#now stop crying and help me eat another crate of dirt

[vamprisms]

i don't care if you're neuron divergent i need you to slay count fucking dracula

[thewhumperinwhite]

ATTD: The Wolf Pup, Without His Pack (2)

previous // masterlist

@whump-cravings @favwhumpstuff @whumpitywhumpwhump

TW for: minor whumpee (nonhuman); nonhuman whumpee; use of it pronouns; implied parental neglect/Bad Parenting In General; referenced parental death.

----

Old Cruci hated humans.

Usually it was hard to see what Old Cruci was feeling. Old Cruci said things like “I have sworn on my life to protect you” and “Your coat is dirty; clean it” in the same tone of voice. Saren had never seen Old Cruci smile, and even his frown was often hard to see—just a twitch down at the corner of his mouth, and up in the middle of one of his eyebrows. The only time, really, that Saren could tell what Cruci was thinking was when he spoke of humans.

“They are like flies,” Cruci said once, when Saren had asked him too many times. His lip curled up, to show his pointed teeth, and his nose wrinkled, like he was smelling something bad. “They breed like flies, and die like flies. One is easily swatted, but more are always coming. They eat dead flesh and carry disease.” Then he met Saren’s eyes—Saren froze, right down to his marrow, for Cruci had never looked at him like that before—and narrowed his violet eyes. “You have seen flies, pup. Then you need never see a human. One is as good as the other. Do not ask of this again.”

That had made Saren relax, a little. Old Cruci said “do not ask of this again” often enough that it was no longer frightening. In fact, it might be that Cruci said “do not ask of this again” more often than he said anything else, at least to Saren.

Saren had reasons to hate humans, too. He was small when the Betrayer slew the Great Wolf, and burned the old Den to the ground. He never met the man himself. But Saren remembered the Great Wolf—remembered the Great Wolf’s dimpled smile and bright easy laugh; remembered clinging to the Great Wolf’s back as they ran through the trees, faster than lightning; remembered riding on the Great Wolf’s shoulders and the smell of the Great Wolf’s pelt when he carried Saren, half asleep, to bed. Saren knew what humans had taken from the Wolves, and what the Betrayer had taken from him, as well.

But Saren remembered the Great Wolf, and he knew that his father would not wish him to hate a people he had never seen.

So he didn’t ask Old Cruci where the humans lived, or whether he could go, and see them for himself. Cruci was not his father; Cruci could not decide who Saren would hate. And, anyway, Cruci had said himself that Saren was not to ask him of humans again.

Saren didn’t realize until after the iron-tipped arrow had torn into his shoulder that since he had not told Cruci where he was going, all the promises in the world would not let Old Cruci come and save him, now.

The human den was like nothing Saren had ever seen before—huge and labyrinthine, a thousand times more than the caves around the Wolf Den, which he had thought himself so clever for mastering. And Old Cruci was right about at least one thing: there were too many humans. He must have seen a hundred of them, by now, and more every time he turned a corner, and at least a dozen carrying weapons, and running after him now, and shouting in a language he did not understand.

Saren was a Wolf, on of Those That Chase, he should have been able to leave all these men in their clanging armor behind in an instant. But the arrow was tipped in iron, and his shoulder still burned, even though he had pulled it out, and now his feet were clumsy and slow, and he could not stop even long enough to pull his pelt back around him and be a proper Wolf again. And he was entirely lost, now, with no idea which way was back to the gate, or even where the wall was; and he couldn’t scale it now, not before they could all reload their bows, and—

There was a human in the middle of the road. Saren barreled into it at full speed, landing on the dirt in a heap, then scrambled to gather up his pelt and turned, ran through the first open door he saw.

The building was empty, thank all Fathers. There were boxes, made of wood, scattered around, mainly empty, though a few had straw or bits of canvas or ceramic in them. Saren found one, tipped over on its side, that was just bigger than himself—in this shape, anyway, which was a little smaller—and folded himself into it. He pulled his pelt around his shoulders, wanting to be in his own shape again—to have his proper teeth and claws at least—but the box was too small; there was no room to sink into his pelt and change back.

Outside, a harsh voice barked an order Saren didn’t understand. A softer voice followed it. Saren curled tightly in on himself and covered his head with both hands, tucked his face into his pelt.

As though that would help. He was the son of the Great Wolf, and ought to rise to meet them. Even this many humans would not have overwhelmed his father—the Betrayer had done it only through lies and trickery. Old Cruci would see this many humans and roll his eyes and burn them all to ash.

The humans clattered in their armor, yelling again.

At least Old Cruci wasn’t here to see him cry, he thought.

It was strangely quiet, then, for a little two long. The box was very small; Saren had the mad thought that humans must have been cruel after all, to leave him here to get cramp before they took his head and put it on their coat of arms.

Then the building’s door creaked quietly open, and Saren heard the faint noise of bare feet on the packed-earth floor.

He still didn’t understand the voice that called out. But it was quiet, soft with dry-rusted edges; not very like the soldiers’ terrifying barks at all.

Then, after a moment, the same voice cleared its throat, and called softly, “Little Demon? Are you here?”

Saren had understood not one word since he had come to the humans’ den, but this was clear as day. He jumped, a little, and tapped his head lightly against the box, and then its lid slid free and slapped loudly against the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust, which made Saren cough.

Saren froze.

There was a pause, and then the bare foot steps approached, light and slow. Saren tried to fold himself even further into the box, but there was nowhere left to go. He wrapped his pelt around his shoulders, and bared his teeth, ready to bite.

The human knelt in front of Saren’s box. It did not step as close as he had feared. There was room to run past it, even, if he dared.

Saren stared at it.

It wasn’t the littlest human he had seen—right at the beginning, when he was clinging to the top of the wall around the human den, he had seen two humans littler than him, colored like Cruci with black hair and brown skin, heads bent together, laughing. This human was taller, and older—though not much, Saren reminded himself, since humans aged so much like flies—and colored different, with messy yellow hair cropped short, and pale pinkish skin, torn and red in places. It was taller, but a thousand times thinner, swimming in spun-cloth clothes far to big for its narrow sharp-boned frame.

Its pale skeleton’s face went soft the moment it could see Saren in the darkness. A sword hung at its hip, but the hand it held out toward Saren was empty.

“Hello, little one,” the human said softly, and smiled.

----

The demon, visible mainly as a pair of shiny cat-eyes, stared out of the crate at the boy called Will.

“…you speak human,” it said after a moment. Will almost laughed.

It was a child’s voice, clear enough. And it had looked like a child, out on the street. And it had left a little trail of blood inside this empty storefront. Will could just see the shape of it, now, curled with its knees to its chest, like a child hiding in a closet.

The thought of it made his chest ache.

“Here, little one,” he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “Isn’t that box a little small for you?”

The demon narrowed its cat-pupiled eyes very slightly, and said nothing.

“The guards are off away, for now,” Will told it. “I’d like to help you, if you��ll let me.”

The demon stared at him, and leaned forward a little out of its tightly-curled position. Light from the empty windows landed on a lock of storm-gray hair; it seemed to be wearing a cloak of matching gray fur around its shoulders.

“Why?” it said, half accusing and half curious.

“You’re a child,” Will said, before he could think better of it. “And they hurt you, didn’t they?”

The demon crept further out of the crate, in order to give Will a deeply skeptical look.

“I am not a child,” it said, sounding less insulted and more—like it thought Will might be deeply stupid. “I am a Wolf. And only barely littler than you, any—oh!”

When it tried to put weight on its left arm, it winced badly, clutching at its shoulder. Will moved forward immediately, without thinking; the wolf moved quickly back, baring its teeth—but so clearly frightened, rather than angry, that Will did not even move back, only raised his hands, to show that they were empty.

“I won’t hurt you, little wolf,” he said softly. “I—"

(Another, smaller voice, saying: “You Promise?”

And himself, on his knees again, smiling with bruised lips: “I Promise.”)

The demon was staring at him, tilting its head slightly. Will had no idea what his face had been doing. He swallowed hard, and remembered how to smile with a little effort.

“I—” His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat, flushing. “You have my word.”

The demon studied him with open curiosity. It opened its mouth, its small fangs just visible.

“Captain!—Look, there’s a whole trail of blood here, it must be—”

The first guard’s voice was high and excited; the best-armored guard, who must have been the captain, did not sound angry either, though Will had no doubt that part would come.

“What on earth’s the meaning of this, boy?” the guard captain said.

He was standing in the storefront’s doorway, his hand resting idly on his sword, gaping at Will. He hadn’t even really seen the demon yet; it was already disappearing into the crate.

There were a dozen guards on the street, now, wondering why their captain had stopped in the doorway, when there were children to kill inside.

Will felt his hand drop to the hilt of his sword, without entirely deciding it should do so.

“There must be a back door,” he said softly, his eyes still on the guard captain. “Find it, and stick to the back alleys. There’s an inn two streets down; stay out of sight, until you see a man come out, wearing a green shirt, like this one.”

“What the hell are you doing?” the guard captain said, just now beginning to raise his voice.

Will got carefully to his feet. He heard the wolf-child gasp, behind him, but put his back to it.

“I might ask you the same thing,” Will said, coldly, and drew his sword.

[teonjae]

dusk ‘til dawn

starring mark lee ft. other members of nct!

genre angst, fluff if you squint hard enough

words 3k

a/n this was lazily proofread (i’ll do it again tomorrow i promise) but i was kinda excited to post this ngl,,,it’s mark lee hours right now. have u guys seen the recent jcc?? mark and johnny were so cute pls. and i don’t know how to write fight scenes pls forgive me

mark’s footsteps echo through the old warehouse along with the others’, as they tread carefully in search of you. they walked in crouched positions — taeyong, johnny, and jaehyun right behind mark with their guns pointed to the ground. “hyuck, i need visual,” taeyong whispers through his earpiece.

“fuck,” haechan curses, “i can’t see anything. they covered up all the windows.” he moves his sniper around, looking through the scope in search of an open window or any sign of movement at all. he calls the attention of the others through his earpiece and says, “i’m gonna look for another spot. i can’t see anything here.”

mark nervously bites his lip as his grip on his pistol tightens. you were kidnapped by one of their rival gangs after they found out about your relationship with nct, especially mark. it didn’t help either that you were one of the youngest ceos who own a prosperous business. so they planned on blackmailing you to give them the capital that they needed with additional information on nct or else they would reveal to the public about your connections with one of the most notorious mafias in south korea. even if they left you with bruises that would take weeks to heal, letting you sleep on the cold ground with just your undergarments and barely giving you any food to eat, you stood your ground and refused to give up what your family’s company has ever worked hard for to some gang who just wanted revenge on your boyfriend and his friends.

“you aren’t gonna talk, will ya?,” a man who you assume to be the boss is says as he harshly grabs your chin, “even if i shoot a bullet through your head?,” you bite your tongue when you feel the tip of the gun pressing under your chin. you continue to glare at him with all the courage you can muster to show him that you’re not afraid at all, but the man in front of you smirks when he thinks otherwise. he lets you go aggressively and scoffs, annoyed at your persistence. “why don't we just kill her?,” one of the men standing in the room suggests. “not now,” he answers him, “let’s wait ‘til her boyfriend comes here.”

you pull yourself up from the ground shakily, your eyes widening at the boss’s last statement. “no,” you choke out, “i swear, if you ever lay a finger on him-“

“what? you’re gonna call your daddy and tell him what? to save your criminal boyfriend?,” the man is now once again in front of you, crouched down until your at eye level. “i bet you didn’t know, huh? that mark was part of nct. you fell for his good-boy act and now he got you roped into this mess. that’s what he’s good at.”

you shake your head at him, “it’s not his fault-“

“not his fault?,” he cuts you off again, “i doubt he doesn’t know what he’s getting you into because that kid is smart, y/n. he knows exactly what can happen if he hangs around someone like you. i’m not the only bad guy here,” he smiles mockingly at you, “you wanna know how many of my guys he’s killed? 1/3 of my team, y/n. and he did that alone.”

he hums when you stay silent, “he’s got you wrapped around his finger, i bet he and his friends leech off money from you but you never notice.” that was the last straw.

out of anger, you clench your fists and spit on him, your saliva landing right on his nose. “fucking bitch!,” he shouts as he punches you, its force flinging you to the ground. despite the pain, you snicker as you push yourself up again, lifting your head to look at how red the man’s face was becoming. you notice the metallic taste of blood on the corner of your lip and you feel another bruise starting to form on your cheek when a man busts into the room looking frantic, “boss!,” he whisper-shouts. “what’s wrong?,” the boss turns to him, annoyance still in his face. “nct,” he gulps, “they’re here.”

the man who just punched you turned to you again and flashes you a cheshire cat grin, completely replacing the annoyed look he had earlier, and it makes your stomach churn.

“dress her up. it’s time,” was the last thing you heard before a sack was placed over your head and the lights went out.

mark and the others flinch when they hear something hit the walls of the warehouse. jaehyun puts a finger to his lips and beckons the three to follow him. he presses his back against the wall — mark, taeyong, and johnny following suit. he raises his gun to his chest as he readies himself to see whoever’s behind the cold surface.

“jaehyun-hyung, get out of there!,” they hear haechan shout from their earpieces and drop to the ground just in time as a bullet hits the wall behind them.

taeyong quickly stands up and shoots after identifying the bullet’s origin, knocking off the shooter while mark hides behind a crate and turns to shoot back at the others. soon, bullets were flying from both sides of the warehouse. they managed to knock down a couple of the ones on the opposing side until johnny lets out a cry of pain, “we need backup. johnny’s been shot on the leg, bring a medic,” taeyong says before continuing to shoot.

mark’s heart beats anxiously against his chest as he reloads his gun. the thought of not getting everyone out alive was worrying him, making beads of sweat trickle down his forehead.

he aims and shoots, aims and shoots. “fuck, why are they so many!,” he shouts. he doesn’t notice one of them creeping up behind him until he gets kicked to the ground, the culprit knocking the gun from his hand.

the man raises the knife over his head and brings it down, and mark quickly rolls to his side, allowing his opponent to hit the ground instead. mark kicks the knife out of his hands and proceeds to kick his face. the man lands on his back in pain as soon as mark stands up, but he was quick. he swipes his leg from under mark, his body dropping to the floor once again. in the blink of an eye, the enemy was on top of mark, the weight of this bulky man crushing him. he delivers a punch to his face, and another, and another, until mark can feel his vision start to blurry and blood drip down the side of his face. the man grabs the knife from beside him and puts it in between them, mark swiftly grabbing his wrists to prevent the knife from going deeper into his chest. he groans in pain when he feels the tip enter slowly and he uses all the strength he has left to push this man off him.

he inhales sharply when he feels the weight suddenly being pulled off him. he hears grunts and punches being thrown from his right as he rolls to the other side to grab his gun. an arm helps mark pull him up to his feet and his eyes brighten at the sight of jungwoo, “you were never good at hand-to-hand combat,” the latter says.

“thanks,” he smiles at him, clicking his gun. jungwoo winks at him before raising his own and shooting from behind mark. he pulls mark to take cover from behind a crate and helps others in shooting, “how deep is it?,” mark hears jungwoo ask. “not that deep,” he answers, deciding on ignoring the pain. “shit, i don’t have that much bullets left,” mark says as he loads his last magazine into his gun and shoots.

as mark shoots his final bullet, their last opponent is knocked down. he sighs in relief before jungwoo helps him up and pulls him to stand. jungwoo leads him to the middle when he realizes almost everyone is there — sicheng, yuta, renjun, and even jisung who’s supposed to be doing his homework right now.

“you’re not supposed to be here,” mark whispers as he scolds the younger one. “i didn’t feel like doing any homework,” jisung shrugs, making mark let out a sigh. “go stay with kun-hyung. you’re not safe at the front,” he tells him before quickening his pace to fall into step with taeyong.

clap, clap, clap.

the sound stops the group from their tracks, most of them raising their guns in front of them. “boys, boys, calm down,” a man says from the front, “it’s just me.”

a light turns on in the dim warehouse, blinding them for a moment. “two, four, six, eight,” the man hums, “you killed like what, 40 of my men? with just 16 of you? wow, i’m impressed.”

“choi taehun,” taeyong’s voice booms throughout the warehouse, “we have the money. bring y/n out.”

choi taehun, the boss, grins manically before raising his hand. a small door from the left opens and a man drags you out as you stumble on your feet. the man holding you by the wrist violently throws you down, making you whimper when you feel the rough ground scrape your bare knees.

mark hears a few gasps from behind him as he clenches his fists at the sight in front of him. there you are, weakly pulling yourself up to sit. the large dress shirt they put over you rides up your bare thighs as you do so, revealing the cuts and bruises that patterned your skin along with the smears of dirt. mark can hear your small sobs even though you’re about 10 meters away from him, making more hatred form from inside of him. hatred for choi taehun and himself.

mark steps forward but taeyong puts his hand in front of him to stop him as he retains his calm demeanor. “you said you wouldn’t hurt her. you know that affects our deal, right?”

“i know, but you called to make the deal after i did,” he gestures to you with his hand, “this.”

“he’s lying!,” mark takes aggressive steps forward until choi taehun clicks his gun against your head. “i would go back to your place if i were you, mark lee.”

mark glares at him before slowly walking back, his eyes glued to you. “show me the money,” choi taehun demands.

jaehyun slowly walks to the front and crouches, placing a duffel bag on the ground. when he gets his hand on the zipper, choi taehun calls his attention, “put your gun out where i can see it.”

jaehyun runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek before complying and opening the zipper. he counts the money aloud, laying them outside the bag where they can see.

when the total reaches 23 million dollars, jaehyun bites his lip. the money was placed in stacks so that they won’t notice most of the bills are fake, but there was an unsettling feeling in his stomach, making him worry if everything goes as planned.

“30 million dollars,” jaehyun finishes as he walks back, “that’s thirty million dollars.”

“now let her go,” mark speaks. the delay was ticking him off, his anxiety was about to spiral if he doesn’t get to you. he can feel everyone’s uneasiness as choi taehun continues to stare at the stacks of money in the middle, the thought of him catching up to their plan entering their minds.

“the ammunition?,” choi taehun questions. “they’re being transported to you as we speak.”

“exact amount?”

“exact amount,” taeyong answers him sternly.

“alright,” choi taehun says nonchalantly. he walks up to you and crouches behind you, his eyes landing at an angry-looking mark in mockery. he smirks before putting a hand on your shoulder and roughly pulling the black sack off your head.

you squeeze your eyes shut immediately at the blinding light before blinking a few times to adjust. the first person you see is taeyong but when you look to his right you see mark and tears prickle your eyes.

mark’s face softens at the sight of your face — messed up hair, bruises scattering your face, and there’s dry blood near your gagged up mouth. his heart drops when he notices the dark spots and dry tear streaks under your eyes, and that’s when he realizes he did this. he made you suffer and he doesn’t know if he can forgive himself for it.

choi taehun brings his face closer to your ear, making you squirm in his hold as the gag in your mouth muffles your cries. mark was about to open his mouth, to tell him to stop, but he speaks before he does.

