#my home looks broken and like a dirty shadow of its former self and they have to live with that everyday

[dykedvonte]

I think the Sole Survivor would become super homesick in Sanctuary. Like it’s still their home but it’s so different. I can imagine everyone thinking they’ve gone nutty cause they keep trying to clean or rearrange everything to make it seem more pre war but there’s only so much that can be done.

They found a pristine vase once and treated it like it was a stash of 2000 caps. They were so excited and put it on the sturdiest nicest table in Sanctuary and just gushed about how they had one just like it in their living room before the war. They talk about basic decor and amenities like they were luxuries because they are now but only to them. A lot of people don’t care about those sort of things now so it just seems like a weird infatuation with them.

The others wouldn’t really get it until Nick explains the adjustment. Technically Nick has only existed post war as the synth he is but a lot of his memories are pre-war. He too missed a nice throw rug not covered in god knows what or having a bed frame that wouldn’t give you splinters just for looking at it wrong. Out of everything that was the hardest to get use to. Just things never looking fully nice.

It would be super cute if after this epiphany they have a big redecoration party for the Sole Survivor by trying to make their space look as pretty and pre-war as possible with whatever nice things they can find. It’s still dingy and everything looks like it came from the worlds worst tag sale but it’s the thought that counts and the fact that they would go out to find non-irradiated paint for them that SoSu appreciates.

[whereismymindnow]

Shark (Troy Otto x OC)

I’ve really enjoyed rewatching FTWD lately, particularly S3 since Troy was such an interesting character that had so many complicated layers and I thought his relationship with Nick could have been explored so much more.

Anyway, this may not go anywhere, but here’s a one-shot or chapter one of a short fic for anyone that may be interested. I've not posted any fanfiction on Tumblr before so I'm fully prepared for it to flop haha! I do post on AO3 under the name Mikki19. :)

Song inspiration for the story: Plastic Heart by Ciscandra Nostalghia

This fic (if I expand on it on here) will have many dark elements due to Troy's mindset. Consider that your warning.

---

This wasn’t how it was meant to happen.

All of this trouble over some half-rotten fucking apples.

She’d been minding her own business, her hunger leading her to not take full account of her surroundings as she came across the nearly dead fruit tree. Flies buzzed around the apples that had dropped to the floor long ago, but she noticed 3 overly ripened orbs clinging for life on one of the higher branches. Given how she’d been unable to forage much lately, she was willing to try and take whatever bits of the apples were left.

Her nearly empty bag dropped to the ground as she carefully put one foot in a groove of the tree and hoisted herself up. Her vision was blurry and her head ached, but getting the browning fruits above remained her goal. With shaky limbs she scaled the tree until she could stretch up and touch the apples with her fingertips. She let out a groan of pain as she gave one last stretch and grabbed the branch that held her prize; a small shake had the little round globes dropping to the ground with a squelch making her grimace. Beggars can’t be choosers, she reminded herself.

She hadn’t been expecting to hear the rumble of an engine or the large soldiers that slowly sauntered out of the truck. She’d frozen like a cat being caught climbing something they shouldn’t have as one stepped forward. His brown curls and bright eyes gave the impression of innocence, but the shadow of calculation overcoming his face made her realise how fucked she was.

Harper unsteadily slid down the tree and noticed how her bag – that had very little inside it apart from an empty bottle, a Swiss Army knife, a torn and distressed picture of her brother, and the collar of her dog that had defended her until the end – was closer to the man than to her. With a sharklike smile he picked up the bag and threw it behind him for one of his friends to rifle through and cocked his head to the side in wonder as to what her next move would be.

She heard him laugh as she dived behind the tree and ran as fast as she could to the building nearby. A loud scream left her as a corpse immediately launched itself at her as she burst through the door; its teeth were so close to her that she could feel a few strands of hair be ripped from her scalp as it snapped its jaws. She kept an arm pushing across its chest as she frantically ripped her pocketknife from her boot, flipped it open and sent the blade through the walker’s skull. The body dropped to the filthy floor, sending a cloud of grey dust into the air that made her choke. Harper turned her head and saw the soldier slowly making his way to the building she’d just entered.

So, here she was. Trapped like a mouse as the cat prowled around looking for its next meal. She slowed her breathing as much as she could and huddled under the abandoned desk; her hand held a strong grip on the knife but she could already feel her body shaking in exhaustion. She hadn’t eaten properly or slept more than a few hours for days since her camp got overrun by a hoard of the dead. She wasn’t ready for a fight. She knew that this was only going to go one way judging by the firepower that these men had and how clean and well-fed they looked. With any luck she could lose or injure the guy in the building and run out through a back exit.

“You know, I don’t want to hurt you. People always look at me like a monster, but I’m not. If you come out, there doesn’t have to be a struggle.” Harper could hear him in the corridor outside of the abandoned office she’d dived into. The way he sounded so chilled, almost bored or uninterested, made her want to deliver a swift kick to his smug face.

She’d always been a fighter. When the kid in 9th grade pushed her to the floor and laughed, she’d got up just as quick and head-butted him without a thought. When Sophia had looked at her brown curls with a sneer, she’d quickly pulled on the blonde locks until the girl begged for mercy. Of course, her spitfire nature came with consequences. She’d found that out pretty quick when her father started to use a firmer, more brutal hand in order to get her to comply, and her mother had pulled her out of school and begun to slip light sedatives in her food. They were afraid of her, she knew that. They were afraid she’d inherited that rage that had sent her grandmother into a mental hospital at the age of 39 until she died in a medication induced coma at 46. It wasn’t until her brother died when she was 18 that things began to change. Her fire had been reduced to nothing and she walked around the house like one of the dead even before they’d started to rise. Malachi had been her rock. He’d been the only one to believe in her and used that anger that burned within her belly to train her how to wrestle. She soon grew hungry for the sport and had aspired to join the independent wrestling scene as soon as she could break away from her parents. Malachi’s death had changed all of that though. The once bright-eyed girl had been reduced to a withered husk. The fire within had been extinguished and the thought of fighting made her feel nauseous. Her parents had been quite relieved; they’d have rather have her broken than be the monster they were sure she’d have turned into. From then on she’d been a shadow of her former self; she spent most of her days sleeping or pretending to listen to her mother prattle on about one thing or another whilst her father went to work.

She could feel that familiar ache in her chest. She wanted to get up and fight, but her legs felt like jelly and her head was about ready to explode. So, she waited. Her eyes clenched shut as the door to the office slowly closed. She heard the thud of a gun being put on the table near the door and the heavy footsteps of army boots make their way across the room.

“I know you’re under there.” A squeak left her mouth as two large hands slammed down on top of the desk. “Won’t you come out? You don’t even know what I have to offer to you. Those apples you were so desperately reaching for? I can give you a whole basket full… if you just come out.” He made it sound so goddamn easy and simple. “I said: come out!” The sudden anger in his voice made her gulp and slowly stand. Her green eyes met his; despite the anger that had been in his voice, his face was blank as he drank the sight of her in.

Her cropped top was torn and covered in blood, her shorts were dirty and her boots were worn. She was clinging to life by a thread and they both knew it. Her 5’7�� stature was dwarfed by his large 6’1” body. He could tell she had been quite fit and muscular before all of this, but poor nutrition had left her looking withered and underdeveloped. He could easily see her ribs and hipbones from where she stood. She was completely filthy and he noted bruises and scratches on her legs from where she had been running wild for who knows how long. It was her eyes that got him the most; he’d seen those eyes before, he saw that same determination and anger every time he looked at his own reflection. She didn’t want to give up, but she was so tired. Her body wobbled in place and she sucked her chapped bottom lip between her teeth in an attempt to keep the sob that was building at bay.

“Come here.” When she made no effort to move Troy quickly reached forwards, grabbed her by the neck and lifted her over the desk so that she was in front of him. He laughed as his free hand quickly caught her wrist as she sluggishly tried to get him with her knife. “Drop it.” Troy murmured softly.

“No.” Her voice cracked from lack of use. “No.” A heavy sigh left his mouth before he tightened his grip until he could feel her ligaments and bones creak under his grasp. “Agh!” Her other hand came to claw at his fingers desperately as she felt like her wrist would break.

“Drop. It.” He hissed with no intention of loosening his hold until she complied like a good girl. The knife fell with a clatter as she swallowed down her pride and submitted. Immediately his once vicelike grip turned into a soft hold and he allowed his thumb to carefully rub the already bruising skin. “Do you see what you made me do?” He spoke like he was talking to a child. “I’m not a bad person. You just need to listen to me.” Troy watched as her face crumpled and she stared at her feet. He was so used to looking at people like an experiment that he was shocked to find his mind wasn’t trying to work out how long it would take this weakened girl to turn. He looked at her in wonder instead. He could tell that she was broken inside. It was easy to see as the swell of defiance was in her gaze but it was overpowered by the lost look. She needed someone to lead her. She needed direction… purpose… He’d give it to her. He could see her at the ranch with him. She’d be in the living area waiting for him to return from a hunt with a smile on her face and no shoes on her feet. She wouldn’t need shoes; shoes were only necessary for people going outside. He was all she would need. She would be his.

Harper carefully looked up at the soldier and blinked as she saw the concentration in them. “Who are you?”

“My name is Troy. Yours?”

“H-Harper.”

“Where are you from?”

“England… originally. We moved to the States after my brother died… too many memories at home.”

“How’d your brother die? Was he sick?” His head snapped to the side as her hand came up and connected with his cheek. Harper was breathless from the exertion but the carelessness in which he talked about her brother made her blood boil. Malachi was a subject not meant to be touched. “Hm… wrong move.” Troy’s grip tightened once again on her wrist as he spun her around, pushed her front onto the desk and pulled her limb until an aching pain grew in her shoulder from the angle. He used his own body to hover over her so that she couldn’t straighten up. “Apologise.” He wedged his legs between hers as she started to flail and kick out in order to avoid the low blow that she was aiming to deliver; his hips stayed firm against the back of her thighs despite the movements she was making. A deep groan left his mouth as her actions awakened the primal urge within him that told him to claim her. Harper suddenly stilled as she felt a heavy, hard length begin to grow against her ass. “Apologise.” He simply repeated, suddenly breathless as his body buzzed from the stimulation. He wasn’t used to this reaction. Sure, he could see pretty girls from those that would probably be a last pick, but he’d never felt this need to claim before. He’d had sex before, meaningless and ultimately disappointing sex with girls that had wanted to get closer to his perfect brother or had wanted a better standing within the ranch and chosen the somewhat vulnerable youngest Otto to try and make that happen, but this felt like more than just an urge to find his way into the warmth between her legs. This felt like something he needed; like the blood in his veins and the air that he breathed. She felt like a piece of the puzzle that would fit perfectly into place and make him feel that little bit more whole.

Harper could feel his hot breath shakily release against the back of her head and shuddered. “I- I am sorry.” She whispered gently in an attempt to appease the unpredictable man behind her. She felt him slowly release her wrist but he made no motion to move away from her. Her back tensed as his hands slowly went to her sides and gripped her hips. He stayed still for a moment, almost as though he was using his hold on her body to ground himself, before stepping back with a low chuckle.

“Good girl. You’re learning already.” Troy leant down and grabbed her knife, a knowing look in his eye as he pocketed it for himself before pulling something else out of his jacket. A thin strip of plastic was in his grasp. “Put your wrists out and together.” Harper exhaled as she looked at the cable tie. Exhaustion was defeating her and he’d taken what little energy she had left. Her body was propped up by the table behind her and she knew if she stepped away then her legs were likely to collapse.

“Where are you going to take me?” She asked softly understanding that she had no way out of this in her current state.

“Back to base. It’s safe there.” Troy stated proudly as though he was saving her and not taking her against her will. “Do you understand? I’m going to keep you safe. I’ll feed you and get you clean so I can see exactly what is under all of this filth.” Harper’s mouth watered at the thought of food and a shower. Her basic human needs screamed at her to obey as she shakily held out her hands to him. He carefully looped the plastic around her wrists and tightened it until she winced; only stopping when her eyes looked into his pleading for some form of mercy. “Are you thankful?” Harper gave a shaky nod under his intense stare that seemed to strip her naked and glare into her soul. “Use your words.”

Harper swallowed down her bile as he raised his brow expectantly. “Yes… thank you, Troy.” His grin was the last thing she saw before her body finally gave up and she dropped to the cold ground unconscious.

---

You look for me Inside the dark I am the ocean You are the shark You hunt me like Your last goodbye Oh fallen angel Of the night

---Plastic Heart by Ciscandra Nostalghia---

[blacknailpolishonguitarstrings]

Forgotten in the rain

The streets were empty and quiet, devoid of life, save for the occasional passing car, rushing and hissing over the wet asphalt. Dark clouds swirled in the gray sky, pouring their sorrows on the desolate city below. Most remained in their homes far away from the endless rivers of water falling from the sky, but not Sirius. No, he most certainly did not despise the grim weather or the rain. On the contrary, he rather enjoyed it, finding it peaceful and almost…serene. He liked to hear the sound of the millions of droplets of water clattering against the windows and cars, sliding down vibrant green leaves, falling on the ground, sinking into the earth and turning it into mush, and disappearing down the drains into the cold metal pipes. It calmed him, washing away the restlessness, pain, and memories, even if it only were for a few short minutes. A light, trembling wind fought his way into his body, past his leather jacket, chilling him to the bones, ruffling his wet hair. But again, he did not mind. A dark green leaf, the colour of Aisha’s eyes, detached itself from a low hanging branch, fluttering briefly in front of his face, before titling down and falling at his feet on the gray cobblestones.

Aisha…she was lovely. A smart, funny, gorgeous woman filled to the brim with joyous life. A temperamental, but kind soul. But it was not the same. Something was still missing inside of him, a small, but important void in his chest, almost as if he had lost something he had never possessed in the first place. And it hurt. He hid it well but it pained him.

He continued walking, immersed in his thoughts and not paying attention to his surroundings. Sirius was so distracted, that he did not notice the pots full of flowers standing on the side of the sidewalk and nearly fell flat forward on his face, as he tripped, knocking them over. White petals flew in the air, and gently settled on the dirty pavement, around withered green stems. Cursing he picked the, up, stepping on one in the process and leaving behind ugly black stains on the squashed flower. They were beyond salvaging.

With a heavy sigh, he entered the little flower shop, water running down his clothes and heavily dripping on the floor. His hair lay in wet black and gray strands on his face and neck, sticking to his skin, and his blue-gray eyes shone bright with curiosity in the dim lighting as he looked around. The place was small and dark, walls covered in crackled navy blue paint, and a couple of dingy light bulbs hung from the bare ceiling, casting their flickering light on the room. Flowers of every shape, colour, and size were cramped in glass vases, broken stems and yellowed leaves were strewn here and there across the floor, and dried bundles of faded pink roses and baby breath flowers hung upside down above the counter, suspended on thin strings.

Sirius stood there, immobile, holding the damaged flowers, at loss, when the green door behind the counter opened, and an old man appeared. He was very tall and slim, dressed in a knitted cream jumper and brown corduroy pants. His hair fell on his face in a mess of graying dark copper curls stricken with white locks, casting shadows over his eyes. He seemed oblivious to Sirius’ presence, nose deep inside a large leather-bound book he cradled tightly with one hand, a steaming red mug of tea in the other. Clearing his throat, the black-haired man walked up to the counter, running a nervous hand through his dripping locks.

“Hello, sorry…I…Uhm,” he stuttered.

The shopkeeper looked up, clever green eyes meeting a confused silvery blue gaze. It was as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been poured over Sirius, filling his bones with fear, chilling every inch of his skin with anxiety. Those brown flecks swimming in pools of emerald, those sun-kissed golden curls, the millions of little freckles peppering pale, once youthful now wrinkled skin, the warm wool of knitted cardigans, the sharp scent of burning hot tea that has just been brewed, the crinkle of rapidly turned pages…he knew all of these things. He was more than familiar with them. It all belonged to Remus John Lupin. It was his Moony. His Moony, who he hadn’t seen in years. Memories washed over him, flicking in his mind like a flipbook, rushing through the years.

The first time he saw the tall, lanky boy with gangly limbs on the Hogwarts Express, the nervousness written all over his face, clear as day, as he sat on the stool, the Sorting Hat heavy on his head and insecurity dancing across his taught features as the name “Gryffindor” resonated in the Great Hall. Sirius remembered the first year, spent in nervous glances and reclusion, the bitterness and resignation when his secret came out, and they found out he was a werewolf.

He remembered Second Year, when Remus’ smiles gradually got brighter and he became more comfortable, yet he still wouldn’t change in front of his friends.

Then came Third Year, and the whole Animagus process, where he finally saw what it was like to turn into a vicious beast once a month, what it was like to tear yourself apart and wake up the next day, just a little more tired and broken than the day before. Fast forward to Fourth Year where his problems with his family truly began, Remus’ constant worried glances, and that cold, dark Christmas Eve of 1974 where he, Sirius Black, appeared at the Potter's barely breathing, beyond hurt and wrecked.

He, of course, never forgot Fifth Year and the stolen, longing stares, the minute he realized he liked boys, and the precise moment he understood that the boy in question was Remus John Lupin, his best friend. He also recalled, with regret and sorrow, the time that he gave away Remus’ condition to Snape; an idiotic, dangerous, so-called prank that near,y cost him one of the most important people in his life.

And then Sixth Year and its tension, the first drunken kiss, the secrets, the lies, and the blissful nights spent at the very top of the Astronomy Tower. Sirius kept the memories of summer 1977 dearly, reminiscing of the sweet warm nights, the bonfires, the day the rest of their friends found out about him and Remus, and the pure joy and happiness of those few weeks.

He remembered Seventh Year and the mounting fear, hanging heavy in the air, the worried whispers, and the empty, saddened stares...all things that perdured even after Hogwarts.

Then came the War, accompanied by mourning and grief, only brightened for a few moments by James’ and Lily’s wedding, and then Harry's birth. A joy that didn't last long, as Sirius’ rapidly deteriorating relationship with Remus finally broke with the death of their best friends and his unjust imprisonment.

He remembered every excruciating full moon of the twelve years spent in Azkaban, every other remaining day blurring into an unintelligible mess, slowly sinking into insanity, with no knowledge of Remus’ whereabouts.

He remembered, without doubt, the first time he saw his godson, Harry, all grown up, looking just like his father, brave and kind, having survived more than he had ought to. And then there was Remus too, looking exhausted and grayed, only a pale, faded shadow of his former self. The next few years were spent between Order missions, confrontations with Death, and the same old, familiar stolen glances. They attempted to rebuild their relationship, yet they never regained that special, magical even, bond.

