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fortheloveofwonderland · 4 months ago

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Rusty | Chapter 20 | S.R

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A/N - this chapter gets dark. Spencer is suffering from a full on break and grows suicidal. Please proceed with caution. This one ends on a cliffhanger, sorry not sorry.

Summary - While you set out on a mission to help Spencer, despite the personal risk, Spencer spirals further into darkness.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - extreme dissociation, swearing, drinking, mentions of past rape, brief mention of oral (m receiving), vomit, blood, self harm, suicide attempt.

WC - 6.4k

Nearly two hundred and fifty some miles and four sweaty buses later you found yourself in a nondescript alleyway sandwiched between a bodega and a dry cleaners on the outskirts of Las Cruces, New Mexico.

Despite the heat you pulled the hood of the sweatshirt you’d purchased higher over your head, obscuring your face as much as possible. The wanted posters were everywhere, you couldn’t be too careful.

You’d bought supplies and treated your arm wound as best you could and it had at least stopped bleeding. It was one less thing to worry about.

It was some eighteen hours since you’d watched Spencer, or whoever he was at the time, leave the barn in the middle of the desert that you’d been hiding in to continue his hunt for you.

You could have kept running, you no doubt should have kept running. But you knew leaving Spencer this way would result in his complete and utter spiral into the blackest depths of destruction. You couldn’t just leave him to his own demise.

Despite it all, you loved him. It wasn’t his fault these things were happening to him, it wasn’t a testament of who he was as a person. It was a manifestation of a lifetime of trauma and you needed to get him some help.

And there was only one person for that job.

It wasn’t until you were almost an hour outside of Tombstone that you even realised you had Spencer’s phone. There were only a handful of numbers saved to the device and one in which you knew could be the answer to his problems.

However, if you were to help Spencer you would ultimately need to sacrifice yourself.

You’d weighed up the pros and cons religiously on one of your bus journeys. You’d known for some time you would do just about anything for Spencer, the fact you’d stuck around after he hit you was proof enough of that.

But did you love him enough to put him before yourself? Because in order to help him, you were effectively ending your own life.

In the end the decision had been a relatively easy one. Spencer would no doubt end up dead at his own hands if you left him like this and no matter how far you ran you would never outrun that kind of guilt.

And so here you were now, ready to surrender yourself in return for Spencer’s well being.

At first when you’d called that number in his phone it hadn’t rang, simply beeped each time you’d hit the call button. After a few attempts you realised the number had been blocked.

Once you’d gone through his settings and unblocked the number it rang five times before a frantic voice answered.

“Spencer? Oh my god Spence!”

“Uh, not exactly…listen I need your help and I don’t know who else to ask. I'm a…friend of Spencer’s and I think he’s come off of his meds. He’s in a bad way. I need your help.”

You hadn’t had to go into detail, hearing Spencer was in trouble was enough for them to come running.

You’d chosen Las Cruces as a meeting place as it was far enough away from Tombstone that should they not help you and you managed to get away, you wouldn’t compromise the little safe haven.

Their flight arrived an hour ago, they’d text you on Spencer’s phone and you’d given them the meeting spot. They should be here any minute.

You held the revolver in your hand, hoping to not have to use it but knowing you’d need some leverage. As soon as they saw your face, the one plastered on wanted posters across the country, they’d be ready to drag you in.

But Spencer was the priority here, you needed them to hear you out before slapping you in cuffs.

You heard a car roll past and soon come to a stop. Then the sound of a car door opening and closing. You held your breath when the sound of footsteps entered your ears and levelled the gun towards the entrance of the alleyway.

He appeared like an apparition, shrouded in an almost ethereal glow from the sunlight streaming in behind him.

His footsteps were heavy on the ground as he started towards you, back stiffening when he saw the gun in your hand.

Your face was obscured by the hoodie, pulled closely round your head. You needed to make a few things clear before he knew who you were.

His hand went to his holster, palming the butt of his own firearm but not drawing it. He dared to step closer, out of the light and his image came into view.

Luke Alvez stepped towards you, his brow furrowed deeply and his lips puckered. He stopped a few feet in front of you, eyes trained on the revolver in your hand.

“You called me,” he spoke, one hand still on his holster, the other in the air in surrender. “Do we need the gun?”

“For now, yes.” You replied stiffly. “I need you to make a deal with me before I can put it away.”

“What kind of deal? I’m here for Spencer.”

“I need you to promise me you will help him first and arrest me later.”

Luke’s frown deepened as he tried to focus on your face beneath the hoodie to no avail. He gave you a cursory once over before his eyes landed back on the gun.

“Why would I arrest you? I don’t even know who you are.” Luke shrugged.

“Yes, Agent Alvez, you do.” You took a step closer, using your free hand to finally tug down the hood of your sweater and waited for Luke’s reaction.

It happened almost instantly. His eyes widened, almost bulging out of his head. His mouth fell open and the colour seemed to drain from his face. He drew his gun now, pointing it back at you in one swift move. You noticed his hand was shaking a little.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” he croaked, absolutely dumbfounded. His mind travelled back to Spencer’s Bandera ranch as he stared at you in disbelief.

“Is this the woman? I only saw her from the back. She coulda changed her hair? Is this her? She escaped from a max security facility a few weeks ago. Phil called me.”

“No. I’ve never seen this woman before.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me would you, Spencer? Because this woman is dangerous, and if you’re lying to me, that’s harbouring a fugitive. I don’t need to tell you that comes with a prison sentence.”

“I’m telling you Luke, I don’t know this woman. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Right, I’m just being paranoid I guess.”

Your lip twitched up at the corner in a wry smile and you stared him dead in the eye, not allowing him to see your fear. You swallowed down your nerves over all the ways this could go wrong and when you spoke, your voice held nothing but conviction.

“Hello Agent Alvez,” you clicked your tongue. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

***

Spencer Reid had finally lost his mind, of this he was certain. The last thing he remembered before finding himself in his library surrounded by hundreds of trashed books, was standing in the stable opening Luke’s gift.

He was bleeding, there was no surprise there. His shotgun was on the floor and there were three bullet holes in the wall.

His books had been torn from shelves, pages ripped from their spines and shredded to confetti. He found Copper in the bedroom and he cowered away from Spencer when he entered the room.

But you and his cell phone were nowhere to be found.

Judging by the time he’d been out for over half a day, his longest dissociation by far. Images came to him in flashes but he wasn’t sure if any of it was actually real.

A sprawling desert. Shotgun blasts. An abandoned barn in the middle of nowhere. Blood.

But the most disturbing part was the extremely distinctive voices of the ghosts in his head conversing with him as though it was perfectly normal.

“It was God’s will boy, don’t you ever forget it.”

“We were just protecting you, Spencie. She’s no good for us.”

“You were too weak to protect her, just like you were too weak to look after your mother.”

“You couldn’t save Maeve from me, what makes you think you can save her from yourself?”

“She would have made a much better sacrifice than you. Cyrus would have loved her.”

“Shut up! Just fucking shut up!” He yelled, hands flying to his head and eyes closing against the onslaught.

“She was cute, I’ll give you that. But she’ll never be me. Does it make you sick that after everything I put you through you’d still fuck me given half a chance? I saw it in your eyes when you had me up against the wall, it turned you on.”

“No, no! That’s not true. You make me sick, I’d never-”

“He would have let me too, if he thought it would save his previous Maeve. He let me kiss him, I always wondered what else he’d let me do.”

“That’s not true. I would not have crossed that line. I loved Maeve, I was just trying to protect her!” He rocked back and forth on the edge of the bed, clutching his head tightly.

“But you couldn’t protect her, the same way you couldn’t protect Y/N. Because you’re a goddamn weakling, Spencer! It’s why I left, I couldn’t stand what a pansy of a son I had.”

“Fuck you, dad. I’m not weak, not weak. You were the weak one. You left because you couldn’t handle moms illness.”

“You were pathetic and weak just like Tobias. It’s why Charles and I had to teach you a lesson. Both weak and both sinners.”

“No! You’re wrong! I’m not weak and I’m not a sinner! I’m nothing like Tobias!” He screamed to try to drown them out.

“Cyrus was so wrong about you.”

“No, please. Just leave me alone, please!” He whined, opening his eyes to a barrage of tears cascading down his cheeks.

“You did this to yourself, son. You’re just like your mother, thinking you know better than the doctors, coming off the medication that is meant to help you.”

“What have I done? Fuck, Spencer you’re supposed to be a genius!” He threw himself to his feet, ignoring the ache from the open wound in his thigh he’d yet to address.

He stormed back downstairs to the upturned library and the bottles of whiskey he kept in a hidden cabinet in one of the shelves. He grabbed one and unscrewed the lid.

“Once an addict, always an addict. Just like Tobias.”

“I’m nothing like him.” He whimpered, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a long sip.

“Just replacing one vice for another. Do you feel it, Spencer? Do you feel your cells dying as you decide to give up? You’re only proving my research.”

“I don’t want to die. And even if I did, your research was flawed. You used your parents as test subjects, your sample was biased.” He took another swig.

Where is Y/N? What happened and where did she go?

“She left your sorry ass just like everyone else.”

“Fuck you dad!” Spencer screamed into the void. “And fuck you Cat, Diane. Fuck you Merva. Fuck you Raphael, Tobias, Charles…whoever you are. Fuck you all! I need to find Y/N.”

“She’s never coming back, you scared the life out of the poor thing, Spencie.”

“I didn’t do anything! That was all you. What did you do to her?”

“We drove the devil away.”

“She wasn’t the devil!” Spencer spat, taking another, longer sip of the whiskey in the hopes that if he was drunk he wouldn’t hear their constant assault upon him. “Why is this happening? Why is this happening to me?”

“You’ve never been strong enough. You weren’t strong enough to fight me off were you?”

The new voice entering the fray caused Spencer to still, his heart skipping at least several beats. This voice was a thick Spanish drawl, husky from too many smokes. That particular voice haunted Spencer’s dreams and most of his waking moments too.

It was the voice of the ringleader, the aggressor and instigator in Spencer’s prison rapes.

Spencer’s whole body trembled, almost dropping the bottle on the floor as more tears scored harshly down his cheeks.

“P-please,” he whimpered. “Please not you too.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy what we did to you. We all saw how much you enjoyed it, cariño.”

The use of Luke’s old nickname in the voice of his rapist caused Spencer’s legs to buckle. He collapsed on the shredded paper on the floor, the whiskey bottle rolling from his hand and spilling its contents across the ripped pages.

“D-don’t call me that.” He cried, on his hands and knees in the destruction of books. “Please don’t c-call me that.”

“What’s the matter cariño? You always liked it when he called you it.”

“Because I loved him. Because when he said it, it was caring and kind and not evil.”

“What would you prefer, cariño?” The voice was overwhelming, casting all the others away. “Mi corazón? Mi Vida? Querido?”

Spencer sobbed, his whole body quaking. At some point or another Luke had called him all of those things and hearing them from the mouth of the man who destroyed that relationship was causing Spencer to spiral further than before.

“Te amo, Spencer.”

“No, no please stop it. It’s not fair!” Spencer wailed. “I loved him so much but I couldn’t be with him because of you! Because of what you and your goons did to me!”

He was crawling around on the floor with no destination. The voices all started talking at once, muttering and mumbling to each other, to him, and he couldn’t keep up.

The voices weren’t just in him, they were him. And he was them. Spencer was no longer a singular entity. He carried pieces of his ghosts, his abusers, his tormentors. He was one with them now.

There was no coming back from this. He may as well just lean into it.

***

When Luke Alvez’s phone bleated for his attention that morning he’d assumed it was the BAU trying to drag him away from the first blissful day off he’d had in weeks.

He’d been in the midst of receiving one of the most earth shattering blowjobs of his entire life, swaddled in the plush goose down duvet on Grant’s unnecessarily comfortable mattress.

His boyfriend - yes that’s what he was - lived in a little apartment a few blocks from Luke’s own although they spent all their free time together. It may have only been six months but Luke was already considering asking Grant to move in with him.

As long as he brings this stupidly comfy bed.

He’d been moments away from his orgasm when the ringing device rudely cut through his haze of pleasure.

It wouldn’t be the first time the BAU had demanded his attention while he’d been in the middle of sexual euphoria with Grant.

His head had been so foggy with his impending release when Grant came off of him with a little pop he had to blink a few times at the phantom name on his phone screen.

For a moment he was so bewildered by the sight of the ghost's name displayed in front of him that his whole body froze in abject horror.

Grant watched him curiously from the other side of the bed while his boyfriend paled a sickly colour. He knew it wasn’t the BAU.

“Spencer?” Luke breathed as he put the device to his ear. “Oh my god Spence!”

“Uh, not exactly…listen I need your help and I don’t know who else to ask. I'm a…friend of Spencer’s and I think he’s come off of his meds. He’s in a bad way. I need your help.”

The stranger using Spencer’s phone had gone on to ask him to come to Las Cruces, New Mexico, practically begging for his help. When he hung up he didn't know what to think. He’d ended the call by saying he didn’t think he could get involved.

Grant had moved to DC for him, Grant had moved to DC because even after one night together he’d decided Luke was worth that to him. But Spencer had easily been able to toss him aside after two years together.

He’d made a decision after Grant came to the east coast that he was finally done with Spencer. He was giving himself over entirely to his new fledgling relationship and he was going to stop pining over Spencer once and for all.

But then some mystery woman called him and he found himself thrown into turmoil.

Grant had been incredibly understanding and if it wasn’t for his insistence, Luke might not have gone.

But Grant had pointed out that it would only play on his mind and he would never forgive himself if something happened to Spencer. And although Grant wasn’t thrilled about him springing into action to help his ex, he knew it was something Luke needed to do.

So he’d called Spencer’s phone and spoke to the mystery woman once more saying he’d be on a flight as soon as he could. And then he’d called Emily.

Emily was equally as understanding as Grant, letting him take a few days to go and check on Spencer.

And so now here he was, in New Mexico, face to face with a woman he’d been obsessed with catching.

“You need to put the gun down right now. Come quietly and maybe I’ll see if I can cut you a deal for handing yourself in.”

You had your guns pointing at each other, neither of you relinquishing.

“I’ll be the one making deals, Agent Alvez. I need your help. Spencer has come off his meds and his brain is fracturing. I’m fairly certain he’s dissociating into multiple personalities. You are the only one who can help. Please?” You begged and you saw Luke falter a little.

“Why should I believe you?” He corrected himself. “This could just be some kind of trap.”

“What on earth would I have to gain by drawing you out like this? You didn’t know how to find me, you had no idea where I was. Why would I put myself in danger like that?” You scoffed.

You saw the cogs turning in his eyes, making sense of your words.

“Why would you put yourself in danger for Spencer?” He cocked an eyebrow at you.

“Because I love him.” You shrugged. “Getting him help is more important to me than my freedom. So if you come with me and you help him, I will go quietly. I will let you bring me in and I will spend the rest of my life behind bars. As long as Spencer is okay.”

Luke narrowed his eyes on you, scrutinising you in disbelief. It was understandable, you expected his scepticism.

“I swear this isn’t a trick.” You continued. “But I need you to help him before I cooperate with you. Let me take you to him, please? I don’t know what else to do.”

He was profiling you, you could only assume. He saw nothing but genuine care for Spencer in your eyes. You were here, prepared to give up your freedom so Luke would help Spencer.

But Luke was bred to be a cynic. If his time in the Rangers and as a fugitive hunter had taught him anything it was to trust no one.

If you did have an angle however, he couldn’t foresee what it would be. If you wanted him dead you would have shot him the moment he entered the alley, before he’d had a chance to draw his weapon.

But if Spencer really did need his aid, and Luke agreed to assist, what was to say you wouldn’t kill him after? Or at the very least make a run for it.

If he wanted to, he could shoot you in the arm, disable you long enough to cuff you and call Phil to help him extract you.