“i just want to say goodbye to our dear, y/n. not cooperative but still entertaining,” he coos sarcastically, making mark wanting to vomit at the thought of them doing things to you. “we’re gonna miss you, but i think mark misses you more,” he fake smiles, not bothering to remove the gag in your mouth, “get along now.”

he pulls you up on your weak feet and pushes you forward. you slowly stagger to the middle, the pain on your legs making it harder for you to walk. you see mark take a few hesitant steps before he’s running to you.

he meets you halfway and wraps his arms around you, supporting your weight. he uses his free hand to untie the cloth from behind your head and as soon as it falls to the ground, he cups your cheek as his eyes scan your face. mark didn’t realize he was crying until you wiped a tear from his cheek and wrap your arms around his neck. he kisses you softly, afraid of hurting you, and tastes the salt from both of your tears. “i’m sorry,” he whispers when he pulls away. he continues to whisper apologies as he pulls your head to his shoulder and holds you tightly. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to do this to you- i’m sorry.”

he feels you nod and grip his shirt, “i know. it’s okay,” you tell him, “i love you.”

“i love you. i’m so sorry.”

bang.

all of you freeze when you hear a gunshot echo in the room. a second gunshot sounds and mark snaps his head to look at choi taehun dropping to his knees and onto the floor as blood seeps out from the side of his head.

“got ‘em,” he hears haechan say through the earpiece and he lets out a breath he was holding.

mark suddenly feels warm liquid dampen his shirt, his eyes falling to your troubled ones. “mark,” you croak out, until your legs give out from beneath you and you drop to the floor, pulling mark along. he looks down and sees blood pool at the bottom of your shirt. he looks at you with wide eyes, “no, no, no,” he murmurs as he hooks his arm under your knees and secures you into his arms before standing up. “come on. stay with me, y/n, stay with me.”

he turns around and runs out the warehouse, the others quickly following after him. “we need to get her to kun, hyung!,” he cries out.

he gets into one of the cars outside, taeyong quickly jumping into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

“hey, y/n, talk to me, okay? come on, talk to me,” mark panics while he grabs your hand and squeezes it. “i just got you back, y/n. you can’t,” he chokes back a sob, “you can’t leave me like this.”

“mark,” you try to say but he hears it nonetheless. “what is it, y/n? tell me,” he brings the hand he’s holding and brings it to his lips.

“it’s not your fault,” mark closes his eyes and shakes his head at your words, “it’s not your fault, okay? i love you.”

“no, no, y/n. don’t say that,” he whimpers as he presses your body closer to his, “don’t say that. you’re gonna make it, okay? promise me.”

“i love you,” you repeat. a tear slips down your face and the taste of blood enters your mouth again, but this time, it’s coming from the back of your throat. “this is it,” you think and more tears slip from your face.

“i love you, mark. i love you,” you repeat as you hold his hand with all the strength you have.

mark quickly intertwines your hands together and holds it tight, “i love you, y/n, please,” he begs, “stay with me.”

they say that when you die, your life flashes before you, but for you it doesn’t. you don’t see your seventh birthday in disneyland, your graduation ceremony, your father coming home from the military, nor the first time you held a press conference as the company’s new ceo. maybe because your life is right in front of you, holding you close and praying to god to give you a second chance. you’re so young, you think, you had so much planned for your future together with mark and the others that this all seems like a dream to you, but the now dull ache in your back brings you back to reality.

you’ve been living your life ever since you met mark. he brought out the good sides of you and turned your weaknesses into your strongest points. when the world around you was too much, he was there to help you get through it and remind you to keep strong. somewhere in the middle, you found out that he was dangerous, he and his friends were, but that drew you closer to them. you understood them without the need to say anything because you understand. you understand the feeling of having to love someone and hide something from them to keep them safe. the fact that you got to see mark come back home every time he’s done with his missions was enough to lull you back into sleep. “in another life, mark lee,” you tell yourself.

so before you let out your last breath, you squeeze mark’s hand once again, softly this time. you let your eyelids come to a close as your life is slowly being taken away, and the last thing you feel is mark’s lips pressed pressed to your cheek, the warmth escaping his touch.

[foradecision]

i.    “ the devil whispered in my ear,  ‘ you’re not strong enough to withstand the storm. ’  today i whispered in the devil’s ear,  ‘ i am the storm. ’ ”

OLD TOWN, DAY 33 ; 13:24:56.

     the apartment is picked mostly clean, the fruits of his labor yielding little more than some scrap electronics and an open box of band - aids. other things, things for trade: coffee, cosmetics, a couple of undamaged children’s books, things he doesn’t have use for but someone else will. there’s an eviscerated corpse slumped on the kitchen floor against the cabinets, at the end of a trail of blood. tenant, maybe — or maybe just some unlucky bastard who tried to find shelter and found their own grave instead. insects buzz and swarm, and the smell of decomp is strong. there’s not much left. crane covers the body with a bedsheet before he moves to check the bathroom.

     water leaks from underneath the locked door. once he gets it open, he sees why. 

     she was young. early twenties, if that. she’s half curled with bent knees in the overflowing tub, eyes open, skin bloodless and cold. drug paraphernalia litters the filthy tiled floor. accidental overdose or suicide; he’d put money on the latter, only because she’s not the first he’s seen. 

     there was a riverside shack in the slums, a mile or so behind the tower, where someone had tasted his handgun. left a note and a milk crate of canned food on his porch, telling whoever found it to take what they needed. there were those people on the rooftop of an apartment complex, the ones who’d gotten stranded and decided to cash out on their own terms. some of them died holding hands, family photos clutched close.

     a woman on a hotel bed surrounded by pill bottles. a man who’d hung himself in the basement of a restaurant.

     it doesn’t get easier. no matter how many, it doesn’t get easier.

     “i’m sorry nobody came for you,” crane murmurs, and gently closes the girl’s eyes. “... hope you found someplace better than this shithole.”

     he takes a moment, a five - count, then secures his findings, doubles back, and steps outside onto the terrace.

     a wooden latticework awning provides slatted shade from the afternoon sunlight. it dapples across skin slick with sweat and dust and dirt. blood, but not his. back - spatter, arterial spray. it’s everywhere but his face; missed his eyes and mouth, hit the visor of a scavenged police helmet he’d pulled off an infected near the quarantine wall.

     the slums are bad, but old town is a fucking war zone. virals run rampant through the streets and over the rooftops, acid - spitting toads linger near the waterfront and drainage culverts; massive demolishers pave paths of destruction wherever they can, hurling debris from empty lots, crushing anything that comes close, infected and human alike. rais’ thugs circle every drop point like vultures, armed to the teeth, and more than one desperate survivor has tried to jump crane for his supplies. 

     the worst are the screamers. the infected children. they were occupying one of the residential neighborhoods here in jarring numbers before he’d worked his way through and taken them out, quiet and reverent. 

     he dreams about them, sometimes. hears their anguished sobs and terrified wails in his sleep, waking drenched in flop sweat with his ears ringing and his heart in his throat. goddamn kids. one of the guys in his company used to rib him about that. fuckin’ soft touch, crane. that shit’ll get you killed.

     the narrow street below is clear, just a handful of shuffling biters that are easily dispersed. he’s bent over the open trunk of a car, ferreting through an old duffel bag, when he hears it. 

     a cry. a child’s cry.

     immediately, he’s standing straight. immediately he’s moving, trying to source the sound, gripping his machete tight. he’s thinking god, don’t let it be another one, until there are words instead of just noise and his pulse jumps hard.

     somewhere close by, a child is calling out for their father. calling for help. 

     shouting is dangerous, lethal, especially here, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. he moves down the street, looking into darkened storefronts, dumpsters, the backs of vans. he thinks he’s close, can’t be sure; cuts down an infected that ambles toward him from beside a busted atm and four more that follow, and calls back, “hey, i hear you! i hear you, i’m on my way, just — can you tell me where you are? kid — ?”

     there’s no verbal answer: only a scream, too much like too many he’s had to hear, but that’s plenty. crane breaks into a run and vaults through the smashed front window of a pizza place where a dozen biters are swarming the counter. stumbling, trying to climb over each other to get to whatever’s on the other side. he snaps the first one’s neck before the others notice him but makes swift work of the rest, too. barely stopping for breath, he steps over the bodies, searching, searching —

     “it’s safe, you can come out.”

     the response is muffled, like it’s blocked by something. “where’s my dad?”

     “i — i don’t know, but i can help you look for him, alright? i’m not gonna hurt you. they’re gone now, it’s okay. come on out.”

     scuffling, then a thud, and then a pair of big doe eyes are peering at him from next to the cash register. “are you one of the bad guys?”

     “what? no — no, i’m not, i promise. my name’s kyle. you wanna tell me your name?”

     “eren. the monsters —”

     “the monsters are gone, eren. did they get you?”

     more scuffling, and the boy finally emerges, wiping his nose with his sleeve. he looks five, maybe six, small and dark - haired, dirty but at a glance unharmed. he shakes his head. “i hid in the cubby. my dad went to find food.”

     crane stays where he is, wary of making any sudden moves. “and he left you here, all by yourself?”

     “the window wasn’t broken before.”

     “how long’s he been gone?”

     “since the bells.”

     “the bells — ?” it takes him a second, because it’s a sound unique to old town and he spends most of his time in the slums; then he understands. “oh, you — you mean the church bells? he’s been gone since this morning?”

     eren nods and wipes his nose again. crane opens his mouth to speak when the boy brightens suddenly, as suddenly as the sound of boots crunching glass from just behind him. 

     “dad!”

     he turns, and he’s staring down the business end of an automatic rifle.

     “show me your hands!”

     “ah, jesus — don’t — don’t shoot, i’m not here to hurt anyone, look —” slowly, carefully, crane raises his left hand with the palm facing outward and starts lowering himself into a crouch to set his machete down on the floor. his right hand follows his left and he eases back upright, all without once looking away from the man’s face. a man dressed in tactical gear, whose grip on the gun is steady. skilled. he has a couple weeks of beard growth that makes his age harder to determine. “my name’s kyle crane, i’m one of brecken’s guys. from the tower. your son was callin’ for help, i just came to make sure he was okay.”

     as he speaks, eren scampers past and tucks in close to his father. “dad, he killed the monsters. look!” 

     “he sure did, didn’t he.” the man levels crane with a piercing, long - calculating stare, and finally lowers the gun. “you’re not one of them?”

     “no. god, no. i just wanted to help.”

     a nod. he lays a gloved hand on his son’s head. “then i owe you a lot more gratitude. i swear this place was secure when i left, but — those things ...”

     “yeah,” crane says, blowing out a low breath. “i know, believe me. i’m glad i got here when i did.”

     “so am i.” a beat. “thank you.”

     “what the hell are you doin’ out here? you know they turned the university into a safe house, right?”

     the man nods again. “we came from there. somebody passing through said there was a ferry, in the slums. that’s where we were headed.”

     “i’m — sorry to be the one to tell you this, but — the ferry dock’s gone. there are no more boats. none of us are gettin’ out of here unless one of the higher - ups orders an evac by air, and in case you haven’t noticed, that doesn’t seem like their top priority.”

     “then it’s only a matter of time before the GRE decontaminates this entire zone. infamy bridge is already compromised.”

     crane blinks. the back and forth is familiar, the terminology well practiced. “uh — yeah. yeah, it’s startin’ to look that way. but — listen, you need to get to the tower. get to brecken’s people, tell him crane sent you. they’ll take care of you and your son. there’s plenty of food, supplies, there’s even a doctor on site. you’ll be safe there.”

     “and what about antizin?”

     “what? a—are you — were you bitten?”

     they share a look, and everything this man isn’t saying is written in every line of his face. eren twists from under his hand to peer up at him. “dad ... ?”

     “no,” the man says, but it’s for his son’s benefit, not crane’s. crane already knows it’s a lie. “don’t you worry, kiddo. i’m just fine. here,” he kneels down and sets his rifle aside, swinging a bag from his shoulder and opening it up to hand eren a bottle of water, a packet of halva, and a stuffed teddy bear. “look what i found. why don’t you go think of what to name him while you eat your food, okay? let me talk to the monster slayer for a minute.”

     “cool!” eren grabs his prizes and trots off to one of the booths near the counter, the one furthest from any dropped bodies.

     once he’s safely out of earshot, the man stands up and turns to crane again. “on the leg. happened after i left this morning. my eye was to the scope, i didn’t even see it coming.”

     there’s that familiarity again, but it’s overshadowed by an ache below his sternum. crane swallows, adam’s apple riding the motion, pulling off his helmet to run a hand through sweat - soaked hair. “— i got caught in a clusterfuck, about a month ago. bite on the arm. antizin isn’t easy to come by, but brecken’s people have it. i’ll make sure there’s enough, you’ve got my word.”

     keen eyes, still clear of any visible signs of infection, give crane a deeply searching look for a full thirty seconds. he seems like he wants to say more, but settles instead for offering a hand. crane shakes it firmly without hesitation. “ali. you’ve given me a lot to consider.”

     “just as long as you consider it, and do it fast. ‘n hey — one more thing.” crane’s hand drops and he pulls out the three children’s books he’d found, bringing them to eren. “hi, buddy. you think of a name yet?”

     “no, i — hey! where’d you get those?”

     “what, these?” he holds them up one at a time, pretending to act casual, then sets them each down on the table. “well, i found ‘em, but — to tell you the truth, they’re way too advanced for me. you look like you’re pretty smart — think you can find some use for ‘em?”

     “yeah!” eren grabs for all three, sweeps them into his tiny arms and grins up at crane. “i can read bedtime stories to my bear now, so she won’t have bad dreams.”

     “see? i knew you were smart.”

     from behind crane, ali prompts gently, “what do you say to mr. crane?”

     “thank you!”

     “my pleasure, buddy. be careful out here, okay? take good care of your dad for me. he’s gonna take you someplace safe, with lots more kids to play with. sound good?”

     eren nods emphatically. barely a moment later, he has the teddy bear propped in his lap and one of the books laid open, turning pages, talking softly in the stuffed toy’s ear. 

     crane watches for a minute. his features soften, but the whisper of a smile that curves his mouth is bittersweet. he’s already made the mental note to radio ahead — to tell the tower’s guards to be on the lookout for these two — and to check back in here before he returns to the slums himself. they aren’t the first he’s redirected. some people make it. some don’t. 

     on his backpedal from the booth, he pauses to pick up his machete and slip it into its holster, helmet under one arm. 

     “if you leave within the hour, you should get there before sunset,” he tells ali. “northeast sewers are the quickest — two klicks, pretty much a straight shot from there.”

     “i know where it is. thank you, again.”

     “hey, you can thank me once you’re both safe.”

     another nod. crane returns it, then starts toward the broken window. he’s almost there, almost stepping through to the street outside, when ali’s next words stop him in his tracks and make some of his breath woof out of him like a suckerpunch. 

     “semper fi, marine.”

[ranier-layarte]

Prompt #10 Foster

He has coming back to Ul'dah even more so lately.  Constantly coming back to meet with clients, merchants, vendors. It was tedious, sort of causing him to zone out lately. But hopefully, it wouldn't drag out today. He had much else to do. Looking up he could see the moon peeking over the walls. It wouldn't be long before it was pitch dark inside and outside of the city.

Briskly walking, he continued down the stone road. Not many people out at this time. Probably all getting piss wasted. A drink would be tempting. He laughed for a second to himself, maybe afterward. It wasn't long before he felt a change. His wallet was missing.

“Ok. Kid, I know you're close enough to hear me. Would you mind returning the money? If you needed some, well, you could have just asked.”

Ranier turned, scanning the area. Where could he be hiding...The crates seemed likely but too obvious. His eyes moved from left to right. Going back and forth until he saw the movement up the steps.

“You're pretty sneaky you know that? But you really should have just ran instead of trying to hide.”

Climbing the stones he could hear shuffling. The kid was trying to hide against the wall, pressing himself against it as much as he could. Once he could see clearly past the pillar there he was. A miqo'te boy couldn't be more than twelve or fourteen summers old.

“You know stealing isn't right, right?”

He took a knee as he moved down to talk to the kid. As he did the small cat tried to pull a knife. Ranier grabbed his hand as he began to swing it.  Stopping it before it could go past the young mans chest.

“Trying to stab someone talking to you is also incredibly rude.”

He squeezed, the bit of pain from it forcing the kid to drop the weapon. He picked it up and examined it. Looks like a slab of metal sharpened. His concern grew from seeing how rough it was, more so when he noticed the small bits of dried blood.

“Used this before?”

The blue haired boy looked up. Even kneeling down, he was still much bigger than the kid. He opened his mouth and closed it promptly. Repeating a few times, he scared.

“I...I needed it. I have to pay.”

Of course that's what it was for. He wanted a meal, maybe a place to sleep. Far be it for him to say no.

“That's fine. As I said if you need it you just had to ask.” Ranier paused as he looked at the makeshift blade again. “I'll let you keep it if you promise to not use this again. Not unless your life is in danger. I'd like you believe you haven't done more than just cut someone. If that's the case and you promise. The gil is yours.”

The kid was clearly taken aback by this. These streets can be rather unforgiving to some. Hells they all can be. But he'd seen too many refugees and kids with no homes in Ul'dah in particular. The knife was clear indication of the life the youngster led. If he could lessen his burden it would make him happy for once.

“I Promise.”

His blue eyes looked right into his opposing crimsons. He could see a lot about him from just that.

He meant it.

“Alright, try to steal only if you really need it.”

He stood back up and ruffled the boys hair.

“And try to ask people first sometimes, at least if you can.”

Going back down the steps he turned as he was leaving. The corner of his eye showed him a smiling kid. Good, one less starving tonight.

With that past him it wasn't long before he resumed his interrupted business. With that time flew. It was darker than the void in some parts. Lazy bums couldn't be bothered to keep all the areas lit. at least he wouldn't have to go into them. He could handle himself if anyone lurked in those shadows. But who needed the hassle.

As he neared the lights of onyx lane he could hear something. It sound like something being hit. A bag?

He looked around, maybe it was someone else trying to steal from him. Two in one night would be some back luck.

He shook it off and continued his walk.

“..Help...”

Now. That couldn't just have been his imagination, could it? He listened intently, there it was again. Help. Along with the sounds of something being hit again. This didn't sit right with him. Following the sounds they grew louder, bit by bit they grew. Finally he reached some stairs. Whatever it was, it was behind them.

Hurrying, he sped up turning his walk to a slight run. He looked over by their side. It was a group of men, kicking something. Some poor animal that got into the city perhaps. But...No. One of them moved enough for him to see between their legs. Blue hair.

His blood boiled over instantly. He took off in a sprint, his glasses fell off. The au ra swung at the back of the closest head. Sending him straight down into the ground hard enough to knock him out instantly, probably more. One of them screamed as he saw his friend go down.

“What the hell!?”

They turned too slowly. Ranier had already begun on another one of them. Kicking him in the back of the knee sending him down enough that he grabbed his neck, snapping it before they could react.

The boy couldn't turn away from it as he saw this man work his way through six. He pinned one down. Began punching him in the face over and over. The other's tried to pull him off to no avail. The red seeping into the rock. He was a frenzied beast. It was all too much for him finally closing his eyes. All he could hear was the sounds of men crying out in pain, hitting the ground.