And after the War, Remus disappeared. At first, they exchanged weekly letters, which then got rarer and rarer, until they stopped coming altogether and for years, Sirius knew nothing of him. Until now.

“Excuse me, sir!” said Remus waving his hand awkwardly in front of his face. “You...wanted something, right?”

The other wizard suddenly shuddered, blinking, as if he had just been roused from a trance.

“Yeah, sorry...I...um...was just, you know...thinking,” he stuttered, blushing.

His former friend raised a sarcastic, amused eyebrow.

“I just wanted to pay for these flowers I sort of...destroyed. By accident of course!” Added Sirius hastily, watching him apprehensively.

“That’s alright, I should have thought to bring them in a while ago already. It’s curious, really, you remind me of someone I used to know a long time ago. His name was Sirius Black. Quite a peculiar name, isn't it?” he replied pensively.

A flare of hope lit up inside Sirius. Maybe, just maybe, he remembered and recognized him.

“Remus?” he asked quietly.

“You know me?”

A look of surprise crossed his face.

“I…,” he hesitated. “No. I thought I knew you but I guess I was wrong. I must have mistaken you for someone else, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s alright, it happens to everyone from time to time,” answered Remus lightly. “Do you want anything else?”

“Maybe white roses, for my girlfriend.”

“Excellent choice! These are my personal favourites” he said, reaching for a bouquet of snowy white roses, with soft petals and lush, dark green leaves.

“I know they are,” thought Sirius bitterly. “You told me in Third Year on a lazy summer day that white roses were your favorite flowers because your mum’s garden was full of them.”

“I’m sure she will love them,” he smiled.

[circumstellars]

Hello there! Can I have a ficlet with dialogue prompt, 'What's making him scream like that?' for Five and Diego, or any siblings you like ;)

[Ok so this turned out slightly longer than intended, but I was able to blend it together with another idea I had for a follow up to this ficlet.

The context is that this is canon compliant in that it happens somewhere near the end of S1EP4, when passed out drunk Five is recovering in Diego’s bed.

Basically Five has an PTSD episode, or a night terror if that’s easier, and the line you prompted I rearranged and altered a bit to fit the scene, so I hope that’s okay?

In this addition to the canon, when they were little Ben begins to have trouble controlling the otherworldly monster he uses, and Five has made a promise he won’t let things get out of hand. Fast forward to S1, where Luther and Diego are taking care of him, but before Al comes to deliver Eudora’s message, and it is sandwiched between two Five apocalypse flashbacks.

So so so many thanks to @michlle, or @/kkie on TUA Adult Fan Discord server. She’s an amazing beta that helped me in a pinch! So the only reason my grammar is so much better than usual is entirely thanks to her.

Very angsty. Blood, just a snippet a violence. Brotherly pain all around, emotional suffering. Enjoy! I hope you like it.]

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⟨p⟩=md⟨x⟩/dt=mddt∫∞−∞x|ψ|2dx=m∫∞−∞x∂|ψ|2∂tdx.­­­ 'It's a simple fucking equation, what is wrong?' His shaky fingers struggled with the chalk, accidentally snapping off one end against the concrete wall. Five swore, making a face at the broken piece of chalk like it spoke ill of his mother.

Oh god. Mom.  His face crumpled. 'The expectation values of displacement and momentum... obey time evolution equations analogous with,' a wet cough interrupted his deflated musing. He spun around and rested against the concrete he had been writing on moments before, before turning an eye to Dolores. '... the mechanics of Schrödinger’s equation.'  Dolores gave him a weary look. Five avoided her gaze. She didn't know. It's not like she had been forced to pick up quantum physics at age ten, and really, he had to forgive her for that.  The sun was powerful today, as it had been at least seventeen of the twenty-six days he'd been stuck in the apocalyptic ruins of his former city. It should have only been the end of April, if that newspaper clipping he held close was in fact the last thing to have been printed, but it felt hotter than middle July easily. The aggressive winds of mid-afternoon whipped all sorts of debris into his frail body and any exposed skin, and Five simply couldn't risk any injuries that could deplete his energy. He was on the cusp of fixing this, he could feel it in his exhausted bones.

He swallowed down the start of a painful sob, careful to steel over his expression. 'I know you said something about the farthest right term Dolores, but I'm not neglecting it,' Five chided, breathing into the dirty scarf around his face.

He turned around and scooped up the chalk he had rejected moments ago. 'The spatial extent of the particle wavefunction isn't smaller than the variation length-scale of the potential. You're clever, and pretty, but not that clever.' 

Five snorted at his own banter, smiling into the trails of chalk spilling from his hand as it ran across the rubble. 'Now, listen carefully this time...' --- Diego unceremoniously dropped Dolores on a nearby chair.  The fuck is this for?  He gave the mannequin an odd look. A few steps away Luther lowered their brother carefully into Diego's roomy, luxurious twin cot, rolling the sleepy, drunken Five so that he was resting comfortably on his side. 

Diego sidled next to Luther, joining him in looking over their tiny brother. Small, frozen in time for them both in memory and now, awkwardly, in reality too. The baby fat still very much clung to his still rounded features and made him look impossibly younger in a way that brought nostalgia roaring up the esophagus like heartburn. He was supposedly twice their age now? Diego scrunched his nose; to think this child, for all intents and purposes, laid here so serenely- so sweetly, dare he say it, looked like a boy who'd just tired himself out at school that day. Yet he knew, the moment Five sobered up, the illusion would crumble swiftly and without mercy. 'Funny, if I didn't know he was such a prick, I'd say he looks almost adorable in his sleep.' 

Luther snorted. 'Well, don't worry. He'll sober up eventually... and be back to his normal, unpleasant self.'

That's not good enough. 'Yeah - I can't wait that long.' Diego spun on his heel, intending to grab provisions. Five had about ten minutes of rest before Diego would be ready to forcibly pull him into consciousness with soda crackers and ginger-ale. 'I need to find out what connections he has to these lunatics before someone else dies.'

Luther didn't respond right away, eyes flickering to Five and back. He looked pensive, uncomfortable. Diego still hadn’t gotten used to the subtle changes in Luther's personality; it was disquieting the way he looks so much bigger than he used to, and yet now he seems so much smaller to Diego than he ever physically was. The big man had an air of constant uncertainty around him.

'That stuff he was saying before...' Luther began after a moment, 'what do you think he meant by that?' Diego glanced over his shoulder at Five's sleeping figure, curled up tightly in foetal position. His expression darkened in his sleep, and Diego frowned. 'I don't know...' The words came slowly, his focus narrowing in on his littlest brother. He turned quickly again, box of soda crackers forgotten on his dingy counter.

Five began to fuss, still unconscious, but his body began to shake some, and his entire expression was pinched in discomfort. Luther was watching Diego, puzzled, and followed his eyes back to Five on the cot behind him.

Then came the screaming.

Both Luther and Diego jumped back in alarm as the most harrowing, stomach-churning scream came from Five. He was folded into himself, clutching at his own biceps so hard his knuckles were bone-white. The screams that were coming from him sounded so raw Diego was sure he was damaging his vocal cords in some way.

Luther came down from his initial shock quicker than Diego and was at the cot in an instant. Diego held his breath, jaw fighting to unhinge. He was always quick in his reflexes, but something held Diego down and glued his feet to the floor. His body was alarmingly stiff with inaction.

Luther was gripping at Five, holding him as he jerked back and forth, scream after scream tearing through his rattled body. Over and over Luther tried to talk over Five, wake him up, continuously asking him what is wrong and 'what is happening Five? Can't you hear me?'

'W-ww-why is h-h-h-he screaming like t-that?'

Diego’s broken voice was swallowed up in the cacophony of Five's agonising wailing and Luther's panicked mantra of Five, Five, Please Five, Five!

Five's painful screams were tearing bloody wounds into Diego’s eardrums, and the sound of his little brother in such convincingly raw misery pulled terrifying tremors up from deep within his belly.

Go.

What happened?

Iego.

Five?

'-Iego. Diego! Diego!' Luther's voice hit him like an anvil. 'Hey?'

Why is he screaming like that?

All at once life moved forward with a start. Air sucked its way back into Diego's lungs and his attention snapped to his brothers. Five was no longer on the bed, but crumpled over on their large brother's lap, clutching not his own arms anymore but instead had all ten, trembling fingers gripped into Luther's jacket for absolute, dear life. Luther had a pained expression etched into his normally hard visage, and his arms came up to hold Five in place as gently as Diego had ever seen his giant brother move. It only dawned on him then, that Five wasn't screaming anymore.

Diego moved quietly, setting himself on the bed next to his brothers as silently as he could, almost as if he were afraid to spook an already terrified deer pinned between a rocky ledge and an oncoming truck. 

Mindlessly Diego laid his gloved hand to his little brother's head, cupping the back of it gingerly. Something heavy threatened to pull his heart into his guts, and the struggle disguised itself in the shadows of his expression.

For a while everything was deadly quiet. The pipes in the old building gurgled apropos nothing, the boxing business outside long closed for the evening with only Al's occasional footsteps any sure sign life still existed outside this hole he called home.

Diego couldn't hear much else, aside from the ragged breaths shaking Five's small chest. His eyes were still closed, creased with concern, delicate fans of black eyelashes twitching as his brain worked through whatever dark secrets Five hadn’t dared to yet share with any of his siblings. 

'Five...' but Diego’s voice aborted the words in his throat, and he met Luther's eyes. He found no answers.

What did you see, Five?

--- Day 42.

A rat scampered past Five’s feet and jumped into a pile of debris outside the remains of a nearby fast-food joint. He shaded his eyes with his left hand and looked over the large expanse of the now lifeless tundra he used to call home. The details of everything in the distance dissolved into the intensely hot horizon.

‘Today is as good a day as any,’ he said, exhaling loudly. Dolores agreed from where she was perched in her wagon. I’m ready.

Five ripped off his weighty, layered scarf and tossed it to the ground.  Today is the day. He was going to get back to his family.

He took another deep breath and ran over some calculations a final time in his head, his eyebrows pinching together with determination. Focus.

First, just a hum. Then, a moment later a spark. Five growled and redoubled his efforts, tightening his fists as hard as they would go, until the jagged half-moons of his nails cut right into the flesh of his palms. 

‘Come on!’  And then it appeared. Small, at first, but definitely, absolutely, positively the start of the vortex, undeniable as it began flickering into existence. It was immediately apparent Five couldn’t do this for a second longer than he had to; every muscle in his body was desperately working to help him rip a hole right into the material of the space-time continuum, and pain blossomed in every limb, one after another.

‘COME ON!’  The air around the wormhole became unstable, trying to escape the vacuum and whipping everything around Five into a frenzy. Dolores tipped over in her wagon, and Five nearly lost his grip on the material of time. He willed himself into ignoring her momentarily, letting out a howl as he pulled open the vortex as far as it would go. Five inhaled shakily, and let go.

I did it. There it was. He was finally going home.  Five’s knees nearly buckled underneath him as he was hit with a heady wave of excitement and relief. Luther. Vanya. Ben! Diego-- all of them. He was going to see them all again, today. Now. Tears spilt from his eyes, but he didn’t take any notice. There were flickers of life beyond the vortex, and then faces, and bodies, and Allison and Klaus, unmistakable as they filtered in and out of focus like the signal was dying on an old television set.  Five was animated in an instant and turned to grab Dolores. They had to go. Now.  He scooped up her feather-light body. ‘Leave it, Dolores! We don’t have time!’ He’d find her a new sweater once they were home. Hell, he’d buy her a whole rack of her own sweaters, anything Dolores wants, if only they got home right now.

And then the screaming came.

Five whipped around. 

Again. First one voice, then two. Many more joined them, and Five ran toward the wormhole. 

‘BEN!’

Ben? Five braced himself against the pull of the vortex, the air thin and difficult to pull into his lungs. It whipped around him with a force he’d never felt before, and his hat and goggles were snatched from his head and thrown well into the distance. The shrieking was getting louder, closer, and the images from the other side pieced together the closer Five inched into its grip. The voices were blood-curdling, and his whole body went cold with terror.

‘Diego, don’t!’

‘Ben! Klaus, get out of the way!’

‘BEEEEEEEEEEEENNN!’

‘BEN! WHATS HAPPENING!?’

‘BEN!’

No.

No, no.

He was going back, it was going to be okay. Five was going back, it was going to be okay.

It all happened within the span of three seconds.

The fuzzy images of his siblings running, screaming, blood soaked into their clothes, painted across their young faces – dripping from their feet as they scrambled away. 

Ben. 

Ben’s body dangling nearly fifteen feet off the ground, monstrous appendages thrashing wildly and destroying the surroundings with savage flings. 

Two grotesque limbs held his bloodied and mangled brother skywards, uninhibited by his terrified screams.

No. 

No. no. no. no.

No. no. no. no. no. nonononono-

‘Someone stop him!’

‘Klaus you can’t! KLAUS-‘

It felt like his skin was being flayed from his muscle. Five thought he might have been screaming too but couldn’t hear anything. All he knew for sure was the feeling of his molecules being pulled apart.

Everything was silent.  Like the deadness of space itself, for a fraction of a second, a microscopic fragment of time - absolutely nothing existed. Crunch.

The blood that hit his face hurt. And then someone pressed play.

Everything moved again and it knocked the wind out of his lungs. Five was violently thrown from the throes of the wormhole, sucked back into his own point in time and tossed several feet backwards into strewn debris. 

‘NO!’ 

The vortex he’d spent forty-two days working on was gone, just like that. Absorbed into the material of space, the deep wound he’d used every ounce of energy to create was now healed over in a matter of seconds, lost to some other dimension and out of his grasp. Ben. He’d promised him. He had promised his brother he would be there, that he would figure it out.

That Ben wouldn’t die. But Five let him. He watched the brutal final seconds of his brother’s life, his body torn into pieces by the beast he tried so hard to contain. Five wasn’t there.

He didn’t make it.  He had told Ben he wouldn’t let him die, but he did, and Five just watched it happen, unable to do absolutely fucking shit. The sun was merciless. It baked Ben’s blood on every part that had briefly touched the other side. It settled into the cracks of the tattered skin on his right hand, pulled at the skin under his eyes and on his cheeks – crusted where it had dripped into his mouth and over his tongue. When the trance that numbed Five finally broke, it was nightfall. 

He still sat on his haunches, a few fingers on his left hand barely curled around Dolores’ shirt.  And when it did, and his throat finally moved to swallow, his limbs twitching with overwhelming pain, and his chest trembling violently, the only thing Five could feel was the fiery strain of the unending wailing that tore ceaselessly from his lungs.

[faveficarchive]

The Secret Histories: Part 3

Shadows of the Living

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Set soon after All the Colors of the World, an old flame wanders back into Mel’s life, and threatens a relationship already wrought with unspoken problems. Janice is sent off to Bavaria to work with the Monuments Men, and Mel isn’t far behind. Will their shaky relationship withstand the test of distance, violence, and ancient obsession?

Life itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the living....The sun itself is but the dark simulacrum, and light but the shadow of God.

—Sir Thomas Browne

November, 1945

Fall. He brooded, watching the leaves gently disengage themselves from the trees outside his townhouse window. He loved the season when he was younger, welcoming the crisp air, a renewed feeling of purpose, of vigor. Now, as an old man, he dreaded it—it meant the onslaught of the cold weather that would settle in his bones, and the painful chilblains he would get...and now, recovering from his recent stroke, Anton Frobisher truly felt the season of aging, of death and decay was upon him. He could only groan in response.

"Are you all right?" The voice was gentle, soft. With a Southern accent. Before he could look in her direction, Melinda had laid a hand on his arm.

And here, inside his home, a young woman he loved was about to gently disengage herself from his life. Perhaps not permanently; who could tell? The war was over, they kept reminding themselves, but the world was just as unpredictable, violent, and crazy as ever. With the bombs dropped on Japan only a scant two months ago, he was more than convinced of that fact.

Anton looked at Melinda. Her familiar frown, that serious, intent look that she always wore, except in the presence of Janice Covington, was directed at him. Damn you, Covington, you better not get yourself killed.

He gave a wry smile. "I'm fine," he rumbled in a deep voice, hoping to convince her. She managed a small smile in return. "By God, it feels good to speak again." Slowly, after his stroke, his ability to speak—to formulate sentences���had returned.

"I bet it does."

He eyed the small black suitcase that sat in the corner of his den, near the door. "So you're off, then?"

She nodded, then pushed her sliding glasses up along the ridge of her nose with a long index finger. One of her "nervous scholar tics," as Covington called it. He could still see and hear—quite vividly—the golden-haired woman laughing gently as she teased her tall and sometimes too-serious companion. "I'm...off," she said quietly.

"I shall miss you very much, you know," he said, with David Niven bravado, the fighter pilot going down nobly in his fiery plane.

"Yes, I will miss you too. But I'll be back." Optimistic words, but the chasm of doubt in her voice threatened to swallow them both.

"You will," he said, taking her hand, "and so will Janice."

After the stroke, when he could not speak, he felt as if he had been trapped underwater, under an ice floe, separate from the world, his senses refracted. He could witness everything going on around him, but could neither understand it clearly nor express himself. When he could finally tell Melinda—or rather, show her, via the report—what he had discovered about Catherine Stoller, he felt that he had finally broken through. But it took almost a week before he could tell her of his discovery, and how he had come to it: How he had been more than a little suspicious of Stoller when she showed up at his office; how she seemed to know exactly what she wanted, and how her single-minded intensity sent off alarms in his head. He had called in a favor from a friend in the OSS, and obtained a file on the elusive agent. The war, he thought cynically, had been, for him, nothing more than trading favors to obtain information and get his way.

But that wasn't the worst of it. "They knew," Anton had told her one evening as they sat in his den.

She didn't want to believe it. "What?"

"The OSS knew about her activities. Did you look at the date of the report I showed you?"

"No," Mel had admitted guiltily, knowing she should have noticed such a crucial detail.

"It was written approximately two weeks before she came to my office, looking to 'recruit' you."

Anton saw the change, saw the blue eyes darken, saw the muscles in her jaw ripple. She was greatly mysterious to him at times; as much as he loved her, he saw depths in her that he was afraid of—afraid he could never reach them, or understand them. Only one person seemed capable of that. "How could they?" she whispered.

He carefully continued his discourse. "I don't know exactly what the agency is up to, Melinda. Obviously, they want something from Catherine. They're watching her, hoping that she will lead them to something. What, I have no idea."

"Lead them to something?" She fought her rising panic. Like Janice's dead body? she thought.

