveyed me intently for a long moment before saying, “You may remain at Leoch, Mistress Beauchamp.”

My sigh of relief was far louder than I’d anticipated. “Thank you—THANK YOU, my laird.”

“BUT—” he said, firmly, “you will confine your movements within the walls of the main castle. And an escort will be reinstated until you have earned my forgiveness. And my trust.”

I nodded. “That is—more than fair, sir. I will respect your wishes.”

We made our farewells and I rose, taking the time to give my deepest, most respectful curtsy I could muster, but turned the very first second I was able, tuned so that I could see Jamie, ask where we might go to talk, alone.

But all I saw was the swish of a vanishing plaid.

[[Next week they talk, I promise]]

[more to come] 

[duhragonball]

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (45/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation.   This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

Previous Chapters conveniently available here

[17 May 236 Before Age.  Planet Wist.]

"Just follow my lead and let me do the talking.  Everything will be fine."

The Guardian of the Planet Wist found this advice less than reassuring, though he saw no other alternative.  Despite his heavenly office, he had been forced to compromise much in recent weeks.  First he had submitted to the authority of the Shockmaster, assuming a position in his temporal government.  Then when the Super Saiyan invaded, he found himself with no other choice but to depend on his new colleague in the Shockmaster's staff.  Calgon was a manipulative opportunist, but she claimed she could convince the Super Saiyan to stay her hand, and come out ahead in the process.  

They had evacuated one of the spaceports that lay in Luffa's general path of destruction, and Calgon had arranged a buffet table to be set out on one of the landing platform.  She had discarded her black and silver military uniform in favor of the sort of dress worn by business executives and nobles, and the Guardian could even smell perfume wafting from her general direction.  He had to admit, at least she seemed to have thought this through.  When Luffa finally flew over their position, he clung to the hope that her preparations would be enough.  

"Are you two supposed to be in charge?" Luffa asked as she landed.  Though she had dropped from the sky like a bullet, her feet touched the platform without making a sound.  "You're the only two in this whole area, so I'm guessing you want my attention.  This had better be good."

"Welcome to Fairhaven Spaceport," Calgon said amicably.  "I'm Calgon, one of the chiefs of staff for the Planet Wist.  My colleague here is the Kami of this planet, if you can believe it.  For the moment, we're authorized to negotiate on behalf of--"

Luffa had walked towards her as Calgon spoke, and began sniffing at the air with a suspicious look on her face.  This threw Calgon off for a moment, but she quickly regained composure.  

"Er, please help yourself," she said, gesturing to the buffet.  "Consider it a token of our goodwill."

Luffa ignored the table and began walking around Calgon.  "You've been sleeping with him, haven't you?" she asked.  

"The Saiyans have a keen sense of smell," Calgon said to Kami.  She looked back at Luffa and made a contrite smile.  "I was hoping to be tactful about it, but there was never any point in denying my relationship with Kandai.  I understand that you and he were married--"

"Where is he?" Luffa asked.  

"Well, that's the heart of the matter, isn't it?" Calgon said.  "You've come here to kill him, haven't you?  Oh, he told us about you, though he never explained just what he had done to make you so upset with him.  Though I'm sure he deserves everything you plan to do to him."  She went to the table and put some fruit spread on a piece of bread.  "He's a pig, after all.  I hope you understand my position in all of this.  It's not wise to reject the advances of a Saiyan, and I knew gaining his confidence could benefit me later on.  Now that you're here, we can help one another, and not just with tracking down Kandai.  I understand that we have a great deal in common, you and I."

Calgon sat down in a chair and crossed her legs while she took a bite of her bread.  "Believe me, I've been against this war from the start, but there was only so much I could do before.  Currently, we have a window of opportunity to set things right, and with your help, I can push through an instrument of surrender.  There are certain parties on Wist who would be opposed to my actions, but you could eliminate them with a flick of your wrist, now couldn't you?"  

Luffa walked past Calgon and approached the Kami.  His eyes widened with fear and he had to fight the impulse to take a step backward.  

"You.  You're the god of this planet?" Luffa asked.  