It felt like an eternity before it stopped. Opening his eyes again he could see him standing over the mess. Panting from the exertion. He tried to push his glasses up, only to cover his brow in blood. Ranier took a moment to look around. There they were. Picking up the glasses he blew on the, and cleaned the dirt off with a cloth. As he did so, he stopped abruptly. Turning to see the beaten child.

Moving to him, he took the cloth and instead began cleaning the blood off of him. They left him very battered, a busted lip among other things. The kid was very much stunned at the events, not responding much to the man now tending to him. Ranier's deep voice echoed in the area as he spoke to him.

“Tough kid like you should be fine. But, I bet it hurts a lot doesn't it?

Ripping his own cloths Ranier fashioned some bandages for the miqo'te. As he wrapped him up he couldn't help but to croak.

“Why?” Moving his hand up to look at the bandage in between his questions. “No one cares. You barely know me, why would you bother?

Unwavering in his first aid he responded.

“Because it's the right thing to do. And, if i'm being honest It's not right to treat a kid that way.”

The Miqo'te turned up to look at the man. A bruise now on his face. He couldn't help himself as he began to cry.

“I needed the money for them.” In between sobs he tried to talk.

“They said I was short, that I could have stolen more. They would kill me if I didn't. I had to earn.” breaking down he cried harder than anyone he had ever seen. “If I didn't I couldn't eat. They'd kill me!”

He stopped bandaging him. Trembling for a second before continuing.

“It's alright. It's alright now, don't worry.”

Finishing, he sat down by the crying child. Maybe. Maybe he could do something.

“Kid I can't promise much right now. But if you want I'd be willing to teach you how to take care of yourself, maybe earn some honest money. But you gotta come with me, I have a place you can stay for now.”

Ranier reached out. “Take my hand if you want. It's up to you.”

Keeping his arm outstretched for minutes as he patiently waited for the response.

Eventually the boy stopped crying, reaching for him in return. He locked his hand tightly with Raniers.

“Good.”

[the-walking-memelords]

Allegiances: Chapter 12

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 13

Series is rated M

Word Count: 3003

Louis and Clementine accompany Mitch and Willy to scout out the Delta's ship before breaking off on a side mission in an attempt to track down an acquaintance of Clem's. Their progress is delayed, however, when they become confronted by a familiar face.

Read it on Ao3!

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Within the hour Clementine found herself hiking through the forest along with Mitch, Willy, and Louis. Mitch lead the way, map in hand, guiding the four of them towards the river where the boat was docked. The silence between them was deafening. The shaken trust left a gap that made her feel isolated from the rest of them. Every time she glanced over at Louis, he always had his eyes trained forward, concentrating on the path ahead, as if he was struggling not to look back at her. Louis claimed he forgave her, and maybe he wanted to, but Clementine could see a darkness in his eyes that held some semblance of coldness.

He hates me.

Clementine bit her lip and tried to focus on the task ahead of her, following along without a word.

“There it is.” Mitch picked up the pace as they entered a clearing above the river.

The four of them ducked low as the boat came into view. Clementine retrieved a pair of binoculars she’d looted from Yonatan’s body. She scanned large vessel, noting the guards patrolling both the pier and top deck.

“This is it.” Clementine confirmed. The rusted sheet metal haphazardly welded on hardly made the ship look seaworthy, it was honestly a miracle the thing could float.

“Prisoners are kept on the second deck. I know the way, it’s where I was held when they brought me here.”

“Why did they put you in a cell?” Willy asked.

“They always told me I was one of their people but it was never true.” She spit, holding but the memories of the shit Lilly had put her through.

“They treated me like an animal, kept me in a kennel. I wasn’t allowed in general population.”

Four blank walls and only my thoughts to keep me company.

Hell.

“I only went along with it to keep AJ safe. I’d never met a group that seemed worth the risk of fighting back before.”

“Well, I’m glad we had that effect on you.” Mitch said almost jokingly.

Movement caught her eye on an opening of the third deck. The woman she’d pinned with the couch escorted a young blonde girl at gunpoint. Clem spotted the girl’s head turn in her direction, taking a fleeting glance at freedom before disappearing back into the boat.

“I saw Violet!” Clementine gasped, her friend within sight but out of reach.

“We really found them.” A glimmer of hope shined in Louis’ eyes at the prospect of successfully bringing everyone home.

Finding them would be easy, actually getting onto the boat in the first place was another story. The pier itself had been messily lined with crates, creating a decent amount of cover, but the only way to actually reach the pier was to walk through a wide-open path. Absolutely no cover.

We’re going to need one hell of a distraction.

A loud shout from one of the raiders on the pier caused them all to jump in surprise. They froze for a moment before realizing they weren’t the cause of the alarm. Three active corpses stalked their way towards the guard. He didn’t even have a chance to fire his gun before each walker dropped to the ground in front of him, each picked off by Dorian from the top deck.

If she spots us we’re dead.

There wasn’t a better sniper within their ranks.

“So what, all we need is like, a dozen walkers?” Louis chimed in, only half amused.

“How hard can that be?”

“Maybe not as hard as you’d think.”

“Hey guys, check this out.” Willy called to them in a hushed voice.

A few more docks lined the riverbed, each loaded with crates of furniture and building materials. Nothing but a few ropes prevented the wooden platforms from floating away.

Spoils from the train station most likely.

“We should have that stuff.” The young boy’s tone was filled with frustration.

“I could build traps, weapons.”

“That could work as part of our distraction.” A plan was starting to form in her mind.

“I saw some horses tied up down the path.” Mitch pointed out.

“We could use the torches to burn the hay and the cut the rafts free, divert their attention in as many directions as we can.”

“Sounds like a plan, now all we need is a shit-ton of walkers to get us right to the boat.” Clementine was starting to feel confident in their odds.

We’re smart.

Smarter than all of them.

“How exactly are we going to lead a herd of walkers to the boat without getting chewed up?” Louis was understandably skeptical of the idea.

“Where the hell are we even going to find that many walkers?”

“I think I have a way.” A previous encounter sprang to her mind. A boy in the woods who might be willing to lend them a hand. Clem didn’t know how much their brief meeting was worth, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

Right?

Clementine couldn’t really say she trusted James. He saved her life once, sure, but Clem knew the stories that surrounded the group that wore walker skins. Ruthless bastards who believed fiercely in survival of the fittest. She wondered how much of that mentality stuck with him since his escape. Clementine would lead with caution around him. The last thing she needed was to lose someone else because of misplaced trust.

“I… snuck out. About a week after I showed up here. I ran into a boy in the woods who used to be part of a group that could control walkers.” Clem felt best to leave out the gory details of the Whisperers.

“He lives somewhere in the area if we can track him down maybe I could convince him to help us lure enough of them to the boat.”

Honestly, any plan was better than no plan at this point.

“Why the hell would he help us?” Mitch’s disapproval was clear on his face.

“He wanted to help me when we met in the woods. Offered to let me stay in his camp for the night. If all I’m asking is for help moving some walkers, he might be willing to lend a hand.” It couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

Mitch crossed his arms as he considered bringing in a stranger to help them.

“Fine, but you’re not going alone.” He wasn’t a fan of the idea but it was as good a bet as any.

“I’ll go.” Louis piped up, stepping forward.

“You two go back and tell the others about what we saw, I’ll go with Clementine to find this guy.”

Clementine flashed him a small smile which he only briefly returned.

“Fine, but be careful around this guy.” Mitch bid them good luck as they split into two groups and headed in opposite directions.

As the two of them walked the trail alone, Clementine struggled to find something to say. Anything to fill the silence. She didn’t have to though, because Louis decided to speak first.

“Why did you sneak out?”

“What?” Her voice caught in her throat for a moment.

“You said you met James on a night you snuck out.” He glanced at her nervously but spoke as if the question had been eating at him.

“So… why uh, why was that?”

Raider business.

Clementine would rather not let him know she had been spilling all their secrets, but how could she keep lying to him?

“Part of my mission was to check in with Lilly and Abel. Tell them what I’d learned.” The memory made her sick to her stomach. Willingly going back to her captors like an obedient animal. Telling their enemy everything they wanted to know.

“I’m really sorry.”

“O-oh.” The look on his face told her that was the answer he was hoping not to get.

“That was… the morning we ran into each other. Before the hardware store.” Clementine felt

chilled in comparison to the warm memory of falling asleep in Louis’ arms.

Will we ever be the same?

She guessed it was too soon to tell. Maybe after all the bullshit with the raiders. Maybe then, they could figure out what they were now.

A loud chop echoes through the trees as they made their way down the path. They froze in place, readying their weapons.

“A raider?” Louis whispered as they ducked behind a moss-covered tree.

Clementine carefully peeked around the tree. Another chopping sound guided her eyes to a girl with flaming orange hair. The girl held an axe high above her head before bringing it down on a small log, splitting it in two. She didn’t seem to be a patrol unit, which gave Clementine some hope that Mitch and Willy wouldn’t encounter anyone this far into the treeline on their way home.

A soldier.

“Stay here, I’ll see if they know anything we can use.” Clementine flipped her knife around in her hand.

Louis nervously glanced between her and the raider before giving her a determined nod. A silent message to be careful.

Clementine tread carefully over the fallen leaves, leaving not a single crunch to give her away before she stood only a few feet behind her.

“Rockingham.” She said with conviction, causing the redhead to flinch mid-swing, missing the log in front of her.

The soldier spun on her heel towards Clem, expecting one of her comrades but instead getting her axe violently ripped from her grasp. Clementine kicked out the girl’s leg, sending her to her knees with an arm twisted behind her back and a blade pressed to her throat before she had a chance to cry out.

“The people you stole.” Clementine spoke with words laced with venom.

“Did Lilly hurt them?” She knew Lilly’s tactics. Inducing fear early on to break any will to escape.

“I-I don’t know what you’re-” The girl’s words were cut off by the knife being pressed harder against her skin on the verge of slicing it open.

“I’m not fucking around.” She growled. She held no sympathy for any of these people.

“N-no. They’re fine.” The redhead claimed though Clementine wasn’t too convinced.

“Clem! Stop!” Louis rushed over, keeping his voice low.

The Delta soldier took the moment of distraction to wrestle her way out of Clementine’s grasp, sending the smaller girl backwards with a shove. The girl eyed the axe laying in the dirt for a moment though she never dived for it, instead freezing when she saw the boy who stood next to her attacker.

“Hi, Minnie.” Louis said in slight disbelief.

Clementine looked back and forth between the two past friends.

This is Minerva?

He slowly approached her, pulling her in for a brief hug. Minerva rested her head on Louis’ shoulder, lips slightly parted in shock at the chance encounter. She buried her face into the fur of his collar before pulling away.

“After the attack… I wasn’t sure. I mean, I heard they burned half your school down.” Minerva spoke in a soft, slightly gravelled voice.

“Who survived? Marlon? Ruby? Tenn?”

Her little brother.

“Tenn’s fine, so is Ruby, b-but Marlon…” Louis’ words faltered as he bit down on his lower lip.

“He didn’t… didn’t make it.” His voice grew soft as his gaze fell to the grass below his boots.

Minerva seemed to share his moment of grief, Scrunching her nose in not disgust, but sorrow at the news of her betrayer’s death. Disgust eventually did cross her features though, but only when she had Clem in her sights.

“Clementine.” She spit, crossing her arms.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve showing up around here after the shit you pulled. Fucking traitor.”

“I never wanted to be a part of the Delta. I saw a way out and I took it.” Her loyalty had always been empty. Reinforced by fear instead of respect.

“‘A way out’? By turning my friends into an army and leading them into battle?” She raised her scar-crossed eyebrow.

“It’s a miracle Marlon was the only one who died from your dumbass idea. You ruined our whole plan.”

“That is some grade-A horseshit.” Louis countered.

“Clem saved us. Lilly would have taken us all.”

“And you all would have survived it.”

“You really think it would have been better if we’d just given up?” Clementine challenged.

“You really think it would have been better for your little brother to be caught up in all this? It’s bad enough they’ve already got Violet.”

Tennessee deserves better.

No one deserves to be a slave to the Delta.

“At least we’d be together as a family again.” The stoic girl’s demeanour cracked with a hint of emotion at the mention of her younger sibling and former girlfriend.

“Unlike you. Your little boy is fucked because of what you did. At least at the Delta, he has people who care about him.”

“You shut your fucking mouth!” Her voice began to rise. This was all for AJ. Why was that only apparent to her?

“Easy.” Louis put his hand on her shoulder, attempting to deescalate the situation.

“Minerva, where’s Sophie?”

Minnie’s eyes widened before being squeezed closed. The girl hesitated for a moment, taking a deep breath before responding to his question.

“Sophie…” Her voice wavered at the mention of her sister.

“Sophie died protecting the Delta. A hero.” The amount of pride in the way she spoke of her sister’s demise made Clem’s stomach twist. Lilly had dug so far into this girl’s head she wasn’t sure if there was anything they could do to undo it.

Louis let out a fatigued sigh, emotionally exhausted from losing so many of his friends. Old wounds no doubt reopened from lost hope of bringing both of the twins home.

“You could still come home, Minnie.” Louis pleaded.

“Disappear right now, help us get the others back later. We can do this.”

“I can’t. Someone would get hurt if I up and deserted too.” The taller girl cast a sharp glare at Clem.

“I can take care of myself, Louis.”

Clementine knew it wouldn’t work. Minerva had clearly completely drank the kool-aid. The collar she wore wasn’t coming off anytime soon.

“Minerva!” A sickening older voice called from the path ahead. Clementine practically shoved Louis into cover as a sharp burst a fear shot through her chest.

“Rockingham!” The girl called back, finally retrieving her axe.

We’re fucked.

Clementine’s nails dug into the leather of Louis’ coat, prepared to drag him away from this place if Minerva showed any sign of giving them away. Both teens held their breath, not daring to make the slightest sound as they sat at the mercy of whatever bond she still valued with her former friends from the school. Minerva cast them a side glance, pursing her lips together as Lilly appeared at the end of the trail.

“Finish up your work. I want to be in before dark.” The evil woman ordered with annoyance in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am!” Minerva didn’t immediately out their presence to Lilly, but once the girl was out of sight down the trail she wasted no time dragging Louis away from that place.

---

Clem spent a decent portion of their walk filled with paranoia, shooting a glance over her shoulder twice a minute for any sign of pursuers. Each peek coming up empty but doing nothing to calm her nerves.

“Do you really think Minerva would tell Lilly that she saw us?” Louis didn’t seem willing to believe it.

“She’s not the same person that you knew, Louis.” Clem knew Minerva was too far gone to be trusted.

“Those people brainwash you into believing what they do. It doesn’t take long to lose who you used to be.”

“Shit.” He tried to focus his attention on the path ahead, his shoulders drooped and Chairles swung loosely in his right hand. Suddenly his pace shifted, the space between them closing as he walked by her side.

“It doesn’t change anything. We still need to get onto that boat.”

Even the heat of the afternoon sun couldn’t warm her skin. Her body constantly felt cold. As if liquid nitrogen ran through her veins. But standing so close to Louis she could practically feel the warmth radiating off of him. She swung her hand out a little father than her natural pace dictated, her fingers just barely grazing his. A simple, fleeting touch that sent electricity through her arm, feeling it deep in her heart. Louis didn’t seem to respond to her touch, but the concentrated expression across his freckled face made it difficult for her to read his thoughts.

Her eyes fell closed as she walked next to him. Piano notes danced through her mind on repeat.

Clementine.

The song he named for her. The song he poured his heart and soul into.

The song played vividly in her ears as if they were back home, sitting in the piano room. The music swirled through her, her heart fluttering with every gentle press of the keys. The feeling of his lips against hers was something she’d never forget, and something she feared deep down that she wouldn’t feel again. The time they spent together the night before was the happiest she’d been in longer than she could remember.

Last night.

All of it, not even twenty-four hours ago. God, how could everything become so fucked in just a short amount of time?

A sudden jolt broke her out of her own head as she stumbled forward a little. Her ankle stung slightly from the impact of the root she’d tripped over.

“You alright?” Louis shot her a quick concerned look.

“Yeah, I just tripped.” Clem brushed it off, speaking slightly out of breath. She hadn’t realized how unsteady her breathing had become.

“Let’s just find James.” Her limbs felt heavy as the beginnings of her exhaustion clawed at her heels.

Clementine was just eager to get this over with before the thumping ache in her chest sapped away the rest of her energy.

[officialravendc]

Crimson Summer

Here’s a new story, for the first time in forever. Prompted by and dedicated to @princesscochlea.

"The rose was sweet like rotting death, like caramelised bones, a kind of corpse bruleé... and his eyes, pure glaring yellow. The colour of fear."

Iarina swears she's being stalked by Koschei the Deathless. But that's impossible, because Koschei is a character from a fairy tale. But as she searches for a saviour, something grim and ancient threatens to devour her city.

Read this story on AO3, or click here to keep reading!

There hung Koschei the Deathless, fettered by twelve chains. Koschei entreated Prince Ivan, saying:

'Have pity upon me and give me to drink! Ten years long have I been here in torment, neither eating nor drinking; my throat is utterly dried up.'

The Prince gave him a bucketful of water; he drank it up and asked for more, saying:

'A single bucket of water will not quench my thirst; give me more!'

The Prince gave him a second bucketful. Koschei drank it up and asked for a third, and when he had swallowed the third bucketful, he regained his former strength, gave his chains a shake, and broke all twelve at once.

'Thanks, Prince Ivan!' cried Koschei the Deathless, 'now you will sooner see your own ears than Marya Morevna!' and out of the window he flew in the shape of a terrible whirlwind.

-        “Marya Morevna” (1890)

Deep in the woods, a single sick rose twisted its way up through the snow.

From a young age Iarina knew the shape of good and evil. Good was warm, human, charming; evil was the figure she glimpsed late one night out of her bedroom window staring up at her as she froze closing the curtains. It was quite clearly there one moment and the very next not - a lurking shadow, suddenly reduced to a brief flash of white and then nothing. Iarina could not explain this. It was like nothing she had ever seen, not outside of the TV, and so her teenage mind performed a strange leap of logic and snapped straight to the events of a faerie tale she had been told earlier that evening.

 Iarina’s mother liked to spend the winter evenings weaving rich tales about the Faeries, the Dreaming Folk, like the Baba Yaga and the Firebird. These were the tales she had been told as a child, and her mother had been told as a child, and so on. These were old stories, stories with ancient roots in the cold Russian dirt – so it saddened and soured her when they failed to take hold with her teenage daughter. The slums of St Petersburg were a dismal and messy place that felt like a bit too much for a small, poor girl to take in. Iarina would rather be listening to easy stories of dashing American superheroes and tyrant aliens than grim complex faeries. It had been a while since Putin’s sardonic smirk had gently draped a new Iron Curtain across Eastern Europe, and the only escape from the perpetual uncertainty of politics was into simple uncomplicated fantasy.

This was why it came as a surprise when Iarina ran down the stairs one night and demanded a retelling of Marya Morevna. Her mother was taken aback, but complied gratefully until Iarina asked her to stop.

“Mama,” she said, “I saw him outside my window.”