But the begging look in your eyes told him that Spencer really was in trouble. And he’d never be able to forgive himself if he turned his back on him.

“You’d do this for him? You’d really hand yourself over and go back to prison just so I’ll help him?” His hand holding the gun faltered.

“I would.” You nodded. “Luke, you know all about the magic that is Spencer Reid. I have no doubt you would have done anything for him too, am I right?”

“Yes.” He replied without hesitation.

“Then you know what I’m saying is true. He means more to me than my freedom.” As if to prove this point you cautiously lowered your gun.

You hoped the second you did so Luke wouldn’t be on you with cuffs. But the look on his face told you he believed you and you were sure he was going to help.

You tucked the firearm back in your waistband and held your hands up to show you posed no threat. You nodded at his own gun, silently telling him to do the same.

Luke’s jaw clenched, you saw the way it pulsed. His fingers flexed around the weapon before he slowly lowered it, carefully tucking it back in his holster.

For a moment the two of you stared at one another, a quiet understanding passing between you. You were both willing to put aside this forced vendetta between you for the sake of Spencer. For a brief window, the two of you were on the same side.

“Okay,” Luke huffed out after a few minutes of silence. “Where is he?”

“Tombstone.” You rolled your lip between your teeth.

“Arizona?” He baulked.

“You really think I was going to bring law enforcement to our doorstep before I knew I could trust you?” Your lip twitched at the corner.

“Ay dios mio.” He muttered under his breath. “I guess we better get going, that’s a long drive.”

“About four hours.” You nodded.

“Mierda.” He spat with a roll of his eyes. You could only assume given the conviction for which he said it that it was a curse word.

“I don’t speak Spanish but, sure.” You shrugged. “Shall we?”

Luke nodded his head, motioning for you to pass him first, probably so he could keep an eye on you in case you tried to run.

He led you to a black Escalade parked a little ways up the street which he unlocked from the button on the rental keys. You slid into the passenger's seat and Luke in the driver's side.

He started the engine and nodded his head towards the GPS display in the middle of the dash. You leant forward in your seat and tapped in the zip code of the ranch in Tombstone.

“This better not be some kind of trap.” Luke grumbled as he put the car in drive.

“Agent Alvez with all due respect, please just fucking drive.”

Luke huffed out a breath, hands clenching around the wheel but he did as you said, flicking the blinkers and checking his mirrors before pulling out onto the sleepy street.

You fell into silence and he switched on the radio to combat the awkward quiet. You stared out the window, only partially wondering what the fuck you were doing.

***

The thick and heavy scents of vomit and blood assaulted his nostrils before he’d even opened his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep, or being sick for that matter.

He peeled his face off of the floor, a rogue book page stuck to his cheek which he removed and tossed aside.

He blinked as he sat up, rubbing his eyes and taking in the annihilated library around him. His memory came in broken flashes but he couldn’t decipher what was real and what was imagined.

What he did know was there was a puddle of dried vomit near where he’d been laying, mostly bile as he hadn’t eaten much of anything since…well he had no idea how long it had been.

He wore only his boxers and t-shirt, his jeans were crumpled nearby in a pile of books of torn paper. Pulling his legs out in front of him he noticed several cuts of varying sizes littered all over his left thigh, covered in crusty blood.

The way his head throbbed told him he’d drank a lot, again, no surprise there.

And then he remembered with startling coherence that you were gone. He’d let his demons out to play and they’d driven you away.

A shotgun. A dry desert. Glass shards. Heavy breaths and violent heartbeats.

“I will find you princess, mark my words. I will find you.”

Silence hung heavy around him and for that he was grateful. The rush of voices were quiet for now, for the moment at least he was alone.

He’d kept a lid on those monsters that lived inside of him for so long but he knew now that they’d escaped they would be back sooner rather than later. He’d dealt with so much evil in his life but those six hellions were the ones with whom he’d suffered the most.

William. Tobias. Diane. Cat. Benjamin. And the man who had incited his prison rapes, who’s name he couldn’t even say inside his head.

He’d become them, and they him. They were so deeply sewn into the fabric of who he was as a person that they were now coming to life. He’d given them life. He fed them, nurtured them and he couldn’t just let them go. He’d brought this on himself.

It was an inevitable outcome of years of trauma combined with suddenly withdrawing from his meds and heavy alcohol consumption. He’d given them the tools to break free and he couldn’t be surprised that they’d done just that.

For now all he could do was relish in the quiet before they all came back at him full throttle.

Eat. Shower. Try and clean up this fucking mess. And then…

Then what? The obvious answer was to try and find you, figure out where you’d gone and if you were ever coming back. But how did he go about that? He couldn’t find his phone and you could have gone anywhere.

One thing at a time, Reid. Clean up the vomit. Clean up yourself. Food. Cleanse. Before they return.

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the way his new cuts howled as he moved. He forced himself towards the kitchen for cleaning supplies.

He barely made it to the sink before he felt an itching in the back of his head. No, not his head…his brain.

And then the voice made itself known, although he struggled to ascertain exactly what voice was assaulting him this time. He supposed it didn’t really matter.

“You can’t run from us, Reid. We’re a part of you now. We all took pieces from you that you’ll never get back. This is your life now. You’re stuck with us. Until the bitter end.”

***

Luke drove at a frightening pace, his foot hugging the accelerator. His hands held the wheel in a white knuckle grip, monopolising the far left lane and overtaking almost every car on the road.

Aside from the radio station filtering into the car, the two of you were silent. You could see the internal battle waging within Luke, the good versus evil debate.

You were evil, you knew that’s how he saw you. But you were trying to do good by Spencer and because of this, Luke didn’t know how to feel towards you.

You felt bad for dragging him into this. From the little you knew of him he seemed like he was a nice guy, a guy who would clearly do anything for the love of his life, who was also the love of your life.

But he would get his reward in the form of getting to take you in, he would be the one to arrest you once Spencer was safe from himself. It was a sacrifice you were willing to make to keep him from harm's way.

After miles of highway landscape zooming before your eyes, you sucked in a breath and turned to Luke in your chair.

“So, uh, how are things with your cowboy?”

Your words caused him to stiffen more so than he already was. His fingers somehow gripped tighter against the wheel.

“Grant. His name is Grant.” He replied, his voice monotone.

“Right,” you smiled to yourself. “My question still stands.”

“Why do you care?” He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.

“We’re gonna be stuck in this car for at least another three hours, maybe less given the speed you’re gunning it. But I thought I’d try and make conversation.” You shrugged.

Luke chewed on the inside of his cheek, weighing up his options. He knew you were right, as much as he didn’t want to engage you. It would be an incredibly long journey trapped in silence.

“It’s, uh, it’s good. He’s great, he makes me feel like I might finally be able to get over Spencer.” He confessed, unsure why he was telling you this.

“And, ya know, he’s super easy on the eyes.” You chuckled, only just refraining from saying what a good kisser he was. That would have no doubt caused Luke to swerve off of the road if he found out that tidbit of your past.

“He really is.” Luke relaxed a little, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I only know the bare bones about your break up with Spencer, but for what it’s worth I know he still thinks about you. I know he loves me, but I also know a part of him will always love you.” You sighed.

Luke tensed again, his jaw set and his back stiffened against the chair once more. He squared his shoulders like he was gearing up for a fight.

“I don’t think I needed to know that.” He huffed. “I’m crazy about Grant but if Spencer told me tomorrow he wanted me back I would drop everything for him. Kinda like I did when you called and said he was in trouble.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it.” You spoke softly. “He’s a force unto himself. He’s magnetic, irresistible. Hell, I’m willingly letting you arrest me when this is all over just to ensure his safety. It’s kinda infuriating how he makes it so easy to fall in love with him.”

“It kinda is.” Luke agreed with a wry smile, giving you a sidelong glance again. “Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“Twelve times.” He swallowed. “You shot him twelve fucking times.”

“I did.” You nodded, rolling your lip between your teeth. “And I’ll tell you something, Agent Alvez, I’d do it again too. I’ll admit twelve shots was excessive but if I hadn’t killed him, he would have killed me. He put me and my mom through hell and he deserved what he got.

“Tell me something, Agent. If you could get your hands on the men who abused Spencer in prison, would you hold back? Despite the oath you took, would you be able to steal yourself if confronted by them? Because I don’t think you could. They hurt someone you love and I think, like me, you’re fiercely protective of the people you love. So tell me, would twelve bullets even be enough?”

He felt your eyes on him, heavy and imposing. He swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his flesh. He didn’t owe you the truth but he gave it to you anyway.

“There wouldn’t be enough bullets in the world if I ever came face to face with them.” He confessed, his jaw tight as he did so.

“I know you hate me, I know I’m some kind of thorn in your side. But I think that animosity stems from the fact that you understand why I did what I did, and it pains you to think that way because you’re an officer of the law. You vowed to protect and serve, to uphold the laws of this country and ensure justice. But justice isn’t always rewarding.

“I could have called the cops on Sayers, I could have testified and had him put in prison. But as long as he was breathing it would never be over. The same way that while Spencer’s rapists are still alive it will never be over for you. I get that you have a job to do and as promised, if you help Spencer I will go quietly into the good night. But you know you agree with what I did, and that’s why you’ve let my escape consume you.”

You were right and it was proven by the tight pulse of his jaw and the squeezing of his hands against the leather wheel. He didn’t speak to confirm it, he didn’t need to.

The truth was, and Alvez knew it well, that we all harbour a darkness inside of us. He’d kept his well hidden for the most part, but it had come clawing to the surface after Spencer’s incarceration and his face off with Mr Scratch.

When he found out of the true horrors of Spencer’s time in prison, it was impossible to swallow it down again. Ever since it had ebbed just below the surface, ready to be unleashed at any moment.

The very same way yours had when you’d confronted your step father.

As much as he wanted to blame you for what you’d done, he couldn’t because that would make him a hypocrite. You’d taken your revenge on the man who’d hurt you in the same vein Luke wished to seek justice on the men who had raped Spencer.

Of course, he didn’t admit as much out loud. Instead the two of you fell back into that terse silence as you continued on your way to find Spencer.

He only hoped the younger man hadn’t succumbed to his demons in a way that would make it impossible to cloy him back from his own treacherous darkness.

***

The gentle caress of the too hot water tingled his fraught limbs and provoked his open wounds. His sensitive flesh groaned beneath the heat that threatened to encompass him.

The weightlessness of his body sunk deeper in the watery folds, allowing it to rise above his ears in an attempt to cast himself into silence.

It didn’t work. You couldn’t quiet the voices that lived in your head.

“This is a coward's way out. I always knew you were weak.”

“What’s the matter, Spencie? Can’t handle a few little ghosts?”

“And to think we thought you’d be our ultimate sacrifice.”

He descended deeper, the water covering his eyes, barely reaching his nose. He took a few breaths, readying himself for the end.

“Ohh you think Maeve will be waiting for you on the other side? Pur-lease. You’re a sap, I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

“We broke you good, didn’t we? Shame really, even under duress you gave great head.”

“Shut up, just shut up.” He whined, his own voice distant in his water logged ears.

He slid lower with one final breath, letting the scalding water submerge him, maybe even cleanse him. Little bubbles formed on the surface as he instinctively tried to breathe.

Don’t fight it, Reid. Just let it happen. Death has got to be better than this.

He opened his eyes beneath the water, blurry visions of his ceiling would be the last sight to meet his eyes.

His uncontrollable breathing forced water into his lungs, burning his chest, like a flame ripping right from within him. It was shredding, tearing him apart as his brain instinctively fought for a breath he wouldn’t allow.

“Sinner, I told you so. Suicide is the ultimate sin. You will endure his wrath, boy.”

It was a similar breathlessness he’d grown all too accustomed to in his life. When his dad left and he became responsible for his mothers care. When Tobias literally killed him only to bring him back to life.

When Diane Turner took her life and Maeve’s in one single bullet while Spencer could do nothing but stare in abject horror. When he came face to face with Cat again after his release. When Merva held his blade to his throat, readying Spencer to be his three hundredth victim.

When that man and his cronies crept into his cell and forced him to his knees time after time.

The oxygen was fleeing his brain rapidly, everything was becoming hazy around the edges as though looking at the world in soft focus.

Thoughts and voices coalescing, drifting, fading. Soon it would be dark, soon the sounds would disappear entirely and he would finally be alone.

You won’t win, I won’t let you. I would sooner die than walk among you for another second.

An eerie yet peaceful smile pulled at his lips. Any minute now and it would all be over.

“You think killing yourself makes you a martyr? You think this means you win? Jeez for a so-called genius you really are dumb, huh Spencie?”

“Are your cells giving up? Can you feel it?”

“Walk towards the light, join us in our sacrifice.”

“And you said I was the weak one? What the fuck would your mother think of this?”

“The one who sins is the one who will die. The child will not share the guilt of the parent, nor will the parent share the guilt of the child. The righteousness of the righteous will be credited to them, the wickedness of the wicked will be charged against them.”

Ezekiel 18:19 verse 20. I told you I could recite the bible.

“Such a shame to waste such a skilled and pretty mouth.”

Shut up. Shut up. God-fucking-damnit you can all just shut the fuck…

His consciousness was waning, his brain cells dying. It wouldn’t be long before he suffered irreversible anoxic brain damage. Death was upon him, his fiery talons reaching from the depths to come and take him away.

Yes, please. P-please. This has to e-end. I’m ready for t-the end.

Seconds before Spencer Reid surrendered to the ethereal glow of death, something flickered in his blurry field of vision.

Moments before everything turned dark he swore he saw a figure appear above the haze of water. But before he could register it, the lack of oxygen closed in around him and he let himself fade away into the abyss.

@kalulakunundrum @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3 @prettyboyandthefangirl @zooni92802 @babyspiderling @pleasantwitchgarden@ @djsjjsjsjsjsnsnsns @bringitonhomejohnb

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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kelcemenow · 1 year ago

Text

Drive Me Crazy - Chapter 1.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader

Words 682

Warnings Nothing at all!

Huge thank you to the Anon who sent this in! They had such amazing words to say about my writing which I massively appreciate and then to top it off, had an incredible request for me! I only have experience with mechanics in the UK, so I've tried my best with this one! "I just recently got interested in Travis K. X reader stories and wanted to let you know, I read all of yours as quickly as I could. They are so well done and I couldn’t help but laugh/giggle and feel through each word you typed out. You’re doing amazing and I’m so glad to have stumbled onto your page. If you have any space for a request, I’d be curious about what Trav would think about having a military (like fighter pilot) or engineer or mechanic girlfriend. I see a lot of stories with him paired with models/singers/social media individuals (which are phenomenal!) but just wondering how he would be with a more tomboy like girlfriend!"

CHAPTER 1

You wiped the beads of sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, grabbing your water bottle with the other and slowly gulping down the cool liquid. Taking a deep breath, you closed the hood of the car and gave Jordan a nod of your head to signal that you were finished.

"Thanks, Y/N." He said as he made his way towards you, "I knew you'd figure it out."

"Don't sweat it. You almost had it, bro." You smiled, wiping your hands on the towel that hung from your waistband.

"You're the best." He grinned as he got into the car and started up the engine with ease.

The purring of the motor combined with the sounds of the drills and hydraulics pierced through your ear and although you were used to them, a slight headache was looming. You headed to the small garage office, massaging your temples on the way.

The office door was battered and covered in grease from years of being pushed open by dirty hands, and as it swung open, you were greeted by a smiling face.

"Hey honey!"

"Hey Dad." You said wearily as you pulled open one of the drawers of the desk.

"Oh dear." He groaned, "What's up? That Chevy pushin' against you?"

You shook your head gently as you picked up the bottle of Aspirin, "No, no...I finished it."

"That's my girl."