"Yes. That's all I can get out of my contacts. Right now their orders are simply to monitor Stoller." He blew on a cup of steaming tea. "Unfortunately, they were simply unaware of her relationship to you—and, now, Janice."

She sat in an overstuffed chair in his study, her longs legs drawn up against her chest, chin on her knees. In such instances she reminded him of the lanky girl she used to be. Despite the girlish pose, her body emanated a strength and grace she was barely aware of. Absentmindedly she bit into the dark wool trousers covering her knee, deep in thought. "Do you think the OSS could use some help in watching Catherine?" she asked softly.

He raised an eyebrow. He admired her determination. "My dear," he replied, placing the cup back on its saucer, "it never hurts to ask."

And that was how she ended up in the halls of the OSS headquarters. pacing, awaiting a meeting with an OSS official. Mel wore her best suit, a somber navy blue wool skirt and jacket with a white blouse, dark stockings, and black heels. Much to her chagrin Janice had always referred to the ensemble as "the librarian outfit." She found it uncanny (and annoying) that both Janice and the archaeologist's former girlfriend, Mary Jane Velasko, had similar reactions to this particular suit.

The rhythmic, ringing echo of her heels against the hard, shiny floor soothed her. When in doubt, pace. Janice always did so when agitated, and perhaps, just perhaps, mimicking the archaeologist's habits would somehow bring her back, and fix everything that went wrong between them. She folded her arms against her chest as she walked, remembering the time just after they had met, when they were in the U.S. Embassy in Athens. Mel had lost her passport, and was nervously awaiting new papers as she paced in a similar cavernous hallway. Melinda the metronome Janice had called her, as her heels had clacked along the marble hallway with stormtrooper precision. It hadn't been that she was really upset about the passport—she knew the officials would find some way to ship home an essentially useless (in their eyes) American woman—but that her feelings for Janice...were moving beyond mere friendship, engendering an intensity that she felt powerless to stop. As she waited that day in the Embassy, she had wondered to herself how it all happened. She had reached no answer then. Three years later, despite all that she had learned about Xena and Gabrielle, she still didn't have one.

***

1942

Well, missy, you wanted some excitement, she thought to herself.

Mel stood in a dusty road devoid of travelers, deep in the agrarian heart of a unknown country, in torn and sweaty clothes, exhausted. To her right, alongside the road, was a motorcycle that refused to operate. And her new friend, Janice Covington, who was rather...attractive in a unique way, was throwing a somewhat butch version of a what was known among Southern ladies as a hissy fit.

The engine of Janice's motorcycle, after a sudden spurt and gasp, died, and they had coasted to a gentle stop along the barren road (thanks to Janice's skill in handling the thing). The fair-haired archaeologist had jumped off the bike and unleashed a barrage of obscenities. Actually, first she threw her fedora on the ground, stomped around it a bit as if she were attempting some bastardized American version of a Mexican hat dance, and angrily kicked at a tire—she missed, and fell down. Then the swearing began in earnest. Mel had not heard such cussing ever since the time she encountered a group of sailors on leave one time during a trip to the French Quarter in New Orleans. (Which had prompted her 12-year-old self to innocently ask her father what a "cocksucker" was. She had been quite pleased at making her verbose father speechless.)

Mel was, on one hand, relieved at the motorcycle's death: She had hated sitting in its sidecar. It was ill-suited for someone of her height, and she had gotten terrible cramps in her calves from being in it for a mere hour, exacerbated by the fact that she'd had Janice's heavy rucksack on her knees as well. But now they were without transportation. And Janice didn't even seem to be remotely close to regaining her senses.

"Janice—" she attempted.

"Motherfucker!" screamed Janice Covington.

Mel blanched. Oh, that's a new one on me. Rather awful sounding. "I know you're upset—" she pressed on.

"Shit!"

"But we have to think about how to get to Athens."

"Goddammit to hell!!"

"I recall there was a farm a couple miles near here. I saw it on the drive down. Perhaps I should walk there and see if I can get us some help."

Mel's calm, reasoning tone finally managed to seep through Janice's fury. The small woman caught her breath, and swallowed. She picked up her hat, and banged the battered, dirty fedora against her knees. "Yes. Melinda. Mel. That would be terrific." She leaned against the defunct motorcycle, panting lightly from the exertion. "I'm sorry about that. I don't usually—well, actually, I do lose my temper on a regular basis—but this was different."

Now that Janice was acting a tad more normal, Mel gingerly approached her. "Why?" she asked gently. "What's bothering you? Other than the fact we're stuck in the middle of nowhere."

Janice chuckled in spite of herself. "I didn't tell you...I guess I didn't know how to tell you...." She took a deep breath. "Jack Kleinman took the scrolls. I don't know if it was by accident or on purpose. But I need to catch that dumb bastard and get them back."

"What?" Mel was surprised at the admission; Jack, while certainly a little on the duplicitous side, did not seem like the type to deliberately do something so blatantly...wrong. But if he did, I think I'll kill him myself. "Oh my, Janice...I'm...sorry. I know it took a lot of work for you to find them."

"I know." Her clear green eyes clouded over in anger. "Son of a bitch. My father spent his whole life looking for those things. And I had them, Mel. I had them." She closed her eyes in an effort not to cry in front of this woman she had just met.

"You did, Janice. And you'll get them back. I'll help you in any way I can."

The words of the Southerner—and the warm hand that touched her forearm—were a tonic. She did not cry. "Thanks," she said wistfully. "Because you know something?"

Mel shook her head.

Those green eyes ensnared her in their gaze. "They belong to you as much as to me."

Mel smiled. And Janice returned the smile. My, what a beautiful smile. And I think we're having a moment! One of those girl-bonding things; yet instead of talking about makeup or clothes, we're talking about...scrolls. Well, you take it however you get it, I suppose. But the Southern scholar's courage gave out and she looked away. "Well! I best get going then!" she declared in her best "go-getter" tone, developed at Miss Evangeline's charm school in Columbia.

"Wait a minute." Janice pulled out a handgun from her leather jacket, and offered it to Mel, handle first. The scholar could not contain her aghast expression. "Go on, take it," Janice, oblivious, encouraged her. "For protection."

"Ah, no, thank you anyway," Mel said politely, as if refusing a plate of pig's feet.

"Come on, now, I'll worry about you if you don't have something." Mel shook her head vigorously, like a wet dog. "Okay, okay, but...be careful, Mel." Tucking the gun back into her waistband, Janice took off the worn jacket and rolled up her sleeves, revealing the subtle musculature of her tanned arms. Mel blinked. Okay. I didn't notice that. I am not noticing that. "I don't think the Krauts have penetrated this deep into the countryside, but you can never know for sure." The archaeologist discarded her hat for a moment and ran a hand through her red-gold hair, just the color of a sunset, Mel thought giddily. She hadn't realized before how lovely Janice's hair was...uh-oh. The archaeologist scrunched up her face in concern as Mel suddenly grew pale. "Is something wrong? You want me to come with you?" she asked.

Yes, come with me, you blonde devil! Let’s drink ouzo and dance barefoot under the sun. I’ll whisper to you how lovely you are.... "N-no, I'm fine. B-but you keep the gun. You need protection too," Mel added. Protection from me, if I keep this up. What is wrong with me?

Janice grinned, and spun the .38 around in her hand, like an outlaw. "Don't worry. Usually I just wave it around, fire off a few shots maybe, and people leave me alone."

"Nazis aren't people, Janice," Mel replied sternly, in her best schoolteacher-spinster mode.

The archaeologist continued to flash her too-dazzling white teeth, as if auditioning for a toothpaste advertisement. "Really?"

"Well, you know what I mean," the Southerner amended stupidly.

As the light hit Janice in all the right places, illuminating the red highlights in her blonde hair, making her green eyes glitter like rare emeralds, and deepening the golden tone of her strong, smooth forearms, Mel felt dizzy. And ditzy. I hate feeling this...unbalanced. So she’s attractive. So what? She turned on her heel and started walking as fast as her long legs would take her. Which was pretty fast.

It was a classic pastoral scene: A young shepherd, tending his flock. Except that the boy, who looked about 16 or 17, was cursing violently in Greek at the immobile animals, who blocked the road. The shepherd, with his curly black hair and huge dark eyes, framed by silky long eyelashes, was very attractive, Mel admitted to herself, and he almost made her forget Janice.

Almost.

Mel came across him about 3 miles away from where she had left Janice. And she was never so glad to see sheep in her life. Her feet ached with blisters, and she had no illusions about how she must have looked to this boy: Torn dirty clothes, limping, and I don't even want to think about my hair. When he first saw her, his mouth formed a wide "O" of surprise. He cried out for protection from God. But then she rapidly began to explain, in Greek, her predicament.

It didn't take much. Her beauty (he saw past the obvious, quite fixable flaws) and her peculiar accent (a mishmash of ancient and modern syntax, superimposed by a Carolinian drawl) charmed him, not to mention the fact that she waved around a wad of cash. He eagerly agreed to drive them to Athens. First he had to borrow his uncle's truck; it would only take a few minutes, he said. "Wait with the sheep," he ordered her, as he ran up a hill and disappeared over its sloping crest.

His departure triggered some distress among members of the flock: There were bleats all around, and one angry ewe kept butting her head against Mel's hip, as if trying to displace her from their simple sheep lives. At one point it succeeded in knocking Mel down. Perhaps it was all some sheep-plot to kill her? She imagined the gossip this would engender among the D.A.R. back home: Did you hear about Melinda Pappas? Stampeded to death by a bunch of sheep in some silly foreign country like Hungary or something! I swear, that girl never did a normal thing in her life, it just makes perfect sense she would meet her maker in such a way.

Almost an hour passed. The sheep began to ignore her. She sat down carefully in the grass nearby, resting her tired feet. When she heard the roar of an engine, she jumped up, started to jog toward the road (insofar as one can jog in heels), and promptly slid into a pile of dung. Luckily the damage was minimal and her stockings took the brunt of it. When the boy pulled up to her in a dark green pickup truck, she was pulling off the smelly stockings as discretely as she could manage. His eyes became riveted on her shapely, bare legs.

She sighed at his interest. "It's like you've never seen a woman's legs before," she muttered in English, then realized he probably hadn't, except maybe a sister or his mother. She tossed the ruined stockings to the side of the road—something for you to remember me by—she thought, glaring at the sheep. He offered her a hand as she climbed in the truck, and they drove off to pick up Janice.

When they arrived on the scene, Janice was sitting on top of the sidecar, smoking a cigar. As they slowed to a halt she leapt off the sidecar, and ran toward the truck. She jumped on the running board and leaned in the open window as the vehicle slowed to a halt. "Mel, you're great!"

"Just lucky," Mel replied, while the boy stared at Janice in amazement. A pretty woman dressed as a man? Americans were just too strange.

"I could just kiss you!" Janice was grinning, revealing those perfect white teeth again. But before Mel could even dream of responding to that, Janice was off the truck, and running back to the motorcycle to get her hat and her bag.

"What did she say?" the boy asked, craning his head to watch Janice gallop down the road.

"Nothing important," Mel replied dreamily, her eyes upon the same prize.

"Ha!" he laughed. "She said 'kiss'. She wants to kiss me, right?" He grinned.

"Why, you're absolutely right. In fact, I should go sit with her and restrain her from making any more advances to you. You know how American women are."

"Yeah, I know! From the movies! So ask her if she wants to sit up front with me!"

Mel shook her head sadly.

"But I like you too!" Again, his eyes drifted down to her legs.

"I think we'll both sit in the back," she replied primly, exiting the truck. With some awkwardness—in order to avoid tearing her skirt even more—she climbed into the bed of the truck. The archaeologist had made herself at home, using the rucksack as a pillow. "What, you're not gonna ride up front?" Janice asked from her lounging position, as she struck a match and lit one of her foul cigars.

"No. I'm getting rather tired of that boy staring at my legs."

Janice laughed. "Don't blame you." The truck started again, and they were on their way, under the canopy of Greek twilight. "Hey," Janice mumbled, wrinkling her nose, "I smell—"

"Don't even say it, Janice Covington. It smells no worse than your cigar."

It was during that trip on the truck that Mel realized that her passport was missing. She immediately knew where it was: trapped in a tomb with the God of War. She dimly recalled the sensation of the slender document slipping out of what she thought was a secure pocket inside her suit. But this happened during the possession of her body by Xena, who was too busy turning somersaults and trying to skewer Ares with a sword in order for her to do anything about it. Sure, Xena defeated the God of War, but she also ruined my outfit, broke my glasses, and lost my passport.

She put off telling Janice of this development. The archaeologist had gotten crabby on the remainder of the drive, as she had time to focus once again on the missing scrolls, and the shock of being a descendent of Gabrielle, "the stupid sidekick." Also, she was starving, but she was "sick of Greek food and dying for a good roast beef sandwich"....

Mel endured these tirades, then timidly asked Janice if she had a place to stay in Athens.

"Uh, no. I had been sleeping on site, you know. Camping. I'm sure I'll find something, though."

"Well, er, um..."

"What, Mel?" Always cuts to the chase. How Yankee-like of her.

"You're, ah, quite welcome to share my hotel room for the evening." Common sense sent out a rather hysterical alarm. Are you absolutely mad? Are you trying to torture yourself by having this woman in close proximity to you? Take it back! I don't care if your stupid Southern manners won't allow you to retract an invitation, take it back!

By this time it was dark out, and she could barely make out Janice's features in the dim starlight. But she thought she caught a gleam of white teeth. "That's really nice of you," Janice replied softly.

"It's my pleasure," she replied. Of course it is, you masochist.

"No, really, I mean, you're so...nice to me! I've been nothing but a pain in the ass all day. Complaining, yelling at you, nearly getting you killed. Then you arrange our ride here, now you're offering me a place for the night.... What did I do to deserve this?"

"Nonsense. You deserve to be treated nicely, just like anyone else. You've had a rather rough day, too, I might add."

"I won't argue with that."

"Then don't," Mel said with surprising firmness. More to quash the objections inside herself than Janice's.

There was no response. Just a soft laugh in the dark.

The hotel was mediocre, but it had been the best Mel could manage on short notice, after she had made the impulsive decision to come to Macedonia. At least, she thought, it was clean, and that was all that really mattered to her.

The little archaeologist flopped right down in the bed with her boots still on. "Ah!" Janice cried with relief. "I could sleep for days." She looked up to see Mel scowling at her feet. "Oh—shoes. Right." She sat up and set to the task of unlacing the boots. After pulling them off and discarding them, she noticed that the tall Southerner was still frowning. "Hey, everything okay? I'm not gonna sleep in the bed, y'know. I just wanted to relax for a few minutes. I can take the floor, if you don't mind sparing a blanket—"

"No!" Mel exclaimed impetuously. "You can sleep in the bed." Did I just say that?

"With...you?" Janice asked innocently, green eyes wide.

"With...me," Mel affirmed, painfully colliding with a table, its sharp edge sinking into her smooth thigh.

"That's, uh, fine by me..." Janice rubbed the back of her neck.

"I'm, ah, g-glad to feel—uh, I m-mean, hear that..."

"You know, you stammer sometimes." Janice lit a cigar and scrutinized her friend.

No kidding, Sherlock Holmes. "Uh, yes, I do sometimes. When I get nervous or upset—"

"Well, what the hell is wrong?" she grunted around the cigar.

"I, oh..." Mel moaned. I'm having dirty thoughts about you! In spite of that disgusting cigar! "I lost my passport."

Janice sat up, concern evident on her lovely face. "Really? Where? Do you know?"

"Yes, I do. It's back on the site. In the tomb," she mumbled grimly.

"Shit, Mel. I'm sorry." Then Janice started to laugh, causing Mel to scowl even more fiercely than she did at shoes on the bed.

"What's so darned funny, Janice?"

"Looks like no one will be using it, except maybe Ares." Her laughter sounded like cascading water. "If he gets out of the tomb, that is. Then he could use it. He could shave his beard, dress in drag, and pass himself off as you—"

Mel felt herself smiling in spite of it all. "I don't think I'm particularly vain, but I'd like to think I'm somewhat better looking as a woman than Ares would be."

"Oh, without a doubt," Janice replied quickly. "But you know how dim those passport officials are."

Mel started to laugh, but it sputtered to a halt once she saw that Janice was beginning to take off her clothes. She peeled off the dirty khaki shirt, revealing a white, sleeveless man's undershirt. The ribbed white fabric gleamed against her tan and outlined her sleek torso; obviously, Janice spent a lot of time in the sun—in a skimpy little undershirt. She could just imagine the reaction this must cause among her on-site workers—this beautiful woman running around in a flimsy, sleeveless shirt. She certainly knew what reaction it was causing in herself—her throat constricted and dry, her whole body a flushed, fiery patch of nerves. Then Janice undid her belt, and her pants dropped to the floor. Her short, muscular legs were tanned as well, at least as far as Mel could see, up to the edge of the baby blue boxer shorts.

"So, tell me...." Janice was saying, snapping her out of her lustful reverie. "What do Southern belles wear to bed? Frilly pink nighties?"

What do...? Mel's mouth hung open in surprise. In her haste to leave home, she had neglected to pack anything to wear for bed. Not that she always wore something to sleep in; sometimes, when it was very hot, she did not wear anything at all (which caused the housekeeper a great deal of confusion when she did the laundry). And usually when it was cold she wore old pajamas that had been her father's. But it wasn't cold here.

No, she gulped, letting herself look at Janice Covington's body once again, it was definitely not cold here. She wished she could erect the Walls of Jericho, just like Claudette Colbert did in It Happened One Night. But that might make her pint-sized Clark Gable unduly suspicious. (After all, why put up the wall if there's no threat?) She realized that Janice was staring at her, awaiting an answer to her facetious question.

"Well," Mel mumbled haughtily, "you'll just have to wait and see." With that, she headed into the bathroom. And collapsed against the door. All right. A slip. I'll just have to wear my slip. She washed up, trying to drag out the process as much as possible, combed her hair, undressed slowly, and threw on a slip from the valise that sat in the corner of the bathroom. Luckily, the delay produced the anticipated result: Janice was sound asleep by the time she crawled into bed. Lord, get me through this night, she prayed as she turned out the light, her body hovering near the edge of the bed.

Gabrielle...

Mel awoke, as if the sudden flitting of the bard's name across her subconscious were an alarm clock. Her sleepy eyes adjusted to a mass of red-gold hair near her face. Very close to her face; in fact, she was practically nuzzling Janice's hair. Her head lifted from the pillow in alarm. Oh my God.

Janice was spooned against her tightly, the archaeologist's firm buttocks pressed into her hips, shoulders against breasts, Mel's arm around her midriff, Janice's hand clutching it, as if she didn't want Mel to move. What on earth...? I'm such a pervert, I can't even trust myself when I sleep!