Iarina, it seemed, had developed a fear of the archetypically brutal Koschei - Коще́й - the Deathless.

“The other tales I told you, they were based on respect,” said her mother. “A Baba Yaga? Something to be feared, yes, but also something to which you defer. If you treat her correctly, she will protect you.” She truly believed in the things she spoke of. “These are forces of nature, Iarina. Sheer elements. But Koschei?” She scoffed. “Koschei is a warning about trust. About deceiving appearances. He is not a god, a king or a spirit. He is dead. That was the punishment for his hubris.”

“But Mamulya – ”

“Don’t you ‘But Mamulya’ me.”

“Mama, you said to fear the Baba Yaga and her like, but…”

Iarina stopped, because it felt like someone was listening, and jumped when her mother spoke.

“…But?”

“But those stories are just fairy tales.”

Koschei was the Wife-Stealer, the hunter of young women, the ancient predator of Slavic folklore. No wonder, then, that he particularly struck a fearful chord with Iarina, who had to avoid men like him on her way to and from school each day. The trouble was Koschei was magical, and immortal, and probably much faster than anybody else she knew. Despite the fact that handsome young Ivan Tsarevitch had long ago killed the Deathless and burnt his lying corpse, something of him felt pertinent. Real. Current. Iarina had to admit that she fancied the concept of Ivan Tsarevitch, to the extent that her admiration of Prince Ivan was the only thing that matched her unnatural terror of Koschei. She was sure Ivan would carry her away as he had warrior princess Marya Morevna. She was sure.

A farmer by the outskirts of St Petersburg came across a great field of roses encroaching on his property. He went inside to call the police. They laughed at him, but five minutes after he put down the phone he was dead.

For a long time, Iarina had a vaguely embarrassing thing for Superman. Superman was simple and kind and good and wore bright colours to show that he meant well. He was a sort of prince, she thought, combining her two interests of aliens and superheroes rather neatly.

Then Ivan came along to vie for her affections, and of course he rapidly usurped the Big Blue Boy Scout, because he was Russian. Iarina knew of no Russian Superman. If he existed, she reckoned, he would be dour and grey and complicated. Ivan was not complicated. He had a sword and he killed bad men and was handsome and swept princesses off their feet.

Ivan kept Koschei and the Faeries at bay.

Trudging through the snow back home in the dark mid-afternoon, Iarina thought she saw movement in the gap between a couple of concrete shacks. A flurry, a flush of rich tail, like an animal out of a Disney movie just behind a thick pile of trash. Iarina came to a halt, staring curiously at the pile, and was about to take a step towards it when she noticed a pair of cruel eyes looking back at her from one of the windows. They peered coldly through a gap in the blinds, glaring bright yellow like a hungry tiger.

Iarina ran home and didn’t look back.

The roses crept along the roadside and down into the sewers. The smell was sweet like rotting death, like caramelised bones, a kind of corpse brûlée. It drifted on the breeze and suffocated three people in their beds. Despite the sugary stench, some insisted on picking the roses. Those who did shrivelled like dead petals and in minutes became screaming skin husks by the roadside.

  “Iarina,” said her mother, “you’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re just saying that,” Iarina responded. “I can tell by your pale face and clammy hands.”

Her mother was silent for a long time. Iarina waited patiently if unhappily, but when the response eventually came it was terse and vague.

“I do not believe in Koschei,” her mother said. “He is a tale for unhappy widows to muse on and nothing more.”

“But Mamulya - ”

“No more questions. Go to your room.”

“Please!”

“Go to your room!”

Nothing more was said, though the silence was fraught with the ghosts of arguments.

 Iarina found herself praying for Prince Ivan’s tenuous existence. She felt lost, scared, alone; she needed a confidant or protector or partner. The other girls at school ignored her already, and now that her mother had refused to support her the long walk home became bleak and harrowing. Iarina needed Ivan, because Koschei's shadow frequently tripped down the alleyways and loomed like a great tower under puddles of streetlight. She could swear there were eyes watching her too, ravenous demon eyes searching incessantly from the stark rooftops.

 Iarina prayed, and hoped, and feared.

  The roses had crawled a dark circle round the underside of the city, snaking grotesquely through the buried pipes and tunnels. They did not hesitate for the icy winter, spreading their knotted, thorny roots down into the brick and turf to take hold – and then, all of a sudden, it was time.

  Iarina was lost.

 These were streets with which she was familiar, streets she knew by their coarse individual feel on her feet. She could have charted her course home in her sleep. So why was she in unknown alleys, worn cobbles strange beneath her sole?

 The mist closed in, bringing with it a flake or two of snow. The street was quiet.

 So, so quiet.

 So quiet that when Koschei stepped out of a narrow passageway just in front of her, Iarina couldn’t even scream for fear of disturbing the silence.

 Koschei the Deathless looked like he had killed the Grim Reaper and climbed inside its skin. He made for a towering, skeletal figure in a smoky black shroud, and out of the peaked hood burst a pair of bright yellow predator's eyes. Iarina felt that hunting yellow, the colour of fear, as it wormed its way into her brain and down her spine.

 So she turned and ran. Koschei reached for her, thin pale fingers stretching from the ragged arm of his cloak, but she slipped past his clammy grasp and ducked into another fog-swollen alley. Her feet pounded at the cobbles, Koschei’s hobbling step gaining pace rapidly from behind. Iarina flung herself round a corner onto a wider street, then back into another passageway, breath hissing through her teeth in short, panicked strokes. Fists balled, movement violent, adrenaline coursing. Legs like pistons – swinging round a drainpipe – throwing down a stack of empty crates – blood pumping like a drum through ears – harsh inhalations – clutched side – frantic searching gaze – painful exhalations – a cry –

 “HELP!”

 And as if to answer her call, there stood wonderful, strange, beautiful Ivan.

 The Prince Tsarevitch was swaddled in rich fabrics, gold and red and woven like tapestries. His mouth was wrapped against the chill, but as Iarina stared at him in amazement and relief he pulled the scarf aside to reveal his warm, human eyes and confident smile. To his left stood a silvery, glittering unicorn, and to his right a coppery, glowing fox. Iarina recognised its tail as the one she'd seen some days prior slipping behind the trash in the alley. To think she’d been that close to safety, and had she followed her instincts then she would never have had to worry about Koschei at all. Ivan gestured in a kind of old-fashioned bow, and the animals inclined their heads towards her. It seemed as if he was about to speak, but then a dusty dry breeze wafted over Iarina from behind.

 Koschei stood there, hunched, eyes glaring a blaze of red. Rage peeled off him like steam, his stance one of utter hatred. As Iarina stepped back towards Ivan, Koschei's glare flicked towards her for a second and darkened slightly before returning, brighter than before, to Ivan.

 “Stop,” said Koschei in a mangled, unrecognizable voice, but Ivan waved his hand and the copper fox pounced to intercept. Iarina turned and ran, following Ivan and the unicorn down the barren street.

 The gutters were littered with Koschei’s victims, skin shells that might have once been people. Iarina gagged as she fled, the sickly smell invading her nostrils and burning cold fire through her sinuses. Tendrils clasped the bodies, holding them close to the floor, pulling them into the drains. Ivan looked back, checking on her, then started at a roar and a flash of light behind them. Koschei burst through the edge of the mist in pursuit, the molten remains of the copper fox dripping from his clawed fists.

 Ivan waved - the unicorn turned and struck, bearing Koschei back into the fog on its horn. Koschei grunted in pain, then vanished from sight. Ivan beckoned frantically, and Iarina followed his reassuring gestures, turning out into an open plaza. Suddenly she recognised this. They were back in the real world, in the city centre. Just up ahead, instantly recognisable, was St Petersburg’s famous Lion Bridge. Ivan’s eyes creased with hope, and the message was clear – over the bridge lay safety.

 Either side of the great bridge archway waited stone carvings of those great alert cats, guarding the causeway stoically. Before the Prince and Iarina could reach the gate, however, there came another roar and flash of light as Koschei emerged from the mist behind them, bony hands soaked in both his own blood and the silver blood of the unicorn. Ivan stumbled onto the bridge, shook off one layer of the rich fabrics he wore, and draped it over a lion statue.

 Ivan stroked the pelt, and the statue came alive, sheathed in gold. Iarina rushed onto the bridge, and the lion sprang at Koschei, just moments behind.

“No!” cried Koschei. “Stop! Stop!” But Iarina was already on the bridge, following her Prince, and Koschei struggled against the beast.

 “Iarina Vasiliev!” Koschei pleaded. How did he know her name? “Don’t go with him. You are in terrible danger.”

“Yes, I am,” Iarina retorted angrily, stopping and turning. “From you.”

“From me?” Koschei asked. The lion roared, but Koschei hit it with a burst of purple light and it whimpered back a couple of steps, struck fatally. “I am not here to hurt you, Iarina.”

Iarina stared at him for a long moment. “But of course you are. You are Koschei the Deathless. Wife-Stealer. Girl-Hunter. You are a predator, a murderer, and worse. I can tell by your eyes. They are like an animal's.”

But Koschei's eyes no longer glowed yellow. Now they were soft and sad. He stroked the lion, shushing it as its semi-life melted away in his hands, and spoke.

 “If I am like an animal, like a predator, then why am I not the one sending animals after you? The fox is a predator. The lion is a predator. And tell me, why do you think the unicorn has its horn? It is not to make it look pretty.” Although Iarina could not see Koschei's face, he looked expectant.

“It is for killing,” Koschei continued after a moment. He then reached up with both hands, still looking at Iarina, and slowly pulled the cloak back from his face. From under the hood there emerged a striking visage - hair as black as a raven's feather, lips red with her own crimson blood, and that same blood in tracks down cheeks as pale as the snow.

“You see,” said Raven, for it was she, “I am not Koschei.”

  Iarina reeled. Who was this woman, this she-Koschei, this contradiction in terms?

“Do you know the story of Koschei the Deathless, Iarina?” the woman asked.

“ – of course,” Iarina said in a small voice.

“Then tell me how Ivan found Koschei in Marya Morevna's tower.”

Iarina stuttered, then began to recite: “There hung Koschei the Deathless, fettered by twelve chains. Koschei entreated Prince Ivan, saying – ”

“That’s it,” the woman said. “He appeared helpless, vulnerable... in short, exactly what a hero like Ivan wanted to see. Somebody to be saved.”

“What are you saying.”

“I'm saying, Iarina, that things are not always what they seem. So yes, I look scary, but...”

Her voice drifted as she looked up over the bridge. Iarina followed, and found Ivan, golden and handsome, standing on the other side.

 The lamps lining the sides of the causeway glowed soft and somehow distant in the mist. Iarina's slight frame shivered in the middle of the bridge, over the icy water, trapped between Ivan and the woman Koschei. The strange woman was thin, sallow, unsettling; the colour of her irises twisted and shuddered like a jammed video cassette even though her gaze was calm and fixed. By contrast the Prince was warm, comforting, beckoning with his no doubt toned physique and deep blue eyes. Snowflakes drifted down, melting on Iarina and Raven's flushed faces.

 “Why is he so perfect, Iarina?”

“Shut up.”

“The snow is sticking to him and staying there. He's empty and cold inside because he came from the ice and the snow.”

Iarina turned again, desperate. “Shut up!”

“And it hasn't talked once. I don't think it even understands the concept of language.”

“Stop talking! Koschei talked. He used his words to trick Prince Ivan into freeing him, because he was evil and dark and wicked, and so are you!”

Raven shifted. “Why did he appear? How did he appear? He’s a fairy tale, a story, nothing more!”

 Shouting now, she gripped the plinths on either side of the bridge's entrance and leaned in. “You wanted a hero, a perfect saviour Prince, and down came the faeries or daemons or something from up in the dark stars or deep in the heart of Russia's collective imagination and made that, that thing there, and it wants you, it needs you, it lives and breathes you and as we speak it keeps eating and eating and it has to stop.”

 Iarina was still watching the Prince, who shook his head and smiled, reaching slowly into his robes.

“And I can stop it,” Raven continued, “but you have to make the choice to reject it. You have to do this. You have to turn and walk away.”

“But,” said Iarina, on the verge of tears, “but...”

“But what?”

“But he brought me a rose.”

The Prince was holding it in his left hand, a gnarled beautiful thing, with the thorns and the petals and the scent, and somehow both he and it were utterly disgusting.

 Raven's eyes were a deep purple, and Iarina felt a great sadness and love wash over her, and her tears welled up and split dark rivulets down her face.

“Oh, Iarina,” said Raven,

  “...Roses only grow in the summer.”

“My father was terrible too.”

Iarina didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I can feel it in you,” Raven said. “I feel what you feel.”

“How?” Iarina asked, somewhat lamely.

“Magic,” Raven responded.

 Iarina looked down at the pile of golden robes where the Prince had once stood. “The sun is up already.”

“Time passes quickly in strange places,” said Raven, wiping blood from her face, “and this is one of them.”

The Prince had looked on, motionless, as Raven twisted her hands and tore it into little chunks of writhing maggoty meat and roots full of rot. Now it lay in a hundred different places, a silent blast pattern, a thing departed. The fog, as if on cue, had eased and retreated into the distance.

“It made some sort of circle under the city,” Raven continued. “I think it was building something. Some lost broken magick or other.” She took hold of Iarina and turned her away, walking her back across the bridge. “Truth is, I don’t know what it wanted. Or if it’s dead. Or if death is a state that even means anything to it.”

They reached the broken lion, stepping off the bridge. “For all I know, it could have been an inanimate function just dipping into our universe. Like a gamma ray - infecting one cancer cell, something that spreads, making more, and so on.” Raven looked at Iarina. “But you’re safe now.”

 “Are you a Baba Yaga?” Iarina said, after a moment.

Raven looked at her, then off into the distance, then down at her own hands.

“Maybe,” she said. “I’m not sure I’d know if I was.”

“What do I do now?”

“Go home, get some rest,” Raven said. There was a moment, and then the ghost of a kind smile crept onto her face. “Believe in stories.”

For an instant there was a pure white after-image, then a whining tone like a badly tuned radio, and Iarina was alone.

Epilogue

The roses wilted, one by one, stretching back from the woods to the farms to the streets. As they died, they let out little puffs of air, like sighs of relief.

 The streets were empty but for a young woman running out towards the slums. Her head was purged of princes, as it had been of Kryptonian strongmen before. Instead it was full of someone else, someone tangible and present and – complicated, for once.

In fact, something that had been said about her father came back to her, and she began to wonder why she had cared for men at all.

 One rose, with a Herculean effort, tore its roots free from the dying knotted network. It was an attempt to hold on to life that lasted for a few brief instants before the boot of a running girl came down, flattened it, and kept moving on into tomorrow.

[laylaschreave]

unagi

a/n: hello!! this fic is literally so overdue I cry, like,,,pre ball overdue. yikes. *goes to hide in my shell* but I honestly haven’t had a single ounce of motivation until yesterday where I churned more than half of this out. HOPEFULLY I get the remaining two fics out this week that I need to: another wesla and a brief james one. wish me luck my oc brethren. anywhoooo hope you enjoy this, twas a lot of fun to rp with my sustenance of life water. word count: 3919

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l a y l a

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One.

“...Hazel was being surprisingly ridiculous, saying if I didn’t stop playing the same song she’d hide all my sheet music and cut the strings on my guitar to boot.”

Two.

“Which is a horrible threat! It’s a beautiful song and hard, why shouldn’t I practice it so much?”

Three.

“But sure, when the wonderful Prince of New Asia practices the same song over and over no one has a bad word to say about him.”

Four.

“Not that he’s a bad guy, he’s actually pretty decent. Little serious but that’s off topic. All I’m saying is that I deserve my rightful playing time without fear of anyone destroying my instruments.”

Fi—

“Hey!” My eyes zeroed in on the smug stable hand currently offering my horse a fifth sugar cube. “I see that! You know she already has too many.”

Wes smirked without even looking at me. “Has too many what? Sugar cubes? Is she collecting them now?” He looked up at Cleo. “You shouldn't be doing that girl. Don't become a hoarder.”

Smartass.

My expression fell flat, batting his hand away from her mouth. “You know what I mean.”

He chuckled. “I actually don't. Please enlighten me.” Translation: please indulge me. I humored him.

“Has too many. Eats too many in a day. Spoiled.” I patted Cleo’s side for emphasis, making the horse snort and shake her head as if protesting.

Wes bore an amused look I saw often whenever I joked or bothered him too long. I couldn’t figure out if it was a good or a bad thing. Did it matter?

“She’s not that spoiled,” he continued, looking over at Wyatt’s horse. “If anything Altivo is the most spoiled. The prince caves in more than I’d expect.” Altivo looked at us, almost as if he knew we were talking about him, chewing his food and huffing through his nose. “You need to stop,” Wes added, assuming he would get it. Instead Altivo neighed and Wes shook his head before giving Cleo another sugar cube.

I, on the other hand, eyed Altivo warily. “It's eerie how similar him and Wyatt are.”

“Does he also neigh a lot?” He patted Cleo’s nose.

I spared him a side glance. “Would it be surprising if I said yes?”

That earned a laugh. “You two argue too much. I’m not trusting you on this”

“He's the instigator,” I countered, lifting a shoulder. “And you should most definitely trust me.”

“Instigator, huh?” He flashed me one of his crooked grins. “It’s funny how you’re all very dramatic.” Our unspoken but agreed upon middle names.

I began to walk along a crack in the cement away from Wes, holding my arms out as if I was balancing on a tightrope. If I had turned around I would’ve seen a smile tugging at Wes’ lips in my direction before he turned back to the horse. “I'm not dramatic. That's Wyatt's area of expertise.”

“Yesterday you were complaining about how he ate the last cookie without asking anyone if they wanted it first.”

I reached the stable directly across Wes, turning around and resuming my balancing. “A very justifiable upset.”

“It was a cookie.” He gave me a serious glance, like his next addition would be a game changer. “Did you claim the cookie as yours?”

I paused then mumbled with a frown. “No. He should've politely offered regardless.” We were all surprisingly possessive of our desserts. Except maybe Hazel, though she seemed to be immune to most Schreave related traits.

Meanwhile Wes tried and failed to suppress a smile as he threw and caught an apple with his hand—amused by my denial. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when I eat cookies with someone else next time.”

“An excellent takeaway,” I smirked, making my way back over to him.

He shook his head, moving onto the next stable and remarking what a journey having siblings would be. I asked if he ever wanted a brother or sister to which he readily replied yes, though wasn’t made possible due to his parents separating. Hearing more about the situation of his parent’s divorce and how it impeded upon him ever having any siblings... well, it made me more appreciative of mine. Technically, a divorce wasn’t exactly legal, but somehow he trusted me enough to tell the story of his family.

His mother’s family was of Twos. His father’s of Fours. Apparently, when his mother realized she wasn’t too satisfied with the different lifestyle her husband could give her as a Four, her parents acted quickly. Discreetly, they utilized power and money to help her end the unfortunate marriage they never quite agreed with.

I was quiet as I considered his story, touched he’d confided in me before stepping after him at a loose follow. “When did it all happen?” I quickly added in a fumble, “You—well, you don't have to say anything if I'm... being nosy.”