"Just...I didn't sleep great last night and I got a migraine coming on." You tipped out a couple of tablets into the palm of your hand before popping them into your mouth.

"I'll steer clear of you today then...I wouldn't want to poke the bear." He joked as he opened the door, disappearing onto the shop floor.

"Ha ha." You said flatly, swallowing the Aspirin with a mouthful of water.

The bell above the front door rang and you turned around, plastering a fake smile on your face.

"Good mornin', sir. How can I-"

"Yeah, can I speak to a car mechanic, please?" His eyes were stuck to the phone screen in his hand.

You quietly cleared your throat, clearing away your immediate frustration, "Well, lucky for you, sir, I am one."

The man in front of you looked up and paused, blinking a couple of times before his mouth dropped open, "Oh, I'm so sorry, ma'am."

"Happens all of the time." Your lips curled slightly into a smile, "What can I help you with?"

His eyes darted across your dishevelled appearance, almost narrowing with curiosity as he looked at you. Your hair was pulled back and a colourful scarf was covering your hair as best you could. You were wearing one of your Dad's old band shirts, grease and oil stains adorning any space they could and your navy blue coveralls were pulled down and tied at your waist to relieve you from the blistering heat. You blew a rouge piece of hair away from your face and waited patiently as he reached for his keys and gently placed them on the desk in front of you.

"My uhh...car. I was driving down the highway and...it just-" He stumbled.

You slid the keys closer to you, "I'll take a look."

He ran his hands through his beard, "Thank you. And can I please apologise for what I said? Today is not my day and I just-"

"Honestly, it's really not necessary. Like I said, it happens all of the time. Mechanic isn't really a 'typical career' for a woman." You bent your fingers in the air as you spoke, reciting words that you had heard many times before.

The man exhaled a laugh, his eyes gentle yet piercing, "I gotta say, it's pretty impressive. I'm useless when it comes to stuff like this."

You smiled, an uncomfortable silence filling the room.

"So, if I could take your number and I'll call you later today?"

"Uhh yeah." He mumbled, jotting the digits down on the pad positioned next to your hand before turning back to the door. "And I'm sorry...again."

"It's fine..." You glanced down at the pad, "...Mr Kelce."

______________________________________________________________

I know I said that I was going to carry on with requests before diving into another series but this one was too good not to make into a little series so I'm doing it and no one can stop me! This first part is just setting the scene really so I hope I've piqued your interest! If you want to be included in my Taglist for any future chapters, just let me know!

Taglist @rd14 @dandelionwrites8 @keiva1000 @fantasywritersstuff @caelipartem @anacarangel @she-lives-in-her-dreams @kkrenae @kristencochefski1125 @countrygirl120983 @charmed2000 @nouis-bum @cixrosie @delicateearthquakellama @wordsaresimple-imnot @amylouwho9 @queenisa17 @talicat713 @luvvtrent @purecinnamonextract @savaneafricaine @caelipartem @beyxgrande @caitdaniels @ezgirl1108 @vir-tual @lightsoutstyles @macey234 @s294749w @kelcemesoftly @calirindo @livinginmyfantasies @bernelflo @secretmywritingfictionlawyer @killatravtramp @there-goes-thefighter @unicornblueberry @calirindo @tjkelce87 @kristinamae093 @kmc1989 @ajbird18 @triski73 @ctn26 @kgcaputo07 @abby-splace @bobthe-turmpetman29 @cedricbitch @jmamas92 @bellstwd @killatravsworld @marchmaiden @chimchimmarie @blackstabbath6 @fanficfanatic15 @jessiemariebarnes @mmb219 @vanwritesfan-fiction

#travis kelce x reader #travis kelce imagine #kelce x reader #nfl imagine #original story #travis kelce fic #travis kelce #travis kelce fluff #nfl fluff #travis kelce smut #travis kelce angst #nfl smut #nfl angst #nfl fic #kelcemenow requests

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samgirl98 · 1 year ago

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Wail of the Silent 3/?

Prev | Next

Danny took out his phone to see where he ended up.

“Park Row?”

He put away his phone to shield it from the pouring rain and took in the ambient ectoplasm in the air. The area he was saturated in corrupted ectoplasm. The shades and spirits here were darker and full of pain. It made the other areas of Gotham seem downright sunny by comparison.

Danny couldn’t pinpoint the spirit that had let out that ungodly wail, but he was determined to find them and help. Nobody deserved to be alone with those emotions ready to burst.

Now if he could only figure out which way to go…

“What the hell is that?”

In the distance, Danny saw a glowing purple shadow. Out of curiosity, and because he’s Danny, he followed it. Danny couldn’t get closer to the shadow, no matter how much or fast he flew.

Eventually, he ended up in front of an old building that seemed abandoned. There was a horde of spirits around the building. All the spirits turned at the same time to look at Danny.

They all used their core at the same time.

Help him, the cores hummed; he’s the avenger of the dead. He protects the living. Help him move on like he’s helped us.

All the spirits disappeared, and the street got eerily quiet. Danny stared at the building. The building was full of gloom and despair, even with the other spirits gone. Danny took an unneeded grounding breath and entered the building.

In complete contrast to the outside, the inside of the building was new and clean.

The feeling of despair was stronger, and Danny gagged at the corruption around him. How did any ghost survive this way?

Danny didn’t talk out loud. He let his core hum and project feelings of reassurance and acceptance.

(The spirit felt lonely and rejected.)

Danny floated to the second floor and looked around the rooms. The first one had a bunch of computers and wrappers strewn all over the floor. Danny floated into the next room and found it empty except for a bed and closet. He went into the closet. He found a secret door and went through it. Danny found a bunch of weapons that ranged from guns to swords and knives. There was also a red helmet that looked vaguely familiar, a suit that had a red bat on it and was made of a rigid material that was obvious protection.

It suddenly clicked. This is what Red Hood, one of the Bats, wore. Fuck!

Danny turned invisible and left the hidden room. He was about to leave when the feelings got even stronger. It felt like he had been suckered punch. Danny curled into himself and tried to keep himself from crying. How did anyone, human or spirit, deal with this? It was making Danny feel like he was going crazy!

Even though Red Hood was human, he was definitely feeling these negative emotions that were probably driving the man insane.

Danny stayed invisible and decided to let his core hum.

I’m here to help, it said, where are you?

Lonely, pain, I’M SO ALONE, the spirit yelled out.

Danny followed the screams and ended up in a living room. He saw a broken China cup on the small kitchen floor, a brown liquid cooling on it.

Danny followed the pain to the couch. He was shocked back to visibility.

Before him was another halfa. How? When? Why didn’t they know about this halfa?

The other halfa was crying. For some reason, he wasn’t making any noise. Honestly, if it weren’t for the pain coming from his (stunted, corrupted) core, Danny wouldn’t know what the man was saying.

A hum came from the man’s core. The hum was full of anguish, and Danny felt his heart and core go out for the other halfa.

Danny picked up the man and put went to the bedroom. He put the other halfa down and studied him with a critical gaze.

The man was wearing a thin pair of sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He had black hair with a white streak through it. His hair was plastered to his face, from tears or sweats, Danny didn’t know. (Maybe it was both.) His eyes were an ectoplasm green that was glowing with pain. He was tall but still shorter than Danny. He had muscles that spoke of training and strength. What got Danny’s attention were his scars.

His body was littered with them, but the one that angered Danny was the one on his throat. It had obviously been a deep wound and the likely reason the man didn’t make a sound even as his mouth opened in silent cries.

He was young, maybe the same age as Danny’s twenty years. Maybe a little older or a little younger. Danny didn’t know, but even without the other halfa’s core broadcasting the pain deep in the man’s soul, Danny could tell he had been through a lot.

Danny started humming through his core, making it as loud as possible.

Safe. I’m here. You’re safe.

The other halfa responded, tired, scared. Alone, so alone. Pain, pain, pain, PAIN!

Shh, he answered, I won’t leave.

Danny started chirping, hoping the melodies he was producing mixed with the humming and feelings of reassurance he was emitting would be enough to help the other halfa down. Danny stood there, keeping sentinel over the other halfa, chirping, and humming.

The other man would answer back, and eventually, his face relaxed from his pain.

The man looked at Danny in disbelief.

Pretty, he chirped, angel?

Danny wanted to laugh. Him pretty? An angel? Never!

Friend, he chirped back.

The man signed something, but Danny didn’t know sign language. ‘What a pity,’ he thought to himself.

The man stared at Danny, and Danny stared back.

Jason was dreaming. It was a good dream. The anguish he was feeling had calmed down some. It was more bearable. And he had an angel looking over him.

The angel had white hair that defied gravity and soft, glowing eyes. He knew he should be scared (they were the color of the Pits.), but the man was emitting chirps and hums that calmed Jason down. He had light blue skin and pointed ears. There were glowing freckles on his face that reminded Jason of starlights. They even twinkled in and out of existence like the stars in the sky. Jason didn’t know if he was imagining them, but it also looked like the freckles were clustered in the shape of constellations.

‘Are you an angel,’ he signed, ‘you’re very pretty.’

“Sorry, dude, I don’t know sign language.”

Jason felt a hum surrounding him like a soft blanket.

Friend, it said, safe. I hear you.

How? He asked. Jason was mute. How did the angel understand him?

Like me, he answered back, we’re the same.

Jason gave a silent snort. He was far from being an angel.

Jason heard a chirp and looked back at the mysterious being.

Rest, he chirped, I’ll be here to keep the nightmares away.

Please, Jason chirped back, I’m so tired.

Close your eyes. Sleep.

Jason let his eyes slide shut to the feeling of safety surrounding him.

Avenger, the spirits had called him. Protector. But who was here to avenge and protect the other halfa? No one. Well, Danny was going to fix that.

Miles away, still in Gotham but far from Park Row, Crime Alley, Batman was not having a good time.

First, the Penguin had been able to see him even as he hid in the shadows. Then he was hit by a few bullets. They didn’t pierce his armor, but they hurt like hell. Then the rain started pouring. Thunder boomed, and lightning danced in the sky, wiping away any evidence Batman could use on the Penguin.

(Lady Gotham was furious at the moment. Jason’s pain was making her fuse short on her Dark Knight. Batman wouldn’t die, no, but he would be punished.)

As Batman stared out at the city of Gotham, he couldn’t shake the feeling of despair he was feeling. He couldn’t go home yet; something big was going to happen.

(He didn’t know his son was close to losing his sanity.)

He had to protect his city.

(Gotham was too angry at Batman to appreciate her knight.)

In Crime Alley, Jason, a newly discovered halfa, slept for the first time in a long time with no nightmares. Hums filled the air around him. Finally, the silence was broken.

#wail of the silent #dc x dp #dp x dc

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turbotaxevasion · 7 months ago

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Psych, it's angst!!!

You guys have given me nothing but joy in creating this >:) Enjoy this little drabble giving Bernard even more issues!

As always, if you enjoy, you should check out my Ao3 :)

It wasn’t Bernard’s first time at a Wayne gala, having attended as a “friend” of Tim’s more than once. But it was the first time he was attending as Tim’s boyfriend – and he was loving it. Tim wouldn’t leave his side, a real, wide smile plastered on his face. And Bernard kept their arms looped together at all times, pressed against his boyfriend’s side. The night was going so well.

…

Too well.

…

It had to end eventually.

Gunshots rang through the air. Bernard was shoved to the ground behind an overturned table. Tim pressed up against him, hiding the two. He was breathing heavily.

“We need to go.” He sounded panicked. Not for himself, but for Bernard.

Bernard knew why. He knew all about Tim’s nightly activities. He shouldn’t have to be in that kind of danger outside of the suit.

“I’m staying.”

Tim whirled. He stared at Bernard. “What?”

“I’m staying. These people will need an EMT.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed, “one on the clock. You’re off tonight!” He could barely be heard over the screaming and gunfire.

“I’m. Staying.”

Tim was silent for a moment. Only a second or two. And then…

“Fine. But so am I.”

“... Okay.”

No sooner than Bernard had said it, a shot was fired. Tim jolted forward with a stuttered cough.

“Urk!”

He squeaked as he fell forward into Bernard’s arms. The blonde saw red blossom from Tim’s gray suit jacket, near his right shoulder blade. Bernard looked up. The muzzle of a gun met his gaze.

The masked man squinted, peering down at the young man in Bernard’s arms. He yelped as he was shoved to the side, gun spinning across the floor. A large man in a red helmet stood in his place, shielding Bernard and his boyfriend. Bernard stared up at the Red Hood with unseeing eyes. He was almost in a trance, cradling Tim’s very still body against his own.

The Red Hood glanced back at them and swore. The words were distorted through his helmet’s voice changer. Bernard could hear the words, though he felt he was underwater.

“O! I need an extraction!”

He was quiet for a bit, pointing his gun in the direction of the other attackers.

“No, it’s Tim. He’s been hit. Not in uniform.”

He holstered his gun, the screaming having gone quiet. The sound was lowered to a murmur, though Bernard hadn’t noticed until then. He was too preoccupied. He glanced back down at his boyfriend’s limp form. He squeezed just a little bit tighter, afraid Tim would fall to pieces if he let go.

Tim groaned. Bernard sighed, shoulders slumping low as he bent forward over his knees. Tim rested stomach down across his lap, the blood from his suit jacket still flowing. Bernard pushed Tim off to lay on the firm floor before ripping off his own suit jacket to apply pressure to the wound.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m so sorry.”

A rough gloved hand rested on his shoulder. He looked up, not letting up on the pressure of his hands.

“Nothing to be sorry for, kid.” The Red Hood looked down at him, eyes of his helmet glowing bright. “Hang tight ‘til your squad gets here. O called ‘em in.”

Bernard could do nothing but nod.

As he looked down again, he could hear nothing but his own thoughts. Red Hood’s words meant nothing when they weren’t true.

He had been the stubborn one.

He had insisted on staying.

It was his fault.

The flashing red of ambulance lights illuminated the walls. A wailing siren pierced the night.

“My fault,” he whispered.

#comics #tim drake #dc comics #batfam #bernard dowd #dc batman #dcu #fanfic author #fanfic writing #fanfic

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hayleyservatius · 1 month ago

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Our client’s original kitchen just wasn’t hitting the mark—it felt cramped, lacked storage, and didn’t quite fit their style.

Their wish list? Sophisticated lighting, a larger island, more pantry space, and a modern, clean-lined aesthetic.

Challenge accepted! 🙌

The space received a total refresh—adding a waterfall edge to the oversized island, a pantry that now has storage for days, and an open layout that flows effortlessly into the family room and casual dining space.

We also added custom cabinetry, sleek hardware, contemporary lighting, paneled appliances, and a stunning plaster range hood.

The whole design came together with a beautifully curated palette that’s chic and functional. ✨

What was once a cookie-cutter kitchen is now a bright, modern, and storage-packed hub.

#home interior #interior #interior design #interior decorating #interiors

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zeciex · 1 year ago

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A Vow of Blood - 38

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 38: Wine and Company

AO3 - Masterlist

Night had draped its dark cloak over the room, and Daenera found herself nestled among a sea of plush pillows and soft blankets on her bed. Her delicate fingers idly tugged at a loose string hanging from the hem of her nightgown. Beside her, Joyce meticulously tied the final knots on Daenera’s silk headdress, a simple yet effective solution to keep her freshly washed and combed hair from becoming unruly overnight. It was a trick of the trade she had learned from Baela and Rhaena many years ago, and it never failed to work its magic.

“Would you like another cup of night tea?” Joyce inquired, her voice gentle and soothing as she addressed the quiet, sullen princess.

Daenera shook her head, her expression a blend of weariness and resignation. “No, thank you.”

“Try and get some rest,” Joyce urged, her touch gentle as she squeezed Daenera’s shoulder, attempting to offer her some solace. She then discreetly placed a vial of valerian root extract on the nearby side table, seemingly a silent plea for the princess to take it. The valerian root extract had a calming effect and would guide her into a peaceful slumber. The challenging day that awaited them demanded a well-rested princess.