With the accumulated stealth of a lifetime spent in libraries, she managed to disengage herself from Janice. She did not awaken, and Mel breathed a sigh of relief as she scooted, once again, to the furthest corner of the bed. Then the smaller woman emitted a peeping sound, almost like a mewl, and rolled over, right back into Mel's arms. A tanned arm was flung around her waist, and the exquisite torture didn't stop there: Janice pressed her face against Mel's chest, and within seconds was snoring into her cleavage.

Perhaps this is a sign from God? Mel thought hopefully. No, I couldn't be so lucky. Again, she began the careful practice of extracting herself from Janice. The triumph she felt as she slid away successfully diminished rapidly once she fell out of the bed and onto the floor with a heavy thud and an "oof!"

The noise woke Janice. Who sleepily peered over the bed at her friend, sprawled on the floor in her slip. "Mel? Whaddya doin' down there? You woke me up," she grumped with gentle irritation.

"Uh, nothing, Janice."

"I was taking up too much space, wasn't I? Come back up. I promise I won't push you out again." Janice rolled over to the other side of the bed.

"It's okay, Janice. I'm getting up anyway. I've got to get to the consulate."

"Oh yeah, your passport. Maybe I'll come with you..." And then Janice was asleep again.

Melinda Pappas lay on the scratchy gray rug of the floor, staring up into ceiling cracks, and cursing—in a non-profane, genteel Southern way, of course—whatever fate that was torturing her.

***

London, 1945

And so they went to their separate lives, with some inexplicable, ineffable thread now connecting them. Janice did find Jack ("I didn't hurt him, just smacked him around a little," she had reassured Mel through a crackling, long-distance phone connection) and the scrolls, but—given the war and its consequential dangers to one perpetually in motion as Janice was—she opted to leave the majority of the scrolls with him, believing it to be the safest location for the time being: Who would expect precious, priceless artifacts to be in...New Jersey? But, in time, many of the documents found themselves on their way down South, into the hands of a certain lovestruck translator.

Mel was still smiling wistfully, recalling that first night when she literally slept with Janice, when a heavy wooden door opened and a grim British officer with a crewcut motioned her inside his office. As put off as she was at his severe, soldierly look, she was ever optimistic and believed his gruffness, like Anton's, was all for show.

She was rather wrong.

Major Pendleton (for that was his name) seemed to think she was nothing more than some little American idiot looking for adventure. (Perhaps true three years ago, she thought, but not now.) He was, however, both impressed and perturbed that she knew classified information. She took the blame for that, and said she went through Anton's papers while he was sick. It seemed to assuage him a bit. "I assure you," he reiterated smugly, "we have the situation quite in hand."

If, by the situation, he meant Catherine, she doubted it: "If that is true, why haven't you captured her? What do you want from her?"

He sighed. "You know I can't tell you that."

"I know." It just doesn't hurt to ask. Like Anton said. She frowned. And idea occurred to her, yet she wasn't sure if she could pull it off. "I could help you," she said, hesitantly.

He snorted. "Miss Pappas, how on earth could you help us? Do enlighten me. The fact that you know her and went to university with her is of little use to me."

"It wasn't just that I knew her as a friend. You could say I knew her very...intimately." She let her voice dip into huskiness. She knew how aroused Janice became when she spoke like this, and while it was not her intention to excite this man, she wanted to convey a very certain message to the major about herself, and Catherine. She crossed her long legs for emphasis, and was suddenly glad she opted to wear a skirt instead of pants, when she noticed how his eyes traveled up and down her legs.

He then blinked in confusion as he digested her words, and groped for a meaning that he knew was hidden. "So you were...very good friends?"

"It went beyond friendship." She forced her voice to retain a vaguely sexy tone.

"Beyond...?" he trailed off. She was beginning to think she would have to resort to some crude phrasing a la Covington (I fucked her, Major) when she noticed his eyes narrow and his jaw slacken. "Good Lord. I never would have pegged you for that type."

"That's why she came to me recently, Major." Again, the confused look. She sighed. "She wants to renew our...involvement."

"I see." Actually, he didn't. Weren't women like this usually in prisons, or wearing men's clothing, or something like that?

She moistened her dry lips. "I'm offering myself as bait, Major." Do I need to be any plainer?

His admiration of her legs stopped, and he scrutinized her closely. "Why?"

"I have a friend at Neuschwanstein. Stoller knows this. I think my friend's life is in danger; that Catherine will hurt her in some way, as retaliation against me."

"Because you rejected her?"

"More or less."

"And you have another...'friend'?" He sneered a little, caught between fascination and disgust. "Another woman?" he asked, almost incredulous.

Mel nodded.

"British?"

"American. A WAC."

"You certainly get around, don't you?"

I'll endure your insults all day if I have to. "If that's what you want to think."

He leaned back in his leather chair and idly drummed his fingers. "I never thought this operation would turn into some love triangle amongst inverts." He contemplated the matter further, then stood up and walked around the desk until he was right beside her. "All right. I would like to have your help. But you must remember: This is not about you, nor your...women. We have a mission to do. Play your part, and everything will be fine." His hand strayed and he touched her hair. She did not flinch, but he saw her nostrils flare. He took the warning and withdrew. "You're quite lovely. It's a shame, really."

Yes. It's a shame the world finds me a freak just because I love. Just because I'm flesh and blood. Like you.

She stared at the bottle of bourbon upon the table. The rich amber liquid was pretty to look at. She had never drank bourbon in her life; indeed, in past few years she had drank very little. She recalled having a rum and coke with Jack Kleinman at her hotel in New York almost two years ago, and a glass of champagne at a New Year's party a year before that...She had grown leery of alcohol, since her excessive drinking at Cambridge, even though she attributed the ill effect it had on her more to the problems between her and Catherine, and the latter's self-destructive influence, than to anything else.

And Janice? Janice drank a lot; it was hard not to when much of her social life in the military was spent in pubs and the like. But she knew how to pace herself, and she knew when to stop. Mel had only seen her companion really drunk on one occasion, and that was the evening before she left for Germany.

And tomorrow I go to Germany. I hope I find you there. Alive. She wanted to fly out today, but the briefing with the OSS took longer than she anticipated, and they insisted that she wait until morning, until they organized a transport for her. So tonight I'll drink to you, my love. Perhaps this will help me sleep. And not dream that you're dead. Or lost to me somehow. She took a crystal tumbler from the liquor cabinet and poured a sliver of bourbon in it. She drew a deep breath, as if preparing to run a mile, then grabbed the glass and downed the shot. The bourbon burned a path down her esophagus, and the aftertaste, to her palate, held a tinge of vomit. She groaned in hoarse disgust. How does Janice drink this stuff? I should just stick to champagne. Or Earl Grey, better yet.

There was a knock at the door. Her heart lurched. Could it be... She jumped up, almost knocking over the glass before snaring it with her long hand. ...she's come back... She walked to the door, unconsciously smoothing back her already sleek hair. ...to me? She opened it. It was indeed a woman in uniform, but not Janice. This WAC was slender and dark-haired: A friend of Janice's. Mel had met her once. But she could not recall the woman's name.

"Hiya, Mel!" the woman greeted her.

It was also disconcerting to be called Mel by someone other than Janice. She wasn't sure if she liked that. "Hi," Mel responded meekly. "I'm sorry, but I don't recall your name..."

The woman extended a hand, laughing. Mel took it and was jerked forward by the powerful handshake. "You don't remember? I'm Sally Phillips. How are ya?"

"Ah, yes, you're Janice's friend. I'm fine, thank you—"

"No, you're not. You look like hell, if you don't mind my sayin'." Automatically Mel inspected her immaculate clothes and felt around her bun for stray hair. Did she have something in her teeth? "It's your eyes," Sally supplied. "Bags. Of course, if we all looked as bad as you on your worst day, the world would be a damn sight more attractive, if ya don't mind my sayin' so."

Mel blushed.

"Not that I'm a dyke or anything, but if anyone could make me swing, it'd be you." Sally's eyes bulged in embarrassment and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Then slowly removed it. "Jesus, I haven't even had anything to drink and I'm already acting like an asshole. Better not tell Janice I said that or she'll punch me out."

"She's really not that much of a brute," Mel countered, feeling the need to defend (or defuse) Janice's reputation as a hothead. "So, er, Sally, how can I help you?"

The WAC held up a satchel. "Well, ya see, when Janice got transferred she left behind some stuff. Nothing big. Just some papers, mostly. Before she took off she asked me if I would take 'em over to you."

Mel wanted to weep. If I ever see her again! But instead she said: "Thank you. I'll keep it for her." Sally handed the bag to her. She noticed the WAC eyeing the bottle of bourbon on the table. Oh, confound it all, manners. "Would you like a drink before you go?"

"Love one!" Sally chortled enthusiastically. They walked over to the table and Mel produced a clean glass for her guest.

"Would you do the honors?" Mel asked, nodding at the bottle. The sergeant grinned, and poured generous amounts in both tumblers. "I never figured you for the drinking type, if ya don't mind my saying so."

"I'm not. Just thought I would...you know..." The scholar trailed off lamely. Drink myself into unhappy oblivion before I traipse off after someone who may not be in love with me anymore? And maybe get myself killed? And get her killed as well?

Sally blinked at her. "No, I don't know."

"Never mind," Mel sighed, raising her glass. "Cheers."

A loud clink Then Sally drained the tumbler in two seconds flat. "Damn! That hits the spot." She looked at Mel, who sipped at the bourbon as if it were hemlock-laced tea.

"I guess I was right. You aren't the drinking type. Well, looky, I gotta get back to base. You tell that girl of yours to keep in touch with us, okay? "

"I will," Mel mumbled. With a hearty backslap that left Mel feeling as if she would cough up a lung, the sergeant departed.

She closed the door and stared at the satchel—it was actually a medic's bag—containing Janice's personal items, things that she had carried with her through the war. Mel opened it, all the while feeling a sense of violation—should I be looking at this stuff? Even though she asked Sally to give it to me.... Maybe she found something about the scrolls? Despite everything else, we still have that interest. That bond. Her curiosity won out and she opened the flap. Admit it, you fraud, you wanted to look, she chastised herself.

The first items she pulled out of recesses of the bag were a crushed, half-empty pack of Gauloises and, to Mel's horror and disgust, an old crust of moldy bread, wrapped in wax paper. Both items were promptly flushed down the toilet. After scrubbing her hands vigorously, she returned to the bag. There she found a bunch of loose papers in a book—a French dictionary—wrapped together with twine. And a hair clasp. Mel's hair clasp, one of her favorites: old pearl, faded to whorls of smoky gray and creamy white. She had been wearing it the night they first made love, back in Charlotte. She had never been able to find it afterwards. And this was why. She smiled. Of course. She took it. That thief. That beautiful little thief. The sensation of holding it in her hand brought the moment back to her: They were in her kitchen, with Janice kissing her, mouth warm and sweet and insistent, the tanned hands in her hair, the clasp loosening and that little anal retentive part of her waiting to hear the clasp clatter on the floor, but it didn't, and she didn't know where it went, time felt suspended somehow as she waited to hear the sound, and then her hair was unfurled and Janice was running her hands through it, fingers delicately brushed against her scalp, the tingles along her body which mellowed into a deep throbbing somewhere on their journey down her spine. And then it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered, except what was happening to her: Falling. Falling in love.

It's a wonder we made it to the bedroom that night, she thought. She remembered suggesting it to Janice that they take it upstairs, and to her surprise the little archaeologist had agreed. Naturally, Mel had expected that, as a lover, Janice would be as stubborn as she normally was, as both a friend and professional colleague. It had been pleasing to discover...otherwise. She smiled, and gently pulled on the thread that held together papers—old duty rosters, maps, and, tucked inside the dictionary, a piece of paper, folded in thirds like a letter. It was a letter, she discovered, reading her own name at the top:

September 25, 1944

Dear Melinda,

I don't know why I never call you that. It's a beautiful name.

So we shall see with this letter if I am indeed descended from a bard—if words fall from my cheap pen the way they flowed from Gabrielle's quill. I'll confess here—something I never had the guts (or time) to tell you—that Gabrielle is the real thing. Her words are a thing of beauty. It took your translations to make me see that—my own renderings were flat and sank like a stone. It took you to make me see a lot of things. Maybe someday I'll tell you.

I write this from a hospital unit. I was wounded—a Nazi soldier shot me in the leg. I was lucky and found by GIs before I bled to death on a road near Reims. Believe it or not, this was not the worst part: I saw one of my oldest friends die before my eyes on that day as well. I must have mentioned Dan Blaylock to you, somewhere along the way. I'm sure I did. I hadn't seen him since the war started, until I got to London and found out he was stationed there. Well, he's dead now. I watched him die, and I could do nothing about it.

I think I'm rambling a little. I'm not telling you this so you're sorry for me. I don't know why I'm telling you this, or why I'm even trying to write to you. I can imagine that you probably never want to hear from me again, and I can't say that I blame you. But if you've read this far, maybe you do care, maybe you still feel something for me.

I am sorry I ran away from you the way I did. There was a part of me that wanted so badly to stay in that bed, that room, that house, with you, forever. I was frightened by the power of what I felt. You see, I was already terribly in love with you (that sounds really British—I guess I've spent too much time in London). I should have told you then, instead of running from you like a thief in the night. (And I was a thief too, since I took that thingy that you wore in your hair. It was pretty, and it smelled like you. You know how archaeologists are. We're always after the artifacts. And sometimes we lose sight of the real objective.)

I've been lying around here for almost two goddamn weeks (now that sounds more like me, doesn't it?), and I've had a lot of time to think. I've been transferred to a medic unit in Brittany, because they're planning on shipping me back to London. It's pretty here—well, I think it's pretty, anyway; most of the guys here think it's gray and ugly. The landscape is bare, and the coast is rocky. It has a sparse kind of beauty. This place is run by nuns. Can you believe it? I'm in a fucking convent. Some major breezed through here yesterday and said something about my getting a commendation. For what? I wanted to ask. For watching someone die? It's not the bullets in the leg that bother me, but this whole place. This whole situation. This whole war—I am sick with it.

And what makes it worse is that day by day I miss you more and more. I thought if I broke it off with you and joined the army, I would forget you. I was hoping something would kill me — maybe not a literal death, but that something would kill the part of me that loved you, the part that I thought was weak because I needed you so much. It turns out, now, that this is the best part of me — you're the best part of me. Because this whole thing has been a sham: I can't forget you. If I said that I never want to see you again, if I said that I don't want you, if I said that if I would not surrender my soul to you in second — I'd be lying. Every time.

I love you like crazy. The world, the scrolls, even our ancestors be damned. Sacrilege, isn't it? But my love for you breaks every rule.

J.

After reading it, Mel laid back on the bed for a long time. She felt strangely elated, and curious: A letter never sent. Why? But...she's sending it to me...now. That's why she sent Sally over here with this bag. She wanted me to see it. Didn't she? Again, the old hesitancy. The old doubts. But she closed her eyes, and the questions stilled as she brushed the paper against her lips.

***

I have chased you through the centuries.

Sometimes you eluded me. Sometimes not. Who slit your throat in a brothel, as you lay, sated by sex and lulled by opium? Distracted, were you? Because the whore you chose had golden hair and green eyes, and the moment you laid eyes on her you felt like you knew her forever? That was Constantinople, in the last century. (Strange, how did such an Aryan-looking sex toy end up at the gateway to the Muslim world? She must've been very popular, don't you think?) She, your precious one, could not save you—in fact, she watched you die, and that was most pleasing to me. And you could not save yourself. Even better. But then, who snapped my neck in a Venetian cul-de-sac three hundred years before? You, of course. We've been doing this routine forever, we're doomed to it. I scratch your back, you stab mine...remember?

Something had to give. I hated you for so long that I think I fell in love with you somewhere along the line. We came full circle. Make no mistake, in whatever incarnation, you've always been beautiful. I even thought that when you laid waste to my home—at the beginning of our history. I thought, who is that magnificent stranger, with blue eyes and black hair, with her fancy armor? I remember how your hair flitted across your face—like black smoke, then revealing the clear blue day of your eyes—as you surveyed my ruined village, my dead life. Nonetheless, I wanted to be like you. You looked so strong, I thought nothing could ever hurt you. It was a child's idle wish. But lo and behold, I did become like you, like the ruthless bitch you were at the height of your infamy.

This has long been my secret, something I could not even tell myself: I hated you, but I loved you too. This time...I wanted to love you entirely, completely. I wanted it to be different—in the hopes that it would bring an end to this history of ours. And you did fall in love with me this time, to my astonishment. Would it all end, the hate? The anger? After a while I wasn't sure that I really cared. It felt too good. It was different this time, wasn't it? It felt different for a while.

But nothing really changed. I would wake up in the morning with you in my bed, like a beautiful prize, a gift from the gods, and there were moments when I just wanted to slit your throat and be done with it again. Again. I wanted to kill you with a kiss. I wanted to be your Judas. And when I left you I thought I had ruined you, even for her: The bard. The whore. The archaeologist. Whoever she is this time.

I was stupid. I still am, because I want you back. The compulsion to continue the game usually outweighs my weariness of it all.

Usually.

Do you remember the sacrifice she made for you? It was all so, very, very long ago. But you remember, don't you? As she fell, I saw the way she looked at you. Her descent seemed fast and slow all at once. Or that's the way I remember it. Perhaps that's only because as human beings we have this thing called memory—which works like a camera, that great modern invention. You can play it any way you like. If you choose to dwell on that expression, it goes slow. If you cannot bear the anguish, it goes fast. And when you write it down, when you transcribe it...well, it seems that when we write down these memories, they become a history, somehow, however informal. I've had a lot of years to think about this, you know. So this is our secret history. This is what you are. This is what I am. And then there is the woman—your woman—who always comes between us. And here we are again. And again. We are all just shadows of those who lived before us.

Catherine opened her eyes. The dreams, that voice, those thoughts...again. I want them to stop. I hope they will—once I have done what I planned. I crave peace. Oblivion. The plane had tilted; they were about to land in Berlin, where they would be taken to Bavaria.

Covington was asleep too, or maybe just pretending to be: Her eyes were closed, but her body was erect, tense. But as the plane began its descent in earnest, the sea-green eyes of the WAC were upon her.

"We're here," Catherine announced.

"So I gathered," grunted Janice with a full-body stretch.

"You'll be going straight to the castle. Without me. I'm needed in Munich."

Janice scratched her cheek and pretended indifference. Hurray! "I don't understand why we didn't fly directly to Munich."