He smiled awkwardly as he fed the horse. “No, it’s alright. It was years ago.” A pause. “I was... ten. Or maybe eleven? I don’t really know since years tend to blend in with each other around that time.

“Part of me hoped things would never actually end on divorce—even when she claimed for the first time that she could actually do it. A year after it happened, I realized maybe I should be grateful for not having a sibling.” Wiping a hand on his stained jeans, he continued to bring out more hay for the horse. “It would’ve been a lot harder if I’d had a little kid with me during all that.”

I picked up a piece of hay, spinning it between two fingers. “Maybe it would've been a little nice too. Not necessarily easier, but someone going through the same thing.”

He frowned a bit to himself. “No because he would’ve been younger than me. It was hard enough at my age. I can’t imagine if I’d been younger. It might’ve been more confusing.” Turning to face me, he gave a sheepish smile. “I didn’t really mean to take our conversation down this road, I’m sorry. It’s really not that big a deal.”

I smiled a bit, sensing his need to change the subject and a feeling I was all too familiar with. I poked his shoulder with the hay. “Back to cookies and overdramatic siblings? Or the Selected's uncanny skills to be everywhere all at once?”

His smile turned soft at my words, looking half relieved and amused by them. A change from his crooked smile. I liked it.

The thought was ruined when he snatched the hay from my hand and stuck it between his teeth, reminding me of a picture perfect country boy surrounded by horses and stables. “How uncanny are these skills?”

I sighed simply. “Very. They're nice and all but they're so... present.” Scrunching my nose up, I reached down to a crate and handed him a couple apples to continue his feeding.

“Well they can’t be past.” His expression immediately revealed that he knew his joke was kind of the actual worst.

I blinked. “You're lucky you're good with horses.” Still, a smile tugged at my lips while he only sighed.

“Yes, they can’t tell how awful I am.” The white horse put his snout against Wes’s palm, silently asking for another carrot. His smile was relaxed as he obliged the horse, a typical feature when I took the time to really study him. There was something that seemed to put him at ease while he worked, no matter what it was. Peaceful. “They’d probably run away if they could understand all my sentences, however.”

“Why, do you reveal your deeply dark and personal secrets? A coveted stamp collection maybe?”

He snorted. “I don’t even know what coveted means.”

“Long desired, yearned for. Wanted.” My brows rose. “Do you have a stamp collection?”

“Stamps are expensive.”

I picked up another piece of hay, sticking it behind my ear. “Sad. I was hoping for some juicy gossip.” I stepped right up to—Bella? Ella?—and scratched her neck. “What has he told you, hm?”

It only took a moment’s glance to see his eyes roll. “Just so you know, I said run away because of my terrible jokes. Not anything else.”

“Which is exactly why I'm concerned for the animals. They can't take any more.”

He shot me a glare. “Luckily, they don’t get what we’re saying.”

I smirked. “Luckily.” Walking over to a large crate, I sat down and let my legs swing, adjusting the skirt of my dress around my legs. I brought my attention back up to him only to see he was watching me. He blinked.

“Your dress is going to get dirty.” Did it matter that much to him?

I looked down at the pale pink fabric once more before shrugging slightly. There were already dirt stains at the hem, what would a couple more do? “I don’t mind. I’ve done worse.”

“Oh, please do tell me one of your wild stories, Princess.”

“Fell into the pool sneaking back in, spilled melted chocolate at dinner, had wine poured all over me when I went out... The list goes on.”

His shock was admirably fake. “You‘ve snuck out of the palace before? What a rebel.”

“Aren’t I?” I intoned with a feigned proud smile, earning a laugh from him. Nice laugh too.

“What do you even do?” His dark eyebrows wiggled in his own goofy way. “Do you have a secret stamp collection?”

I nodded soberly, trying to recall my severely limited knowledge on stamps, of all things. “My first edition 1951 President Truman is my crowning jewel.”

“Uh... well, that’s nice?” Apparently I pulled it off well since he couldn’t tell if I meant it or not.

I laughed, swinging my feet. “I’m not a closet stamp collector, don’t worry.”

His hands raised in surrender. “I wouldn’t put it past you to get excited about stamps.” He had the oddest ideas about me.

“Seriously?” My brow rose, skeptical.

His eyes widened at my expression and he moved to hide behind the horse. “Maybe.”

“How on earth do I look like a closet stamp collector?” I stood and followed him, peeking over behind the horse with both my brows quirked up now. A smirk appeared as much as I could tell he tried to hide it, scurrying behind—Bella!—this time.

“Because you’re fancy like that.”

I kept up my pursuit after him, narrowing my eyes and only mildly offended. Did I really look that stuffy? “My fancy is not stamp collecting.”

He chuckled, feet quickening in his pursuit to get away from me. He knew me well enough by now. “How am I supposed to know?”

“It should be obvious.” I rounded the horse only to see he had rushed into the next stall.

“I don’t know about that,” he called back, “I kind of picture people that say “coveted” as stamp lovers.”

I scoffed to myself and stepped over to the wall separating us, gripping the top to glance over at him. “Then maybe I should start expanding your vocabulary.”

Another snort. “How would you suggest doing that exactly?”

“Today I teach you coveted. Next time I come it’ll be another word.” I lowered my face, allowing only my eyes and brows to be seen over the wall as I mirrored his previous action, wiggling my brows. “Exciting prospect, right?”

His eyes found their way over to me in the moment, narrowing as he stepped over to place some hay on my head. “Oh yeah, I can’t wait.”

I didn’t move for a moment, instead rolling my eyes. Although that small movement made one small strand fall onto my nose, triggering an excessively strong sneeze. A sneeze that made the rest of the hay fall around my face while I tried to bat it away, stumbling backwards into Bella’s side. In turn it made her bump me roughly back into the wall, my hand twisting at the sudden movement. I groaned and glared at Wes.

There I went again, embarrassing myself in front of him. “Thank you for all of that.”

What I failed to notice was that somewhere in my fumbling around the stall, Wes had moved closer to the wall to watch me in half amusement and slight concern. Except when my glare met his gaze, our faces were much closer than either of us realized. I watched as his breath caught, my stomach flipping that he was even more handsome up close. It only took a moment for him to snap out of whatever had happened, pulling away. I blinked.

“You sneeze too easily.” Pretending it didn’t happen? Encouraging. Though I couldn’t help a scowl at his comment.

“Because that’s something I can control.” I bent and gathered a fistful of hay, coming up to throw it all over him. Fine, we can both pretend we obviously weren’t looking at each other for a little too long.

His sharp gaze found mine again for a few seconds before smiling smugly. “See? No sneeze. It’s all about being aware and,” he pointed at his forehead, “Unagi.”

I could only stare in bewilderment. Did he seriously just… I hopped up on the wall stealthily—for once—the upper half of my body hanging off as I leaned over to smack his shoulder with a huff. “Wes!”

His laughter filled the stall as he took a step away. “What?!”

“You obviously watch way too much Friends,” I observed, climbing off and walking over to his stall.

“My dad “accidentally kept” some of mom’s inherited copies before she left. If she ever noticed, I have no idea.” A pause. “You should probably not pass that information to anyone.”

I stepped through the doorway, with the beginnings of a smile playing on my lips. “That you use Unagi on a regular basis?”

“I don’t use it on a regular basis. It just fit the situation.”

“Mm.” A pause of my own. “Then I guess you should start calling me Princess Consuela Banana Hammock.”

Wes didn’t hesitate as he burst out laughing, deep and hearty that I couldn’t help a soft chuckle of my own. “Yes, I’m the only one that watches Friends too often.”

“Hard not to.” I stepped up to the horse. Not just a horse. Altivo. Boo. “What about you? Crap Bag your new name?”

He raised both eyebrows. “Harsh words from Princess Consuela.”

I laughed. “Only going by the script. But I’ll forego that nickname in place of another, if you really can’t appreciate masterpiece that is Crap Bag.”

“I think the horse doesn’t appreciate being called that.”

I let out a small, feigned gasp of offense and went right up to Altivo’s face, looking him in the eye. “Never.”

Glancing back at Wes I saw his eyes roll, picking up some hay to feed Wyatt’s prized animal. “I’m done. Are you going to trail me as I go do my other chores or are you actually going to remember you have a meeting with the Queen and Mr. Hiddleston in…” He glanced at the clock I knew was behind me, smirking, “twenty minutes.”

My eyes widened. He hates when I’m late. “Shoot, I still need to change.” I began to rush out the stall before I remembered one very important thing. “Thank you,” I said with a wide smile, pointing at him. Turning around I continued my haste out of the stall, but not quick enough to miss the smile tugging at Wes’s lips as he watched me go.

“You’re welcome…”

I wondered what he meant when I heard a residual “shut up,” from him, though by then I was already halfway out the stables.

I’ll ask him tomorrow.

—————

several wes-filled days later

—————

My favorite stable hand didn’t see me coming.

From behind, the picture of him patting the horse’s neck and riding off into the horizon was downright tranquil. I perfectly imagined what I’d come to call Wes’s-perfect-relaxed-horse-smile he probably wore.

He, of course, didn’t expect me to come riding hard and fast on Cleo, a wide grin splitting across my face.

“On your left!”

He jumped as I sped past him, likely uttering a snide comment to his horse. I slowed down eventually, tugging on the reins to circle back towards him and call out, “Beautiful day isn’t it?” An innocent smile as I tucked a loose strand from my braid behind my ear.

He glared and called back. “You ruined it, princess.”

Cleo and I trotted to his side, a scoff from me. “Oh please, you probably needed the wake up call.”

He tsked. “You mean a heart attack? I think I would’ve lived without it.”

“Deny all you want but I bring such excitement to your life.”

“Oh joy, did you bring the dictionary today?” I chose to ignore his fake excitement.

“As a matter of fact I did,” I argued with a slight lift of my chin. “Word of the day: masquerade.” Some excitement broke through my expression, a small smile that he mirrored with a shake of his head.

“Have a mask yet?”

“Almost. Finishing touches.” Clicking my tongue at Cleo, I tugged the reins to face the same direction as Wes, calmly walking the palace grounds alongside him.

“Finishing touches? Such as?”

“Finding the right shade of ribbon. Plus the gold sparkles keep coming off and I’m afraid one of them is going to get in my eye and scratch my cornea.” I made a face, imagining wearing an eye patch instead of a beautiful mask for Ben’s birthday. Not a pretty picture.

He chuckled. “Seems like a lot of work to cover up your face when it doesn’t need it.”

I lifted a shoulder, the compliment completely going over my head. “I like getting dressed up from time to time. Plus it being Ben’s 21st makes it more fun.”

Wes mumbled something under his breath I couldn’t understand, the hint of a smile on his face before returning to his normal tone. “His Highness is getting old.”

A small laugh from me. “You aren’t too far off yourself.”

“Ah, but there’s a difference when you pass the 20’s. Ask him and he’ll tell you.”

“Because he’s so old and wise now.”

“You mock me now, but one day you’ll see I’m right and when you do, you will rue the day.”

I laughed shortly. “Dramatic, Unagi.”

“I don’t even remember what show that ones from... but it’s old.” Wes apparently was fond of old things.

“Rue the day? iCarly. Emmy worthy masterpiece.”

“I guess I’m just cursed to quote old comedies for the rest of my life.”

“Then maybe you’re actually the old one.” I spared him a side glance. An almost 20 year old isn’t that much older than me. Luckily.

Not that it mattered. In any significant, date worthy way. Not at all.

“Old soul. My dad’s fault.”

“I like it,” I stated honestly, focusing on the tree line ahead and smiling a bit to myself.

From the corner of my eye I saw him glimpse quickly in my direction before shaking his head, gaze also on the path in front. “So, do you think you’ll finally be too busy to come around here? Because of preparations.”

I frowned slightly. “I don’t think so. My mom’s taken most of it over, wanting it to be more special.” I looked at him with a wry smile. “Why, getting tired of me?”

I had been coming around the stables a lot more frequently since that fateful fall, but I never thought he minded. At least until now.

Wes laughed, though that didn’t do much to reassure me.  “No, not at all. I just meant…” He shook his head. “Nothing, it was just a joke.”

I paused, fiddling with the reins. I’d had too many experiences where people—including my own family—had only said what I wanted to hear to leave them in peace. I didn’t want the same from Wes if it came from some odd sense of duty for the royal family.

“If I really do interrupt your chores too much, I- well, I don’t have to come around as much.”

As much as the suggestion made my stomach turn, it was true nonetheless. I didn’t want any more pity friendships, especially from someone who seemed to be one of the most genuine people I’d ever met.

“What? No! I—” Wes stopped himself, focusing on his reins and only increasing my curiosity for what he wanted to say but didn’t. “I... I think it’s nice to have some company.”

I let out a barely audible sigh. Well, I guess that’s good enough for now. I nodded my agreement. “Even if your company includes princesses who talk too much and throw hay at you?”

His laugh was a bit nervous at that. “Oh, but those are the best kind of princesses.” Oh how I wished such a small phrase didn’t make me all giddy inside.

I chuckled softly, keeping my cool. “You might need to up your princess standards then.” Because putting myself down was the key to keeping my cool, apparently.

“I like my standards…” he said, a puzzled look in my direction before resuming his usual humor. “Funny, unagi-less, understands my references, terrible at lying—except when it’s a lie for herself—”

“Um, excuse me.” My eyes narrowed, forgetting any previous awareness of my growing crush on the stable hand. “I’m an excellent liar in all situations.” Ten seconds ago being a prime example.

“Oh yeah, totally. 100%.” He nodded, clearly not meaning it. I huffed out a breath, reaching across our horses to shove his shoulder.

“Hey! No pushing while on a horse. It’s dangerous.” An annoyingly smug look. “Rules apply to you too.”

“I think you can handle a shove from me,” I intoned dryly, resuming my grip on the reins.

Shaking his head with a chuckle, he pulled on the horse’s reins to gallop back into the stables we had come full circle back to. I followed him inside, dismounting Cleo once we came to a stop.

“What’s next on the ‘Wes, get to work’ list?”

“That’s an awful list name. It sounds like you’re nagging at me.”

“‘Wes please finish your chores with a Friends episode on top?’”

A click of his tongue. “That’s not catchy enough.” Turning on his heel to face me, he smirked. “And I have to bathe some of the horses with the rest. I don’t think you’ll want to stay around.”

My nose wrinkled at my least favorite part of tending to the horses, one I never was fond of sticking around for. “Not particularly. I’ll clean Cleo up and be out of your hair.”

He laughed a bit then paused. “I’ll be done with that in a couple of hours if you want to come bug me again.” His tone was teasing, but I couldn’t help an encore of the flutter in my stomach that he actually liked having me around.

Still, I wasn’t going to let up my teasing any time soon, pursing my lips. “I’ll see what I can do.” I began to guide Cleo away by her reins, calling over my shoulder. “Be careful what you ask for!”

“Well, I asked for nothing!” he called back with a scoff, though I could hear a smile in his voice. A cute, crooked smile.

I simply wiggled my fingers in a wave and disappeared into Cleo’s stable, already planning the headache I would fake to sneak my way back here.

[nivrad00]

Fig Tarts

Flame peered into his bag as he walked with Viper through the busy SkyWing market.

“Fettuccini, check,” said Flame. “Garlic, check. Artichoke hearts, check. I think I have everything I wanted.”

“Great,” said Viper, munching on a fried lizard.

“Moons, I haven’t gotten to cook anything in ages. This was the best idea ever.”

“I know, right?” said Viper. “I couldn’t stand that boring Talons of Peace camp for another second.”

“We’re going to be in so much trouble when we get back.”

“I know.” Viper grinned, then tossed the rest of the lizard into her mouth. She wiped her talons on the fabric of her bag.

“Where’s you get all this gold, anyway?” said Flame.

“Don’t worry about it.”

A familiar scent drifted through the air, and Flame stopped in his tracks. The market was thick with the scent of prey, bread, and spices, but that smell he would have recognized anywhere.

“No way,” he said. “Fig tarts!”

“Fig whats?” said Viper.

Flame sniffed the air and pushed through the crowd, eliciting a few angry complaints. “Fig and goat cheese pastries,” he said. “My mother used to make them on holidays. I have to get some.”

He skidded to a halt near a delicious-smelling tent full of baked goods. He watched, his mouth watering, as a bag of tarts exchanged talons between the burly shopkeeper and an eager SkyWing.

“Uh, sorry, bud,” said Viper, catching up to him. “We spent the rest of the money on fried lizards.”

“Owl turds,” cursed Flame. “I told you not to get so many.”

“Hey,” said Viper, putting a talon on Flame’s shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. I have an idea.”

“Hello,” said Flame, approaching the open side of the tent. “How much for a bag of fig tarts?”

The shopkeeper looked down at him with an appraising look. “Ten silver.”

“Ten?” said Flame. “What do you take me for, an idiot? I’ll give you five.”

“Eight,” said the shopkeeper. “Best tarts in town, kid. It’s worth your money.”

Flame rolled his eyes. “Not impressed. Five or no deal.”

“Alright, alright,” said the shopkeeper. “Six pieces. Just for you.”

At that moment, the supports of the tent gave out, and its rough fabric came crashing down on top of the shop. Viper’s sandy-white scales disappeared into a nearby alley. As the shopkeeper cursed and struggled, Flame grabbed a talonful of fig tarts, shoved them into his bag, and leaped into the air. “Eat dirt, hippo face!” he yelled, gleefully.

“Get back here!” cried the shopkeeper, emerging from under the fabric. “Help! The red dragonet! He’s stealing my pastries!”

Flame followed the shopkeeper’s gaze and noticed, for the first time, the squad of armored SkyWing guards patrolling the market. With a gulp, he dove back into the crowd and banked sharply around a corner.

“Flame!” Viper motioned furiously from a narrow alleyway and dove into an open crate. Flame jumped in as well, landing with a thud.

“Ow! Watch it, that’s my tail!”

“Maybe if your tail wasn’t so fat I wouldn’t have landed on it!” snapped Flame, shutting the box behind him.

The crate was dark and cramped, and he felt his claws getting tangled in a coil of rope. He held his breath as the sound of armored dragons passed by the alleyway. Then the sound receded.

“Eat dirt, hippo face?” whispered Viper, putting her snout inches from Flame’s. “What happened to a quiet getaway?”

“Did you see that shopkeeper?” said Flame. “He was probably too big to lift off the ground, let alone chase me. Besides, I didn’t know there were guards.”

“There are GUARDS?” hissed Viper. “Queen Scarlet’s guards? You’ve heard what she does to dragons that break the law, right?”

“Whatever,” said Flame, nervously coiling his tail around himself. “We’ll just wait a while and then waltz out of here. No big deal.”

“Oh, yeah, a SandWing and a bright red dragonet with a bulging bag,” said Viper. “Real inconspicuous.”

Flame sighed. “We’ve really opened up a can of worms now.”

“Flame, you are a walking, talking, moonsblasted can of worms.”

“You’re a half-witted desert rat with lizard droppings for brains.”

“You’re such an ugly toadstool your mother left you for a cherry tomato.”

Flame’s claws dug into the rope. “Take that back,” he snarled.

“Nope.”

“Take it back!” said Flame.

