#river glass drag king

[dragkingsrule]

River Glass, drag king and cosplayer

Image sources: 1, 2, 3, 4

Artist links: LinkTree, Tumblr: @kingriverglass, Instagram, TikTok, YouTube

[midnight-scrivener]

@kingriverglass Missing you brother. I CANNOT believe it's been 3 years jeSUS

Some set photos from Drag Me Back to Santa Carla! Featuring me, @therandomsim, and Berto, one of our cinematographers!

[kradogsrats]

The last time Lissa cries is in Katolis.

As she rides away, she feels as if she'll weep forever—tears she can't stop flowing down her cheeks, ceaseless and steady—but when she crosses into Del Bar, her face and eyes are dry. Her parents welcome her back into their home. Her siblings and their children turning out to comfort her. Lissa smiles and thanks them, lets them embrace her.

None of them say, I told you so. Not outright, at least. She can tell some of them are thinking it.

Doesn't seem all that broken up about it, does she? Not a single tear.

Shush—let the poor girl be. Not all pains can be wept over right away.

But when her mother falls ill, she doesn't cry like her sisters do. When they bury her—when her father, always mountain-strong, is reduced to gravel in his children's arms—she has no tears to shed.

Nor does she weep for her brother's son—young and bright and brimming with promise—dead the instant his horse throws him, his neck snapped cleanly. He'd planned to marry his sweetheart, in a year or two. There's a funeral instead, the other boy's anguished tears a river of grief.

Lissa still does not cry. No matter the sorrow, her eyes sit in her head like stones, hard and heavy. Dry as bone, even as her throat closes and her chest burns like her heart is on fire.

There are no tears from her even for her second sister's husband, a sailor whose ship never returns from its last journey through the spring storms. Her sister holds her own shattered pieces together for the sake of their small children, and the family rallies to support her with food and chores and company. They cry with her, late into the night—all of them, except for Lissa.

Cold as the heart of Hinterpeak, that one.

You're surprised? She married a mage, she was cursed from the start.

Then she abandoned her children in the snake's den, when she'd had her fill of him and his poison.

I suppose it takes a monster to love a monster.

What could she tell them—that Viren had meant no ill? That she'd been the collateral damage of a miracle, a negligible cost for saving a child from death? That her children were better served by staying with a father who loved them so fiercely than by their broken mother dragging them away?

That when he'd stumbled in half-mad, his face scarred beyond recognition, ranting and raving his demands that she weep to save their son, she had refused? That she'd feared what he might take from her, as if anything she possessed could be worth more than Soren's life?

That when his hand twisted in her hair and the cold glass pressed against her cheek, she cried not for Soren, but for the man she'd loved and the monster he'd become?

That, most of all, she had cried for herself?

She stays quiet, and does not cry.

Her father finally passes, never recovered from her mother's loss, and her brother approaches on behalf of the family. We love you, Lissy, you know that—but we think it would be best if you didn't come to the funeral.

Lissa's heart burns, her throat clenched tight against any protest, and she nods. She leaves that night, vanishing into the mountains. No one comes looking for her.

She settles outside a remote village, in a tiny hut halfway up the mountain, more a hunter's seasonal shelter than a house. She busies herself with survival—tends a garden, hunts and forages. Down in the village, she trades the pelts of what she can trap, and sometimes plays the decrepit, barely-tuned piano in the tavern for coins.

That's where she hears of the great march on Xadia. King Viren of Katolis, leading the united Pentarchy to end the threat of dragons for good.

Lissa returns to the tavern every day after that, desperate for more news—it's barely a week later when she hears he's dead, his army broken by an alliance between the elves of Xadia and those loyal to King Harrow's son. There is no mention of her children in any of the garbled rumors.

It's almost a relief, that she doesn't cry for Viren.

But Soren would be old enough to have joined the Crownguard, just as he'd always wanted. With two kings dead in such quick succession—first King Harrow, and then, somehow, his own father—could she even dare hope he still lives? And Claudia, so fascinated by magic, even when it tore their family apart—had she succumbed to all its dangers? Would Viren have let her walk a different path, if she chose?

She imagines going back, demanding to know what happened to her son and daughter—if Viren remained in a place sufficiently prominent to somehow become king, someone has to know. She imagines seeing them again, being able to run to them and take them in her arms. She imagines crying, then—a decade of stolen tears released in a flood of joy and relief.

Then she imagines their revulsion at the mother who left them, should she be unable to shed a single tear of grief or regret.

Lissa stops going to the tavern. Her heart burns as if its falling to ash.

She doesn't cry.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 34 - Dominic Monaghan

Lizards have a distinct smell, turns out. Kinda dry and dusty, but also…mildewy? Or at least this overgrown cave lizard does. You focus on that as you drift in and out. The pebbly hide, not slimy at all, presses against your cheek as you come more and more into your own body, and you shift your focus to the movement of muscle underneath. Wonder if big boy here is more a komodo dragon, or more a dinosaur. It’s warm, whatever it is.

It’s too had to keep both eyes open. Especially with your head pounding so bad. You open the one any wider and it’s gonna pop right out.

Every drag of air into your lungs hurts. Cause you’re folded over the back of a lizard like a fucking saddle bag. Feet tied together so tight all you feel is a scorching ache up your shins. Your knee joints is filled with ground glass. Hands still bound and every step and shift of that lizard sends shooting pain blasting up your arms.