Daenera’s weary gaze drifted towards the small blue vial of sleep-inducing potion, sitting there as if it were an unspoken challenge. She was acutely aware of the benefits of taking it, but something within her resisted reaching out for it. Instead, she continued to absentmindedly fiddle with the errant string on her nightgown, the soft sounds of Joyce’s preparations for the morning serving as a backdrop.

A profound stillness enveloped the room, laden with an almost oppressive quietude. It hung in the air like a heavy shroud, a canvas for restless thoughts to paint their vivid, often disconcerting, images. The silence seemed to constrict her, threatening to unleash a tumultuous storm of thoughts.

This stifling atmosphere was suddenly shattered by a knock on her door, promptly followed by the creaking protest of the door itself as it swung open. Daenera couldn’t discern the visitors from her position, but she presumed it to be Joyce.

“I told you, I’ve had enough night tea,” Daenera retorted with a smirk, her voice playful if not a little exasperated. “One more cup, and I might just pissed the bed overnight.”

A soft, melodious laugh rang out as Rhaena’s face peered around the corner, her cascading silver locks resembling glistening ice in the room’s subdued lighting. Following her lead, Baela emerged, a playful glint dancing in her eyes, clutching a flask of wine and three cups in her hands.

Baela couldn’t resist a teasing jab, her smile mischievous. “It’s a good thing we have not brought you tea then. However, we can’t make any promises about you waking up without a splitting headache.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, a grin plastered across her face. “A headache I can handle.”

“You might still piss the bed though,” Rhaena quipped with a laugh.

The twins exchanged triumphant grins before venturing into Daenera’s bed chambers, both donned in their own comfortable nightgowns. Baela had her silver locks enveloped in a silk scarf much like Daenera’s, while Rhaena’s hair was tucked beneath a loose hood.

With practiced ease, they joined Daenera on the bed, making themselves at home.

Baela took the lead, pouring generous cups of wine for each of them, their little gathering promising both comfort and companionship.

Daenera accepted the cup, bringing it to her lips for a hearty sip. The wine carried a delightful spiciness, eschewing the excessive sweetness, which suited her taste perfectly.

Baela, propped up on an assortment of pilfered pillows, lounged across the bed with a relaxed air around her. Rhaena, on the other hand, leaned gracefully against the bed’s end, her presence exuding a sense of calm refinement.

“We figured some company might be in order, just in case the servant finds you scaling the walls come morning,” Baela quipped with playful concern.

Daenera nodded in gratitude, her fingers tracing the delicate patterns etched into the wine cup’s surface. The twins’ presence was a welcome distraction from the impending nuptials.

Rhaena, ever the perceptive one, posed the question, “Are you feeling nervous?”

The teasing edge in Baela’s voice couldn’t be missed as she chimed in, “Of course, she’s nervous. Tomorrow is her wedding day. I’d be shocked if she weren’t a bundle of nerves. Besides, she’s marrying a giant.”

Rhaena responded to her sister’s jape with a light smack on the shoulder, conveying her disapproval. Daenera couldn’t help but laugh. Despite their striking similarities, the twins also possessed distinct qualities. Rhaena embodied grace and subtlety, while Baela, though graceful, had a sharp directness about her.

In Daenera’s eyes, Baela took after Daemon, while Rhaena bore a resemblance to Laena.

Daenera let out a sigh, her vulnerability showing in her voice as she admitted, “I am nervous.”

“Rhaena, ever the soothing presence, offered words of comfort. “Nervousness is perfectly natural. In fact, it would be quite unusual if you weren’t feeling this way. What is he like?”

Daenera contemplated for a moment, ehr thoughts swirling as she attempted to describe Boris. “He’s… well, he’s agreeable enough. He’s the epitome of a rugged man, always out in the forest hunting. That part, I don’t mind at all. It’ll give me plenty of time for myself.”

Baela interjected with a playful tease. “Sounds dreadfully dull. At least he’s easy enough on the eyes. A handsome, elusive husband – what more could a girl ask for?”

“And let’s not forget, he’s completely illiterate, so I can only hope he’s not overtly clever,” Daenera chuckled.

“Well, dear, you’ll just have to use your charm and… other assets .” Baela, with a wicked grin, added her saucy commentary. She emphasized her point by cupping one of her own breasts. “Before you know it, he’ll be wrapped around your little finger.”

“You should also play to his ego. Men like him often have quite the pride. Forgetting to stroke his ego might prove a mistake,” Rhaena chimed in with her advice, a blush upon her cheeks.

Baela couldn’t resist the opportunity for more insinuations, letting out a hearty laugh. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll have her stroking more than just his ego!”

Rhaena couldn’t help but swat at her sister again. “That is not what I meant at all!”

Baela, undeterred by her sister’s disapproval, continued her playful banter. “I wonder, though… Do you think he’s well-endowed? It stands to reason, given his size. But then again, it might just appear smaller in proportion.”

Baela playfully wiggled her little finger in the air, eliciting a laughter from Daenera and even a chuckle from the still-blushing Rhaena. The combination of wine and friendly company worked wonders in dissipating the tension that Daenera hadn't even realized was building inside of her.

Rhaena, perhaps in an attempt to change the somewhat suggestive direction of the conversation, posed a question. “Does it matter if it’s big?”

A look was exchanged between Daenera and Baela before Daenera responded with a smirk, “I suppose size doesn’t matter as long as he knows how to use it.”

Baela, however, didn’t seem entirely convinced. She wrinkled her nose and replied, “Size does help. Men with tiny… qualities can be insufferable.”

“In personality,” Daenera added with a grin, offering a playful clarification.

Rhaena, appearing genuinely curious, continued, “Won’t it hurt if he’s big?”

Never the one to shy away from candid discussions, Baela offered her perspective. “If he knows what he’s doing, I assume it wouldn’t hurt that much. No more than a pinch, I’d imagine.”

“You speak as if you know,” Daenera remarked with a sly glint in her eye, taking another gulp of wine.

Baela rolled her eyes and shrugged nonchalantly. Her independent and unabashed nature had always set her apart from others. Yet, she also remained aware of the consequences of indiscretion, understanding the delicate balance between freedom and boundaries. If anyone knew how to maintain a secret and silence gossip, it was Baela.

“Of course, I know nothing of the sort,” Baela quickly responded, her voice rising slightly. She waved a dismissive hand in the air and continued, “I simply made educated guesses, having spent some time in Pentos. It’s only logical to assume that if a man doesn’t wish to cause discomfort, he’d be gentle and careful. That is all.”

Sitting up, Baela leaned closer to Daenera and added with a conspiratorial tone, “And if the husband fails to satisfy, it stands to reason that once could seek satisfaction elsewhere… discreetly .”

Rhaena couldn’t hold back her protest. “That is terrible advice! If such indiscretions were discovered, it could spell disaster–it will spell disaster!”

“She’s clever; I’m certain she’ll find a way to manage,” Baela hummed, undeterred. “Women should be allowed as much freedom as men are! Why must we confine ourselves when they get to fuck whores and sire bastards! Why are they allowed to have affairs–”

“They’re not,” Rhaena argued, pulling her sister back down to the bed Baela had dramatically stood up during her exclamation.

“Aren’t they?” Baela jeered, making a grimace. “They may get a slap on the wrist or very seriously frowned upon–” Baela frowned deeply, holding out a finger and waving it up and down seriously, as if damning someone– “but should we do it our reputation and honor is ruined, as well as our House and our family.”

“It is just how it is,” Rhaena sighed, giving a half-hearted shrug. “And you know this.”

“That is why you have to be discrete–”

“ No ,” Rhaena said firmly to her sister, who laughed at the deeply unsettled frown on her face. “Do not listen to her advice.”

“It’s not quite what I had envisioned for myself, I must confess,” Daenera admitted as she poured herself another cup of wine. She took a hefty sip and then reclined on her bed, cradling the cup on her stomach. Above her, etched into the dark wood of the canopy bed’s ceiling, a dragon chased a flock of birds.

At this moment, she felt more like one of those birds than the dragon.

The twins patiently waited for her to continue. “I didn’t… I thought there might be some semblance of affection or connection between me and the man I was to marry. Boris Baratheon is respectable and seems kind enough, but… I expected more, you know?” She paused, her gaze watering, as if searching for answers in the canopy’s intricate carving. “I never deluded myself into thinking I’d marry for love, but I at least hoped for something.”

“I believe many women share that sentiment before their wedding,” Rhaena replied, her voice soft and comforting. She stretched out on the bed, positioning herself with her head near Daenera’s, their feet pointing in opposite directions. “Marrying for love is a rarity, especially for people like us. Often, love only blossoms in the marriage itself. I think it’s perfectly natural for you to feel a sense of… loss.”

“We are women bound by our duties,” Baela chimed in, settling beside Daenera with her body, one leg falling over the edge of the bed.

“It is easy for you to say,” Daenera replied, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns etched into the base of her cup. There was a touch of bitterness in her voice. “The two of you are like to marry my brothers.”

Rhaena and Baela exchanged glances, the bed moving as Baela rolled onto her stomach and poured herself another cup of wine, topping Daenera off again.

“The decisions haven’t been finalized,” Rhaena said. “We’re just as likely to marry someone else.”

“Daemon would be a fool not to arrange marriages between you two and my brothers,” Daenera remarked, taking another gulp of her wine. She settled back onto the mattress, breathing deeply. “Balea will wed Jace and ascend to the throne as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, while Rhaena will join with Luke and become Lady of the wealthiest and most influential House in all of Westeros.”

“You will inherit Dragonstone,” Rhaena pointed out in consolation.

Daenera sighed and dismissively gestured at the thought. “Yes, I’ll inherit Dragonstone, but it’s essentially a temporary prize. Once I pass, it reverts to the heir of the Iron Throne.”

It was a bittersweet consolation. An inheritance that had to be relinquished. Daenera envisioned herself arranging marriages for her own children with first borns to secure their future. And if by some chance Borros had a son, Boris wouldn’t inherit Storm's End. They’d find themselves without a place in the world.

She supposed she could make herself useful in King’s Landing, serving her brother and Baela.

“I am rather surprised father would endorse such a match,” Baela mused, her gaze fixed on the carved dragon pursuing the birds. The mattress shook as Rhaena slapped Baela’s stomach, glowering at her.

“It secures the Stormlands.”

“Yes, but it feels like a temporary solution,” Baela grumbled, smacking her sister back. “What if Borros ends up having a son?”

“She’ll still be married to his brother. The expectation of loyalty remains,” Rhaena reasoned to which her sister emitted a skeptical noise, making her stance on the matter abundantly clear.

Daenera swallowed thickly. Would Daemon make such demands of them? Would he expect them to marry someone who only offers temporary security? She needed to change the subject.

“At least I can take solace in the fact that I won’t be marrying a boy with abysmal posture and an utterly dreadful haircut.”

“It’s not that bad!” Baela chimed in, laughing and playfully swatting Daenera’s thigh. “His posture only sags when he sulks, and his haircut can be improved.”

Daenera turned her head to face Baela. “But what about his colossal ego? I fear for your well-being when you have to bear the burden that is my brother and his dreadful sense of humor.”

“Oh, come now, Jace is a good man–”

“Boy,” Daenera interjected.

“ Man . And he’ll make a fine husband and king!” Baela insisted, voice rising to an exclamation. “He’s handsome too!”

Daenera abruptly turned, about to argue when a question cut her off. “He–”

“If you were not to marry Baratheon, who would you choose?” Rhaena inquired.

Daenera pondered for a moment. “I’ve heard Cregan Stark is noble, handsome, and a kind man.”

“Starks are known for their frigid demeanor and stern expression, and you despise the cold ,” Baela argued, rolling onto her stomach again. “How would you cope with the harsh northern weather?”

“I’ve never experienced snow before,” Daenera admitted. “I should like to see it one day.”

Baela grinned. “I could take you to see Winterfell on Moondancer. Let you revel in the snow until you’ve lost a toe or two, and then we’ll return to warmer climates.”

They giggled like young girls, sharing secrets about their crushes. They talked endlessly, enjoying their wine until the bottle was drained, and then they continued chatting until exhaustion overcame them. They chose to sleep together, just like they did in their childhood days.

Without their comforting presence, Daenera doubted she would have found any sleep at all.

#aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #house of the dragon #hotd aemond #hotd #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #A Vow of Blood

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dracarialove · 7 months ago

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📄 F it, I'm posting my finished fics here, too 📄

*Check the 'rouge's heart' tag if you haven't read previous chapters

[Chapter 5: Violence]

Blaze was clipping up her hair in her signature ponytail when the doorbell rang; before she could call out to Silver, he was already telling her he would answer it. The white hedgehog opened the door and greeted Rouge, inviting her inside.

"Lookin' sharp," she said, pointing to the teal blazer and black bowtie he was wearing.

Silver tightened his tie and smiled. "Thanks. Blaze should be out in a minute."

They chatted briefly until the lavender cat walked into the room, her slim figure presented in a knee-length magenta dress with a single ruffled strap crossing over to one shoulder. Red strappy heels covered her feet, and she had applied a nude gloss to her lips.

"Wow, Blaze!" Rouge exclaimed, impressed. "I've never seen you so stylish."

The princess shot her a sly look as she slipped one gloved hand around Silver's arm. "It's not often that I get dressed up. Besides, we're not all like you, hoarding outfits for every occasion!"

The bat rolled her eyes and swatted the air, grinning as she turned back toward the door. "You guys ready to go?"

The couple followed, Silver grabbing his keys. "Let's hit the town!"

***

Shadow's stint at the coffee shop was almost over, the grumpy hedgehog having worked a rare morning shift. His mood was sour as he and his coworker blasted through a rush of customers. The hour of repetitive labor left him irritated and ready to clock out, continuously checking the time once his coworker had gone outside for a short break.

He let out an aggravated sigh when another customer walked in only a few minutes after the rush had subsided. The red echidna stomped his way over to the counter, a steamed expression plastered on his face.

Shadow's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the angry patron approach the register. Knuckles stopped at the counter, staring across at Shadow with an unflinching frown stamped across his tan muzzle.

Hyper-aware of the echidna's hostile body language, the neutral hedgehog remained on his guard as he held eye contact, then dully mustered a customer-friendly phrase. "Can I help you?"

"Stay away from Rouge," Knuckles growled.

Shadow responded with the furrowing of his brow and a quiet scoff. "You're looking for trouble, threatening me. I don't care who you are – if you think you can scare me, you're sorely mistaken."

"I'm not trying to scare you, tough guy. I'm warning you. You back off of my woman if you don't want a problem!"

Knuckles raising his voice set off Shadow's growing frustration, the dark hedgehog refusing to accept the disrespect. He replied in a sharp tone, "You're the one who needs to back off. You must have a death wish – or maybe you're just stupid – to challenge someone whose capabilities go beyond your comprehension."

The echidna started to ball his fists, the two men staring each other down. Shadow continued, "Besides, if Rouge is 'your' woman, and she's taken a liking to me, what does that say about your inability to keep her interest?"

He didn't know if it was true, if Rouge really was in a relationship with the angry stranger in front of him; but he hated being talked down to, and had easily pegged Knuckles' weakness when it came to insults. The redhead's frown turned into a toothy scowl as he suddenly raised his fists and swung.

"Chaos Control!"

***

The telekinetic hedgehog was the driver for their night out, all three of them hopping into the silver Camaro that boasted two bright teal stripes down the hood. They headed downtown, soon being surrounded by countless bars, clubs, and restaurants – all brightly-lit with energetic music pouring from the windows. Per Blaze's suggestion, they pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant bar, Silver scooting his car into an empty corner spot.