“Shh!” Viper wrapped her talons around Flame’s snout, and they both sat in silence as the sound of clinking armor passed by.

“Get your talons off me,” said Flame, freeing his snout. “We have to do something. They’re going to check in here eventually.”

“Okay,” Viper said. “On the count of three, we make a run for it. I’ll go left, you go right. We can meet up in the forest.”

“Fine,” said Flame.

Viper took a deep breath. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“One… two… three!”

Flame burst out of the crate and flew through the market, pumping his wings as fast as they would go. A nearby guard shouted and lifted off in pursuit. Flame risked a glance over his shoulder. The guard’s giant wings would give her the advantage in speed, but Flame could take sharper turns through the town. He weaved through the buildings, trying to break her line of sight. If he could just get out of town, he could hide among the trees.

“Got you,” said the guard, who was suddenly in front of him. She grabbed him by the leg, sending him crashing to the ground. He roared and clawed at the guard’s arm, but he could do nothing against her armored scales.

“Just a dragonet, huh?” said the guard. “Poor thing.”

“Let go of me!” snarled Flame.

“Not likely,” said the SkyWing. “Calm down or I’ll knock you out.”

“I’m not a Sky Kingdom citizen,” said Flame, breathing hard. “I’m from the Talons of Peace. They’ll come looking for me. It’s not worth the trouble.”

“Queen Scarlet will be the judge of that,” said the guard. “Would you stop struggling already?”

Then she yowled as Viper took a bite out of her tail. Flame wriggled out of the guard’s talons and shot out of the town, followed closely by Viper.

“You little brats!” yelled the guard. She leaped into the air to follow, but immediately crashed back onto the ground, her back leg tied to a nearby pole.

Breathing hard, Flame flew with Viper through the forested mountainside until the SkyWing town was far out of sight. Then he let out a triumphant cry.

“Woohoo! We made it!”

“No thanks to you,” said Viper, icily.

Flame gave her a sideways look. As annoying as she could be, she had just saved him from Queen Scarlet’s grasp.

“I guess you’re not so bad, for a SandWing,” he muttered.

“And?”

“And… sorry for messing up the plan, or whatever.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” said Viper. She circled to the ground and landed on a patch of fallen needles. “I’ll accept your apology, if you let me try one of those fig things.”

“You already had your dumb fried lizards!” protested Flame, landing next to her.

“Fork it over,” said Viper, holding out a talon.

Flame rolled his eyes and opened his bag, revealing six delicious fig tarts: warm, flaky, and a little squashed. He handed one to Viper and took another one for himself. He gave it an eager sniff, then took a big bite.

He closed his eyes as the sweet and salty flavor filled his mouth. The last time he had eaten a fig tart was his fourth hatching day. His mother, Avalanche, had taken him and his friends to the beach, where they’d collected a dozen pearlescent shells and reenacted famous battles in the sand, much to Avalanche’s amusement. After dinner, she had surprised him with warm, homemade fig tarts, which were the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten. That night, he had fallen asleep curled up under her wing.

“This is pretty good,” said Viper with her mouth full.

“Tell me about it,” said Flame.

[preciousthingsareprecious]

Breathe In, Breathe Out

So. It’s day 6 and I’m cheating just a little bit with this prompt. Technically I hit the ‘death’ thing in spirit and in Damian’s thoughts. Plus it was the inspiration for this. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy the story.

I do need to give a quick thank you to @audreycritter for helping me figure out just how to make this fic work.

Rating: Gen 

Warnings: suffocation, buried alive 

Words: 3,351

Summary: When patrol goes wrong and Damian finds himself buried in a crate all he has are this thoughts to keep him company while he waits (and hopes) for rescue.

Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3 Link

The repetitive noise of thump thump thump above him woke Damian. He was in darkness, and his head was pounding, the air felt hot and stifled. Where was he? What happened? His brain was slow in giving answers. He moved to sit up, making it halfway before his head bumped against wood.

He hissed as pain bloomed again, meeting the ache in the back of his skull. The sound above him stopped, and then voices began to argue in muffled tones. One shouted, there was silence, and then the thumping started again.

Damian reached out above him and then around, finding wood all around. A box. He was in some kind of box. A shipping container, he remembered. It’s label had said something about it containing an in box refrigerator but it really held packing peanuts and small bombs. Now he was stuck in it. Maybe forever.

No he couldn’t think like that. He would get out.

He had a sinking suspicion of what the sound was, but he didn’t want to admit it. Instead he reached up and pressed his hands to the top of the box, firm solid wood meeting him as he pushed.

The lid shifted just slightly, something catching to hold it in place before dirt poured in. Then another thump resounded, knocking the tiny bit of space he’d opened down again. Damian spluttered, frantically rubbing the dirt off his face.

He sucked in a breath. They were burying him.

Panic bloomed in his chest and he tried to shove at the lid again, the lock on the outside catching, as more dirt poured in. There was a shout, and then what sounded like a foot slamming down on the lid of the box, knocking it back down.

He stifled a cry, it wouldn’t do to waste air right now. He had to think, maybe there was some way to stop them burying him completely. Maybe Father was just about to arrive, following him on his reckless flight after their fight that evening. Grayson would be right behind him. Both ready to stop the men attempting to bury him alive.  

Damian winced, it was doubtful either Father or Grayson had followed him. They had taken to letting him work out his anger on his own lately, and if he ran it was up to him to make it home.

All Damian wanted in that moment was to make it home. To step back into the cave, apologies on his lips about his overreacting. It didn’t matter that Father had been wrong, or that Grayson had taken his side (again). The betrayal Damian had felt was nothing compared to the regret eating away at him now.

No.

He had to stop thinking that way. Stop and breathe, not too deeply though, he had to conserve his air. Think about what needed to be done. If he could not get out, he needed to get his family to him.

He reached up tap his comm and turn it on, ready to call out for help and alert the others of his situation. He did not care how weak it made him seem, or what it would look like to be found in this position. He did, but not nearly as much as he did not want to stay here.

The comm was gone. Either knocked away when he’d been hit or purposefully removed by the men. Damian had to count to keep his breathing slow and even. The comm was not the only way to alert his family to his problem.

He fumbled for the distress beacon on his uniform, sighing as he found it in place and intact. He turned it on, and looked down at the small blinking red light.

Father would come. Grayson may accompany him. He would be fine.

He tried not to move too much, lying in the dark, the thump thump of dirt pouring over his box his only companion. There was some comfort in still being able to hear the noise. The slight tremors of it shaking through the box. As long as he could hear it he wasn’t fully submerged. There was some chance of escape, there was still fresh air leaking into the box. If he broke the wood he would not be completely flooded with dirt.

His fingers brushed against his utility belt, his mind going over everything he had inside. By his calculations he had around an hour before the carbon dioxide he was releasing from his lungs got dangerous. It would take too long to hack his way out with a batarang, besides he knew how solid the the wood was, there was no promise he’d even break through before dulling the blade completely.

It was too small to set off any kind of explosive device. Fire would only burn Damian and his air before it would eat through the wood. Worst of all, he didn’t have enough room to leverage the top open, especially as it was further and further weighed down with dirt.

He swallowed down a bubble of panic. Damian did not want to be the first Robin to die twice.

Darkness or not, the walls felt stifling, as if they were shrinking around him. He knew they were not. Damian wondered briefly if this was what it would be like if he’d woken up in his coffin. If this was how Todd felt when he had woken in his own.

Was there a difference in being buried alive and in waking already buried? Damian did not think so. And if there was it was only when the panic truly set in. If one woke already buried it took time for their mind to realize what happened. If they knew it was happening, well Damian’s mind was already racing. Panic fighting sense.

What would it be like to die again? It would not be as painful as it had the first time. This would be a different kind, an aching, mind wandering, drifting off. Damian would be here and then gone.

Where would he end up this time? A darkened place with no light like this? Or the soft, gentle waiting place he’d found himself in after his first death? He remembered shadows of people, people he could trust. Love. Perhaps that would not be so bad.

Only he would be leaving Father again, and Grayson. Damian was not sure Pennyworth could take losing another. He was not sure anyone in the family could. Damian did not want to think about Grayson’s possible reaction. He had been told how badly his first death had affected the man, had seen it in Grayson’s willingness to join Spyral and throw everything away. Could Damian do that to him again? Did he have a choice?

Would Father attempt to bring him back again? Would the universe allow a third try?

He shook his head, the back scratching against the wood, the shifting sound of his hair on it closer than he’d like.

He lay there for what felt like forever, telling himself the same things: Father would come. Grayson would come. Someone would come. His distress beacon was on, they could track him. Find him.

Except.

What if being buried somehow hindered the tracker? Could there be deposits in the soil that stopped Batman from being able to find him? That stopped the signal from going out altogether? It was unlikely. Damian knew that. It did not stop the fear from creeping into his mind. He broke down the specs about the tracker in his mind. Telling himself how well it was built. It’s range. What it was designed to work past. It’s weaknesses. He did not linger too long on that last part, and even so he still worried they would not be able to find him with it.

What if they thought it was a faulty signal? He was buried, they would not think to look underground for him? No, they would check any remaining containers around them. Was he even still near the warehouse he’d been in? Or had he been moved somewhere else? He thought he remembered ditches around the old building, but he wasn’t sure. What he knew was that he was hidden, and hard to find.

If they did not find him he would die here. How would everyone feel if he simply disappeared. Would they think he’d run off? Returned to Talia and his grandfather? What was worse, them imagining that or them knowing he was missing and never finding him?

Would they even care?

Damian had to force that thought to the back of his mind. Of course they would care. He held onto that thought as he lay, trying to keep his breathing as slow as possible.

Silence was all around him. He realized it with a sudden jerk. The thumping and showering of dirt had stopped. When had it stopped? Long enough to grow used to the silence. Time worked weird in the dark, Damian had no idea how much had passed, only that too much was gone. He wondered when the oxygen around him would be too flooded with carbon dioxide to be safe. What were the numbers again? He was sure it was worse for children, smaller bodies could handle less than adults.

Damian put his hands up above him and pushed, this time nothing moved. It was like he’d knelt down to push on concrete or was trying to shove over one of the natural walls of the cave.

It was hot and stifling and he wanted out. He wanted to go home. He wanted his father and Grayson. He wanted to see light again. He wanted to apologize to Drake, and Todd, and anyone else he’d hurt.

He wanted out.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes and his chest heaved. He tried to stop it, heaving panting breaths would only raise the carbon dioxide content faster. He was already feeling the effects. Beyond the pain from his concussion his head hurt, and his thoughts were slipping. That thought alone caught tears in his throat and sped his breathing faster.

He was going to die. Again. Alone and by himself and not even doing anything heroic this time.

A stupid fight, a stupid dumb pointless, fight was the difference between him returning home and not at all.

Damian had been terrible to Father and Grayson. He’d been angry, and rude, and ‘ just like you were in the beginning’. He had failed the day before, stewed on it all day, and then insisted on trying again. Father was right to tell him to take the night off. If he’d listened he wouldn’t be here. Failing again.

What if. What if this was the final straw? Damian had pushed his luck long enough with Father. He had not even wanted Damian to begin with. Had sent him back home to Mother after their first meeting. Damian had known then that Father would never accept him. Never want him by his side, not the same way Damian did.

All he’d wanted was to know him. To be able to live up to his expectations. The greatest detective. An incredible man. The only one worthy to be his father. Talia had filled his head with nothing but praise, and Damian had not been able to stand up to a single expectation of his, despite training his entire life to do so.

It was Grayson who’d saved him. Grayson who’d taken him in. Who had loved him. And Damian had yelled at him too. Screamed that he’d wished he’d never come to either of them. Told him he didn’t care what he thought. Didn’t care that he cared.

A tear slipped down his cheek, past his defenses. He should not have said that. His last words to his brother were angry, spiteful, and not at all true. And yet Grayson would go on believing Damian felt that way.

He curled in on himself as much as the box would allow. His back pressing against one side, his knees pushing into the opposite, his arms wrapped around his middle.

Sometimes he hated himself more than he hated anything in the world.

He was not a good kid, nowhere near it. Not with the way he had to struggle to be good. Not with the biting words he defaulted to. Not with how he was hurtful more than helpful. Damian hated how he was raised. Hated that it was wrong. Hated that he knew it was and that he still couldn’t escape it. Grayson said he believed in him. He told him how much he trusted Damian. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

He was selfish. Everything was him wanting. Wanting his father. Wanting his mother’s pride. Wanting Grayson’s pride. When had he done something for anything but himself?

There was a little voice in the back of his aching head that said all of this wasn’t true. It sounded a bit like Grayson and told him all the things that were good about him. How he loved animals. How he liked to nudge his family towards healthy options. His helping Pennyworth without asking. On and on it listed things that Damian squeezed his eyes shut against.

Even Grayson’s voice could not convince him he didn’t deserve to be trapped in this box.

A sob escaped his chest, loud in the tiny black space. Instead of holding it back, he let it flood him. Heaving choking sobs that sucked up the air around him. No one could see this moment of weakness, or hear the disgraceful sounds coming from him. No one was coming.

Father would not come. Grayson was not following. He was going to die here.

He cried harder, until he felt like he’d let every tear pour out and flood the wood around him. He sniffed. He rubbed at his face, wiping the wet streaks from his face. Then rubbed at his nose that would not stop running, the scratchy material of his uniform doing little more than irritate it.

His head hurt. Everything hurt. Little white specks floated in his vision. He knew he couldn’t see them, yet there they were. Dancing across the blackness. It was weird. He was surrounded by darkness, yet he knew it only extended so far in front of him. Somewhere in the world there was still light. He hoped his death did not stuff out any of them.

Damian had started to drift off, the hot clammy air, and stifling feeling of his uniform enough to tempt sleep to come over him. If he slept he would not feel the heat, or his headache. He’d stop seeing stars and flecks and phantom smiles from his brother.

Something above him scratched. There was a thump. The sounds of spilled beads. Scratch, scratch, bump, thump, skitter, boom-thump . Damian couldn’t remember if auditory hallucinations were part of suffocation. They must be.

He curled a little bit further against the noise. He did not want to hear it. It broke the silence and teased hope in his chest. No one was coming. He reminded himself again. Those noises were the final firings of his brain in an attempt to lull him into false security.

Then the top came off his crate, bringing freezing Gotham air that wrapped around him and loose dirt to spill over him.

“Damian! Bruce, he’s here, he was in here!”

Damian flinched back away from the cold. The voice. The relief. The light fighting against his eyes that had grown used to the dark. He pressed them closed. He was dreaming. This wasn’t real, this wasn’t--then hands were on him, scooping him up and out, and he made a sound. A sob? A cry? He didn’t know. He did know that his head hurt, and now he was cold and hot, and all he wanted was to feel safe. So, he pressed himself as close as he could to Grayson and tried not to cry again.

“Hey, kiddo. You’re safe, I got you.” His brother’s voice was gentle, his arms strong, “I’m gonna hand you up to your dad, okay?”

Damian didn’t respond. He didn’t want Grayson to let go of him, but he wasn’t sure his limbs would cooperate long enough for him to fight. The warmth of his brother’s chest was replaced by cold again, and he cracked his eyes open long enough to see the black of his Father’s uniform. Then he was pulled into arms, and against kevlar that was still chilly, but firm, and solid, and the air in Damian’s lungs was fresh. He pressed his face against his father’s chest breathing in the plasticy, dirty, smoggy smell that never seemed to leave the uniform.

It was so much better than the smell of that box.

Damian half listened as Grayson climbed out of the hole. The hole he'd been buried in. Where he'd almost died. Damian did not want to look at it. But it felt like cowardice not to look. He pulled back, away from where he'd hidden his face to turn back, craning his neck to see it.

Unremarkable. That's what the hole looked like. One place in the landscape of piles of dirt around the warehouse. Father’s hand pressed against his back as Damian turned back towards him.

“I'm sorry.” He said, his voice hoarse. The words broke his composure again and he hiccupped a sob, “I didn't mean to.” To what he didn't know. It was all he could get out, his throat closing against tears.

“It's okay.” His father murmured back, “You're safe, that's what matters.”

Damian couldn't find an answer as they began moving, he was too tired. Somehow he fell asleep in his father’s arms and to woke groggily to find Grayson attempting to lift him out of the batmobile. He pushed his hands away and tried to step out, but his legs gave out like jello. His brother caught him and scooped him into his arms.  

Damian gave up any attempts at fighting off his brother’s comfort and let himself be carried. He told himself he was doing it for Grayson, and not because he couldn't bear to break contact. Any moment away from his family threatened to return him to the feeling of being trapped in darkness and hot air.

They went through the motions, letting Pennyworth and Father fuss over him, while Grayson hovered. Then moved only to help as Grayson pulled him out of his uniform and into soft pajamas. Each moment leading him closer to being alone again.

“Richard.” Damian said, as he was being tucked into bed. His brother pulling blankets up to his chin.

He wanted to ask him to stay, to be by his side the whole time he slept. Wanted to tell him that every time he closed his eyes he was back in that box and if he was alone he was afraid he really would be there again.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.” Damian murmured, gripping his blanket so he wouldn’t reach out for his brother.

His brother pressed a kiss to his forehead, “I love you, Damian.”

Damian turned his head away, “Mm sorry I ran off.”

Grayson sat down on the edge of the bed. He carded his fingers through Damian's hair, “I'm sorry I didn't chase after you tonight.”

“You came. That's what matters.” Damian said, looking back at him.

Grayson’s smile was soft, and turned up his eyes, “Did you ever doubt I would?”

Damian swallowed. He didn't want to admit to the fears that had swamped him in the box.

“Dames,” Grayson's voice was gentle, like it had been when he'd pulled Damian out, “you know your dad and I will always come for you right?”

“I should not have, I know that.” Damian said.

“It’s okay,” Grayson said, “The darkness plays tricks on our brains, makes us think things that aren’t true.”

“But you came. You and Father came.”

“Always.” Grayson said. “Want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

Damian nodded, “If you wish to.”

His brother grinned at him, “I’d love to.”

[awakeningofthedeath]

Assassin’s Creed: Refiners- Terrence Patterson pt. #1

Liam’s Story Kailey’s Story

Next Chapter

September 18th, 1776

“You! Bastard of Patterson clan!” 

Terrence Patterson turned to the source of a thick german voice calling out to him. He gave a groan in frustration. Now is not the time for Marcus VanEgan, a german son of the local blacksmith to come for another fight.

 Days ago, when most  of the citizens of New York took the opportunity to flea the city with the ever growing presence of General Howe’s Navy and army surrounding the city and littering the Hudson River with British ships; Terrence found himself facing a situation he knew he couldn’t get away from, and that Marcus had to see that he was not in the state of mind.

 Terrence’s dark eyes squinted at the sun coming behind the large blacksmith’s son. “If it’s about me making sure your cock didn’t lay near Miss Philip’s secret womb, then you shouldn’t of tried to force her in the first place.”  

Marcus’s face turned red with rage accompanying his broken English. “She didn’t want anything to do with me anymore due to me being a quote “filthy haishum supporter”. I may have been born in the fatherland, but she should know better that we stay true to our country. Hell, she was born British and yet sides with the rebels. She’s as much of a traitor as any from what I’ve read in the papers.”