"The runway at Munich suffered much damage during the war. They like to avoid having large planes, bombers like these, landing there, until they have rebuilt it." Catherine braced herself in for the landing. "Sergeant Lowry, from Neuschwanstein, will be escorting you there. He should be here to meet us."

Indeed, as they disembarked from the plane, a jeep was pulling up to them. A young American sergeant jumped out and saluted smartly.

"Good day, Sergeant," drawled Catherine in greeting. "Sergeant Lowry, this is Lieutenant Covington."

"Lieutenant!" he barked, knocking off another salute.

Janice jumped. Oh yeah, I'm guess I'm an officer now, I get saluted and shit. "Hiya, kid!" she said, slapping him on the back. He looked rather hurt; he had expected a steely gaze, a terse greeting, and, gosh darn it, a salute. Instead, this woman had the nerve to treat him like an equal.

Catherine was amused by the young man's disappointment; he could not hide it. "Lowry, would you get my bag out of the cargo hold?" The sergeant nodded, then walked away to the back of the plane. "You'll have to forgive Lowry. He's only been in the military for three months. He's never seen anyone blown to bits before, so the glamour of military life has remained intact." Lowry returned with the bag. "Isn't that right, Lowry?"

The young man, returning with the bag, blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Never mind." Catherine picked up her bag, grinning. "All right, to the train station."

"Er, ma'am..."

Catherine sighed the sigh of the impatient, the put-upon. "What is it, Lowry?"

"Colonel Brinton instructed me to avoid the train station, ma'am. He said Werwolf activity on the rails has increased in the past month, and he doesn't want to risk anyone getting injured."

Janice, who had been leaning against the jeep with arms folded during the exchange, echoed, "Werwolf?"

The blonde OSS turned to her. "The Werwolf are Nazi partisan fighters. Guerrillas who specialize in sabotage. And assassination."

"But the war is over. They're fighting a battle already lost."

Catherine laughed. "Not according to the Werwolf." Just as quickly, her laughter receded and she turned back to Lowry, glaring. "And Brinton thinks we'll be safer on the open road? He's a fool. There's more security on a train. More people, more military personnel."

More things that they can sabotage: engines, tracks, wheels... Janice thought.

"Ma'am," Lowry mumbled in reply. Is that all that kid can say? Janice wondered.

"Well, Lieutenant, what do you think?" Catherine asked mildly.

Janice arched an eyebrow. "This is your show, Stoller. I mean, I hate to see the kid get in trouble..." she nodded toward Lowry. The young sergeant squirmed at being called a "kid."

"Yes, we don't want little Lowry to be court-martialed." She sighed. "very well. We'll drive. It won't be as quick as the train."

Lowry frowned. "Ma'am, if you feel more comfortable on the trains, than I suggest we take them."

"Heavens, Lowry, and they call women fickle!" Catherine grinned flirtatiously at the boy. Janice rolled her eyes. "Shall we take the train, Lieutenant?"

"For Christ's sake, let's do something," Janice complained.

Catherine arched an irritated eyebrow at Janice. "The train it is, then." The jeep headed to the Berlin train station. As they drove through the streets, and a none too surprising amount of checkpoints, Janice witnessed the devastation of Berlin. She was, at this point, no stranger to the manifold damages of war. But this...the rubble, the hollow, hungry faces...the sheer amount of the damage alone took it to a new level.

Stoller, she saw, was unusually quiet for a while. They stopped at a corner for a truck to pass in the opposite direction, and witnessed a small gang of youths chasing a middle-aged man down the street. Verräter! Schwein! The screams drifted back to them and Janice watched the activity, craning her neck and turning around in her seat. She was almost tempted to jump out and intercede in the fray, but, as if Stoller could read her mind, the OSS agent laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Leave it, it is not our concern," she commanded crisply. As the pursuant group rounded the corner, Lowry pulled the jeep away. Guiltily, Janice mentally kicked herself for letting herself be forced into passivity.

Catherine observed Janice's baleful look out the window. Interfering little fool. She decided a diversionary tactic was in order. "You've been to Berlin before, Lieutenant Covington."

Janice glared at her suspiciously. "Once, maybe twice."

"Two times, both in 1938, both with your father," Catherine corrected proudly. "Once in July, then three months later, in October. On your second trip you kept company with a certain cabaret singer named Sally Bowles, who, at various times, was thought either to be a Nazi informant or a British intelligence agent." Catherine wanted to laugh at the stunned expression and slackened jaw of Covington. "Despite Miss Bowles's strong preference for those of the opposite sex, it was reported that she did seem...inordinately fond of you."

Jesus Christ, is nothing sacred? wondered Janice. "So you guys have a file on me," she growled.

Catherine chuckled. "We have a file on everybody. Especially you. Surely you knew that your father was suspected of being a Nazi sympathizer, because of his dealings with the Ahnenerbe. And naturally it was assumed you might have similar inclinations."

"He sold a few things to them. That didn't make him a Nazi." Janice paused, recalling the violent rows she'd had with Harry about that; that was why she had tagged along to Berlin in '38, in the hopes of dissuading him from selling some artifacts, most notably a sword that may or may not have belonged to the Warrior Princess. But he was broke—the last of his money was used on her schooling. "Just like your being part German doesn't make you a Nazi...necessarily," she added pointedly.

Catherine raised an eyebrow in surprise. "And did you get hold of a file on me?"

"No. Mel told me, of course." See, I dare to bring up the name of the woman we both love.

"Do you always call her that?"

"Huh?"

"Mel." Catherine repeated emphatically, making a long, horse-face of distaste.

"Yeah. I guess I do."

"Pity. Melinda is a much nicer name, don't you think?"

"It is. But life's too short to waste on extra syllables. So," Janice continued, returning bluntly and inelegantly to the German question, "you are part German?"

"I am," Catherine acknowledged. "I grew up in Berlin. This was my home..." she trailed off. "And it's nothing now. It's ruins." Her voice was as flat and dead as the cityscape they surveyed.

"I'm sorry." Janice meant it.

"You are, aren't you?" The blonde gave her a surprised look. "I don't expect sympathy from you, Covington."

How about a smack in that smug kisser of yours? "We're here, and we have to get along, don't we?"

The OSS agent smirked. They were quiet as jeep rolled along. Janice's fingers drummed against its door. "You'll pardon my asking..."

Catherine laughed. "You want to know what a Berlin-loving German is doing in the OSS. Right?"

Janice nodded.

"My parents were British citizens. When the Nazis came to power, we moved back to London. And when war broke out, I offered my services to OSS. I could speak German, of course, and I knew Berlin like the back of my hand. It would have been stupid of them not to use me."

"Agreed," Janice conceded.

"Yes. It's nice to agree on something, isn't it?"

The Berlin train station was a skeleton of its former elegant self, but nonetheless still functional. Currently it was overrun with military: Soviet, American, and British. Security was tight. Catherine flashed papers at a checkpoint at the station's entrance, and the trio were granted entrance. Janice and Lowry trailed behind Catherine, who strode through the crowd with authority. They reached the edge of the mass, which revealed a long black, battered train sitting on a track, smoke curling from under its wheels.

"Here it is," Catherine said. "I must get us boarding passes. Wait here, or—" she nodded at the almost empty train car, "go sit inside the train. They may let you wait there, since it is cold out. I'll be back in ten minutes." Without waiting for a response, the OSS agent disappeared back into the crowd.

Janice sat on the steps leading up into the train. She lit a cigarette. She did not mind the cold, but soon noticed that Lowry, who was only wearing a thin, summer-issue jacket, was hopping up and down to keep himself warm. She suddenly decided that she liked him: He had a sweet-natured lack of self-consciousness, and seemed more interested in the world, she thought—watching him eagerly scan his surroundings despite his coldness—than in himself. Like Mel, she realized. It's getting pretty sad when even some dopey kid greener than the grass of home remind me of you, Mel. "C'mon, kid," she said, "let's sit inside."

The car was empty, and it made Janice the slightest bit nervous. There was something surreal about an empty train car, she decided. It was quiet, ornate, waiting for possession. Lowry sat down with a happy sigh, warm once again, and she settled in across from him. "Is there no one else on this whole train?" she wondered aloud.

"I dunno, Lieutenant. Do you want me to look around?"

"Maybe," she replied. "Give me a minute." She looked out the window, hoping to see Stoller. While there were many people on the platform, most of them were military, and so it was relatively easy to pick out a tall, black-haired woman, wearing a fur-lined coat, striding purposefully through the station. She sat up. "Mel!" Her hand slammed against the window. Unfortunately, there was no way of opening it. "Damnit!" she snarled.

"Lieutenant...?" Lowry began uneasily.

"I'll be right back!" She bolted from her seat, ran down the aisle, and was gone. From the window he saw her blend into the crowd; it looked like she was following some tall woman.

"Aw geez, Lieutenant!" he cried in dismay, and took off after her. His initial feeling—that Lieutenant Covington was going to be a little bit hard to handle—was turning out to be true.

She ran through the station to catch up with Mel. She even shouted Mel's name a few times, to no avail; the din was too much for even her crass Yankee voice to carry. She bobbed and ducked through the crowd like a boxer, pummeling through them until her prize was in sight. She snagged Mel's arm, and spun her around. "Hey!" she cried joyously, as the blue-eyed beauty stared at her in shock. Mel's hair was down past her shoulders, and she wasn't wearing glasses. Janice assumed that she was having one of those days where she was so preoccupied with something in her head that she forgot to put her glasses on before stepping out into the world (a common occurrence) or she simply misplaced them (ditto).

A huge grin lit up her tall companion's face. They stood smiling at each other for what seemed like forever, until Mel seized her arm and dragged her away from the crowd, into an out-of-order restroom, marked as such in about four different languages. They burst into the dimly lit urinal. The tall woman kicked the door shut with a powerful thrust from a long, limber leg, slammed Janice against a wall, and kissed her savagely.

Janice surrendered into the kiss, putting aside her initial surprise; while Mel could be quite aggressive while making love, she never indulged in anything that bordered on this kind of impropriety in a public space (the lone exception being a frantic kiss-and-grope session in Kew Gardens a few months back), and certainly not with this measure of roughness. Her heart hammered wildly as persistent hands untucked her shirt. Mel pulled back as Janice gasped for air. Then the familiar face broke into a strange, predatory grin—something which made Janice tense with apprehension. Her sense of foreboding was well founded, for the voice which spoke to her possessed not a drawl of the American South, but a British working-class accent: "Hello, love."

"Shit! Meg!" she screamed. The Nobel Prize in Sheer Stupidity? Right here, guys.

"Remember me then, eh?" Meg Edmondson could not wipe the lascivious smile off her face.

"Oh, shit...." Janice buried her face in her hands.

"Here now, you already said that. You're glad to see me, aren't you? You sure did seem glad a minute ago..." The Englishwoman's large, wandering hands stroked Janice's hips.

"What the hell are you doing in Berlin?" Janice spat.

"I'm engaged!" Meg announced proudly. "My fiancé, he's a liaison offer here. I'm visitin' him."

"Fiancé?"

"Yeah. Good bloke. Pots of money, treats me nice...and he's not too bad in the sack," she said wistfully, as if conjuring him out of thin air. But once again she turned her ravenous attentions on Janice. "But he don't kiss as well as you do." Her hands wandered up to Janice's shoulders. "I still remember the first time you kissed me. You almost brought me to my knees. In fact, I reckon I did end on my knees later, didn't I?" She leaned in for another assault on Janice's lips.

"Stop!" Janice shrieked, blocking the woman with her hands, and hating the hysterical edge in her voice. I am not going to do this again. However tempting it may be. "You're engaged!" And such a pertinent detail like this has stopped you...when?

Apparently such minutiae meant little to Meg as well. "So? I ain't married yet, Janice, and I sure ain't dead. And I can prove it to you." She pinned Janice's arms down against her sides and kissed her fully, once again.

A boom filled their ears, shattering glass, rattling buildings, and rumbling through the ground. They stumbled and fell forward, with Janice falling on top of her ardent admirer, who moaned. An explosion outside, Janice's mind registered. She looked down at Meg, who stared back up at her with dazed blue eyes and a rather silly smile. "Are you all right?" she asked the Englishwoman.

"Christ all mighty, they always say that the earth is supposed to move, but this is ridiculous."

The door burst open. "Lieutenant!" It was Lowry, gun drawn. "Are you...injured?" He trailed off lamely at the sight of Janice atop a gorgeous woman.

Janice rolled off of the too-willing Meg. "I'm fine, I'm fine. What the hell happened?"

"A bomb, Lieutenant. On our train," he supplied tersely. She saw the fear and relief in his drawn face.

Our train. She sat there, numb. And how coincidental was that? Plus the fact that Stoller wasn't anywhere near the train. Just what the hell is going on? Or am I being totally paranoid?

"Hey!" Meg said to Janice, breaking her frantic chain of thought. "You're a bloody lieutenant now! Congratulations!"

"Yeah, thanks." The women stood up, Janice dusting herself off, and Meg scowling with dismay at dirt on her very expensive coat. "Come on. We've got to find Stoller," Janice said to Lowry.

The sergeant nodded, and moved through the doorway.

Janice started to follow him, but took a moment to watch Meg fuss with her coat. "You're a lifesaver, you know that?" she said quietly.

"What?" The Englishwoman looked up at her.

"Nothing. I gotta go. See you in the funny papers."

Meg grabbed Janice's hand. "Wait!"

The contact was intoxicating. "Look, I've got to go," Janice repeated nervously. I just have to remind myself...however much you like Mel, you are not her.

"I have a hotel room," the dark-haired woman proclaimed in a low voice. Of course, that accent is so sexy. Jesus, give me a woman with an accent and I'm practically in bed with my legs in the air.

"In case you haven't noticed, a fucking bomb just went off. It's not exactly the time for romance," Janice snapped. But adrenaline was pumping through her, courtesy of the explosion...and she felt like either getting into a fight or getting laid. And while the former was a battle she would certainly lose with this strong, scrappy woman, the latter was one where they would both win...big time.

"All the better. You only live once, my girl." With one long step she was pressed against Janice, a warm, inviting hand on the archaeologist's arm.

"I have orders. I'm going to Bavaria."

Her touch glided along Janice's arm, her voice supremely confident. "You can spare a few hours, can't you?" As if she could smell her impending victory.

Janice knew that she could. It would be all so easy: A nice room. A bottle of wine. A warm bed. A willing woman. A rough pleasure. But somehow it was not enough. Not anymore. "I can't. You know I like you, Meg. You know that. And we could have a hell of a good time together. But I...can't," she repeated.

The Englishwoman, dropping her hand from Janice's arm, seemed more curious than disappointed. "Why?"

"Do you remember...I told you once, that you looked like someone I knew back home?" Meg nodded. "That person...well, I love her more than anything. I've hurt her and screwed her over too many times. I'm not going to do it again." She smiled ruefully. "Even though she may never want to see me ever again."

Meg looked shocked. "Bloody hell, Janice. You've gone all noble on me!"

"It...has nothing to do with being noble...I, uh..." She felt embarrassed, wearing her heart on her sleeve like this. Articulation fled from her mind and her mouth. "Do...do you understand?"

Meg grinned in such a way that it reminded her of Mel. "Oh God, you damned fool. You're in love. And here I thought you were a practical girl, like me." She shook her head, laughing. "All right, all right. I understand. Now get going, and try not to get that pretty head of yours blown off, all right?"

"Yeah." Janice smiled back. "And you...get outta here too. This place is dangerous."

The Englishwoman snorted in disdain. "Whole bloody country is dangerous. Don't worry, love, it would take a lot to kill me."

"Somehow I believe that." She started for the door.

"Janice?"

"Yeah?" The archaeologist paused in the doorway.

"This woman—whoever she is. She's real lucky."

God, a real compliment from Meg! Other than "Hey, you screw pretty well for a girl."

"No," Janice said, smiling. "I'm real lucky." She left the bathroom. Lowry stood right outside, his tense posture somewhere between standing at attention and feeling constipated. His cheeks were reddened with embarrassment.

She sighed. "All right, kid, what did you hear?"

"Nothing that concerns me, Lieutenant."

She stroked her chin thoughtfully, while regarding the smoky train station, which had grown even more chaotic in her brief absence. "That's a good answer, Lowry." She started to walk toward the crowd.

"Thank you, ma'am." Lowry replied with a tiny grin, and fell into step behind her.

A hole had been ripped from the train they had been on. She saw no dead bodies, just dazed patrons, some lying on the ground, some sitting. The cacophony of languages rippled through the air, a Tower of Babel made anew: German, English, even some of the dreaded (to Janice) French. And Russian. Not a lot of blood. Good. But that blast...damn, it was strong. They saw a familiar blonde head approaching them, and she and the sergeant picked up their pace.

A smear of dirt ran across Catherine's forehead, and her wrist was bandaged, although a blot of blood had seeped through the white gauze.

"Christ, Stoller, are you okay?" Janice asked, hands on hips, looking Catherine over.

The OSS agent nodded dismissively. She returned Janice's visual evaluation with one of her own. "I'm fine...just a little, how do you say—knocked up?"

Janice bit the inside of her cheek. "Not quite. Knocked around is the expression."

"Ah, yes. And I see you are both fine. I'm glad you ignored my request to stay near the train — " She turned around to look at the smoky husk of the train. "Otherwise, there is no telling what may have happened to you."

"Do they know where exactly the bomb was?" Janice asked.

"I think it was in the third car."

And we were in the second. "So we might have been dead ducks. 'Cause it was a hell of a blast."

"Yes," Catherine assented, then smiled strangely. "Dead ducks. Americans have such an intriguing way with language." Her eyes met Janice's. Then, just as suddenly, she broke off the inscrutable gaze and looked toward an exit. "Well! I don't know about the both of you, but I have had more than enough excitement for one afternoon. Lowry, get a damned jeep and additional military escort for us. We're driving to Fussen."

The sergeant nodded, saluted, and disappeared. Leaving the two women staring at the wrecked train.

"Who do you think did this?" Janice remarked casually, all the while watching the OSS agent warily.

"The Werwolf, of course. Who else?"

"Why this train? Why here?"

Catherine tucked a strand of loose, curling blond hair around her ear. "You ask that as if you expect me to know."

"It just doesn't make sense to me. Lowry and I seemed to be the only people on that train."

"Are you suggesting that you are a target?" Amusement tickled the OSS agent's voice.

Janice's false laughter rang like a dissonant bell. "Yeah, pretty funny, isn't it? I mean, who would want me dead?"

Catherine's already dark eyes grew even blacker. "Not me," she replied firmly.

Her hands rode on her hips, a skeptical sneer on her face. "Shit, lady, am I really supposed to believe that?"