A human hostess met them when they walked through ruby-colored double doors, then led them past a number of tables filled with a mixture of diners; some human, some Mobian, all enjoying their meals and drinks with their personal groups.

She sat them at a booth near the back, Blaze and Silver sitting on one side while Rouge took the other. The woman handed them menus and offered to provide a pitcher of water for the table, which they graciously accepted before she left them to decide on entrées.

"The salmon sounds good," Blaze commented, drawing Silver's attention to her menu, "but it's kind of expensive."

He skimmed the price and smiled up at her. "Get whatever you want – it's a special occasion. I think I'll have the pasta salad. See anything you like, Rouge?"

"Hmm..." the bat wondered, tapping an index finger against her chin. "Maybe fettuccine, that's always a safe choice. Although, it might be worth it to try the grilled chicken."

Blaze perked up as she closed her menu. "Oh! I can vouch for the chicken. Certainly worth it."

"I'll take your word for it, then," she responded, snapping the menu shut with one hand.

When the waitress came by to place their pitcher of water on the table, the triad put in their orders and each poured a glass for themselves. The uplifting orchestra music playing through the restaurant's speakers coupled with the soft orange lights to set a positive mood for their evening, even as Silver brought up a subject that was still considerably sore.

"Hey, so, I know it just happened," he started, addressing Rouge, "and you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to... but I wanted to ask how you're holding up since the whole debacle with Knuckles."

Blaze lightly slapped his arm, but the strong-willed bat was determined not to let the breakup get to her; if she was going to get over him, she did need to talk about it. No amount of crying alone would help her completely heal from the pain, so Rouge smiled and made eye contact with Silver.

"You know, it still stings – and maybe it will for a while – but I think I'm coming more to terms with it as the days go by."

"I don't think I've ever met another woman as emotionally strong as you," Blaze commented, picking up her water. "Already starting to get over Knuckles, when Amy bursts into tears every time Sonic doesn't answer her calls!"

Silver chuckled and Rouge shrugged. The bat didn't want to mention her new love interest just yet, thinking it would be better to get her frustrations out first. She could save the good news for last and close out their dinner with happier thoughts.

So, while they waited for their food to arrive, she recounted the hurtful events while sprinkling in complaints about both Knuckles and Julie-Su. A cathartic experience, it allowed the treasure hunter to fully enjoy her meal once their waitress came around with the dishes and drinks.

***

Time was frozen, Knuckles' balled fist hovering in the air above the coffee shop counter. His mouth was agape, canines exposed in a display of aggression, fierce eyes alive with rage. The powerful hedgehog walked around the counter, trying to remember if he'd seen the echidna before.

The only instance he could pull forth was a mere possibility; a red BMW speeding down the street as he and Rouge enjoyed warm beverages outside the shop. Although it could've been anyone driving such a vehicle, it was the only conclusion he could draw, as there hadn't been anyone around the first time he'd spoken to her.

"Pathetic," Shadow mumbled to himself as he rolled along his skates to stand behind Knuckles.

As time began to speed back up, the Ultimate Lifeform hooked one foot under the echidna's legs and pushed them out from under him. Knuckles dropped, the forward momentum of his punch slamming his jaw onto the countertop as he fell. He let out an agonized shout as he tumbled to the floor, then clutched his muzzle and grabbed the counter to pull himself up.

Shaking, the echidna's eyes watered and he continued to groan in anguish. A splitting headache shocked through his skull and he remained kneeled on the floor while Shadow stood away from him, his baritone voice cutting through the otherwise quiet coffee shop.

"Get out of here. I don't want to have to expend any more energy on you."

Knuckles turned and glared up at him, attempting to speak but immediately clutching his mouth again before finally standing. Shadow remained on the defensive as the echidna chose to leave, his crimson gaze following the attacker until he was out the door.

He watched Knuckles climb into the same BMW that he had seen the evening before – initially invisible as he had parked in the farthest spot from the entrance – and made a mental note to speak with Rouge about the enraged echidna.

***

As the three of them were eating their respective meals, Blaze prodded Rouge about where she had run off to the previous day. "You said it would be good, so let's hear it."

"I met someone interesting the other day," the bat answered, trying to keep her smile from turning into a grin.

Silver's eyes widened a bit. "Woah, already? I knew you were quick about picking up new guys, but that has to be a record."

"Hey!" she retorted playfully, stabbing a piece of chicken with her fork. "This one doesn't count, okay; probably the first time I wasn't trying to find a lover after a breakup."

The hedgehog argued through a mouthful of pasta salad, "Well, it's extra impressive, then."

He covered his mouth when Blaze made a disgusted face, using his telekinesis to pull a napkin from the dispenser. The lemon-eyed cat turned to Rouge and said, "So, tell us about him."

The bat swallowed her food as a faint pink shade flushed across her cheeks. "He's this hedgehog who works at a coffee shop in town; small place, never been, so I'd never seen him before."

"Right, because you only go to clubs," Blaze interjected, chuckling.

"Exactly," Rouge smirked. Her gestures became more expressive when she started describing Shadow. "Anyway, he's kind of mysterious and moody – has 'grump' written all over his face. But he seems like a quiet guy, sort of reserved. Black hair with bright red highlights, the most striking cherry-red eyes I've ever seen; and handsome like you wouldn't believe!"

"Aw," the princess piped, her expression softening as she placed a hand on Silver's arm. He continued eating and nodded along to Rouge's story.

"I met him right after I dumped Knuckles. Just stopped at a random shop for a cup of tea." She purposely lowered her energy and took a sip from her champagne glass, then chuckled a little. "He made the most awkward small talk while I was sitting there; just had my heart broken, and there was a guy I would've never expected to approach me, talking so calmly that I actually felt like the world was slowing down. He had invited me to go back, so that's where I went after Knuckles picked up his stuff."

"Sounds like a connection to me!" said Blaze, returning to her meal. "Are you going to see him again?"

Rouge couldn't stop herself from grinning while she stabbed another chunk of chicken. "We have a dinner date tomorrow. It would've been tonight, but I already had plans with you two."

"Well, Rouge, you could've gone out with him tonight!" Blaze protested supportively. "We would've completely understood."

The bat shrugged and rolled her eyes in lieu of a response, her mouth full. Silver took the opportunity to cut in with a comment of his own.

"I'm glad things are looking up so quickly for you. You really deserve it, after the shit Knux pulled?" He shook his head. "Man, I'm just glad he got double-dumped."

Blaze laughed, making the hedgehog smile and chuckle as well. Rouge thanked him earnestly, then the three of them finished the last bits of their meals. They decided to order dessert, and the jewel hunter shifted the conversation over to Silver and Blaze. They discussed new developments over tiramisu, talking about the renovations they were making to their home, as well as a trip they were planning.

At the end of the night, Silver brought them home again and made sure Rouge was alright to drive. Her single glass of champagne hadn't impaired her enough to crash, so they said their goodbyes and the bat drove home with the window down. She enjoyed the rushing wind flicking through her hair as the radio played a smooth jazzy beat accompanied by inspirational lyrics; and when she arrived home, she pulled out her phone and quickly deleted every picture of Knuckles from her gallery.

#sonic fanfiction #ship fanfic #rouge's heart #rouge's heart chapter 5 #dracaria fics #shadouge #shadrouge #anti-knuxouge #rouge the bat #shadow the hedgehog #blaze the cat #silver the hedgehog #knuckles the echidna #silvaze #writing

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nemo-of-house-hamartia · 1 year ago

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In The Heat of the Moment Chapter 5 - Awakening of the Hunter

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4,

Words Count: 12077

Warning: Mention of Suicide; Physical Violence;

BYRON January 1868, London The wind blew in the forest around him, a subtle whisper that carried the promise of a gelid night. The gloomy penumbra of the early sunset permeated the air around him, and if not for the blanket of snow that covered all that surrounded him, he would have not been able to see anything as clearly as he did. Keeping his rifle in his hand, his grip sure and steady, despite the thick gloves around his hands, Byron Harrison let his gaze wander around with slow attention, deliberately scanning his surroundings with a precision that came from habit. Not even the crystal of snow covering his auburn lashes like lace were enough to impede his search. Thick puffs of vapor came out of his mouth, as the chilly air pricked on his cheeks mercilessly, giving them a painful red tint that had nothing to do with bashfulness or strenuous effort. Yet, nothing, not even the torpor in his arms and legs, could sway him from his task. He cared not about discomfort. He cared not about pain. All he cared about was the forest in front of him, and the prey that was hiding in it, the elusive trophy that would finally bring an end to his continuous searching. “Come out, you fucking bastard,” he whispered, turning around to get a wider visual, the crunch of the snow under his boot filling the stillness around him. “I know you are here,”

Ears were keen on capturing any sign, any hint, anything that might show him where that arsehole was hiding. His breathing was controlled, his heart steady in its beating as he slowly turned his eyes toward a silvery bush ahead of him. A low rough laughter raised from somewhere on his right. Byron raised his rifle and shot, the deafening sound breaking the surreal silence. He waited until the echo died down, as stillness had found lease once more among the trees. But he knew it was not peace. There would be no peace. Not until he had shot every single one of the bullets he was carrying with him. Not until those bullets had found their way through that bastard’s heart. Byron tensed his ears again, eyes searching with the same careful attention, waiting for a signal that he knew would come. The laughter continued, reverberating all around him. Mocking him. Deriding him. He blinked rapidly, to clear his eyes from the tears swelling up. “Show your bloody mug, you son of a fucking dog!” he growled, a sound that had nothing of human and all of the beast he was trying with all his strength to restrain. ”Show yourself!” And as always, like clockwork, the man showed himself.

His pristine blue eyes were twinkling in the dark, and what can only be described as a devilish smile was plastered on the man’s face a face crowned by dark hair, disheveled hair, hidden under a dark beaked hood. With the heavy cape of the Assassins weighing on his shoulders, the man stood between the trees, the snow crunching under his feet as he got closer to the Master Templar. Byron reloaded the rifle with quick, precise hands, took aim again, and shot. And shot. And shot. And shot. One bullet after the other flew in the darkness of the night, each of them landing straight through the heart of the mocking Assassin. The man laughed again, unfazed, and with each shot his laughter grew in intensity, to the point of sounding almost hysterical by the time Byron had finished his bullets. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Leviathan” The words were as derisive as the tone was scornful, cutting through him like the sharpest of blades. Fury pervading every single fiber of his body, Byron took out his revolver and kept shooting and shooting in his rage, until the chamber clicked empty, and no more bullets were left. The low laughter rang all around him, echoing from every hidden corner of that godforsaken forest, reverberating through all that he was, deafening in its intensity. It got interrupted only by another deafening shot. One that Byron didn’t shoot. Straight through his heart, from the revolver that the Assassin was holding, the bullet had passed right through him. His face jerked back, just in time for his desperate eyes to see the bullet hitting its true target: ghosts, holding each other desperately, almost unrecognizable for how deformed they were in the silent scream that was leaving their mangled mouths. But Byron knew them. His soul recognized them before his eyes did.

The scream of agony that left Byron’s mouth was primal in its pain, obscene in its rawness, a wounded animal screaming his curse to the sky in its misery. A scream that followed him in the waking world, and his eyes flashed open, as he tried to grasp for air. Beads of sweat that had nothing to do with heat were running down his brow, as he tried to readjust his view through the dark of the room. But he couldn’t. Everything appeared nebulous in front of him and, he soon realized, it was because his eyes were filled with tears. “You cannot kill what’s already dead,” He heard that voice in his ears again, a hazy memory now, still taunting him. His brow furrowed as he covered his eyes with a callous hand, trying to drown the lump of anguish that had tightened his throat to the point of making breathing torture. His whole chest felt as if hot iron pokes were nabbing at him, piercing him like merciless arrows, in a grotesque imitation of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Pain was tearing him apart. Taking a long breath, he rose from his bed, oblivious to the hiemal air around him or the freezing floor underneath his bare feet. He felt nothing. Nothing at all, aside from the stupor caused by those goddamned nightmares that chased after him like rabid dogs. He headed for the drawer where a small basin sat, already filled with water, and dipped his rough hands in it splashing his face, uncaring about the gelid droplets that ran down his neck and damped his wool shirt. It felt good. It was good. Real. Almost a self-inflicted slap back to reality. Taking another deep breath, Byron allowed himself a moment longer of leniency for his soul, his mind fighting its way out of the merciless tides of dreams and memories, to anchor himself to the world, to make port where his heart could finally acquiesce once more. It came to him in the form of a silvery laughter and curious eyes and freckled cheeks. An image of gentle peace, a small flickering light in darkness: the harbinger of a warm dawn after a long hyperborean night. Despite having found his port, when he raised his gaze to look into the mirror hanging over his basin, the man looking back at him had none of his usual composed certitude.

The man in the mirror looked more like a madman: sunken eyes, dark in the soft penumbra of the room, an ocean where a perennial storm never ceased to be, dangerous waters just beneath the sea green surface; all over his face the heaviness of the years had started to show, in those wrinkles that torment and pain had chiseled mercilessly into his features. His head full of auburn hair still kept wavy and long - a quirk he carried over from his years in the Navy- had started to go gray here and there; on his beard and moustache too, time had started to make its presence known. He felt older than he looked, as if he had lived more years than the ones he had actually been granted by fate. Another deep breath. He splashed more water on his face, hoping to erase the fatigue coming from sleep. “Sleep,” he scoffed. He hadn’t been able to have a restful night of sleep in years. His eyes trained automatically toward the only photo sitting on his desk - the only personal touch in his otherwise bare bedroom- and his heart sank in his chest. He took the memento as gently as his callous rough hands allowed -careful, as he always was with anything connected to it - and caressed the small, precious faces looking back at him. He wished, with all his heart, he could see those smiles again. Hear that laughter again, smell their perfume in his nostrils, feel the solid weight of their bodies against his for one last embrace. Feeling the pain throbbing in his chest with every single beat of his tired heart - how many nights he had prayed that it would stop beating altogether, to find some respite from that life - he put the frame back to its place, hiding it from view, trying to suppress the yearning that, he knew, was the greatest enemies in the war that forever raged in his heart whenever he was awake. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Levathian,” The voice echoed again in his ears, as it always did. Taunting him. Ridiculing his pain. “I cannot,” Byron growled, gritting his teeth as his eyes turned dark. “But I can take away your future. I can destroy your legacy, all which you held dear, just as you have done with me.”

A sudden knock on the door tore him away from his thoughts. “Yes?” he spoke, his tone curt. “My Lord? Do I have your leave to enter? Victor Dorianr’s warm voice - now a gentle murmur rather than the booming toll of a bell, as it always was - immediately put him at ease. “Come, Victor,” he allowed, as he moved away from his desk to greet the man. The door opened, and the Master Templar entered, candid fresh snow on his black hair and heavy fur-lined coat. Fastened at the high collar was his Templar cross, the metal shining even in the darkness. Byron’s eyes narrowed, tensing: Victor was there on Official Order business. He looked as the Frenchman closed the door carefully behind himself before turning to face Byron, his dark eyes inquisitive. “Forgive me for interrupting your slumber, My Lord-” “No need for apologies, Victor. You are always welcome here…and I was already awake, anyway. What’s the reason for this urgency?” “Forgive me for the late hour, but I got a telegram. From Crawley. Our wait has been fruitful. We captured two Assassins that came to the house, just as you predicted,” Byron felt his blood chill in his veins. For the first time since waking up, Byron allowed himself to smile. But there was none of the warmth that came from pleasure. “Do we know if they are the ones responsible for the explosion of Brewster’s laboratories?” The Frenchman shook his head. “Non, Monsieur, no one has started to interrogate them. Master Barclay was the one duty when the Assassins had broken into the house, and he is now holding them captive and awaiting your orders.” Byron took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with callous fingers. Markus Barclay, the thorn in his back ever since the young man joined their ranks. He knew why the Grand Master had seen reasons to assign him under his attendance, and he knew he was the only man for the job. Still, had he had the chance to decline that obligation, he would have done so in a heartbeat, and passed instead the “honour” to Ambrose. ”Wake the rest of the men and then wait for me without. Have my carriage ready. We need to leave at once if we want to reach Crawley before sunrise,” “Very well, Monsieur,” he said, holding up for a second. “Is there something else, Victor?” “Nothing urgent or pertaining to our current mission, and you know, God forbid if I dare not pry into your privacy, Monsieur, but if I may be so impertinent, you look…harrowed,” he murmured, his voice turning as soft as the light in his eyes. “Lack of sleep, Victor,” Byron answered curtly, clearing his voice, with all the intention to not explain himself. “Nothing that laudanum cannot help with, and nothing you need to worry about. Now,do as I ordered. We mustn’t waste a minute. We need to run against the dawn.”