The Kami looked at Calgon nervously, then nodded.  

"Good," Luffa said.  "I've heard about beings like you.  Now listen carefully.  I want you to--"

"Now just a minute," Calgon protested.  She had gotten up from her seat and approached Luffa from behind.  When she was close enough she reached out for Luffa's arm.  "I know you must be skeptical of our intentions, but I really think it would be best if you and I discussed--"

In the moment she touched Luffa's person, the Saiyan spun around and decapitated Calgon with a single kick.  The headless corpse tumbled to the floor, blood spilling from its severed neck.  The Kami couldn't tell what had happened to Calgon's head.  Either Luffa had knocked it into the distance, or the force of her attack had somehow vaporized it.  She turned to face him again, this time with a savage look on her face.  For a moment, the only sound was the steady thrum of her golden aura.

Luffa grabbed the Kami by his robes and pulled him down, forcing him to his knees.

"I hope you’re a lot smarter than she was," Luffa said.

The Kami nodded.

*******

All things considered, Kandai thought he was doing rather well.    He had made it deep enough into the forest that no one was likely to find him.    The trees weren’t very comfortable, but they provided him an adequate place to sleep.  There was enough wild game to keep him fed and he had scouted a creek nearby as a reliable source of water.  He wouldn’t be able to stay for long, but he was beginning to think this would make a good place to spend the night at least--

And then he sensed her approach.  He had kept his senses focused on Luffa’s movements all along, relaxing when she moved away from his position, and panicking when she seemed to move in his general direction.  But this time she was coming straight at him, and at a speed he didn’t even think possible.  There was no time to run or hide, and so all Kandai managed to do was to throw up his forearms to protect his face.

In the next moment, he found himself awash in an enormous energy blast.  His own ki was enough to deflect the assault just enough to save his life, but no more.    When the attack subsided and he lowered his arms to see what had happened, he found the forest was gone.  It looked like the surface of a barren moon, and he now stood in a crater lined with ash that had once been trees and underbrush.

Above him, he saw Luffa standing in mid-air, looking down upon her handiwork.

In spite of his despair, he couldn't help but admire her.  He had heard about her Super Saiyan form, but to witness it in person was something else altogether.  Her body glowed with a yellow light, and the hair on her head and tail looked like molten iron.  Her eyes were a strange shade of blue-green, but what truly horrified him was that, aside from these details, she still looked like his wife.  Her face was the same, her black top and yellow pants, even the fingerless gloves she had always been so fond of wearing.  It was that familiarity mixed with the bizarre that he found so unsettling.  If a complete stranger had confronted him in this way, it might have been more bearable.

His first panicked impulse was to flee, before he could even turn around to run, Luffa struck him, knocking him down into the ground with such force that his body made a second, smaller crater within the first.  Before he could even try to get up, she was standing over him.    She reached down and grabbed him by the shirt of his uniform and pulled him upright.

"Luffa--!" was all he could say in his astonishment.

"Hi, honey," she said.  "I ran into your girlfriend a little while ago.  She’s dead now, but before I killed her, she introduced me to this planet’s guardian.  I think you already know him."

"N-no!" he gasped.

"He’s got some pretty sharp senses," Luffa said.  "I guess he’d have to, to keep an eye on the whole planet.  Aliens like you and me stick out like sore thumbs, at least when he’s motivated to look.  Besides, you’ve got a lot of evil in your heart from what he told me."

She clicked her tongue.  "Now what do you think he meant by *that*, Kandai?  Do you have something you want to confess?"

"Luffa, I--"

She smiled as she began cracking her knuckles.  In the next instant she stomped on his chest.  Kandai didn't even see her move.  

"You killed our son!"  She screamed.  

"Luffa, please..." Kandai said.  He didn’t really expect mercy.  In his heart, he didn’t believe he deserved it.  He simply didn’t know what else to say.

Luffa just screamed.    The aura that surrounded her flashed and expanded.  Just when it seemed like she would never stop, she picked him up by the tunic of his uniform and hauled him to his feet.   She struck his face.  Then she did it again.  And again.  By the time Kandai had managed to raise his arms to protect his head, she had already hit him several dozen times.  She let him go so she could use both arms, but he could barely stand, and so she occasionally steadied him with one hand while attacking with the other.  