Catherine's hand flew up to Janice's face so quickly that the archaeologist barely had time to flinch. But instead of the blow that Janice had expected once she saw the fleshy blur, the hand gently cupped her chin. "I would be the first to admit that Melinda would look quite fetching in widow's weeds. But competing with a dead lover is a thousand times harder than a living, flesh and blood rival."

Despite many widely held beliefs to the contrary, Janice Covington was no fool. She could smell the danger in this woman, the violence underneath the cool exterior, waiting to be unleashed, and hence she made no attempt to remove Stoller's hand from her face. But — Janice being Janice — she did not shut up. "All the same, I'm not a great believer in coincidence," she retorted calmly.

Catherine dragged a thumb along the lieutenant's smooth, red lips. Feeling the tremor of disgust, and knowing the thin line between it and desire. I could bring you to your knees, if I wanted to. Everything is so black and white with you, isn't it, Covington? No in-between. No shadows. "Believe what you will. All the same, you are among the living."

[your-art-is-gay]

A little backstory: About a year and a half ago I came across a promising book called Everland by Wendy Spinale. It was a retelling of Peter Pan, but recoloured in steampunk and a post-apocalypse, set in the aftermath of an alternate World War I. It sounded fascinating, frankly, and I was thrilled to read it. Surely, with such an interesting premise, it must have been awesome, right?

Instead, I found a poorly-told story with poor characterization, ridiculous and unnecessary retcon, poor pacing, a terrible prose, and so riddled with historical inaccuracies that I honestly don’t think she bothered to do any research at all.

In a fit of righteous fury, I decided to rewrite it. So I spent an entire afternoon researching and writing. Then I promptly forgot about it.

Anyway, this post recently reminded me of it, so I went and found it. I only have the first chapter written, and I don’t really intend on continuing it, but I just realized that I haven’t posted any of my writing yet (because I’m terrified of thieves), so, here it it.

NOTE: I wrote this back in May of 2017, and other than fixing a few spelling mistakes, I haven’t edited this. So if it’s completely terrible, please don’t think this is an accurate representation of my current writing skill. Thank you! :)

ONE:

It had been nearly a year since the bombs dropped on London, the German bombs that had betrayed the Peace Treaty and let out a deadly virus that killed thousands. The once grand city lay in smouldering ruins, a ghost of its former self. One could hardly recognize the place it had once been.

From the top of what was left of Big Ben, it was possible to see the decimated city in all its glory. It was a fantastic vantage point, and not one that the Marauders―German soldiers still lingering in the city―dared to use. The bombs had caused the stairways inside to collapse, leaving the only paths to the top through the twisted heaps of metal that used to be the gears of the clock. The Marauders were far too cowardly to risk their lives climbing up the clocktower, and they weren’t agile enough anyway. Any inexperienced climber would have a hell of a time making it up alive. Luckily for the boy sitting at the top of the tower, he wasn’t inexperienced.

He was known by many names, the boy was, many of them foul. Only a few months ago, his moniker had been Star, but he had left those who had given him that name far behind. To the Marauders, he was known mostly as “Geist,” the boy who vanished into thin air right before their eyes and existed only to taunt their very existence. Before the bombs had dropped, he had been known as Will, and though that life was far behind him, he had decided to use that name once more. Besides the broken stopwatch in the pocket of his jacket, his name was the only thing he had left of his old life.

Will’s gazed out at the smoking ruin of his birthplace, an empty feeling in his chest. In the past six months, he’d grown all too used to this view. It almost didn’t hurt to look at where his childhood home lay anymore―almost.

Childhood home. What an interesting choice of words. Will may only have been fifteen, but he was no longer a child. War forces one to grow up far faster than they should. He’d learned that much very quickly.

At this height, he could see the lines of Marauders, tiny as toys, moving through the streets. The enemy was on the prowl, and that meant the hunt was on. Something halfway between a grin and a grimace twisted his lips as he jumped to his feet. 

Time to toy with some Marauders, he thought, sliding his bow over his shoulder. It was karma time.

He tucked himself away in the shadows, watching the soldiers from his second story vantage point. Silently, he slid his bow of his shoulder, took an arrow from his makeshift quiver, and nock it. They’d gotten smarter, he’d noticed; bronze breastplates were now a part of their uniform. He’d have to be creative if he wanted to fell one in a single shot.

Taking a deep breath, Will drew the string back until his hand brushed his cheek. Time seemed to slow as he aimed meticulously, focusing on an exposed stretch of dark skin on the back of one of the soldier’s necks.

3―

Breath, Will.

2―

For Jamie.

And he let the arrow fly.

With a thud, it found its target. The Marauder went down like a sack of coal, his gun clattering to the street. The impact caused his helmet to go spinning off into the gutter.. He was dead before he hit the ground.

“It’s him!” shrilled one of the soldiers, and a twisted smile turned the corners of Will’s lips. It was the reaction he expected, the one he desired. In his own sick kind of way, he loved to watch them panic and flail around, terrified of the next attack. Those rotten Marauders deserved to know how the kids they toted away to Everland felt. They deserved to feel the fear that they caused. They deserved it all.

Two more went down before the Marauders finally had the brains to flee, leaving the bodies of their fallen comrades to rot. The moment they were gone, Will emerged from his hiding spot. He dropped down from the balcony of the once lovely townhouse to the dirty street below with the stealth of a cat stalking its prey. Splashing through the malodorous and possibly poisonous water that had puddled in the cracks of the street, he approached the bodies.

Will knelt down by the corpse nearest to him and swallowed. This was the one who had lost his helmet, revealing his face. Dark hair, dark skin―likely a native German soldier and not a British-born traitor like that Smeeth fellow Will had encountered in the past. The soldier had been so young, Will couldn’t help but notice, younger than Will himself, most likely. 

When one is face to face with a Marauder, it’s exceedingly easy to forget that they are just children. Will had long since learned to ignore the sick that pooled in his stomach whenever he watched one drop dead, an arrow from his quiver pierced through their heart. Most of them were hardly older than he was, and he was murdering them in cold blood.

No one had told him that humanity was a casualty of war, too. He’d learned that the hard way.

But Will didn’t need to remove the boy’s thick leather gloves and see the sores on his hands to know that he’d been very close to dying anyway. The skull-like hollows of his cheeks and his cracked, bloody lips were evidence enough.

When the bombs had dropped on London, one of them had targeted a research facility located a few miles from the city. Unbeknownst to the common folk (and quite possibly the Germans, as well), the facility had been hosting a sample of a deadly virus known as the Horologia virus. It had spread like wildfire, engulfing Great Britain and likely the rest of the world. The adults and the infants died within days. The only ones who had survived were children, for reasons unknown, leaving countless orphans to the mercy of the Marauders.

Unfortunately for the Marauders, they weren’t immune to the disease, either. That’s why they still strolled the streets of what was left of London; on orders of their Captain, they captured all and any children they came across in hopes of finding a cure in their blood. If it weren’t obvious, they hadn’t found one yet.

Will swallowed his disgust as memories flashed through his brain, images of his friends being dragged away, kicking and screaming, by the Marauders. None of them had ever been seen again. He pushed himself to his feet before his brain lead him down that inevitable path again, to the memories of Jamie.

No, he told himself firmly. Don’t even think that name.

To distract himself, Will swiped one of the dead Marauder’s guns and began to inspect it. ‘79 Reichsrevolver, if he wasn’t mistaken. German military issue―nothing too special. Every Marauder had one.

With a hesitant sigh, he pocketed it―after removing the rounds first, of course. He wasn’t ignorant. While he personally didn’t use guns―he found them loud and inconvenient and incredibly lacking in combat compared to his bow (he’d been classically trained)―he knew some people that might like the extra firepower.

Moderately satisfied, he darted back into the shadows, quickly leaving behind the proof of the blood that stained his hands.

Wendy Darling gazed out the window of her hideout, her eyes fixed dismally on the polluted night sky. The city that she as well as many others had once called home had been destroyed, leaving this smoking ruin in its place. She longed to leave this dusty, dingy warehouse and return to the home of her childhood, but she knew that there was nothing left of it. The Marauders made certain of that.

Time to get moving, she thought, swinging her legs over the window ledge.

“Where are you going?” came the harsh whisper, startling her.

It was Joanna, Wendy’s younger sister. Joanna furrowed her brow, crossing her arms over her chest. Tapping her foot, she looked every bit like their mother did when waiting for an explanation upon catching them doing something wrong.

Pressing a hand to her chest and willing her pulse to return to normal, Wendy let out a sigh. “We’re down to a few liters of water so I’m going out to scavenge for supplies,” she said, adjusting the straps of her rucksack absently. “I won’t be gone long.”

Joanna shook her head. “It’s too dangerous,” she protested. “The Marauders―”

“I know how to deal with them, Joanna,” Wendy interrupted. “Just stay here and keep an eye on Mikey until I come back, alright? He’s been having terrors again. It won’t do to leave him by himself,” she added quickly, already knowing that Joanna would insist on coming with her.

The younger girl bit her tongue, knowing that Wendy was right. They needed to stock up, but they couldn’t leave Mikey by himself; he was only six years old. It was better for Wendy to go by herself, as she didn’t have to worry about Joanna and Mikey as well as herself, which made being stealthy a lot easier.

The soft padding of bare feet drew their attention. Mikey had crawled out of bed and had made his way over to them, roused by the sound of their voices. He was the only one to inherit their mother’s lovely blonde hair, but dirt made it as brown as his sisters’, reminding Wendy of how long it had been since any of them bathed. Hygiene wasn’t exactly their top priority anymore.

“What’s going on?” he mumbled tiredly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Nothing, Mikey,” Wendy said softly. “Go back to sleep, alright?”

He shook his head. “Bad dreams.” Mikey reached for one of Joanna’s hands, not seeming to notice how she winced when he gripped it.

There was a reason her hands had been bandaged. The sores on her fingertips had only gotten worse since they’d first appeared, and no treatment that Wendy had tried seemed to work. Joanna, brave Joanna, had never complained, even as her sores worsened, causing her what could only be excruciating pain. Despite all odds, Wendy had managed, somehow, to convince herself that Joanna would be fine. Her wounds will heal in time, Wendy told herself. She blatantly refused to believe that it was the Horologia virus. It couldn’t be. But deep in her heart she knew the truth.

“Come on, I’ll lie down with you. Have I told you the stories about the mermaids in the Thames?” Joanna led Mikey back to the tattered, sorry excuse for a mattress they used as a bed.

“Are they real mermaids?” Mikey asked her, his eyes wide with that childlike innocence he had yet to lose. Wendy never wanted him to lose that innocence, but she feared that she wouldn’t be able to protect him from growing up for much longer.

“Joanna,” Wendy said, touching her sister’s shoulder. Joanna turned. “Try not to keep him up too late, alright? No pirates; you know he’ll be awake all night. We’re leaving when I return.” She hesitated. “Stay safe.”

“We will,” came the response.

Wendy ducked out the window and clambered down the brick wall of the building, easily finding a path in the cracks and holes that laced through the stone. Crevice climbing, while dangerous, came in handy when hiding in these older buildings. Dropping to the ground, she quickly ducked into the shadows.

A zeppelin flew by overhead, the hum of its engines sending a chill down her spine. One of Queen Katherina’s fleet, no doubt.

Queen Katherina of Germany had taken the throne years ago, before Wendy had been born, after the sudden and extremely suspicious death of her husband. The King had been a kind and generous ruler, and many had expected her to be the same. They were wrong.

It soon became clear that Queen Katherina was unsatisfied ruling a single country, and had plans to change that. England, with the help of a few other European countries, had attempted to stop her by creating the International Peace Accords. Every country in the world had signed the accords, for no one wished to allow Queen Katherina to go on a rampage. It was the only thing that every country had ever agreed unanimously on. Unfortunately, the accords meant nothing to the German queen. It wasn’t long before she blatantly defied it and drenched the surrounding countries in death and blood. This had earned her the very appropriate moniker “the Bloodred Queen.”

England was not her first invasion, and if Queen Katherina had her way, it would most certainly not be her last.

With this reassuring thought, Wendy made her way down the street, looking for a place to scavenge.

An hour later, Wendy found herself in an abandoned townhouse, searching through the cabinets for any remaining food. As she’d expected, most of it had been devoured by the rats that scurried around her feet (disgusting), but there were a stack of canned vegetables left behind that she snatched up as if someone were going to appear and take them from her.

The rest of the house was pretty bare, hardly anything useful to be found. Whatever family had left it behind in their attempt to flee London had taken whatever they could. Shame, really. She couldn’t help but wonder what happened to them. Were the children she’d seen pictures in so many forgotten photographs, smiling and completely, blissfully unaware of the tragedy awaited them, still alive? Or had they been taken by the virus, or killed in the bombings, or captured by the Marauders? Wendy would never know, of course. She knew it was pointless, even counterproductive to wonder about such things, but she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering to these places whenever she found evidence of the families left behind in the houses she searched.

While her haul wasn’t the best, it would have to suffice. The cans, a dull knife she found in the kitchen, and a torn frock that would probably fit Joanna occupied her stash. In the last room of the house―a child’s room, judging by the broken toys littered across the floor and the childish decor―she found one last thing: a dingy cloth doll in the shape of a bear. Mikey might like it, Wendy thought, shoving it into her bag. If he didn’t, well, if nothing else, it would make good kindling for a fire.

She headed back out into the drawing room, intending to sneak out the back where she’d gotten in, but the sound of a shout from outside startled her. Nearly dropping her kerosene lantern, Wendy blew out the flame and ducked out of sight of the window.

The loud thumping of heavy footfalls on the street outside meant only one thing: Marauders. They seemed to be running after someone, and at least one of them was shouting in German. Wendy dared a peek out the window. Uniform-clad Marauders were dashing down the street, rifles raised, after a blonde girl. She couldn’t have been any older than Joanna, but despite being chased by a group of armed blokes who were older than her, she was definitely holding her own.

Never stopping, the girl pulled a lever on her peculiar-looking metal-and-leather pack. A cog like something from a clock whirred on the outside, and then two beautiful copper wings sprang out. Just as it seemed as she was going to be stuck in the dead end at the end of the street, she pressed something else on her pack and flew―actually flew―over the high wooden fence and disappeared.

Wendy couldn’t help but feel a little relieved. The girl was one of the first children she’d seen in months besides her own siblings, and knowing that there were still people out there besides the Marauders was reassuring. It was nice to know that some of her own had survived for this long, regardless of how much longer they were going to last.

The Marauders stopped and stared at where the girl disappeared. One, possibly the same one from before, yelled orders and pointed down the street. The helmets they wore made his voice sound mechanical, making them appear more machine than human. Most of the group―about five of them―break off and go down a side street, leaving only the leader and two others behind. They seemed to be conferring with each other, deciding what to do.

Wendy watched them cautiously, wondering if she’d be able to get past them, when she realized that there were eyes looking back at her through the glass. She let out a yelp and fell back, drawing her knife instinctively. On the other side of the window was a boy, his pale face streaked black with dirt and his dirty hair falling into his vibrant green eyes. He looked at her pleadingly. “Let me in,” the boy mouthed, tapping on the glass.

Silently, she shook her head, guilt twisting her stomach. Turning people away for the sake of her family had become second nature to her, but that didn’t mean she felt good about sacrificing them to the Marauders.

He scowled, clenching his jaw. Without another word he pushed away from the window and darts down the street. Wendy tensed. There was no way he could make it past the soldiers without being noticed. Sure enough, one of them looked up, spotted the boy, and―

Fell to the ground, dead.

The other two Marauders jumped back. “GEIST!” one of them shrieked, and they both bolted after the others, not even bothering to remain calm. Whatever killed their comrade seemed to really spook them.

‘Geist?’ Wendy thought curiously. She didn’t know German, but she did know that a lot of German words were similar to English one. Geist sounded very much like...ghost? What on earth were they talking about? 

Mad, the whole lot of them.

From a house down the street, a dark shadow clambered out one of the windows and onto the roof. The moonlight broke through at that exact moment, creating a halo around them. In the light, Wendy realized that it was a boy dressed completely in black. A mask covered the lower half of his face, and there were goggles over his eyes, but she could see quite clearly that he had a mass of black, curly hair. What appeared to be a bow was slung across his body.

The boy on the ground, the one with the green eyes, nodded to the figure on the roof, but the boy with the bow just turned and disappeared without acknowledging whether or not he had seen the green-eyed boy. Wendy got the feeling that they weren’t exactly best of chums.

She watched the boy vault himself over the fence after the girl before she ever dared to move. Wendy bolted out of the house as fast as she dared. She’d never seen Marauders this far from London proper (no, not London, she reminded herself; they called it Everland now), which meant that they were getting smarter―or more desperate. She needed to get back to Joanna and Mikey as soon as she possibly could.

Wendy only hoped that she wasn’t too late.

The brick wall tore and bloodied her fingers as she scrambled up the wall, but that was the least of her concerns. Wendy couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched as she positively threw herself through the warehouse window and into the presumed safety of their current hideout, but when she’d peered into the dark she’d seen nothing. It had taken her longer than she’d wanted to get back here; the sky had begun to lighten with the impending sunrise. That’s what she got for taking an unfamiliar path in hopes to avoid the Marauders. 

She stood slowly, brushing the front of her blouse in a futile attempt to remove some of the dust. Then she smelled it; the sickeningly sweet smell of rum and pine oil. Something was wrong.

And that was when she noticed the tall figure standing in the middle of the room.

Marauder.

Wendy unsheathed her knife and raised it. The Marauder hadn’t noticed her yet, and so she had the advantage. She snuck up behind him, poised to sink her dagger into his back. She brought the knife down―

Faster than she could blink, the boy spun and knocked the knife from her hands, sending it flying across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor, too far out of reach for her to go for it. On instinct, Wendy raised her fist, fully prepared to punch him directly in the face. If anything, it would hopefully slow him down―

Wait, face?

She faltered, and the boy caught her fist. “Blimey, calm down!” said a lilting voice. The boy pushed her fist down carefully, as if he didn’t want to hurt her. Wendy got her first good look at him. Dark hair curled around an olive-toned face, the lower half of which was hidden behind a mask, which was really just a piece of dark cloth tied over his mouth and his nose. A pair of mechanical-looking goggles sat atop his head, revealing that he had steely grey eyes.

Wendy recognized him instantly as the boy with the bow.

She opened her mouth to demand what he was doing there, but before she could, Mikey vaulted around the boy and hugged her tightly around the waist, looking frightened. “Mikey! What’s wrong?”

“The pirates came!” he sniffled, pressing his face into her dirty shirt.