——————————————————————————————————

The journey to Crawley took longer than Byron cared for, but with the weather playing against them, he knew they would have been delayed anyway. At least, he thought, it had proceeded smoothly, and with Victor’s low chatter to fill the time, he was inclined to find it even pleasant. The Frenchman always managed, with his quick wit and gentle voice - almost lulling when it wasn’t so loud, it could be heard a whole town away - to distract him from his ghosts, at least for a little while. However, the moment the carriage had stopped and he had been able set foot out of it, he welcomed the cold winter air of the night against his face and the soft snow falling in big flakes all around them. Nothing like the freezing chill of darkness nipping at one’s cheeks to keep one’s senses awake and alert. His favourite hunting weather. As much as it resembled the one he always saw in his nightmare, he felt none of the helplessness that derived from the inevitable, the unchangeable. Instead, he felt all the empowerment from being awake, and in control of everything that was around him. As he walked down the empty street, the fresh snow crunching under his boots, his eyes immediately found the house - a one-floor old cottage, its red bricks appearing black in the dark of the night, the roof torn down here and there, weighting on the structure in a way that it reminded Byron of an old man carrying a basket, his back curved by life and time. All the windows were black, empty sockets on what could only be described as a dismal facade, with no sign of lanterns or candles anywhere. No one had lived there in a little while. Byron turned to look around, his eyes scouring the surroundings of the small neighbourhood, a habit he never lost since his travels in the Arctic. He saw nothing, aside from a whole line of old houses not so different from the one in front of him, nothing that would cause him to be on alert. But something in his guts - an instinct, almost an extra sense that he couldn’t explain into words - told him that there was something just staring at them, waiting in the darkness, standing as still as waters in a tranquil pond. It was a fickle feeling, almost air shimmering in a faint glow, a whisper in his ear. None of the other Templars following him gave him a sign of having felt it as well. But he could sense it all the same. “Victor,” Byron murmured, his gravelly voice echoing in the empty street.

The Frenchman was at his side at once, ready to comply with his order. “Make sure to keep the place restricted. Do not let anyone get closer to the house - no passerby, no nosy neighbours, no one. If trouble should arise, if anyone were to show their face around here-” he added, eyes cold and void as the sky above. ��-you know what to do,” Victor nodded with solemnity, swallowing hard. “Oui, Monsieur,” While hearing his subordinate relay his orders to the rest of the squadron, Byron turned his attention to the house once more, hatred seeping in his chest the longer he stared at its weathered walls, as puffs of condensed breath raised from his lips with each breath he took. The place where Ethan Frye and his broods lived. His attention was soon caught by the Master Templar responsible for sending him the message, emerging from the dark door like a magpie peaking from inside its nest. “They are inside, My Lord. We were awaiting for your arrival,” said Markus Barclay, straightening his back and tilting his chin up, as he came out to welcome the older man while giving him a cocky smile. Byron answered the smile with a long impenetrable look as he walked across the threshold of the small house without a single word of greeting. Complete darkness enveloped him immediately, despite the door still being open behind him. “Light,” he whispered, and before he had the time to add anything else, two candles had been lit by the young Master Templar. The feeble trembling light brightened the small corridor, allowing Byron to get a better look at his surroundings. As nondescript as it was from the outside, the house was just as unremarkable on the inside: old walls once covered in what could only be assumed to be quaint patterns were now presenting stains from mildew, peeling off here and there to show the bare bricks; cobwebs were hanging at the corners against the ceilings, and the wind, slipping through the decaying timber of the doors, carried with it a mournful moan, almost a messenger of what was about to come. A ghostly sentinel for a family that was no more. The boards of the floor protested with each step he took, creaking as he moved toward the quarters where the two Assassins were kept prisoners. He caught a glimpse of a frame where an old small ambrotype hung: a man, not much younger than Byron himself, was sitting on an armchair, a small smirk - barely perceptible -plastered on his lips, beard unkempt and eyes twinkling with what could only be interpreted as pride. Byron’s jaw tensed, teeth grinding as he contained the ever-growing fury coursing through his veins each time he saw that smirk, the very same that taunted each night in his nightmares. He welcomed the fury, and allowed it to warm him like a blazing fire: it was a never-ending flame that kept him going ahead.

Next to the man in the hanging picture were two children, no older than twelve years of age: the girl standing straight, shoulder squared, looking ahead of herself with the same proud eyes as the man sitting beside her, her dark hair hanging in long braids at the either side of her head; the boy facing away from the girl and the man, brows knitted in a despondent gaze, mouth turned downward in a rebellious grimace, the same dark unruly hair as his father, hidden just beneath an old worn-out paperboy hat. Both children’s faces were riddled with freckles, while none appeared on the man’s sullen face. He perused those small faces with meticulous attention, almost dissecting every single detail he deemed essential, etching them in his memory. Then, he forced himself to continue walking down the barely illuminated hall, until he reached where the two Assassins had been kept captive. When Byron entered the room, his gaze was immediately trained toward the two tied-up figures sitting on the floor. He studied them intently, their tied bodies forming a stark, dire contrast against the innocence of the children’s room where they were being held. Both Assassins were in their mid-thirties and, he noticed, were donning the dark robe of their Brotherhood, the hoods lowered on their shoulders to show hard faces and cold stares in their anonymous faces. They were docile. Far too docile, for his taste. “What happened to their blades?” he asked, gazing just above his shoulder toward Markus. “Confiscated and secured downstairs, My Lord, along with all their pieces of equipment. I personally saw to that.” Byron nodded, turning to face the two captives, eyes narrowed in an attentive, silent gaze as he studied the two captives: no scratches, cuts, hematomas, or ecchymoses could be found anywhere on their person; no sign of struggle. No sign of a fight. He stared at Markus for a long moment, his face painted in a mask of wariness before redirecting his attention toward the Assassins once more. “You know who I am?” Byron’s gravelly voice was low, a whisper cutting right through the chillness of the air around him. Nothing transpired from his face, the candle in his hands painting deep shadows all across his face. The woman in front glared at him, defiant of him, but Byron could see, even in the flickering light of the candles, fear was creeping into her eyes, dancing with the rabid hatred she had each time she looked at the iron cross hanging at his neck, her attention fixated on the symbol etched at the center of it. “You are the bloody Leviathan,” she seethed, vomiting his moniker as if it were a curse underneath her breath.

Byron's lips stretched in a chilling smirk. “Then you know why I am here.”

The woman spat on the ground, the spittle just inches away from Byron’s shoes. The other Assassin, captive as well, tied next to her, shook his head at his companion, eyes silently pleading with her to stop and stay quiet. Byron’s eyes twinkled for a moment, his face impassible, calm as ever. “We know. Like we both know that you won’t let us get out of here alive. You Templars know no honour, no compassion, no clemency, not even for the one you declare to protect! All you bastards know is greed and lust for power! And you, Leviathan…you are the worst of them all. No one has ever survived an encounter with you. So why would I cooperate with you, you bastard?” Byron stood silent, untouched by those words that found no retort. But deep within, he felt his guts turning and twisting with barely suppressed rage at the sight of the two Assassins, a rage that churned like the bubbling waters of the oceans during those bleak winter storms that always stole hope from the sailors unlucky enough to find themselves at sea. His rage has nothing to do with them, but all to do with the symbol they had hanging at their belts. “It is not my… proclivity to offer mercy to your kind. It is indeed true. But-” he murmured, a smile appearing on his lips, that didn’t reach his eyes. “-I bear no ill will to either of you. All I want is a piece of information. Just one small piece of information, and you will walk away from here with all your limbs attached together. I am offering you the possibility of leaving this place alive…if you tell me all you know about the whereabouts of Ethan Frye and his offspring.” The woman spat again, gritting her teeth in ire. “Do you think me dense or soft in the head? There is no promise you can spew that I would believe, no word you say that I would trust! We will not talk! In no way in Hell, we will ever betray the Creed! You won’t know anything about Ethan Frye or his children! Never! You can torture us, cut us, and dice us to pieces, we’ll never talk, you bastard son of a who-“ The booming sound of a revolver going off shattered the air of the room, its deafening blast echoing against the worn-out walls, gunpowder filling the nostrils with its acrid smell. Byron’s steely gaze never left the eyes of the Assassin still alive, his hand still holding the smoking gun pointed toward the dead woman, now a lifeless husk, a hole the size of an orange marking her forehead where the bullet had entered, with bits of flaccid pale brain matters, blood, and splintered bones had flown all around.

Byron moved the mouth of the revolver toward the other Assassin, his face impassible in front of the spectacle of gore lying in front of him, unfazed by the blood that had sprayed against the hem of his leather coat. He barely wrinkled his nose when he felt the pungent foul odour coming from the still-bound man who, had soiled himself. Blood, gore, shit and gunpowder. A side of his life he had come to accept as normal, regrettably so. “Now…let’s try this again, shall we?” Byron asked again, his voice dropping again to a chilling murmur. “Where are Ethan Frye and his offspring?” The bounded man whimpered, his whole body encompassed by a tremor as the realization of what just happened pushed through his veins like ice. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes completely shut, keeping his breathing steady, but failing altogether. “Th-they are hiding in London,” he blabbered, the words pouring out like a river. “Ethan reached out to us yesterday and sent words about a plan to assassinate John Elliotson as the initiation for his son and daughter-” At the name of the Assassin, Byron narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring at those words, bile burning the back of his throat. His fist clenched out of reflex, his grip growing tighter with each passing second. “How does he plan to do this?” he growled. The Assassin whimpered, eyes fixed on the mouth of the gun still pointed in between his eyebrows. “God forgive me... Oh God, forgive me,” he muttered, between one sob and the other. “We-we have an insider at Lambeth, acting as an informant. A nurse.” “Who?” Byron pressed, with steely determination in his voice. The Assassin hanged his head in shame, biting his lip until he tasted the metallic tangy taste of his own blood. “Emily Millburn,” he sobbed, wringling in the tight rope tied around him. “I beg you, do not hurt her! She is a widow, and only has her little boy as her family! Please, I beg of you! She has nothing to do with Ethan!” Byron took a deep breath, nodding as he allowed the information to settle in his mind. “We are done here,” he murmured, turning toward Markus, who was still standing there, silent witness to the whole scene, as he tried, with all his might, to make himself as small as a rat and just as unnoticeable.

Without a single word uttered, Byron handed him his revolver, his order clear in its silence. Markus’ dark eyes widened, his lips quivering as he tried to focus his attention on Byron. “Lord Harrison, I.. I don’t understand. He-He has told us what we wanted to know-” Byron stared at him longer, eyes unblinking, piercing through his resolve like a needle in the canvas.

“This is a lesson I want to partake with you, Master Barclay. A lesson about honour and loyalty,” he whispered, each word laced with indignant contempt. “I appreciate qualities like loyalty, I find it to be the very base upon which all is created. And this man, despite his questionable judgment in terms of alliances, despite being nothing more than a vermin of insignificant consequence…this man has loyalty aplenty. For. His. Creed. So much so that he had no qualms in lying, straight to my face, about a dead man’s whereabouts-” At those words, Byron saw the Assassin’s eyes go wide with inconceivable terror. “-knowing fully what the consequences would be. Knowing fully well that while loyalty has a price, defiance has an even greater cost,” Byron pushed the revolver into Markus’ hand once more. “Now, kill him, Master Barclay. I won’t ask it another time.” Markus swallowed hard as his whole face transformed, skin turning the colour of curdled milk, his body reacting almost against his will, weighting like lead. He made the mistake of looking for one moment into the eyes of the Assassin sitting on the floor. The silent plea of mercy was there, written in watery dark eyes. Markus took a deep breath, hands pervaded by an uncontrollable tremor. The gun went off again, the bullet finding its way through the skull of the remaining Assassin.

Byron looked once more to the desolated rest of the two Assassins, his face not letting transpire a single emotion. If anyone were to look upon him, one would have thought him bored by the whole ordeal. But this would have been the furthest from the truth. He turned toward Markus, whose face was covered in sweat, mouth puckered in a grimace, about to either retch or pass out. Byron narrowed his eyes as he walked just by him, his footsteps heavy, deliberate, implacable. He stood by the Master Templar without so much as to deign him of a glance and when he spoke, Markus flinched as if slapped in the face. “I do not take insubordination leniently, nor do I condone it. Question my orders one more time and I will make sure that no one will ever find you ever again. You have taken an oath. The Grand Master has seen fit to give you a second chance and by his ordinance, I will comply with his wishes and make sure that you follow through with it; I will see you abide by it by any means necessary, or I swear on what I hold most dear in this life, I will make you regret the very day you have set foot inside the Manor. Understood?” Markus turned to look toward the man who was towering over him, his voice a squawk that died in his chest before it could even find the strength to pass through his lips. A shaky nod was all that he could muster.

Unimpressed with the response, Byron walked past him, never turning to face either the Master Templar or the slaughter of the room. As he found his way out of the small house, the silence that surrounded him was deafening. Not a single one of the Templars that had accompanied him to the small house in Crawley dared to speak or even look him straight in the eyes. As he walked in the corridor, he noticed again the ambrotype that had welcomed him inside. It took it with a swift hand and hid it in the internal pocket of his jacket. Another memento. Another step further down that path that called him each day and each night of his life. He quickly went down the corridor, and crossed the threshold, breathing in the cold air of the night with gratitude, letting it feel his lungs with its purity. Raising his face to the sky - now starting to brighten with the colours of dawn at the horizon - he closed his eyes, allowing the soft snow to fall all over him, gently caressing his skin. It was incredibly welcomed, after all that had just happened.

He let his mind clear itself, trying, as it always happened whenever violence permeated his thoughts and hung to him like a tick to a dog’s coat, to find a moment of light amidst all that darkness. To find his port again. Keeping his eyes closed, he heard Victor walk towards him, recognizing him distinctly by the sound of the man’s step, light and fluid against the snow-covered pathway. “Did you find what were you seeking, Monsieur?”

Byron shook his head, lowering his head and opening his eyes to look at the Frenchman. “Not entirely, I am afraid. Those Assassins are willing to lie even in the face of death and go to the grave to protect the whereabouts of a dead man. But the liars always weaves their best stories with truth, and we got something that the Grand Master will find useful,” “Then, a successful mission indeed, if I may be so bold,” Victor cheered, without daring to ask any details that couldn’t be shared with him. Byron appreciated his discretion, the deferential respect he had for the rules and hierarchy within the Order, his unwavering loyalty to what the Tenets of the Order prescribed, and also his penchant for brutal honesty. While most would find the lack of edulcoration in his words disagreeable, Byron was particularly grateful for it. He wished he had more men with such moral strength working for him. “A partial success, yes,” he conceded. “Nevertheless, I will return to London immediately to inform the Grand Master of the current situation and after that, God Willing, I will be able to rest,” And then, if nothing more were to happen, I will finally see her again, he thought. “Very well, Monsieur. Your commands for us here?”