He tried to reach for her throat, mostly because it was easier to see than the furious blur of her arms, but she swatted his hand aside with such force that for a moment he thought she might have torn his hand from his wrist.  

"What the hell is wrong with you, you bastard!?" she shouted.  "Fight back!"

"I can’t," Kandai gasped.  He wanted to.  Despite the fear, despite the impossible odds, something deep inside him had fantasized about this moment.  He had imagined putting up at least a token resistance, but Luffa had beaten him in the first few seconds.  He might survive a while longer, but defending himself was impossible.  

He dropped to his knees and his hands hung limp at his sides.  One of them was still numb from when she had swatted it.  He was fairly sure he could raise the other with considerable effort, but he couldn't see the point in trying.  

"Get up!" Luffa shouted.  "Get!  Up!"

"You’ve won, all right?!  Just finish me and be done with it!"

"No...  No, you don’t get off that easy!" she screeched.  "You sold me out to the Tikosi!  They tortured me for months!  I was pregnant with your child and you didn't even care!  You could have helped me, but you didn't!  You could have killed me, but you didn’t!  Instead you let them cut me open!  You took our son!   What did you do with him!?  Tell me!"

He turned pale as he realized that she was going to drag this out.  She put her other hand on his collarbone, and slowly began to apply pressure on either side of it.

"I’ll rip you apart," she said.  "Piece by piece until you tell me everything I want to know!"

"I’ll tell you everything now!" Kandai said.

"Dammit!"  Luffa shouted.  She flung him into the ash like a sack of garbage.  Then she raised her hand and pointed her index and middle finger at him.    He could sense the energy gathering in her fingertips.  She could kill him in an instant with that much power.  He couldn’t bear to watch, but neither could he look away.

Then the energy faded, and she clenched her fist instead.  "Dammit!" Luffa shouted again.

"You... can’t do it, can you?" Kandai said.  For the first time in years, he felt the slightest flicker of hope.  

"Of course I can!" Luffa yelled.  "Anyone could kill you like this!  You're pathetic!"

"Then do it!" he shouted.  "Kill me!  Cripple me!  Torture me, if that’s what would satisfy you!  You've found me, so get on with it!  What are you waiting for?! "

She stared at him with a blank expression, then sat down in the dust and sighed.

  "I don’t know," she said.  "I killed my father so quickly I didn’t have time to really think about it.  I’ve had a long time to figure out just what kind of pain I want to put you through, Kandai, but there’s only some much of you to go around.  Hah.  I can't decide how to end it."

Kandai laughed.  "You thought I’d be stronger than this," he said.  "That I’d last longer against you."

"I think you’re actually a little weaker than you were the last time I saw you," Luffa said.   "You’re a disgrace, Kandai."

"What was the point of training?" he asked.  "Against something like you, all I could do was run and hide."

"That’s why you cut off your tail, isn’t it?" Luffa asked.  "And shaved your head?  To keep a low profile?"

"For all the good it did me," Kandai said.  He dropped to a sitting position and clutched his arm.  "But it got me this far.  If you hadn’t started that damned Federation, I might have lasted longer...  It's a dirty trick, Luffa.  Using politics against me."

She grinned at him.  "You liked that huh?" she asked.  "People kept telling me how I was 'making the galaxy a better place' by uniting planets in 'peaceful cooperation'.  Hah! I was just doing it so those warlords would stop fighting each other and help me hunt down your sorry ass.  There’s a whole intelligence bureau on Despye assigned to find you.  For 'classified' reasons, of course.  Officially, you're a star witness to a war crime on Dasper XII.  I didn’t want air our dirty laundry."

"Guess they’re out of work," Kandai said.  "Argon told you I was here, didn’t he?"

"Did you really think he’d protect you?" Luffa asked.  "He’s a bigger coward than you are."

"You didn’t leave me with a lot of options," Kandai said.  "I wanted to fight you in person, I really did, but I knew it was pointless.   You defeated fifty Saiyans on Vedev?"