“Not the Marauders,” Wendy said weakly.

“Joanna said they were pirates,” the child said. “She told me to hide, so I did. I hid in the bin until he came.” Mikey’s gaze went to the boy. For the first time, Wendy noticed the frock coat slung over Mikey’s shoulders. It could only belong to the boy, who looked odd without it in his white shirt and black trousers. He’d pulled the mask down around his neck, showing off the rest of his face. He looked fairly normal, to be honest. Nothing particularly interesting about him at all physically. Wendy felt very foolish for believing that this boy could be a Marauder; he lacked the uniform and general stature of a German soldier. Nor was he wearing one of those ridiculous helmets.

Wendy turned back to her younger brother. “Where is Joanna?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

This time, the boy answered. “The Marauders took her. Your sister’s likely in Everland by now.”

[anneblackthornofficial]

Book Preview!

Hello, readers! As the release of my book Daughter of Secrets is only 9 days away, I thought I would give you a glimpse into the first few pages of the book! I have included the prologue and a bit of chapter one so you can get a taste of the story. You can buy Daughter of Secrets on Amazon here!

Prologue:

The power of knowing a secret is often forgotten in the relief of sharing it. That secret becomes an entirely new creature when given to someone else. The new holder of the secret may not keep it, but use it for any imaginable purpose. The secret can transform into a battle-hammer, hefted carelessly to leave destruction in its wake. It can be wielded like a dagger in the dark, slipping between its former keeper’s ribs with silent, deadly accuracy. It can become a brick wall, fear acting as the mortar between each brick in order to keep the world safely sealed away.

My own secret had been a burden for too long, its weight both alarmingly new and wearily familiar. That secret had transformed me. Shaped me from the carefree girl into the wary, withdrawn, sharp young woman I was now. The woman who couldn’t smile at the people in the streets. The woman who hid her face when the royal guards made their rounds. The woman who did not dare to speak her own name, for fear of alerting others to her secret.

For the past four years, I had lived in constant fear of someone recognizing my secret. Anything about me could give it away—it was so deeply ingrained in me, and so thinly veiled, that I was surprised no one had found me out. In the end, my fears were worthless. I was my own undoing.

Part I: Trinity Raffolk of Farmor

       Chapter 1

The day had dawned bright and crisp, the sun glinting on the waves of the Galbine Sea in the distance. The city of Farmor was cheery, bustling with the gossip of the week which I caught in snatches as I walked past. My basket of dried herbs and healing salves pressed with familiarity against the crook of my elbow, my list of addresses tucked between the clinking jars. I tried to make my deliveries early in the day so that those who needed their cures did not wait any longer than they needed to. I went to the docks first, where the elderly Captain Haedras waited on the deck of his ship for me.

“Beautiful day for a sail, lass,” he greeted me, looking at the sky expansively, his hand resting above his brow to shield the sun’s light.

“It is,” I agreed easily, handing over his chamomile and a vial of my mother’s famous ache-curing salve. “Though you’ll have to enjoy the sea for me. I’m staying on land today.”

Captain Haedras laughed at my teasing smile. “We both know the sea’s not your calling, lass, but I like ye anyway.”

I softened my teasing tone with a friendly grin. “Thank you ever so much, Captain. Mother says don’t forget to use the salve twice daily.”

He tipped his grubby hat with a gallantry. “Tell yer mum I’ll not likely forget. I’m not as decrepit as I look.” He winked merrily, and waved goodbye as I left for my next delivery. I found Mrs. Herrim’s home with ease. She was round with child, her cheeks ruddy and her eyes sunken with exhaustion. Her eldest son had been down with a cold for almost a week, and he made no secret of his discomfort.

“Thank you, dear,” she effused as I offered the vial of throat-easing tonic she had ordered. “I’ve not slept a wink since he started coughing, and the girls have been crying almost as often as he has.”

I could see her twin daughters through the open doorway, both red-eyed with recent tears, their dark curls mussed and their clothing dirty. My heart went out to the family, especially their mother. Her husband would be away on a trade ship for another month still, and she plainly had more work than she could do herself. I reached into the basket for the spare mixes of tea I always kept handy. “This should help all of you sleep better. Steep it for a few minutes in hot water, add some honey, and drink it with dinner. You’ll sleep like stones,” I said, wishing I could give her more. “No charge.”

Mrs. Herrim looked close to tears. “That will be a relief, I’m sure. Let me get the coins I owe you.” She disappeared into her home before returning with a handful of silvers. I left her to her children, and wondered as I walked away what it would be like to have siblings. I shook my head at the thought. It was not a new one, but nothing would be solved by the wondering. My mother had never given me siblings, and she had good reasons. I had grown up with the ache for more family than just my mother, and it still lingered, even though I understood my mother’s reasons now that I was older.

I tried to push the thought aside as I finished my rounds quickly, returning to my mother’s shop with my basket jangling hollowly with the day’s payments.

“I’m back,” I announced as I swung open the herb shop’s door, knowing my mother was in the storeroom behind the counter working on her latest perfume experiment.

“How was the Captain?” She called absently.

“He very much appreciated your reminder,” I said, smiling wryly to myself, but my mother was too distracted by her work to notice my tone.

“Good, good,” she mumbled, then popped her head through the storeroom doorway. “Will you come smell this? I can’t decide if it’s mysterious or utterly distasteful.”

I passed the counter and slipped into the storeroom, where my mother held out one of her glass vials, this one half full of a cloudy blue liquid. I took a sniff and wrinkled my nose. “It’s a little potent, don’t you think?” I said, trying not to cough.

My mother sighed. “I can dilute it. Rosewater might help.”

I nodded and swallowed the tickle in my throat. “I think it might. You should have seen Mrs. Herrim today. She looked exhausted. Said her oldest wouldn’t stop coughing, and her family couldn’t sleep.”

“Hmm. Hold this,” my mother held out an empty vial and poured a bit of the blue mixture in. “Yes, she sent me that message last night, so I arranged for Meredith to visit her today with a meal.” She tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear before pouring a bit of rosewater into the vial I held. “Smell that, tell me if it’s better.”

I took a cautious sniff, and twisted my lips. “Definitely better. But I think it could”—

The shop door slamming interrupted my statement, and I handed my mother the vial to see to the customer. I poked my head out of the storeroom to see who it was, and immediately ducked out of the doorway when I saw the red and silver uniform. “Mother,” I whispered, as though my voice would give me away, “it’s a palace soldier. You see to him and I’ll clean up in here.”

Her face was serene, but her eyes were a bit too wide, as she handed the vial back to me and left the storeroom. I could hear her using her customer voice, a tone higher and sweeter than usual, as I tried to still my shaking hands and fluttering stomach. I leaned on the wooden counter, my head bowed. It wasn’t the first time a soldier had entered this shop. I should have been used to it. The instant panic was self-preservation as much as it was habit, though I desperately wanted to stop being afraid. I wanted a life where I didn’t have to hide, or keep my conversations short, but I could not leave my secret behind so easily. I wore it in plain sight, where anyone could observe it or ignore it.

Mother returned to the storeroom with a sigh, the lines of pity etched deeply into the corners of her eyes. She leaned on the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron as she said, “I’m sorry I gave you this life.”

I shook my head mutely.

“You deserve better than having to hide your face at every turn. You deserve more than a life keeping my secret.”

She always said so after something like this happened, but she always refused to leave the King’s City. Farmor was her home, she would say. It was where she could earn her money, it was where she felt happiest. The truth was that she felt closest to her true love here, even though he’d left us behind and broken her heart. Some of it I understood. After all, I had grown up here. This city, with its fishy smells and noisy sailors living in the shadow of the king’s castle, was all I had ever known. But I always wondered what it would be like to leave, to find safety in a strange place where my face was mine alone.

I would never speak that thought aloud, though. It was the one thing my mother was unwilling to give me, as much as she might want to. In this, she always came first. I thought that maybe she couldn’t help it.

My mother studied me before saying, “I want you to be happy, Trinity. You deserve time with your friends. Some freedom to find a man, maybe have a family of your own.”

It was a tempting dream, but I knew I would not find it here in Farmor. Maybe I would not find it even in all of Harlorisi. “I know, mother,” I said, and I hugged her to keep her from seeing the pain that I could not keep from my expression. I was shackled here by my love for my mother, by my past, but my secret constantly pressed me away. I was living on the edges of Farmor, both a prisoner and a gatekeeper.

“I think I’m going to take a walk,” I said as I pulled away. “I’ll be back later.”

I kept my back to my mother as I swung my cloak over my shoulders, grabbed a few coins, and left. My mother did not say a word, though I knew she wanted to.

I went back to the docks, which were empty this time of day. Most of the ships had left for the day, or had yet to arrive, and the whining cries of seagulls were the loudest sounds above the dull roar of the waves. I stayed as long as I could, finding solace in the solitude, enjoying the anonymity of a public place.

As the day waxed on, the sun dimmed behind afternoon clouds. A cold front brought winds that snapped my braid behind me. By the time the sun hovered over the horizon, threatening to dip beneath the waves and end the day, I was ready to return home. The port had begun to liven up again, boats docking with their precious cargo and paying passengers. I wandered back into the city to find the town crier already making his rounds. He drew the attention of the city’s wanderers with a singularly boisterous announcement.

“By order of King Aebert Ceoleth the Third of Harlorisi, coronation of his son and heir, Crown Prince Bastian Alecsander, will commence three days hence. Public celebration and festivities shall be held in the town square,” he cried, strutting the street, holding a royal document aloft. It was signed by the King himself, and the royal crest was displayed proudly beneath the signature.

If the crier had not held that document up for all to see, I might have been unbothered by the announcement. I could have kept my head down, kept walking, and made it home to my mother for a warm meal next to the fireplace. After all, the abdication had been expected for the past few months. It was Harlorisian tradition to make the transition from one ruler to the next as smooth as possible, allowing the former king to advise the new king during the first, most sensitive years of his rule. As it was, the sight of the King’s signature was a blow to my gut. The air left my lungs with a quiet grunt, and I stood, frozen, in the cobbled street.

Most of the townspeople were either on their way home, or home already, as I should have been. When I closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath again, the slap of footsteps against stone was muffled and slow, deadened by well-worn shoes and the exhaustion of a long day. The sound gave me something to fix on while my brain caught up with my lungs.

I couldn’t go home, I realized as I opened my eyes. I couldn’t walk up the stairs behind the shop, open the door, and make small talk with my mother over a meal as if nothing was wrong. The idea left a bitter taste in my mouth. I took stock of where I was, realizing that my last delivery of the day had left me fairly close to a tavern I had often frequented with my friend Merta. Well, until she had married the brawny owner. Now, she spent all her time there, while I busied myself with the work of my mother’s shop.

I turned so that I faced the tavern, the painted sign that read Portly Pelican swinging welcomingly over the door. The windows gleamed yellow with the light of candles and a hearth, promising an ease to the chill fog that crept over the streets as the sun set. The door swung open behind a customer, offering a glimpse of the hungry bachelors, soldiers, and sailors that sought a meal and a hearty mug of ale at the tavern’s tables. It buzzed quietly, but it was not quite busy yet. I could go in, buy some stew and an ale with the spare coin from my deliveries, and set my thoughts to rights before going home.

Feeling better after making a plan, I set off toward the tavern with a firm stride. I ducked into the doorway, shaking my cloak free of dust and moisture before I hung it on a wooden pelican’s gaping beak, one of the many such carvings that served as hooks. Keeping my head down, I made my way to an empty table against the wall and took a seat.

Merta wasted no time before making her way to me. She greeted me with a hearty smile as she leaned on my table. She looked well; her cheeks were as round as ever, her brown eyes clear and bright.

“It’s been too long since I saw you here!” She said, her tone edging on reprimanding, though her smile never wavered.

I shrugged. “The shop has been busy lately,” I offered as an excuse. “But you might see me more often if you ever left your tavern.” I softened my teasing tone with a knowing glance at her husband, who was wiping down the bar with a rag.

She glanced back at him with flushed cheeks, her smile growing. “You may be right, but I rather like my place here,” she said. Almost two years of marriage, and she still acted like a newlywed. I smiled, ignoring the ache in my chest at the sight and refusing to analyze it.

“How have you been? How is”—

Her questions were cut off by her husband calling her name, waving for her. She held up a hand to him, sighed, and turned back to me. “All right, I’m sure you came here for more than just my idle chatter. The usual?”

I nodded, leaning back in my seat. It always surprised me how easily she slipped into familiarity with me, even after all I had done to create distance between us.

She was about to turn away, but something in my expression must have caught her eye. She raised a thin eyebrow and looked at me askance. “You look like you could use something stronger than ale tonight, my friend.”

My smile felt wan on my lips. “Then I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

She smiled and left to see to her husband. It was a few moments before she returned to my table with my stew and some sharp-smelling wine. I thanked her and was about to tuck into my meal when she said, “I hope that you know… you can talk to me about anything, yeah?”

I studied her, surprised at the serious expression on her face. Between the two of us, she had always been the quickest to laugh, the easiest to charm, the most willing to smile. It was what had drawn me to her when we were children playing in the streets.

“I know that,” I said, though I knew I would never put the burden of my own secret on her shoulders. She didn’t deserve that.

Merta looked as if she were about to say something else, but a man at the bar hailed her, raising his mug and crying for a refill. She offered me a wincing smile and squeezed my shoulder before returning to her duties.

I took a testing sip of the wine as she walked away, wrinkling my nose as I considered it. The wine’s fruity taste was countered with the tang of strong alcohol, and I wondered briefly if Merta had added something to the tavern’s usual wine. Eventually, as I ate and sipped, I decided I didn’t mind either way. The warmth of the alcohol reached into my muscles and relaxed them one by one. Another waitress came by intermittently and refilled my drink before it was ever empty. As a result, I drank more than I should have as I watched the Portly Pelican grow ever busier with the influx of thirsty sailors and their hungry passengers. One of them had even brought an accordion with him, and was playing familiar folk songs as his friends ate their meals.

I knew my mother would worry about me. I was out far later than I usually was. But that worry seemed blearily distant as I peered into my wine. I would go home soon enough, I decided, but I would listen to one more song first. The music mingled with the quiet buzz of conversation in a way that made me feel comfortably disguised. Nearly every table was occupied now, soldiers and sailors alike mingling over good food and drink. People were starting to take seats at tables with strangers, it was so full.

This happened often enough, I knew, but usually I left before the Pelican got this busy. So when a blond-headed stranger sat opposite me at my table and offered me smile, I was caught distinctly off-guard. I searched for Merta in the crowded room, but she had either retired for the night or was hidden away in the kitchen preparing food. They had lost their cook a few months ago, and had not since found a new one. For lack of a familiar face, and for the stubbornness that would not let me abandon my seat at the sight of a stranger, I took stock of the man as he ate his meal.

He wore no visible weapons, tattoos, or piercings, so he was likely not a sailor. He did not wear the uniform or regalia of a soldier. His clothes were well-worn and faintly dusty, as though he had been traveling for a long while, but otherwise they were of good quality. His ice-blue eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion, and his fair skin was tinged red, as if he had been in the sun. A traveler from a distant land, then. A stranger I would likely never see again.

As I studied him, I remembered hearing once that there was a sort of comfort in telling secrets to strangers. As if the fact that they were strangers, and that fact alone, made the secret powerless in their hands. In the relaxed bleariness of the wine, the idea appealed to me. This man looked to be a stranger that was safe enough, and I had a secret that weighed heavy upon me. I was tired, exhausted by the long day coupled with my earlier shock, and vaguely content with the alcohol in my veins.

I wanted to free my secret from its cage in my chest. I had kept it earnestly, obsessively, over the past four years, and I wondered what it would feel like to speak it out loud just once. This wasn’t the first time I had wondered it, but it was the first time I had indulged the thought and not shoved it away immediately. The wondering was heavier this time, the weight of the secret pressing down on me insistently.

My eyes drifted across the tavern, seeking Merta but not seeing her. Perhaps I should have told her my secret when she asked earlier. Perhaps I should have told her four years ago, when I first learned it. Now, I feared sharing it with her would change things irrevocably between us. I couldn’t bear that, not after the changes I had gone through in the past four years. But a stranger—I would likely never see this man again. There was nothing to change, nothing to sever between us. What could be the harm in telling this traveler? I could simply say what I wished, take my leave, and taste the brief freedom of having my secret out in the open before resuming my life of secrecy.

As the tavern buzzed around us, I made a decision, and pushed my wine aside.

“My name is Trinity,” I told the stranger, who looked startled to hear me speak. He set down his spoon and opened his mouth as if to introduce himself, but I shook my head and spoke on. “I am the daughter of the local herbalist,” I said. “Mother dabbles in perfumes as well as healing herbs, but she isn’t quite willing to sell the perfumes yet.”

I spoke deliberately, and the stranger set his meal aside as he listened. Perhaps that should have been a warning sign to me, but I pressed on. In the confused state of my exhaustion and the forced relaxation of the wine, I would not give up on this idea of confessing to a stranger. Besides, the tavern’s din of drinking songs and idle chatter disguised my words to any other listening ears.

“Mother married young, but she was widowed by the age of twenty eight. Her husband’s life was short, but her love for him was even shorter. She always did tell me that the fire of passion is no basis for a stable relationship,” I said, smiling. “When he died, she took over her husband’s herb shop. It was in that shop, the one she and I still live right above, that she met my father.”

The man’s blond brows raised. He looked as if he wanted to ask a question, but he left it unspoken. I answered it anyway.

“I’m not a legitimate child,” I explained detachedly. “My mother never married my father, but they had a whirlwind affair that resulted in me. It ended before I was born, even before my mother knew she was pregnant. He left her when his son and heir was born, you see,” I went on. “After all, the King must be quite visibly present for such events, and by the time all the ceremonies and celebrations were over, he formed a newfound dedication to his wife.” I scoffed. “Likely he just found contentment in having a male heir to the throne.”

I paused, studying the stranger’s utterly shocked expression. “Oh,” I grinned wryly, “I suppose I should have started with that. This blasted wine,” I mused, peering into the cup before I fixed my eyes on the stranger.

“I am the bastard daughter of King Aebert Ceoleth the Third.”

Buy Daughter of Secrets today!