Byron’s shoulders tensed once more, as he stood pensive for a moment. “Finish to search the house and find any manner of evidence that might be connected to the Assassins’ plans. Frye surely had information that would be useful to us. Keep Markus with you, Victor, and keep a close eye on him: I trust no one else but you with this particular task. And once you are done, before you head back to London-“ Byron turned to look at the small house, hatred seeping into all his being like a poison spreading in his veins with every heartbeat. "- Burn this whole shack to the ground and then spread salt upon the soil. I want to see this place erased from the face of the Earth.”

——————————————————————————————————

“This is not what I signed up for, Brudenell, bloody hell,” Ambrose Harrison thought, as he rubbed his eyes trying to chase away his drowsiness, absolutely disgruntled. Again, he cursed under his breath the man who had sponsored him when he had first been offered a spot in the Templars, taking a cigarette out of his pocket and tapping the filter against the tin box before lighting it up. The first taste of tobacco felt good against his tongue, but not enough to brighten his mood. The day had yet to start properly - the sun was barely rising upon the horizon - and he was yet to have a cup of strong coffee to chase the excess of the night before away. But that hadn’t stopped the news from arriving sooner than he liked. And he had liked that news even less once he got to White Chapel to witness them in person. He still couldn’t believe it. Kaylock had been taken down by a couple of miserable ratbags with more brawns than brains, half his gang was dead against the track of the train station, and the other half scattered the Devil only knew where. He knew he would be in for a long day.

He let out a low growly sound of displeasure as his gaze embraced the corpses of all the members of the gang that had been slaughtered during the gang fight, while his men were busy shouting away curious passersby and bribing away any “peeler” that might have come snooping around to report to Whitehall Place. Not that it would matter, considering the amount of officers that were already on the Grand Master’s own payroll. Still, he thought, a few more quid spent on those blokes -with more mouth to feed than hair on their balls- were a good way to ensure absolute silence and discretion. That or a gun against their head. He was open to either solution indistinctly. A flash of brilliant red at the corner of his eyes caught his attention. Blighters. Splendid. 'Old Man’ Roth had sent some of his dupes to help with the works. “Oi! Lads!” He shouted to the group of newcomers. “Chop-chop, we don’t have the whole mornin’! Start lookin’ around and see if you find anythin’ - ANYTHIN’- that might lead us to understand how the bloody fuck we ended up like this!”

“My my, such reprehensible language, Master Harrison,” Ambrose heard a low husked voice reprimanding him. “I do wonder what your brother would think of such…crude display of uncouthness,” It took Ambrose every smidgen of patience to not roll his eyes to the sky at the sound of that voice. Instead, he straightened his back and turned around to face Phillip Starrick, all wrapped in a heavy wool coat lined with slick black fur, his golden cross hanging from the bandeau around his neck. Despite being incredibly early in the morning, the young man appeared to be as fresh as a rose, and -Ambrose couldn’t stop himself from thinking it - just as pretty. “I’m here to bring results, Lord Starrick, not playin’ the elegant Lord,” he grumbled, turning to blow the smoke of the cigarette away from the young aristocrat. “What are you even doin' here? Don’t you “My Lords” usually wake up after the cock has sung its tune?” “Why, Master Harrison, you offend me with your words. I am a most diligent worker, and when the news reached the Manor, the Gran Master saw me fit to oversee the operations alongside you. Consider these Blighters I brought with me as a gesture of goodwill toward a fruitful partnership in discovering what happened here,” he murmured, giving the older man a long look before turning toward the gruesome spectacle in front of them. “Do we have any lead about who caused all of this?” Ambrose shook his head, returning the younger man's look. “Not yet, M’lord. My men are workin' on interrogatin' whoever witnessed the whole fight. We tried to circumscribe the Station, but we arrived too late and whoever caused this mayhem had already left,” Phillip listened intently, his periwinkle eyes gazing with attention around him.

“My Lord! My Lord!” Ambrose heard his name being called from the other side of the railway. One of his own -Bradley, judging from the booming voice - was running toward him, his usually good-natured face now a mask of barely contained stress. “What is it, lad?” “My Lord, you need to come at once,” he gasped, between one breath and the other. “We-We have found it. Kaylock’s body. It’s…It’s-” Ambrose stood silent for a moment, taking a deep breath, and clenching his jaw in frustration. “Show him to me,” he murmured. Then he turned toward Phillip. “I advise you stay here, M’lord. It might be a gruesome affair, the lot of it,” The young Aristocrats waved his hand as if to dismiss his concern. “Fret not, Master Harrison, I am not a delicate daisy that cannot hold the sight of a corpse,” he murmured, shaking his golden curls with a pretentious look etched on his oval face. “It wouldn’t be my first,” Once again Ambrose fought the impulse to roll his eyes to the sky, and answer him with a mordant remark; instead, he refocused his attention on the young lad and followed him to the location where Kaylock’s body had been found, his thoughts redirecting toward the gang leader. So the man had indeed been killed after all.

For a brief moment, Ambrose had hoped not: their differences notwithstanding, Rexford Kaylock had been a good friend of his, always ready for a brawl down at the pits, always up for a wager and he was yet to meet a man that could hold his beer like he did. But despite the man’s cunning, Ambrose knew that his penchant for playing with his food before eating it would have been his ruin, sooner or later. Once in front of the corpse of the man who had once been his friend, Ambrose said nothing, his face almost impassible if not for the furrowing of his thick brows. Now he understood the distress on Bradley’s face. Kaylock hadn’t been just killed: he had been slaughtered. Nose was broken with such strength the bone was showing from the skin; slashes all over his upper body, and open wounds showing the shiny sinew and the bundle of muscles, in some places so deep that you could see the indentation of the weapon even on the bone. He couldn’t determine if it had been a butcher knife or a smaller blade to cause all that. All he could see was that the stroke had been deliberate, unforgiving, inexorable. Ambrose turned toward Bradley and took him aside, bringing him closer enough to preserve the secrecy of his words. “Take away his body and see that he’s buried properly,” his voice was just high enough to be heard by the man. Ambrose took two pouches filled with money and gave it to him. “Give this to his widow and this one to the undertaker, and make sure to have some of my men guardin' his grave after the burial, at least until we figure out who in the fuckin' hell has done this." “Understood, My Lord,” Bradley nodded, lips thin in a grimace of distress as he left to do as he had been ordered. Ambrose growled, taking out another cigarette and lighting it up, hoping to calm his annoyance down.

He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be there at all, playing nanny to the young Blighters who had still to make their bones in the field, and, on top of that, counting the dead after whatever the hell had occurred in the night. A disaster, in his opinion, more than avoidable, had that stupid man listened and stood put, as he had been ordered, instead of getting more and more tangled up with whatever bollocks he had found himself into. Bloody affair, the lots of it. The sound of cold wind blowing did nothing to soothe his spirit or cover the shouting of the people busy working on the site - all myrmidons from his own regime - to bring away the corpses and, in a miraculous turn of faith, find someone still alive with the answers they sought. Ambrose stood a moment longer to oversee the young Blighter when he heard the rustling of a heavy cloak just beside him. When he turned, he found Phillip gazing intently toward the group of men who were carrying Kaylock’s corpse away. “Quite the gruesome spectacle, judging from how the leader of this borough has been rendered.” The aristocrat murmured, his periwinkle eyes observing without fear. “Kaylock wasn’t killed by a dabbler. The pisspot that did this knows how to wield a knife,” “Any theories?” “Not as many as I wished. My money is on a showdown, maybe a settlement of scores between Kaylock’s men and some goddamn Clinkers. They’ve been a pain in the arse lately, so I wouldn’t rule out an escalation. Anyway, until we figure this out, I gave the order to have Keylock’s body to be guarded after his burial.” “I didn't know that corpse snatchers were still residing in the East End of our fair city?” “They don't," Ambrose retorted, putting out his cigarette with his shoe. " No, what I fear is that people might take revenge against him. I don’t put it above them to desecrate a corpse. At this point, I can’t exclude anything. What about your voices, Master of Secrets? Any hint?” Phillip smirked at that name, shaking his golden ringlets. Ambrose couldn’t help but notice how they resembled the colour of ripe wheat in summer. “Forgive me, m’lords,” they both heard a voice behind them.

Ambrose turned and saw young Zachary Handerson approaching them, a small bowler hat in his hands in deferential respect, his fresh face crossed in distress. Ambrose shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The young boy couldn’t be a day over twelve. He knew he had joined the Blighters out of necessity and need for money, and after a talk with Old Man Roth, he had been assigned to Kaylock’s men. But Ambrose could see that the lad had a gentle heart, and was not accustomed to all that violence. He had no place among them, and yet, here he was, doing the job of a man when in truth, he was no more than a child. “What do you need, lad?” Ambrose enquired, his voice much softer than usual. “Forgive me, M’lord,” Zachary fumbled in his words. “I- I was the one that gave the alarm when the whole chaos happened. I was here when the fight started,” Ambrose’s brows raised in surprise, as he turned fully to face the young man, his attention entirely devoted to the young urchin. “Did you see what happened?” “Aye, sir,” the child murmured, raising his eyes but immediately turning them down when they met Phillip’s haughty gaze. Through some gentle nudging from Ambrose, the youngling was able to recount all that he had seen, all that had happened.

Both men listened intently, keeping whatever comments they had for themselves. “It was a bloodbath,“ Zachary ended his tale, cheeks pale from having to remember everything his young eyes had seen. “And those who didn’t die, become turncoats! They all rallied behind the young Rook, sir!” "The Young Rook, you say?” asked Ambrose, his bushy eyebrows frowning. “Aye, sir! That’’s what they called themselves - the chap and the missy- Rooks! Bloody furies, the two of them were! They swooped in with their men and even sized Keylock’s old train!” the young lad said, his face animated at the memories. Ambrose exchanged a look with Phillip, their expressions a mirror. “I assume it would be too much to ask the direction the train has taken?” said Phillip, his words tinged with frustration. When no answer came from the boy, Ambrose gently dismissed him with a few golden coins for his help and looked as he quickly retreated into the bustling crowd, the shock of the recent events still etched on his face. “It appears we have a new player in this war of gangs,” murmured Phillip. “Nothin' to be concerned about. I'll regroup as many Masters as I can and have them surveillin' each of London’s main stations. A train can't vanish out of thin air like that. They’re bound to resurface again.” “- assuming that those miscreants are still well within the city borders. We must find out who is controlling these “Rooks” and what their intentions are. We need to ascertain if this was a single instance or if it is part of something much greater,” Ambrose stared at the young aristocrat at the younger man. “You think this could be connected to the Assassins,” Phillip kept his silence, turning to look toward the trains that were still parked in the station. “I have my theories, yes,” he murmured, as his eyes scanned the surrounding before turning and walking toward the entrance of the train station, Ambrose walking at his side. “Lift the circumscription and see that your men bring order around here as fast as they can. We have already attracted far too much attention than what the Grand Master would have liked.”

“What about you, Master Starrick?” “I will need to have a word with Roth regarding his men,” murmured Phillip, as he walked toward the carriage parked just outside the station, awaiting for him. “We need to find a replacement for Kaylock, and if it is true that these peons have turned coats and joined these “Rooks”, we will need more discipline as well,” With a subtle movement, Ambrose grabbed the young aristocratic’s wrist, slowing him down in his walk. “Phillip, wait," he whispered. “We need to talk,” Phillip turned to look at him with indignation burning in his light eyes. Yet, Ambrose noticed the blushing appearing on the younger man’s cheeks, as it always did whenever he called him by his first name. "It's “Lord Starrick” for you, Master Harrison," he hissed, as he looked around to make sure that no one saw them. "And no, we don't need to talk. Not now. Not ever!" The older man smirked underneath the bushy mustache, lowering his eyelids with a look that said everything and yet nothing. “We do, Phillip. You and I have unfinished business,” Phillip yanked his arm away from the other man’s grasp. Their eyes met for a moment too long: forest green against periwinkle blue. For a moment, Ambrose felt as if he was looking at the immensity of the sky on a clear sunny day. “No we do not, Master Harrison! We have nothing unfinished! Now, if you will excuse me-“ “I can’t let you get back to Roth, Phillip. The man is off his chump.” Phillip’s nostrils flared in disdain at those words.

“I would mind your words, Master Harrison. You are not the Grand Master, to dispense tasks and commands as it pleases you, nor your are my superior in rank. Maxwell Roth has been a trusted associate of the Order, long before your tenure, and I will not have you disrespecting him or question the Grand Master’s decision." Phillip shot back, his voice filled with aggravation. Ambrose sighed, frustration building up in his chest. The Young Lord could be as stubborn as he was cunning, whenever it came to the man responsible for training all the Templars’ underlings. And he never knew how he felt about that stubbornness, what motivated it. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know, lest he was not to like the answer. "Very well, “Master Starrick",” he blurted, his voice tinged with mockery. “Go back to all your affairs! But don't let your pride blind you! Do not trust Roth! His loyalty may be as wavering as that of the men that today have sworn fielty to the Rook, and mark my word, we will all pay the price if that loyalty will fail." Phillip's expression shifted to one of contemplation, and for a moment, Ambrose saw a flicker of doubt in those usually steadfast eyes. But it was quickly replaced by determination, a brand new flame burning bright. "I'll handle my responsibilities, Master Harrison," Phillip replied, a steely resolve in his voice. "As you should handle yours. Good day to you," As Phillip walked away, Ambrose watched him go without following him any further. He took out another cigarette, and lit it up, hoping that tobacco -the sweet poison he couldn’t go without - would also help tainting the swirling feelings that Ambrose always kept sealed and well hidden behind the guise of authority and duty.

——————————————————————————————————

Byron felt nervous. He had been to Starrick Manor innumerable times throughout the years - certain times with such regularity, the Grand Master oftentimes jested that he should consider taking up residency directly inside the Manor; and yet, that time, it felt different. Uneasiness stirred within his chest as he clutched the small package he was holding with attentive carefulness in his hand— a collection of rare tomes of her favourite tales—and he took a moment to gather his thoughts. Three years. It had been three years since he had last seen her. Three years of letters, three years of incertitude in not knowing how she was in fact faring, if she was safe and sound, protected, loved as she had been loved within those walls. Three long years since his protégé had to flee the country because the danger in London had stricken too close for comfort. He gritted his teeth at the memory, his hand closing in a tight fist. Never the Assassins had been so bold. Never so foolish as to try something that most would have thought to be a suicide. A reckless move for which he had made sure they would pay. In full. But not enough. Not enough.

Byron relaxed his jaw and shoulders, as he tried to relinquish the raging energy that always pervaded him each time he thought about that night. He took a deep breath and allowed himself to focus once more on what was ahead of him, as he resumed his walk toward the doors of the library. He allowed himself to take a quick glance in the mirror and adjusted a small lock of hair that had fallen out of place, before turning toward the library once more. The closer he got to that room -one of his favorite places in the whole Manor- the more he could hear the soft melodious voice of a violin coming from behind the wooden panels. A distant melody, a gentle one, beckoning him like a siren, inviting him to leave all that worried him behind. “Angels We Heard on High”. Byron allowed himself the indulgence for a tiny smile: a little out of season, considering that Christmas had passed already, but he knew that, if it was for her, she would be playing Christmas songs and carols all year round. He knew that, if it was up to her, she would have all the lands constantly covered in a soft blanket of gentle powdery snow, protecting everything from the bitter frost, as flora and fauna alike would wait until the warm kiss of Spring came to wake them all up again. He opened the door, ever so slightly, and felt his heart leaping in his chest at the sight of the young woman who was playing the violin, eyes closed as always to let herself be entirely transported away in the land of arpeggios and symphonic poems, the melody coming straight out of her soul, as if she was indeed singing the praise of this life to the Angels above. His dear Dorothea.