Terrence couldn’t take more of Marcus’s weak justification. “And so by her not wanting to court you anymore gives you the right and the obligation to rape her near where the British army could kill you both on the spot? Does a woman’s honor mean nothing to you? Is that how you were taught?”

“Says the bastard son of a woman who teaches nothing but all that reading and writing to lower class einfältige (simpletons). Your mother was possibly a whore before having you.”

Terrence’s anger rose to his chest. He hated it when his mother gets thrown into the angered conversations. As long as he could remember, Terrence and his mother were the center gossip of the identity of his father. All his mother could ever claim was that his died during the now called Seven Years War at sea before she could tell him of the pregnancy. Still, even when at the beginning of his birth, was interrogated by the midwife on the identity of his father, not even in the midst of pain and pressure of the local court, her only answer was “A fallen warrior of a hidden one”. And the identity was never questioned after sending that the father died, allowing his mother to bring him to the world.

Yet despite the assumption that a “warrior” may had been a noble title, that never stopped the harassment and judgment from most of the citizens in the district where Terrence and Kailey lived for sixteen years now. Kailey had mostly the more merciful end of being the topic of gossip, yet by the time Terrence was over five years of age, the women ceased on thinking of her a prostitute. Terrence however was branded by the young men and older men as “a bastard child”. He had few friends, mostly younger boys he would aid on learning to defend themselves and the slaves that would be on shopping trips for their masters. Yet there were times when he wished Marcus would just go piss off at another form of entertainment.

He turned around and walked towards the arrogant german. “You know something Marcus.” Terrence started quietly. “You can say all the damning things about me; but you may as well get a one way passage to hell for insulting my ma.” Terrence then took Marcus by the shoulder and slowly drew his ear towards his lips. “Of course I wouldn’t be surprised if you'd be covered by your own blood and this roads dirt before you realized that I called your mother a boar so attractive, the bears would want to eat her inside and out.” And before Marcus could respond, Terrence punched the german hard. 

Marcus quickly got onto his feet and charged at Terrence with a wear cry. Both men fought with fists of furry, hard enough to have the dirt road collect all the dust into a cloud. Soon a crowd of dock workers and other local men gathered to see the fight. Terrence was quick, even though Marcus managed to get a few punches upon the young man’s handsome face. This however wasn’t the first time Terrence danced with a fighting cock of a man. 

The sound of British soldiers came in, ordering the crowd to disburse just as when they approached the two men, they noticed that Marcus was holding a large knife aiming for Terrence. Two of the soldiers came in the middle of the flight, pushing back Marcus away from Terrence; but the german proved to be boiled with enough anger to be as strong as the greek hero Hercules and pushed one of the soldiers backwards towards Terrence. The Soldier tripped on a hole in the road and the blade on his riffle dug into Terrence’s left breast area of his chest. Terrence cried out in pain as he looked down to see the tip thankfully not deep enough to go to the heart. But as the soldier tried to get himself up, the metal twisted to where Terrence would feel another blow of pain. One man quickly grabbed Terrence and pulled him away from the blade. Terrence breathed hard as the blood razed out into a now star x like would. A woman took a towel from her laundry she must of been removing and placed it of the young man’s chest. 

The British soldiers were too busy beating Marcus up for “disrupting the peace”. And after they had their chance of licking, the soldiers took the german to a ship that was docked nearby. Everyone knew that once the soldiers or Torires took a man to a British ship, they had been “signed up” to King George the Third’s army or navy. Most likely the Navy, as if the New York Harbor was already littered with ships of all breeds and kinds.

Terrence felt light headed as a man lead him away from the crowd. He looked to his right side to see a man about a few inches shorter then Terrence if not for the tall fur hat that was crowned on his head. The stranger looked to be in his mid or late thirties. He had thick squared brown beard with matching eyes, wrinkles seemed to had invaded the man in an earlier age then anticipated.

“Keep your eyes wide and broad son.” The man said with a thick accent. Terrence wanted to interrogate the stranger, but his mind struggled as he tried not to faint. 

When the men were away from the docks, the stranger lowered Terrence onto a wooden crate and unbuttoned his torn shirt to analyze the wound. He took a fingerless gloved hand into his trench coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of whiskey where he poured the wound. Terrence’s dark eyes widened with the unexpected stun of the liquor’s work. The man gently cleaned the wound away from the torn area before compressing a handkerchief onto the wound, which caused another wave a pain to entered into Terrence’s mind.

“You got lucky you know lad.” The man told the youth. “Most men even older then you would be dead on sight with that. You happen to have such mass mussels in this chest of yours. From what I can tell, your more then a dock worker most of the time.”

Terrence nodded. “Shipment loader and wheeler part of the time. Whatever is needed to keep bread in my ma and I’s belly.”

The man nodded. Understanding without having heard another word from Terrence.

“So you a doctor or something?” Terrence asked the savior. “You sure know how to stop a bleeding from stopping a heart. Hope you can sew this good before my ma sees this.”

The man chucked. “You seemed to analyze me as if a man looking for a good plow horse that can actually pull a plow. And yes, I can sew the wound. However I am a mere assistant who never felt with something this wide in the center. I’ll try to get the edged closed as best as I can, the rest, you better wear this scar with pride, knowing that you’re tough enough to pass the British without taking your last breath before meeting your future lady.” 

Terrence gave a painful laugh. He was always thought of a handsome man by most, least all the young girls and women his age wanting to marry thought so. Yet he wan’t ready for marriage, for he wanted a mate that can catch up with him, and be qualified with the characteristics as his mother. The strongest woman he’d ever known. 

“Will be a long time till she wins me heart Mr...”

“Colley. Jamie Colley.” The man extended his free left hand, to which was a praise to God for Terrence, since he’s left handed. He clasped Jamie’s hand with ease, yet with a caused hard grip. 

For almost and hour, Terrence was enduring the white hot pain of a needle piercing his skin as the horse hair from a collection Jamie kept in the same coat pocket. It amazed Terrence that a hair that looked so frail and fine can aid in holding torn skin together in order to heal. Just as Jamie predicted, all but a mass round wound where the blade entered remained. He took a cloth bandage and wrapped a cotton mass on the wound around Terrence’s strong shoulders. When he tied it with a confident knot, Jamie pushed himself up and wiped the blood from his hands on the edge of his long brown coat. He aided Terrence to his feet and picked up the bloody shirt. 

“My apologize for your shirt. I imagine that men might mistaken you from a trouble maker from the prisons. But if I were in your boots, I’d fear my skin when facing your ma.”

Terrence chuckled in agreement. “Aye. Thank you for helping me sir. I might of been joining my pa and finally meet him.” Terrence never knew much information about his father, not even his mother gave information of what he was really like. All she would describe was the characteristics of his father. 

He was the bravest and humblest man anyone could of known.

He had such passion.

I see his kindness in you.

He would of proud of your integrity. 

Terrence could tell that his mother deeply loved him; yet she loved her son just as much. For Kailey Patterson never gave the impression to her son that he would have to carry hi father’s legacy. But Terrence felt that he needed to protect it, even if theres more to the story apparently. 

The two men shook hands when Terrence stood up to leave. Jamie told the young man to take the willow bark tea he’d gave him and suggested that the loose leaves can aid in the wounds when wet. 

“I’m surprise you can afford tea as of late,” Terrence commented, smelling the rich earth smell of earth from the mixture of ground bard and powder.

“Traded with a Shawnee warrior that happened to be passing by. Though he informed me that a Mohawk man known to “sail the wooden horse on the great water” traded it to the man. Saying that it numbs the pain. I find the Mohawks fascinating when it comes to natural medicine. “ 

Terrence once again thanked Jamie and headed home. Ready to face the unpredictable results from his mother.

“You should be thanking God Almighty that the doctor was close by.” Kailey told her son as she cleaned Terrence’s wound with a warm wash cloth. This wasn’t the first time Kailey tended to her son’s wounds. Mostly cuts and bruises littered her only son’s sculpted body. She once again was reminded of Liam overtime she’d looked into her son’s face.

“He sure gave me the strength to kick the a,,,”

“Terrence!” Kailey sharply corrected him. 

“Marcus was mocking you for...” Terrence’s eyes burned with rage. He was so angry that tears began to escape from his eyes. A mixture of pain and anger inside and out.

Kailey took her son’s large land and held it tightly into her hands. “As much as I am proud of you for standing up for whats right; but you no need to defend me honor son. I’ve been dealing with worse before you were even born.”

“I know you weren't a whore.”

“No did you expect me to tell you.” Kailey teased. She and he son always had their dry sense of humor of sarcasm.  “But right now, hell will seem to break loose. I heard the hills are painted red with British blood.” Kailey had renounced her nationality of a British woman after the declaration of independence months prior. She wanted to be like all colonists, Americans. Their own people of their own country. 

When Kailey finished wrapping her son’s wounds, she felt an arm taking her into a hug. She smiled, returning her son’s embrace. The calm before a burning storm.

[ifishouldvanish]

Objects In the Rear View Mirror

Part 4 of I Must Be Warmer Now

Summary: When Gold notices Lacey’s stopped listening to her Queen single, he wonders if he should be concerned. Rating: T Words: 2,481 Tags: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Panic Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, A little bit of fluff, fluff is good

@barpurplewrites​ said: Could I make a request for the wonderful and amazing I Must Be Warmer Now verse? Gold gets worried about Lacey when her Queen album is put away and she starts listening to Meatloaf Bat Out of Hell II on repeat. The reason behind this change is your choice.

[Read on AO3]

Gold wipes his feet as he steps into Lacey's apartment, grocery bags in tow, and smiles to himself. The first time she'd noticed him wiping his feet, she laughed and told him not to bother because she knows she's a slob and that her place is a pigsty. He continued to do it anyway of course— but over past few months, he has to admit that the place is looking a lot cleaner. For one thing, the pile of stilettos in the entryway is no more. Well—actually, it's just relocated to her bedroom, but he's willing to consider it progress.

He hitches into the kitchenette to set the bags down and starts taking out the ingredients for the baked lemon chicken they’ll be preparing together tonight. It’s a win-win, cooking together. He loves having somebody to cook for, it gets Lacey eating something other than Coco Pops, ramen, and pizza, and it gives them both an excuse to spend more time together. Lacey also takes her role as official taste tester very seriously, much to his delight. It feels so rewarding to have his work in the kitchen appreciated.

Milah would always inhale her dinner without a word and immediately disappear out to the back patio to talk on the phone. Some would say a meal devoured in silence was the greatest compliment a cook could receive, but it certainly never felt like one. And Bae, of course, was still just a boy. He couldn’t fault him for not displaying his best manners at home— besides, his jubilant, “Yes! Chicken pot pie!” as he barrelled down the stairs was always more than enough. But Lacey— she loves to watch him work and always offers to help— be it chopping vegetables, keeping an eye on some pasta as it cooked, or just giving him a peck on the cheek and commenting on how delicious everything looked.

Gold's rummaging through the cupboards for the baking sheet he likes when he realizes Lacey hasn't come over to give him a kiss yet. Odd.

“...Lacey?” He wanders deeper into the apartment and pokes his head into the bedroom, steam rising out of the master bath. Ah. The shower is running. He steps up to the threshold and gives a light knock. “Lacey?”

“Oh, hey!” Her voice comes muffled from behind the curtain. “Shower— be out in a minute!”

“Take your time.” He says. He's pretty sure it was too quiet for her to hear, but he feels too foolish to repeat himself at all, let alone louder, so he walks back out to the den without another word.

The little skulls scattered about every surface and every corner are like familiar friends to him now. Gold smiles at the row of tiny succulents she added to the window sill last week, potted in wee little skull-shaped planters. To think of Lacey caring for something living, as low-maintenance as they may be, gives him a pleasant feeling in his chest. His eyes drift over to the record player, and he has to blink a few times to make sure he’s seeing things correctly.

He frowns at the record on the turntable. Bat Out of Hell II. A quick look at the crates on the floor below reveals the record's sleeve— a rather frightening image of… well, he's not quite sure what he's looking at, honestly. He squats down and plucks it from the crate for a closer look, and is able to make out the image of a figure riding a motorcycle? Soaring straight into a… demon? Some kind of winged beast— perched atop a skyscraper like bloody King Kong, looming over a desolate dystopian landscape consumed by red hot flames.

His curiosity getting the better of him, he flips it over to read the track listing on the back.

The title of the first song makes his heart sink— I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That). The idea that Lacey might identify with such a sentiment makes him feel uneasy. What might ‘that’ be? He's all too familiar with not being chosen. All too familiar with not being worth anyone's while. What if Lacey feels the same way? Where might she draw the line and ditch him, like everyone else inevitably does?

He scolds himself. They haven't used— well, that particular word with each other yet. Love. It's too soon for that. Isn’t it? What right has he to feel so threatened? Christ, it's just the name of a song on an album she happens to be listening to, he thinks. Stop getting ahead of yourself. He shakes his head and skims through the rest of the titles.

Life Is A Lemon And I Want My Money Back. Wasted Youth. Back Into Hell.

Now, he knows perfectly well that Lacey's endured a less than stellar past, but he likes to think that he makes her life better— even if just a little. She certainly makes his better. Was something wrong? Why would she be listening to such… angry, bitter music? What happened to her uplifting Queen single?

Gold sighs and peers inside the sleeve for the lyric sheet, relieved to find it still in tact. Sneaking a furtive glance toward the bathroom, he slides it out and scans over the finely printed verses. His eyes gravitate toward one in particular, and his mouth goes dry.

And my father's eyes were blank as he hit me again and again and again.

He sucks in a breath and clenches his eyes shut. Just like that, his pulse is thumping in that old, familiar way. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his pounding heart before peeking his eyes open again.

I'll hear that ugly coarse and violent voice

And then he grabs me from behind and then he pulls me back!

“Stop!” He cries out, dropping the sleeve onto the floor where it lands with a smack , the lyric sheet slowly floating down with it. “N-no!”

“You uh… alright there, Gold?”

He stares at his feet, rubbing his sweating palms against his slacks, and flinches when he feels a hand rest on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, da!” He yelps, drawing his arms up to shield his face.

Lacey jumps back, almost losing the towel wrapped around her chest as she holds her hands up in surrender. “Sorry! I'm Sorry. That was bad—”

Gold wraps his arms tightly around himself, his eyes fixed on the turntable as his breaths grow faster, out of control.

“Gold? …Are you okay? You— you have to slow down, you gotta breathe.”

He can hear her voice, but his racing mind can't focus on it. It's flooded with impressions of his father's flat in Glasgow. The smell of the mill that would come home with him, the glimpse of blood on the walls, the sound of him yelling, the taste of dirt, and the unceasing weight of fear.

Lacey steps in front of him slowly, blocking his view of the turntable, and looks into his eyes. He's looking at her, and yet he's not— he feels like he's looking through her, like she's an apparition and not really there.

“Shh, shh… it's fine. It’s just me, baby…” She tentatively reaches a hand out for one of his, and he lets her take it. He squeezes tightly enough that he’s probably hurting her, which is the last thing he wants to do. For all the spinning his mind is doing, he can focus on that much. “It’s okay. He's not here…” She continues. “Just— Just try to count with me? Can you do that?”

He nods slightly, though his eyes are still distant and unfocused.

“Breathe in— one, two, three… And out— one, two three. In—” she takes a deep breath to demonstrate and slowly exhales. “Now four. In— one, two, three, four. And out— one, two, three, four.” She keeps increasing the count but his breathing never seems to be slow enough. It’s still slowing a little bit though, so he keeps trying, keeps listening.

She's up to ten when he finally catches his breath and he swallows. “L-Lacey… Lacey?”

“Mhmm...” She nods, giving his hand a squeeze. He slowly forces himself to ease his grip, and she gives him another encouraging smile. “That's right… It's just me, baby.”

He nods again and she pulls him close, letting him bury his face in her shoulder.

“There… you're okay.” She says, stroking his back comfortingly.

“I'm— I'm okay.” He chokes out. She's being so patient and understanding, and she's so warm and soft around him. He feels the overwhelming urge to cry, but it goes as quickly as it came, and he takes a step back.

“Why don't you uh, sit down?" She offers. "I'll get you some water maybe? Or… whiskey?”

“...Water.” He whispers, staggering backwards and onto the couch.

 *****

 “Feeling better?” Lacey asks. “You kinda looked like you saw a ghost there.”

He swills down what’s left of his water and sets the glass on the coffee table with a heavy thud. “I suppose, in a way, I did.”

She pouts her lips and rests her head on his shoulder, sliding a hand across his lap to twine their fingers. “Your father?”

He swallows hard and she sees the corner of his mouth twitch a little. “Aye.”

She rubs her thumb over the back of his hand, and presses a kiss to his shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“S’not your fault.”

“I know… I just—” she shrugs. “It sucks, doesn't it?”

He stares ahead blankly and doesn’t say anything, so she continues.

“Used to happen to me a lot. ...Kind of why I started getting blackout drunk, after um… well, you know. They’re not as bad anymore, though.” She assures.

Gold nods, and she can see the way his jaw clenches. It’s the same way it always clenches whenever she shares another detail with him about her relationship with Gaston.

“You stopped listening to Freddie.” He says in a terse voice, and Lacey can recognize a plea to change the subject when she hears one.

She clears her throat. “Yeah. I uh— I've been in the mood for something else lately.”

“Is something wrong?” He asks, and there’s so much concern in his voice that she almost feels guilty. “You.. you love Freddie.”

“No.” She answers a little too quickly, defensively. “...And I love lots of stuff.” She says. Like you, maybe.

That's what started it all. On her days off, she would spin through a dozen records or more— but at the end of the day, her copy of The Show Must Go On was always restored to its rightful place on the turntable. The other day however, she couldn't bring herself to stop listening to love songs, lying on the floor with her eyes closed and thinking about him. God, she felt like a teenager.

Gold looks at the record sleeve on the floor and presses his lips into a thin line for a moment. “Maybe we could listen to it? Together?”

Listen to it? She just watched him get a panic attack just from looking at it. “I don't think you'd like Meat Loaf, baby.” She says. Over the past few months, she's come to find that he enjoys her blues, folk, and pop records to her power rock and heavy metal— Not that it surprises her in the slightest.

“Oh.” He sighs and he looks so genuinely disappointed. “...why not?”

Mostly, she's just a little embarrassed. Not by the music itself, but what it might reveal to him. Her feelings. They’re hard to reconcile with the past several years she spent trying not to give a shit about anything or anyone. “I dunno. It's just kind of… over the top?”

“I've found most of the things you listen to are, sweetheart.” He insists with a lopsided little grin.

Lacey chuckles at that. She still loves it when he calls her sweetheart and she loves the fact that he never belittles her for her taste, no matter how much he may not like it. “Alright. But don't say I didn't warn you. It's… something else, and a little corny at times.”

“Corny?” He hikes his browse, seeming caught by surprise.

“Well, it's… kind of a rock opera? It… tells a story.” She explains, giggling at his baffled expression. “...You'll see.”

“I'm sure I will.” He smiles and his eyes flit across her features in a way that she's pretty sure is making her blush. How does he even do that?