Anne Blackthorn © 2018

[morgansfunpage]

The Gift – How To Slay A Dragon

Hello my invisible other…I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for the last four weeks…gasping to take a breather…taking time out to absorb the present memories recently brought to life…the fragments of love floating around my heart are remnants of what was…what is…and indeed what could be…The Gift – How To Slay A Dragon

if only, becomes a cry in the dark at present due to the absence of mutual trust and the lack of depth where internal feelings are concerned…my heart no longer slices like a carving knife at the scar tissue of old wounds…instead I kiss each sealed entry point…like a wise man once bitten no longer shy…fools fall in love

the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift

the need to piece together the love lost…the love found…and the love suppressed in the here and now has become vital to keep my heart on the knifes edge…choosing to walk the straight and narrow with one aim in sight…keeping balanced every step of the way…retracing the footsteps of the dragon…

knowing too well how one slip up could lead to the down fall of ones own soul…life can take its toll…weighing the heart down until it snaps under the peer pressure of opportunity knocks

whether it be to fulfill your own fantasy or another heart’s desire…by following the temptation of a silver tongue…the heart will eventually sever all ties with reality…a superficial puppet carrying the chains of hell fire…

the devil has a warped ideal of love…shaping and carving human hearts to follow in their ancestors blind beliefs of what love truly means…indeed my invisible other the puppeteer would be dead right…

love in the pure sense would remain lost among the debris of fractured and shattered souls…with the hope of future hearts becoming accustom to down trodden broken dreams…

the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift

keeping traditions alive throughout the centuries…Ignorance and want hidden under the cloak of power and glory…orphaned off to the highest bidder for a life time of grooming

without trust…self respect…honor and a genuine care towards one another’s well being…human beings in a world of plenty become spiritually starved by greed and love for this material world…a selfish existence in the end

absorbing the pain of others is a crucial remedy…medicine for any soul wanting to alleviate heart ache…whether it be someone else’s or your own…

unburdening the load at the same time uplifting each other’s spirits…a brighter future to work towards lifting the veil of darkness once and for all…

pain is a healing process for all concerned…a two way lesson to be learnt…a plan of action that tries to avoid A&E…the home of broken bones and other mortal ailments…superficial scars heal right before your very eyes leaving behind a visual sign of love gone wrong…displaying ones heart on a sleeve of skin for all to see…in my eyes my dear…foolhardy

emotional scars remain blind until you open both eyes…the question is my dear…where do broken hearts go to find their way home…for your heart to feel like home sweet home you need to be able to live with yourself in the real world

the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift

Before I delve into my heart’s desire I feel the need to look beyond the world we think we see…the world that seems nothing more than a daily routine…eat…sleep…work…shit…

birth and death a reality much more than a cycle of every human beings life…the idea of a purpose or the reality of ones existence is believed to be a mystery best kept unheard of…

millions upon millions of souls unaware of their true identity desperately seeking a meaning to life…the overwhelming need to fill a void is ever present…Love becomes the devils misdirection…a trap so cleverly disguised love becomes the souls demise

A heart born in today’s day and age will look towards a science lab for answers related to love…an emotion that needs tender loving care to grow and eventually bloom…the cold harsh reality of a mortuary slab deals with the death of a mortal vessel…

can a postmortem uncover how much love or indeed pain the heart concealed throughout its lifetime…a clogged artery or a heart attack speaks volumes about lifestyle…

the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift

good and bad choices where food and drink is concerned…DNA flaws along with inherited diseases can all be a cause of death…there are a million ways to die a mortal death my dear…but only one way to die spiritually…

you see my invisible other the heart that beats in your chest is so much more than an organ of flesh..every heart born into this world has a spiritual mission…to find its way home…placed deep within the heart is a guidance…it has nothing to do with a star or three wise men my imaginary friend

a knowledge of good and evil…right from wrong…every heart is born with an innocence that sheds light on a purer love beyond this world…a direct link to the The Divine…an undertaking of one’s soul becomes the hearts ultimate goal…

the soul has a life of its own…a spiritual being that contains a light like that of an angel…and a darkness like that of a demon…a mirror image that is split down the middle…an equal balance of good and evil…

the heart is attached to the light even though the dark half is closer to home…the heart that remains in a state of purity acts like a mirror reflecting the light to illuminate the dark side of the mind…

the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift

if the conscience becomes clouded with doubts and the love of this world…the hearts vision becomes difficult to see…blocking out the light leading to eternal darkness…deaf…dumb and blind…sealing the heart resulting in a spiritual death…

life goes on for the mortal shell now living dead under the devils command…having distinguished the light of one’s Creator…the devil now has the right to coincide taking order over the empty vessel…

the purpose of the lifeless soul becomes focused on the pleasures of this world…disregarding the hereafter as a homeless abode…looked upon as a fantasy world…

The question you should be asking yourself my dear…how did the Shaytan manage to fool the hearts of mankind…

The reality is my invisible other it didn’t happen over night…generations upon generations before our arrival on planet earth had succumbed to the illusion of this world…falling victim to the innovation of lies

a new born child’s chances of remaining pure at heart will depend upon the infants guardians…if the parents are far removed from the straight path they will raise their offspring the traditional way…the same way their own parents raised them…

the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift

if the heart of the child grows attached to a love other than its true intent…the misdirected love or false belief will become the hearts down fall if followed blindly into adulthood…when puberty arrives the gift of free will is granted to every soul…if the heart fails to recognize its duty…choosing to remain young and forever foolish

the devil no longer hidden in the wings…whispers into the heart of men and women a like…offering the soul a joyride…the soul who seeks a life on easy street…strives for a comfortably numb existence without heartache or misery…

will live their lives without knowing the devil personally…conform…turn a blind eye and follow the majority of modernized conditioned humans…this world will become no more than a dream of a dreamer…the existence of angels and demons will become a myth like the soul of men…erasing The Creator of the heavens and earth from the hearts internal memory

any selfish act of transgression involving the seven deadly demons will kill the heart from the inside out…there’s not a saint nor priest dead or alive who can bring the dead back to life

Subconsciously emotional ties and the attachments of love are bonded to the heart from a tender age…ribbons of silk entwined with barbed wire becomes entangled by the heart’s desire…love at first sight is an unconditional free for all…

the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift

no matter what hurt comes by way of misunderstood love…love conquers the hearts worst fears…eliminating hate as a crime against one’s own self…an immature heart holds onto love like the elixir of life…

the ego on the other hand grips the injustice overlooked by the heart who loves regardless of feelings being hurt…placing a wedge of resentment between the hearts judgment of what’s right and whose wrong…

the benefit of the doubt plays havoc with a shadow of doubt…a conflict of wills twists the idea of love flipping it on its head…love from an egos perspective has a lot to be desired…

when nobodies home the devil comes a knocking…offering the deceitful ego an invitation to gorge on its own flesh…a suggestion to turn every fantasy into a reality…making what if..

a perversion or a blessing in disguise depending upon the souls good or evil intention…if the ego steps aside allowing the dark half to reside…the heart is overthrown…a complete black out…lust turns love into a dirty word…the soul becoming a shadow of its former self…hidden behind eyes wearing a fake smile…

Past time love Part One…I was lost inside the devils playground for the time being…born into slavery and raised to love the devil without question…a production set a flame…directed and co-hosted by the devil himself…all actors and actresses are subconsciously center stage…unaware of the role they played…

hidden behind the scenes waiting for the final curtain to fall…my own example of the game of love is a free gift from one soul to another…a rebellious soul where the devil is concerned…unable to break my spirit…

the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift

the devil paid close attention to my inhibitions…every ounce of love my heart kept alive was used against my soul killing it softly…holding my heart hostage against my egos better judgment…

a pain free experience passed on to you my invisible other…how to slay a dragon…stop chasing the dream and start moon walking…become the hunter…heading in one direction…all the way home

the mistaken identity of the devils footsteps will start to look a lot like your own…only one set of foot prints are visible…chose your direction wisely and your shadow will be left without choice…keeping the future in mind

broadcasting straight from a soul once shackled and chained to this thing called love…a heart bypass knocked me for six…the devil offered my soul an unholy matrimony…a declaration of undying love

my past experience of Love had never gone beyond the bond of blood ties….cutting so deep it nearly severed an artery…at the time I didn’t feel the knife go in…Every twist of fate tore through layer upon layer of mind numbing pain…the thought of loving a stranger was a joke that tickled my ego

I was immune to my own heart ache until I brought it upon myself…I would have to say accidentally on purpose my dear…the stranger I was waiting for was no ordinary demon…he was a dream come true…A stoker…

the kiss of death would hunt down my soul many a night…including every christmas eve…unable to breathe I would wake up inside my dreams…opening my eyes in the dead of night…what did I see…the gift of life in the present…putting to bed the nightmare of death laying in my wake

I had one advantage over my suitor…I caught sight of the dark prince first…a year or two before he actually became acquainted with my mortal shell…my first name happened to be a permanent fixture under his skin…

why indeed my invisible other…the story goes…He loved the name Natasha so much so…he christened his wishful thinking in ink…a future reference…a title aimed towards the fruit of his loins…playing god with his own fate so to speak…

the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift…the gift

it was just a matter of time before our destinies entwined…on the stroke of midnight 31-10-89…Ah-satan came a knocking on my door…my heart red raw and tenderized in the name of love…huffed and puffed under baited breath…

my soul on the other hand stood in the shadows…a gesture that welcomed my dark half to step inside…closing the door behind my adversary to keep the light of the moon from exposing my true Identity…true colours were hidden on both sides…making this game of checkmate a dead end insight…to becontinued

[eremika0000]

(Ferriswheelshipping) Awakened Emotions Chapter 2

Hey guys! I'm back with another chapter. I hope I don't make their characters too out of their character, I'm really trying to keep N's personality accurate. Anyways I hope you guys enjoy and please consider to review/favorite/follow, it keeps me motivated to write more, even if the review is constructive criticism. I'm sure my story has a lot of issues but I'm trying my best. Anyways enjoy!

N, I'm coming for you! White determinedly thinks as she sits on Zekrom's back as they soar through the skies.

I don't want N to leave… He seemed so sad… I feel like we really could be friends. I really do think that we can make a compromise on our ideals. One person doesn't have to be completely in the right. I think we can both be right and both be able to make the world a little bit better. Pokemon and humans shouldn't be separated, but we also need to try our best to help abused Pokemon as much as we can. I hope I can get N to understand that we are both wrong and right in a way, and that the best way for us to make Pokemon happy is to compromise. He seemed so self loathing at the castle… I really want to help him.

They soar through the skies for hours, and White keeps her eyes peeled for Reshiram and N. But she found nothing. She listened for the distant cries of Reshiram, but she could only hear Zekrom's labored breathing. Her dragon was growing tired.

Damn it! I should have chased after N right away in the castle, but he left so fast and I was in a daze… I'm such an idiot. I would keep looking for hours more, but Zekrom is beginning to get tired of flying around for so long…

"Alright, Zekrom, let's head back to Nuvema town..." White murmurs in defeat. She didn't want to tire out her dragon too much more. She pats Zekrom on the head, and he changes his course towards her home town with a little grunt of acknowledgment.

They had been out flying for so long searching that the sun was starting to set, and the sky was now fading to orange and purple rather than blue. She shivers, the evening winds whipping against her exposed skin. Flying fast on a legendary dragon probably wasn't helping her keep warm either.

After a few minutes of gliding among the winds, her small little home town comes into view. She sighs when she sees it, it has been so long since she last visited. A sense of nostalgia floods her emotions as the town grows closer and closer and she finds herself leaping off of Zekrom as soon as they land. She scratches his neck in gratitude for the ride and he lets out a strange little purr. She returns him to his Pokeball, and runs to her house, throwing the door open. "I'm home!" She cries out. The familiar smell of her home enters her nose, and she feels relaxed already.

Everything the past few days had been so crazily hectic, she could hardly even think anymore and just wanted to be at a comfortable place for once, and she wanted to see her mother. "White!" Her Mother coos and runs to her daughter, giving her a big hug. "Is everything okay?" Her Mother demands in that sort of motherly tone that you just had to answer to. "I heard from Bianca and Cheren that you were caught up in some business with Team Plasma!" Her mother seems to growl at the very name of the team.

"Yes, Mom, I'm fine! I was able to take care of everything, but a few of Team Plasma escaped, but I think the gym leaders and everyone else who came to help will be able to take care of them. I'm just really tired..." As if to cement this statement, White wobbles a bit on her feet, her eyes droopy.

"Oh honey, get in bed! You can tell me all about it tomorrow, I'm just glad you're okay!" Her mom ushers her upstairs with a smile. Once on her bed, White collapses with a big exhausted sigh.

Now that she has finally been at rest for the first time in a few days, her mind was completely blank and dead. Ever since N had told her his ambitions of liberation at Nimbasa city, she had been rushing to complete her journey. She had gotten all her gym badges and defeated the elite four in under 2 weeks. During that time, she hadn't gotten enough sleep, and during the last day with fighting the elite four and everything that happened at N's castle, she hadn't slept at all. Her last jumbled thoughts were of N's broken and defeated expression as she fell into a deep slumber.

She woke in a strange place, a foggy world which consisted of nothingness and flat land. White was pretty sure she was dreaming in the back of her mind, and her dream self continued to stumble through the foggy flat lands, searching aimlessly for something. Soon, the fog parted to reveal Team Plasma's castle. The castle didn't look perfect like how it did after she had beaten the elite four. The castle was grand and beautiful at the time, looking otherworldly. Rather than the perfect castle she had first seen, it was instead the castle that had been destroyed after the legendary battles. It was still grand, but it was a shadow of its former glory. It was unbelievable what a few crazy battles could do to something even as grand as this.

White stumbles up the stairs to the castle, As she went to enter, the familiar sight of the entrance hall is before her.

Is this really a dream? It feels so real…

White runs down the halls, not even knowing what she was truly looking for. As she aimlessly travels throughout the ruined castle, she begins to hear things.

My friends getting hurt... That's what a Pokémon battle is.

The voice was loud, extremely loud. She covers her ears as it continues to echo throughout the castle. She recognizes those words to be something N said a long time ago.

Is N here? She wonders.

White, do you have a dream of your own?

This time, the voice seemed as if it was coming from somewhere, rather than just echoing throughout her ears like it came out of thin air. She follows the voice, hoping to find its source.

Where is N?

Show me the depth of your determination!

The voice had grown loud now, she knew she must be getting closer to wherever this voice was coming from. She remembered N had told her this line before their final battle. She had indeed shown him her determination, and had claimed victory. Although with N gone and everything should be perfect, she hardly felt satisfied.

She hears a strange music box in the distance, and it sounded as if it were out of tune and in the process of breaking. She enters the room where she thought the music box was coming from. Once inside, she gasps. Everything was so vibrantly colored. The carpet looked like a sky, it was blue with clouds on it. The walls were purple and white checkered, and various toys were scattered around the room. It looked like the room of a spoiled child. It was a bit dirty, though. Many of the toys were broken. The lights were off and it was a bit hard to see since the light coming from the hallway behind her wasn't that great either.

The music box was definitely in this room. She could hear its eerie and disfigured melody echoing throughout the room. It was very out of tune, and listening to it made her nervous. She hesitantly steps farther into the room, wondering what exactly this room was.

Suddenly, in the corner, almost completely hidden by stacked toys, she finally notices a boy was here. He was holding the source of the eerie and broken melody, the music box. He had messy and long bright green hair which slightly covered his eyes. His eyes were a faded blue, similar to the color of his carpet. He looked so lonely in the corner surrounded by his broken toys. She recognized him to be N. He looks up at her with a strange empty expression.

"Don't you hate me?" N asks, tilting his head to the side.

She remembered N had said that same line at the castle, and her heart broke again for this boy.

"No, N. I could never hate you!" White cries, heading to his side.

What's wrong with him? He seems… Different.

"Don't you hate me?" He asks again. It was as if she had never responded to him before.

"No, N, of course I don't hate you." She strokes him on the head, hoping he was okay.

"Don't… You… Hate me?!" This time, his face contorts into something twisted, his eyes bulged and his lips curled back into a snarl, exposing large fangs instead of normal teeth. He growls like a rabid animal.

White gasps, being jolted awake from her disturbing dream. She looks outside, seeing it was the middle of the night. She was disorientated, and her eyes were to blurred to make out much of anything in her room.

What kind of dream was that? It felt so real… I felt like N was really there… What was wrong with him? I'm scared… She buries her face into the pillow, trying to forget his empty expression he had in the dream as well as his twisted and crazed expression.

"Oh N…" White whispers to herself. "Where are you?"

Meanwhile, on the other side of the region, N lays upon the ground face up, staring up at the stars. He had made a makeshift camp at Route 11. His camp was under the bridge and next to the waterfall. He had no where else to go, so this camp was his only home for now. Ghetsis had disowned him, and he knew he wouldn't welcome him back even if N begged. But he definitely didn't want to go back anyways. The incident at the castle had shown N again how twisted his father was. He could possibly go back to the Plasma castle, but last time he was there it was falling apart with columns collapsing and falling. It probably wasn't safe there with all the destruction. So for now, all N had was himself, his Pokemon friends, and this little camp.

He honestly didn't know what to do at this point. Everything had been ruined, and he had been awakened to how everything truly was. There could never be an ideal world, White had proven him that. Along his journey, he had figured out that most Pokemon enjoyed being with their trainers. It was a huge eye opener, and now he didn't know what to do. He had devoted his entire life to helping Pokemon and following his Father's orders. He assumed Team Plasma had probably been captured or at least disbanded, and he felt as if he wasn't wanted or needed anywhere. He always had this glorified image of Team Plasma in his head that his Father had shown to him over and over again, and it was a big change for him to now associate Team Plasma with the bad guys.

I feel like I don't have a purpose anymore… I feel like I don't matter to anyone. As if Zoroark had heard N's sad thoughts, he wiggled around in his Pokeball. It was like Zoroark was saying to quit being a fool in his own harsh but caring way, and N smiled a bit at this. At least he would always have his friends with him.

From now on, I'll devote my time to helping Pokemon in need. Perhaps separating humans and Pokemon completely isn't the answer, but rather I should try best as I can to help Pokemon who are unhappy. N smiles at this, happy he had found a new purpose that mattered to him. Even though he thought he didn't matter to anyone other than his Pokemon friends, he couldn't get White's sad and longing look out of his head after he had flown from the castle. When N had flown away, he had allowed himself one last little glance behind him when he left the castle. She had still been sitting there, looking sad.

I hope she got out of the castle okay… But I still wonder why she was so sad… She had won the battle, but she seemed so sad that I left…

N tossed and turned for a while longer, before eventually falling into a dream which was filled with his memories of White and her sad looking eyes as he flew away from the castle and left everything behind.

Thanks for reading guys! Please review to tell me what you think, it helps keep me motivated to write more. I'm sorry if this was a bit of a filler chapter but things will get more interesting soon :). I hope you enjoyed and any feedback is greatly appreciated. Please stay tuned for the next chapter, have a good day!

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