"Fifty-three," Luffa said with a proud grin.  "That was a fun day.  You should have been there, Kandai.  Fifty-four might have been your lucky number."

"I doubt it," Kandai said.   "What did the Tikosi do to you, Luffa?"

"They pushed me too far, that’s what."  She pointed to her glowing hair.  "You like it?"

"It’s awful," Kandai said.  He wiped the sweat off of his bald pate and snorted.  "But I’m in no position to judge anyone’s hair these days."

"It’s natural, as far as I can tell," Luffa said.  "Chanisp looked like this."

"The legendary Chanisp?" Kandai asked.

"And Asparaj," Luffa said with a nod.  "Maybe Old Darbock, but I can’t prove it.  I’m thinking all the old heroes had this same power.  Somebody just pushed them too far, and they snapped, like I did."

He sniffed at the air and made a face.  "You’re seeing that Dorlun now, aren’t you?" he asked.

"Yeah," Luffa said.  "Don’t tell me you’re jealous.  You left me for dead, Kandai.  Hell, our whole marriage was a sham, right?  Let me guess, Dad put you up to it to keep me in line."

"Close enough," Kandai said.  "He hired me to help him after your mother, er..."

"After he left my mother to die," Luffa said.  "You and Father had a lot in common.  You’re both cowards who betrayed your wives and children, and you both managed to piss off the Legendary Super Saiyan.  Small universe."

"Look, he wanted to steal your mother’s power somehow.  He was obsessed with this idea that some Saiyans are just naturally stronger than others, and he was convinced the Tikosi could help him transplant that inborn talent from her into him."

"He told me about that," Luffa said.  "Somewhere along the way, he decided I'd be an even better test subject.  I don't know if that was because I was a closer genetic match, or he just thought I had more potential than Mother."

"All I know is that you were getting stronger very quickly," Kandai said.  "He thought you were training to help him on mercenary jobs, so he brought me in to discourage that idea.  With me backing him up, you'd go back to the grunt work.  Cleaning up after us, cooking our meals, keeping an eye on the ship.  That was what you wanted to do, wasn't it?"

"All I wanted was to do my part," Luffa insisted.  "We were a family, dammit!  I would have been happy polishing your armor or fighting on the front lines!  Whatever it took to support the team!"

"That’s what I always liked about you, Luffa," Kandai said.  "You actually buy into all that crap.  Reminds me of my grandmother.  She died when I was little, but she was always telling those stupid stories, going on about duty and honor..."

"That 'crap' is who we are!" Luffa shouted.   "I 'buy into' it because I’m proud of our Saiyan heritage!  Didn’t your mother ever teach you about--?"

"My mother died on a battlefield when I was two," Kandai said.  "She didn’t care about sitting at home telling me a bunch of nonsense about what dead men think!  Our only 'heritage' is to fight!  That’s all that matters!  Orij's plan was revolting, but he was strong enough to make it happen, so I went along with it!   I figured I might as well marry you in the meantime.  The way you were throwing yourself at me, I didn't have much choice..."

"Oh, bull!" Luffa growled.  "I only approached you because you were too timid to come to me!  I couldn't have you getting shot on a mission because you were too distracted fantasizing about me, now could I?"

"You...vulgar..." Kandai gasped.  "How can you talk like that out in the open--!"

"Kandai, there's no one around for miles," Luffa said.  "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about.  Timid."

He looked around and snorted.  "I suppose you're right."

For a few seconds, they laughed together, and it felt almost like the way it had been a few years earlier.  Before the Tikosi.  Before the Super Saiyan.   Then the laughter faded, and there was an awkward pause. 

"I ruined a good thing," Kandai finally said.  "I am sorry about that much, Luffa."

"Did you even care about the baby?" Luffa asked.  

"It was never part of the plan," Kandai said.  "You ran off to be in that tournament, and I didn't see you again until you were already on the Tikosi's planet.  That was when I found out.  I spent a lot of those days looking for new work.  Seeing what Orij was willing to do to his own daughter didn't fill me with confidence.   And if his plan worked, he wouldn't have had much use for me, so I started exploring my options."