“...Okay.” She pats his chest gives him a quick kiss before getting up and firing up the turntable.

 *****

 Whatever he's hearing, it's certainly not what he was expecting. A galloping and uplifting piano melody layered over a squealing guitar part that sounds almost… triumphant? They fade away, making way for the opening verse, and Gold realizes it's not a song about putting love second at all. It's a declaration of love. A celebration of it.

And I would do anything for love I'd run right into hell and back I would do anything for love I'll never lie to you and that's a fact But I'll never forget the way you feel right now I would anything for love But I won't do that

The piano and guitar return with all their symphonic glory as the next verse begins and builds into a booming chorus that he can feel in his chest with each pulse of the bass drum.

Gold looks down where Lacey's head rests against his chest, and smiles to himself. Settling more comfortably in the couch, he starts idly combing his fingers through her hair.  Her nose wrinkles and she looks up at him.

“Cheesy, right?”

He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “No. It's lovely.”

They sit through song after song about bright-burning, all-consuming love, being the answer to one another's prayers, making each other feel alive. He presses a kiss to the top of Lacey's head and she shifts and tightens her arms around him.

Before long, the song with the lyrics that frightened him earlier is playing. But this time, the account of the terrifying father grabbing the protagonist from behind doesn't bother him. Malcolm's ghost is trapped in that flat in Glasgow, thousands of miles away and decades behind him. He seeks Lacey's hand while the chorus rings over and over as the song ends.

If life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car Objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are

The next song isn’t much of a song at all, but rather a dramatic voiceover— It’s indeed very over the top and kind of corny. He smiles down at Lacey, who looks up at him with knowing eyes and a shameless grin.

“Let’s get dinner started, aye?”

She stretches up to peck him on the lips. “Let’s.”

[carasueachterberg]

You know how parents tend to overreact with their first kid? How they immediately assume the worst-case scenario so that every funny bump is cancer and every new word means their child is destined to win a Pulitzer?

This is me with Frankie.

He’s actually the second puppy I’ve ever adopted, Gracie being the first. When I adopted Gracie, though, I also had three kids at home, a traveling husband, and I was co-president of the PTO. There just wasn’t time to get all worked up over her every move.

But now I only have one kid at home and he’s bigger than me and other than stocking the refrigerator (almost daily), he needs very little from me. Which gives me plenty of time to fuss over Frankie.

I bought him that stuffed tree toy – the one with the squirrels inside that he can wrestle out. He loves it and figured out how to get the squirrels out in only minutes.

So, I bought five or six other puzzle-type toys because, you know, he’s brilliant, so I’m trying to help keep that brain exercised.

He sleeps in our room at night in his little crate that has a moon and stars quilt and a handful of plush toys. I tuck him in and cover the crate with a blanket so he doesn’t get cold from the air conditioning. But before he goes to bed, we snuggle while I read. He curls up in the perfect little wrinkled ball against my side and has sweet puppy dreams that cause him to wiggle and makes squeaky noises. It’s distracting. But I don’t mind.

He is a sunny guy who loves to chase bugs, marvel at the chickens, visit with the kitty and roll down the hills like a kid-

Puppy perfects the log roll #puppiesofinstagram #blueeyedpup

A post shared by Cara Achterberg (@carasueachterberg) on Sep 19, 2017 at 1:29pm PDT

He’s so brave that when I ran the vacuum the other day, while Gala cowered in her crate crying and Gracie had to be put outside (and still stood at the door barking at the vacuum), Frankie simply watched the vacuum from where he was lying in his bed, wagging his tail at me each time I came close in case I wanted to take a break and play.

He is polite while Gracie sniffs him and dismisses him, patiently waiting for he to decide she will love him.

And he is patient when Gala goes gaga over him — tossing him around with her nose, placing his entire head in her mouth and smacking him to the floor with her paws. She loves him in a BIG way and he never backs down from it.

He is considerate, having mostly figured out the house-training, but when he does have an accident, it’s always on the puppy pad.

And then, there’s his crystal blue eyes and the way his skin pools around his waist and legs when he sits down and those huge feet and that gorgeous golden coat. Yes, I do know he doesn’t look like the puppy-store puppy, but to me he is beautiful.

I’m trying to refrain from posting pictures hourly on Instagram and Facebook. I don’t want to be that person, but here are a few shots of my little Awesome Possum –

On Thursday, Frankie’s belly ballooned up to twice its size and he began trying to eat grass, dirt, and anything he could get his mouth on. I went into full on panic mode. Checking his mouth, examining his vomit.

After he threw up multiple times and got no relief, I put him in his crate because it was the only place I could put him to stop him from trying to eat everything within reach. He lay there forlornly, chewing on his toy while whining softly in pain. I imagined the worst.

He’s dying, I thought.

Nick texted our vet, who is also our friend and neighbor and he came over to have a look. Frankie was happy to see him and wagged his tail, offering kisses, and jumping up for attention. Chris said this was a good sign that he wasn’t dying.

Because we were leaving the next morning for a mini-vacation, he did suggest that we go over to his clinic and take an x-ray – at least rule out that Frankie hadn’t eaten something he wouldn’t be able to overcome on his own.

The x-ray showed LOTS of gas and lots of food, but no dry-wall screw or wine cork, or any of the other things I imagined he’d swallowed. He sent us home with instructions not to feed Frankie and to bring him back in the morning for another picture. Hopefully, in the meantime he would be able to pass the gas and whatever was causing the distress.

I cradled Frankie for a long time before tucking him into his crate that night. I cried and cried, partly because I was scared for him, but mostly because I realized that Frankie will die someday. And it will hurt like hell. And the reason I let 94 other dogs and puppies be adopted out from under me had less to do with commitments or time or Gracie or the other excuses I used, and more to do with avoiding this. I don’t want this pain. Ever. And now here I am. Setting myself up for it, all over again.

In the morning, Frankie’s belly was half the size it had been and his x-rays showed that all was well. Most of the gas had passed.

He will live. Hopefully for a long, long time.

Hopefully, long enough for me to figure out how I will handle it when he goes.

Nick told me I shouldn’t write this, it’s too depressing. So, I’m sorry if I’m a wet-blanket on your sunny Tuesday, but maybe this little diatribe will remind you to hug your fur-babies while you have them.

And don’t take any moment for granted.

There’s always time for another hike or another game of fetch or a simple snuggle before bed.

Thanks for reading!

If you’d like to know more about my writing, blogs, books, and upcoming appearances, visit CaraWrites.com. I’d be thrilled if you followed me on Facebook, twitter, or Instagram. You can sign up for my monthly newsletter (in which I always give something away to a random subscriber!) right here.

I’d love to hear from you in the comments of this blog or by email at carasueachterberg @ gmail.com

If you’d like to know more about OPH and how you can volunteer, donate, foster, or adopt (Gala is STILL waiting!), visit OPHRescue.org.

And finally, if you’d like more regular updates of foster dogs past and present (and probably a few Frankie pictures!), be sure to join my Facebook group, Another Good Dog.

Have a wonderful week!

Blessings,

Cara

Just in case (like me), you can’t get enough, here’s a couple more pictures of my new baby….and my latest adventure with Gala….

Gala was my assistant book fairy this past week in celebration of Hide-a-Book day. Here’s the post about it, and here are a few pictures from our adventure:

    Foster fail = buyer's remorse or scaredy-cat adopter? My perfect puppy. #rescuefosteradopt You know how parents tend to overreact with their first kid? How they immediately assume the worst-case scenario so that every funny bump is cancer and every new word means their child is destined to win a Pulitzer?

[angelinteractivestories]

Harbinger of Rot - Part 2

You enter the village to find everyone essentially ignoring you. They are living their own lives, paying no mind to each other much less you. Many of them appear to be farmers or travelers who have just stopped here for the time being. The bazaar is bustling around quite a bit. You look down at yourself. You know you need a new outfit. But it strikes you that you have no money and no way to earn any.

Odd jobs Asking around for any odd jobs most people give you an odd look before hurrying off on their business. Weren't countryfolk supposed to be more hospitable? You have an odd itching that was supposed to be true. Eventually some people do respond. A young girl, a teenager, and an old woman. Old woman She brings you to her house and slowly leads you down into her basement. It's been hollowed out of the dirt and left there. Some stonework has been laid down here and there but it's all very shoddy. "There's a demon down here," she states very boldly.

"And I am supposed to..?"

"Get rid of it!" She slams the door behind her, returning to the fresh air above. Well you're down here with a supposed demon.. Examine the stonework. The stone work is all set into place. It appears to have been like this for quite some time now. The basement must be much older than it actually looks. On the farthest wall from the entrance you find a small section of stone that appears to have some chalk markings on it. Most of them have been worn away but you get a sense of foreboding from it. Nothing sinister, though. Just energy spilling forth. Very peculiar indeed.

Leave and lie You wait a few moments to increase the believeability of your story and exit. "There, done. It was just a lesser-demon. Even weaker than an imp." ...The words come out of your mouth before you can even think of what you're saying. Was that a factual statement, did your brain go faster than you could comprehend or.. Was it that voice controlling you again? The woman glances to the door and shoves a small leather purse into your hand. You can feel the warmth and hear the jingle of coins inside. "Thank you kindly." She shoos you away. Teen. You go to the teen. She's a young girl, can't be much older than seventeen. Her hair has been hacked at recently, leaving it an uneven mess just above her shoulders. You assumed she meant help on her family's farm but once you actually arrive you realize she did indeed mean Her farm. "I'm willing to pay you for the full day's work. I just need some help getting it going, this is my first season on my own."

Two open crates next to her house suggest she has already grown at least one healthy round. You could use the money, but perhaps its better for her to do it on her own. Sure. "Alright." The first task she sets you two is hoeing up half a new field. She gives you a pair of sturdy leather gloves so your hands don't blister you. It takes you the better part of three hours to finish up job with both of you meeting half way.

Afterward you're given seeds to help her plant. The seeds are thick and as wide as your palm but you have an easy time planting them. In your idle chitchat she mentions these are spice-umpkins. Currently, as you gathered from the little girl earlier, the only way to get them around here is in the wild. She's hoping if she can get some growing locally she can make a killing off of them. It isn't a bad plan, actually. Eventually you finish this as well.

"I can handle the rest myself if you want to go on. But I do appreciate any more help if you're willing to offer." Help more. "I'll help out. You said a full day's work, I won't feel right unless I put in what I get out." She smiles and allows you to help her. The sun is close to beginning its setting when you both finish. She brings you to her small hut of a home, offering you three fists of coins.

"Counted exactly to seventy-five. It's the most I can offer. I really appreciate this." She gives you a bright smile. You smile back which seems to make her slightly uneasy but nothing too noticeable.

The bazaar. You make a dash to the bazaar, hoping to catch at least someone selling clothes so you can find something more comfortable. Most of the travelling merchants have packed up and moved on it seems. A few of the townsfolk who have permanent stalls are still milling about. You do manage to find two merchants, side by side, selling clothes. One of them are clothes of the homier design. Loose fitting, easy to work in, but don't offer much protection. The other is a balding monk who greets you even with his eyes shut when you approach. On top of clothes and robes he does offer a few chainmail pieces.

Bare minimum, just work clothes. The man greets you with a sage nod. You pick out a simple cotton shirt, much like your current, with slightly longer sleeves. It's soft. The pants you choose are roughly made but you can't exactly identify the material it's made of. You take them nonetheless. "Thirty pieces." You open your purse to fish out thirty of the silver coins. Holding them in your hands you notice the warmth earlier awsn't just the purse but the coins actually do generate heat on their own. How odd..

The man graciously takes them, allowing you to move away with your new clothes. Could you wait to change, or is it an urgent matter?

Sneak. You go to the outskirts of town, just behind one of the newer buildings, throwing off your old clothes. Looking down at yourself you notice your knees first. They had been aching a lot and looking at them you notice they're extremely bruised. Your elbows appear to be the same. Everything else seems to be fine as far as you can tell... You throw on the clothes without a second thought, leaving behind the ruined ones as you make your way to the tavern.

Entering in you're welcomed by a cacophonous roaring that can only be attained by those not musically inclined and far too drunk to care. It appears a band of adventurers off in the corner are the ones making the noise. Everyone else seems to have varying degrees of murder contemplation or enjoyment about their faces. to the owner You go to the person at the would-be bar, leaning against it. She gives you an acknowledging nod. "Would you happen to be the owner," you inquire. Her dark eyes glance up to you before throwing another nod. Not very talkative. ...You pause when you realize you weren't sure what you wanted to do. You hadn't drunk or eat anything since you first awoke on the beach. Yet you still felt no need to. What was it you wanted? A meal. "What do you have as ways of food around here?" Her face moves to fully acknowledge you now. Her eyes are still dark now that you see them fully and not in a glance. Her light hair is beginning to grey but it's hard to notice unless you're actively looking for it.

"Depends. What are you looking for? I have something to fill you up, I have stuff to just keep you going. And I have stuff to give you a wild ride."

Let's go on a ride. "Let's go on a ride."

"Fifty pieces." You drag the money out for her. This leaves you with a small surplus of twenty for necessities. Should work out fine. She motions for you to take your seat at the bar as she disappears around the corner for a moment. Within seconds she's back assuring you your meal will be ready momentarily. What can I expect? "What can I expect from this?" She just grins and lays her hands on the surface in front of you.

"It's different for everyone. Some say they see the face of their God. Others have told me they had their ancestors tell them how to live the rest of their life. And Old Jim, bless him, believed it was spiked with a fire-skin potion and threw himself into the fireplace. Of course he may have had problems before he ate it but you get me." Grin You flash her a grin of your own before the food is laid down in front of you. It's a small slab of pork from what you can tell. A purple spice has been sprinkled over it and the green beans that surround it. "Eat up." A quick breath and you dig in. The taste starts off heavenly but the more you eat the more you notice the taste fading away into what can only be described as expiring produce. You manage to finish the entire thing before the taste entirely overwhelms you.

You're sat there as she watches you. Nothing appears to be happening. Nothing "Nothing." The moment you open your mouth a brick wall slams into your face. Literally. You're vision blacks out for a quick moment before a red grain over takes it. Only seconds later has it returned but the room around you is.. different. No one is laughing anymore. They're all silent. Staring at you with their cold, unmoving sockets. 'What have you done?' The scratchy voice from before is back in your head.

Your breathing is accelerating. Whispers are spreading around you. 'You fool!' You try to move your hand, noticing the skin feels rubbery around the bones. How do you feel your bones? Flashes of faces. Smiling, laughing, crying... They all look so familiar. Part of you wants to return to them. You're terrified. Or half you is. The other half is screaming to kill, to devour flesh. Your mind is split in two. Calm down You try to calm down, taking deep and slow breaths. Bubbles are now appearing from your breaths. Are you underwater? The tavern fades away and you find yourself surrounded by a green viscous liquid. 'Is this your attempt to get free?' You aren't sure how to respond so you don't. 'Or are you just that dumb?' The remark stings. More than it should you believe.

'Sleep.' You feel yourself hit a hard surface before you pass out. That night your dreams are filled with the faces from before. Why do they all look so familiar? Something wasn't right. About this dream, about you. Why were your knees and elbows so bruised? Even in the dream you could see them. Why did they always hurt when you stay still?

...You wake up in a warm bed. Sit With small effort you sit up in the bed. The room is tiny at worst, small at best. Your clothes are laid out in a small chair next to you. Why were you undressed? Trying to recall the night before you are only assailed with memories of the visions. Instead you try something more productive and stand up slowly. You seem steady enough to walk… Get dressed You dress yourself once again, still perplexed as to why anyone would undress you before putting you to bed. Surely that would be much more of a hassle than it was worth? Stepping out of the room you find Yourself entering a small hallway with the dining room at the nearest end. Stepping out the owner yells at you, waving you over. "I have to apologize about last night, I didn't realize you'd react like that. The room is free of charge." Thanks. What happened? You nod your thanks, rubbing your head. "What happened?"

"You started screaming 'get out of my head', and 'I want to go back'. All kinds of shit, then you fell over and hit your head on the bar and passed out." She pauses for a moment nodding to herself.

Thanks for the room.

"Thanks for the room." Without any further interaction you leave the room. What do you do now? You're in a small, homey village, no idea who you are. A voice in your head, insulting you and controlling you. Weird visions in your dreams… Stay here. Maybe the teen would like a farming partner. With no recollection of who you are and violent psychotic voices in your head you decide it's best to settle down and try to figure yourself out. You seek out the teen girl from before who welcomes you on her farm with a healthy bellow and a wave. At the time she was watering the crops you two had planted the day before. "What can I do you for?"

"I have no real place to go, and was wondering.." You sigh, motioning to the small area she called a farm. "I can help you out with the farm. Two of us can get exponentially more work done. Hell, I'll even build myself a house or a bigger one for us both if you want." The offer seems to tempt her but she is wary, looking you up and down.

"Expect to be paid?" You shake your head. "Against my better judgement, sure." She offers you her gloved hand which you take with a hearty shake. ask if she wants to stay separate You leave her to the crops and go off to start gathering materials, stopping in your tracks when you realize she never specified earlier. "Want me to build my own hut, or build a house for the both of us?" In speaking it hits you that it may be a good idea to just build a small hut for yourself and then start building some utilities like a well or a barn for the farm.

"I'll leave that up to you!" Hut.

You decide it would be better to just build a hut for now. Would cutting down trees at random be fine? Was there even laws to things like that out here? It would be better to check, you suppose. It takes you about an hour of asking around before you're directed to an old man who is supposed to be the mayor for him to just verify what you thought and you are allowed much wood you need as long as you gather yourself. But he did ask that you replant any seeds you come across so that the trees may repopulate themselves. Simple enough.

large n sturdy

About two hours searching along the edges of the woods finds you with a large, sturdy tree that towers above the rest. It's wood would most likely do for your hut and a good amount into that barn you wanted to make. With the axe the teen lent you you start to chop away. Thunk, thunk, thunk goes the wood.

Focus.

You focus on the chopping and cutting. Time is flowing by before your very eyes as you go. You start early morning and the sun is setting when the tree begins to lean and eventually comes down. You're tired to your bone. It was the best idea to leave the tree here and come back to continue tomorrow. But you could hack some branches away for a fire tonight. Doesn't hurt.

take some branches

You hack and tear away a good haul of branches to bring back with you. By the time you're there the moon is beginning to rise above the tree line. You see the girl sitting next to a small fire already, munching away at something she must have cooked. You throw down the branches in a small pile next to the hut and take your seat across the fire from her. "Got you a tree going?"

"Mhm."

What's your name? "If we're going to be living together, could I get your name?"

"Call me Ang*. What's your name, friend?" You couldn't remember, admittedly. But if you're making yourself a new life, may as well give yourself a new name.

Til.

"Til. The name is Til." She nods to you with a smile. You can't help but return the smile.

"I'm going to sleep." Ang enters her hut without even so much as a second glance to you. You stare into the fire and think to yourself. You were starting a new life and it was going well so far. But why were you so sorrowful? Being alone in silence the visions from the night before began to scratch at the back of your mind again. You fall asleep that night with thoughts of yourself. Who you were, who you are, and who you are going to be.