After the immense tragedy that had burned his heart and rendered it just ashes, she had been one of the reasons why he hadn’t lost his path, why he hadn’t lost his way amidst desperation and discomfort. His Morning Star, the herald of Dawn after the long cold winter night that was his grief. A purpose, after all that had been lost. Sitting on the sofa, just opposite the young woman, was her cousin Phillip, his whole attention focused on her as a good-natured smile made his sharp face much more amiable than what he usually presented to the world. A gentle grin, ever so sweet in nature, appeared on Byron’s lips, before he even realized it; but he had no intention of stopping that smile from growing larger. Because in truth, what he saw in front of him were the echoes of a moment long gone: a memory of two young children who would sit on that sofa together as they read for hours through Byron’s old journals of his time in the Arctic, bombarding him with questions after questions, their curiosity insatiable. It was a familiar sight, the comfort of a long lost home and family finally found again, of peace sought after a long journey across the whole sea that was his life. Odysseus finally returning to Ithaca, prepared to find peace for his tired heart.

Careful now in opening the door as quietly as possible, he put a finger in front of his lips when he saw Phillip turning to look at him. The young man smirked and nodded, keeping his silence. Byron took his hat off with respect and placed the small package as he awaited for the young woman to finish her song, her fingers dancing along the strings with the easiness that came from practice. Such a soothing sight, it was. As the last notes flew in the air, he finally spoke. “This sound was incredibly missed, Princess,” he murmured, his gravelly voice just loud enough so that she would hear him without startling her. “Byron!” Dorothea turned to look at him, eyes wide in surprise as her whole face seemed to be lit up by his mere presence. Without hesitation, Dorothea left her violin and bow on the nearby table and ran to the Master Templar. With careful attention- as gentle as his own strength allowed - Byron took the young woman's hands in his and brought them to his lips, softly placing a long kiss on her knuckles. “Oh, how I missed you! My eyes see with joy! My heart sees with joy!” she murmured, eyes twinkling with barely contained tears of unbounded happiness at the sight of her mentor, after so many years far away from one another. “As do mine, darling child. As do mine.” he whispered back, feeling a small lump forming in his throat at the sound of her voice, his heart swelling in his chest. “Thank you for bringing her home safe and sound,” he whispered to Phillip, his voice filled with a gratitude he couldn’t contain, his eyes not leaving Dorothea’s silvery ones for a single moment. The young man raised his brows in surprise at the gentle tone and responded with a small bow of his head. “I just did what every devoted man would do for his beloved family,” He chuckled, before turning to look at his cousin. ”Well, Dora dearest, I thank you for gracing me of your time and company this evening, but it is high time I return to my duties and shall take my leave." “Oh, cousin, please! Do not leave just yet!” she pleaded. “No no, I do insist, dearest. Besides, I believe you and Master Harrison will have a lot to discuss, after three years away. But-“ and he turned to refer to the older man, his periwinkle eyes piercing the Master Templar’s sea-green eyes. “If you were to spare a few moments for me afterward, I have something to discuss with you regarding our latest endeavors,” Byron’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. Despite the placid calm of his voice, the urgency in the young man’s gaze couldn’t be denied nor ignored. “As you wish, Lord Starrick.” He conceded. “Splendid! I shall await you then. I have a few details to discuss with Aunt Annette before - we truly should take into consideration renovating the library in Dover,” he turned to face Dorothea once more and kissed her hand amiably, before smiling one last time. “Sleep well, darling Cousin. I will call you soon,”

Then, nodding to Byron, he took his leave, closing the door behind him. Byron’s eyes immediately found Dorothea’s again, and he felt warmth once more spreading from his chest to the rest of his whole body. “I have missed you, Byron,” She giggled, daring to engulf him in the tightest embrace her arms allowed. “These halls were empty without your laughter to fill them, Princess,” he murmured, returning the embrace in full. He dared to lay a small kiss on the braid on the crown of her silvery blond hair, resting his lips against her hair a moment longer. With eyes closed, he allowed himself to be completely enveloped by her presence, to stop time and thoughts from running around in his mind, to live in that small moment of warm joyous innocence. To feel her breathing, healthy, alive, safe, and sound. Cradling her face in his hands, he examined her thoroughly, his stormy sea green eyes piercing straight into his protégé’s as he looked at every small wrinkle, every freckle, every single detail of her face with almost punctilious attention. A frown appeared on his heavy brows when he found the small scar under her eye, white and healed after so long. He blocked the memories from returning to him before she could read them all over his face. “You look thin, Dora. Have you not been fed while in Sturefors?” he murmured instead, his voice sounding more like a growl than a whisper, as his gaze fixed on her cheeks, not as round as he remembered them to be. Dorothea shook her head, with a sad smile. “I have been, Byron. My family at Sturefors has taken the greatest care of me during my sojourn there. But the Famine hit us. It hit us all. The last two winters were the most cruel I had ever had the misfortune to experience, but we were lucky. The food was less than what we had when I first arrived, but we still had food.” She paused for one moment, lips trembling at the memories that came flooding her of all the people she had seen dead on the side of the street, starvation, and the unforgiving winter cold the cruel executioners of their fate. “So many others didn’t.”

Byron pursed his lips in a grimace of utter displeasure at the news, the grip around her tightening almost out of instinct. He had always been against her departure from London, three years prior, believing that with him around, no hurt could ever come to her. But he had been powerless in front of the Grand Master’s will, his hands bound as he himself had to put her on a ship and send her to hide deep in the forest of the North. And now, he wasn’t happy to see her return less than she had been before. “Why didn’t you write to me about this?” he whispered, his voice stern in his question. “To what end? Not even you and your strength of will could ever stop the turn of the Seasons, or Nature and her whims, my dearest mentor,” she jested, hoping to see the deep frown on his brow disappear altogether. “I could have arranged for your return, Dora. You know that all I needed was one word from you - one command - and I would have come and brought you back home myself. The Baltic Sea, with all its maelstroms and currents, would have not stopped me. You know that.” “I know,” she acquiesced with a nod, a bashful grin appearing on her face. “I know, Byron. No woman on this Earth could ask for a better Mentor and Guardian; No woman could ask for a most formidable Bulwark. But I could never ask that of you. You had duties here that were far more important than having to personally come and collect me. How could I ever deprive the Grand Master of his Right Hand?” Byron took a deep sigh, before returning her grin with a lenient smile of his own. He gently patted her cheek with his hand - large enough to cover her whole face - in a reassuring gesture. Had it been to comfort her or himself, he didn’t know. “You are wise, young one. And stubborn, if I do say so myself,” he added, eliciting a silvery laughter in Dorothea. “ But yes. You here now, and I will personally see that we shall bring you back to good health,” “You sound exactly like Father now,” she giggled, her laughter returned by a small, tired smile. He saw her looking up at him and saw a sad light appear on her face, as her eyes looked at his face with attentive care, mirroring the way he had been gazing at her a moment earlier. He knew what she was seeing because he saw the same thing each time he gazed into a mirror: the deep black shadows that had appeared underneath his eyes; the wrinkles on his forehead that didn’t disappear when his face wasn’t frowning; the scar on his cheek and nose, a memento of the fight that should have brought him peace, but did not. “Time hasn’t been kind to you as well, Byron. What happened to you?” she asked, bringing her small hands to his face in a comforting gesture. “The last three years have weighed on me like the Sky on Atlas’ shoulders,” he thought, stopping his words from reaching his lips. He sighed, slumping his shoulders ever so lightly and shaking his head. “We both have faced our deal of misery during your absence, Dora,” he just murmured, covering her hands with his and pressing them against his cheeks, as he tried to grasp all the comfort from that gentle touch, a balm for his restless soul. He didn’t dare to add anything, not wanting to let his burden become hers.

Not yet. Not just yet. He wanted, for a moment longer, to preserve that sweetness of temper and innocence of spirit that had already been taken away from her, three years prior. He wanted, for a moment longer, to feel as if the world was a hopeful place, untouched by sufferance, immaculate in its candor: a pristine dawn, with the promise of a glorious day ahead. When he saw her eyes turning sad and her lips pouting, he gave her a small smile and patted her cheek. “Do not be troubled for me, dearest child. Such is life.” he whispered, daring to give her a small kiss on her forehead. “But now, no more talk of sorrow or sadness. these rooms have been left bereft of your voice for far too long. So, if you would be so kind as to entertain a request from your old Mentor, and fill these ears with joyous chatter and a peaceful melody, you would make me immensely happy.” Dorothea pursed her lips, eyebrows frowning in apprehension. “But I do not wish to keep you from your business with Phillip, By-“ but the old man brought a finger to her lips, gently silencing her. “Whatever he has to say, it can wait. This cannot, my Princess.” He murmured with a warm smile. "Not after three years." Dorothea’s frown transformed and her round face lit up with sweet, uncontrollable mirth. Without even waiting for him to sit down, she quickly picked back up her violin and bow, ready to comply to Byron’s wishes. Gracing him with another smile, eyes and nose crinkling in her joy, and taking a small bow, Dorothea started her melody, one that was dear to both their hearts. A lullaby of the North.

A lullaby about cold winds and chilling waters, of rocky mountains and green forests that met the slate-blue churning sea…of memories and answers so deeply hidden, one would need to get lost before being able to find them. Byron took place on the small couch, letting himself sink in the cushion, feeling as if all that was weighing him down was suddenly being lifted up from his shoulders by those notes that had started to fly like birds in Spring. He couldn’t remember when it had been the last time he had sat and just listened to music, without shunning it from his heart. It almost felt as if a lifetime had passed, a whole horizon away. But after so long, he felt as if he could finally be able to fully breathe once more, to breach through the waves and stop fighting that tide that was always there, in each of his thoughts, ready to swallow him whole and drag him in open dark waters. His low baritone voice found its way out of his throat, humming at first, then louder, accompanying her violin with a song, a soft smile appearing on both their lips. "Yes," he thought, looking at her with soft eyes filled with a sentiment that he thought was long buried under the snow of his grief. "The Harbinger of Dawn indeed."

——————————————————————————————————

Time had passed far too swiftly. After almost two hours of complete bliss, entrapped as he had been between her tales of her adventure in the North and reading together the books he had brought her, Byron had bid Dorothea goodnight. He had promised her that they would travel together to Dover soon, for a small outing at sea together, just like how they used to when she had been but a young child, all cooped up in the halls of that Manor that faced the sea. After so many promises he had to uphold for duty, he was finally content to keep a promise that didn’t involve hunting down those bloody Assassins or finding a way to set his business in order. The moment he closed the door of the library behind himself, however, he felt the darkness of the hall fall on him the same way rain poured during that gloomy autumn afternoon, when the sun would not show itself at all and would set over the horizon far too soon. He wished for a moment to not have granted Young Lord Starrick his time, if anything, to preserve that moment of peace a little longer. But his word was binding, for better or worse. When he raised his eyes, he immediately found the young man waiting at the end of the hallway, standing against the stained glass window that faced the inner garden, where the orangery stood, a lit cigarette in hand. At the sound of rustling robes, Phillip raised his face, and looked intendedly toward Byron, as he approached him: despite having seen forty-five springs already Byron Harrison still stood tall and powerful as he had done in youth, even more so after the years spent at sea had chiseled him into a man of exceptional hardness of spirit, one that rivaled the strength of his character and the potency of his body. Eyes like the storms, and fiery auburn hair, wavy like the ocean on a windy day, it always felt as if Poseidon had deigned to walk the Earth, bringing with him the full strength of the Oceans. Phillip couldn’t help but look at him with eyes filled with reverential respect. He had no trouble imagining why people whispered his name with either deference or terror laced in their voices: Byron Harrison was someone that one would always want on their side, for good or for worse, and if by misfortune, his favour was to be lost, to pray to God for a quick painless deliverance, instead. “Thank you for acquiescing to my request for a small interview, Lord Harrison, I know how much it would cost to cut your time with Dorothea short,” Phillip murmured, keeping his voice low as he offered him a cigarette.

Byron shook his head, refusing the offer. “What do you seek of me, Lord Starrick?” he muttered. “I assume your brother has informed you about what happened today?” Byron shook his head, eyes narrowing as his shoulders tensed. “Kaylock is dead. The Blighters that reported to him had all but disappeared and according to witnesses, they have joined side with someone called “The Rook”. Not only this, but from what my sources have related to me, there had been chaos in the factories and we have lost our stronghold, Spitalfield. It appears we-“ he cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “-we no longer have control over White Chapel." Byron listened intently, unblinking, as Phillip reported to him all that had happened. A whole borough lost. “Has the Grand Master been informed about this?” It was Phillip’s time to shake his head. “While the severity of our loss is considerable, we are still evaluating if this “Rook” and his gang are just miscreants trying to cause mayhem in White Chapel alone as a borough, or if this is indeed the Assassins trying to officially strike and breach into the city.” Byron turned pensive, and brought his large hand to his chin, stroking his auburn beard. First Croydon, with Ferris and Brewster killed, and the Piece of Eden lost. Now Kaylock and White Chapel. While not the most important of the boroughs under their control, Byron could see trouble brewing. “We need to recover all the men we have lost,” he murmured, after a long moment of silence. “We cannot let our numbers dwindle. Speak with Roth. Have him send out scouters to pick up more men and intensify the training of the lads that will join the Blighters from now on. We will need to raise their wages as well,” Phillip’s lips curled in a grimace of abhorrence. “Why paying them more? They are just scum, Master Harrison. Parasites that would sell their own mothers and wives and daughters, if they can get a profit from it. Why giving them more resources that we can instead reinvest in something more fruitful?” Byron looked at the man with eyes void of any light, chilling in their gaze.

“Your disdain for them clouds your judgment if you think of them as nothing more than fleas on the coat of a dog, an annoyance. Disposable. Unimportant. Never forget that these men are paid to do our bidding, but there is no loyalty to us if not the one our purse can buy. And they have numbers on their side, and this, combined with their desperation is their greatest strength, whether they realize it or not, and it can prove to be the cause of a whole pandemonium, if not controlled.“ He took a deep breath, before talking again. “Never underestimate what desperation could make a man do. As for this “Rook”…I assume you have already sent out your “ghosts” around the city to gather more information?” Phillip nodded, a light of solemnity painted on his sharp features. “Good. I will speak with the Grand Master at the earliest and discuss a proper strategy.” "I will ensure to keep you informed of any new information that may come to my attention." "Very well," he murmured, and with a small bow, he took his leave, making way toward the stairs that would lead to the ground floor. But he stopped before he could descend, clenching his fist. “Lord Starrick.” “Yes, Master Harrison?” “Not a word to Dorothea,” he murmured, his tone one that didn’t allow the possibility of compromise. After the young man nodded in agreement, Byron finally took his leave, his heart heavy. Not yet, he thought, looking above his shoulder, toward the library. Not just yet.

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER - Homeward Bound ]

[NEXT CHAPTER - "The Wager" ]

*pokes head out of the borrow*

OMG I AM FINALLY DONE. I AM FINALLY DONE.

It was so LONG overdue, but allow me to finally present the latest chapter!!

Ngl, I am so happy to be done with this, and I am so happy with how it turned out!! And I am so happy to finally start to introduce my Templar Squad! I don't know how to explain, but it makes me feel like the story is truly starting rolling! :)

Dear gods, this is truly one of the longest chapters I have ever written! It started as a small chapter, I was envisioning maybe 6k words. I DIDN'T EXPECT TO END UP WITH DOUBLE THAT NUMBER.

good gods, i feel like my brain is mush lolol

But anyway, I truly hope you will like reading it as much as I loved writing it!

--Nemo

#assassin's creed #assassin's creed syndicate #Assassins #templars #jacob frye #dorothea starrick #Byron Harrison #Phillip Starrick #Ambrose Harrison #In The Heat Of The Moment #my ocs #Nemo Writes #Mostly Ocs for this chapter but it's needed #the story develop in parallel lolol

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