"That's when King Rehval made you an offer," Luffa said.  

"How... how did you know about that?" Kandai asked.

Luffa turned her head and spat before answering.  "Contempt for Saiyan royalty runs in my family," Luffa said.  "But you married in, Kandai, so I don't think you ever felt that strongly about it.  And I knew when I started hunting for you that you might go running to Rehval for asylum.  I made a few... inquiries. It was pretty easy, since that pompous buffoon likes to set up embassies on every planet he can find."

"But they told me it was strictly off the record," Kandai said.  

Luffa held up her hand and placed it against the side of her face.  "I don't need records, Kandai," she said.  "I can read minds just by touching people.  It's not something I like to do, and it probably doesn't get as much press as my other powers.  I found a clerk who knew about your little backroom deal.  You sold a 'sample' of Saiyan fetal tissue to Rehval, and I have a scar on my gut that says where you got it from.  How much did he pay you?   I'm curious."

He shook his head and sighed wearily.  "Not as much as he promised, if it makes you feel any better," he said bitterly.  "It was mostly political favors.  I was supposed to be granted a high-ranking position in the Saiyan Royal Military.  Job security, plenty of choice assignments, things like that.  But once word of the Super Saiyan got around, and rumors began to circulate that you were after me, the King severed all ties.  Besides, I committed some crimes on worlds friendly to Planet Saiya, so he'd like nothing better than to extradite me to one of them.  I'm as much on the run from him as I am from you."

"My heart bleeds for you," Luffa muttered.  "Why does 'His Majesty' want Saiyan fetal tissue?"

"Because he's just like your father!" Kandai snapped.  "He wants power, and he's not above using scientific trickery to claim it!  I knew that if you and your mother had enough potential to interest the Tikosi, then your offspring would fetch a high price.  A living specimen would have been better, but I didn't want to risk waiting around for you to deliver.  I requested that the Tikosi remove it, and Orij didn't object, so I took the sample and left."

"That 'sample' was your own son!" Luffa shouted.

"He was doomed from the start!" Kandai insisted.  "You were as good as dead, and so was he!"

"You were his father!" Luffa growled.  "You could have tried to save him!  You could have helped me and we would have fought them!"

"Orij and the Tikosi would have killed me!"

"Then we would have died together!" Luffa said.  "You and me and the brat inside me!  It would have been glorious!"

"You... you really mean that!   You’re serious..." Kandai said.

She looked at him with a wide-eyed grin, her teeth gleaming from the glow of her aura.  "Of course I am," she said as she balled up her fists.  "A hopeless battle against a horde of Tikosi?  I've already done it twice, and let me tell you, it was a hell of a time."

She stood up and her aura expanded around her as she walked towards him.  Kandai knew it was pointless, but he still scooted away from her as she approached.

"And who did I have at my side?" she asked in a raw, ugly voice.  "A couple of Dorluns?  A Yetitan?  A doctor from... I forget where his home planet is, but that's not the point.  They stood with me to the bitter end, but not you.  No, a noble warrior of the Saiya couldn't be bothered to lift a finger for his own family!"

"Because I'm not a fool!" Kandai shouted.  "What good is a fight you can't win?!"

"What good is winning when you don't have to fight for it?!" Luffa shouted back.

"Exactly," Kandai said.  "That's exactly why you won't kill me, Luffa.  I've been following your exploits for a long time now.  The few Saiyans who would still talk to me told me you were soft.  I thought they were just too envious to admit your superiority, but now... ha! Now, I understand."

She set her jaw and looked down upon him silently, waiting for what he had to say next.  He let the moment linger, as though double-checking his conclusion.  Then at last, he allowed himself to enjoy that small flicker of hope.  

"This 'Super Saiyan' power of yours," he said.  "It hasn't just amplified your ki, it's affected your mind, Luffa.  Your lust for battle has gotten so out of control that all you can think about is finding a new challenge!   Without a sporting chance, there's no point to killing me anymore, is there?  Not even for revenge!"

NEXT: Deadlock...