They ain’t untied you. Didn’t even loosen the ropes. Your fingers is gonna die and drop off and them bitches called you a slave but slaves need hands to work.

They’re gonna kill you. Soon as they figure out how to get past the fucking brainworm.

Your bladder wakes up. And you realize you feel air on your ass crack. Cloth draped over your legs, but not between. A skirt? Your memories is shredded meat, but one bubbles to the surface: something breaking during the pain and hot liquid on your legs.

You pissed yourself at some point.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to bury your face against the rough hide.

They must’a stripped your pants and them panties (Astarion made that for you and now it’s gone, too). Probably so you don’t smear on and stink up the side of the lizard.

You twist your head enough to spot the actual saddlebag next to your head. Recognize the spider design worked into the leather.

Bitch Queen sits perched in that saddle, back so straight you could use her as a leveler at a construction site. You don’t say nothing. Stay still and quiet—don’t draw attention, give them nothing—but soon, your bladder don’t give you any option. And you say, in Common (sweet jesus you miss Gale), “Piss.”

They do stop. Untie your feet and drag you off to the side. Your toes don’t work no more. Feet won’t take your weight. Skinny stands there over you as you hobble on your screaming knees. He makes no move to help (not that you was expecting it). Your hands don’t work enough to hike up the wrap they tied around your hips, and eventually, Skinny scoffs and leans down and wrenches it up so hard you almost fall.

You try not to think. At all. Certainly not about the wet on your own thighs.

You want this to be over. Want all of this to go away. But it don’t. It just drags on minute by minute, second by second, and you got to be here for every part of it.

Astarion got away, at least. He’s out there, somewhere. You could reach out. Could check. Know for sure if he left you. He said he would after the river. He’d save himself. Leave you to torture and death. And as Skinny hauls you back, lifts you onto the lizard again and sets to work trying your feet back together (the pain takes the air outta your lungs), you almost reach for the group chat.

But you don’t. You can’t.

Too much of a coward. Too much a wounded animal, trying to slink to its den and lick the gaping wound shut.

Off y’all go again, and you’re stuck in the present, in your body, an unwilling passenger to all of it.

***

You know y’all’ve stopped for the day when hands yank you off. You startle, and then hit the ground.

They leave you where you fell. Lead the lizard off and Skinny pulls some kinda something outta his pack to feed the big boy, murmuring and stroking its pointy muzzle as it chomps. Bitch Queen and Short King Shithouse talk in a huddle to the side as the others lay out bedrolls and distribute rations.

They do not give you food. They do drive a stake into the ground, produce a leather cord, and tie your bound, screaming feet to that. Aside from that, they leave you be. They do not speak to you, do not sink spectral claws into your mind, and they don’t give you water.

You’re gonna die. The knowledge seeps into you, lying there in the dim light of surrounding mushrooms. People feed prisoners they intend to keep alive. Their disregard speaks for itself. You’re nothing but cargo to them. A piece of mail to take back and open up and then discard. You can only watch as they crunch and slurp through their food and drink. Notice Skinny sitting off by himself. The others ain’t really taking to him. Haven’t the whole time you been awake enough to register that. Some kinda pecking order?

And then he notices you watching. Cocks his head and looks to the huddled group of women. Stands.

You tense.

He comes over. Stops, standing over you. Looks down a second, and then pulls out his water skin and crouches down.

“Drink?” he says in Common.

Gotta be a trick. You look from the water skin to him and back. His face is blank, neutral. Your tongue sticks to your mouth, so dried out it feels it’s gonna crack like a slug under a sprinkling of salt. But Skinny just crouches there, waiting. It probably wouldn’t help them if you keeled over of dehydration? Which means y’all have to be at least another day to wherever they’re taking you?

You tentatively open your mouth.

Water gushes over your face. You try to twist away, hacking and sputtering, but he only dumps more, following you. Water sloshes up your nose, catches on an inhale and then you’re really choking. Coughing and gagging shit up. Can’t even thrash with half your body rigid with pain. Can only lie there and pant, eyes and nose streaming.

Then you manage to glance up. Catch a flash of movement in the dim light. Pain crunches into your face. His boot. White agony bursts through your skull, boils your brains. You lose a moment or three, and come to, choking again. Not on water or snot, this time. It’s blood.

Bitch Queen says something, voice cracking like a whip. The blur that is Skinny backs away and folds into a bow. One of the women nearby shakes her head.

Pretty sure your nose is broken. Pretty sure your front teeth might be cracked. Your eyes water so bad that you lose sight of everything else but dim movement. Can only roll yourself to your side—a human can drown in, what, a couple teaspoons? You remember enough of basic first aid to know the recovery position.

They leave you as you lie there in torment. You’re there a long while. Or maybe not. Can’t tell. Everything is hurt and cold. You’re alone. Always, always alone. Even when you had Uncle Randy and your cousins, you was alone. Because that’s what you know. All you know. And despite ten fucking years and counselors and therapy and medication, you don’t know how else to be when it comes down to it.

You don’t trust how else to be. Because it always ends in something like this.

You’re gonna die. Hurting. Alone. That tiny ember in you will try, as it tries now, to stay lit. But you always known that someday, something would come along and finally snuff it out. It won’t up and just let you die—you’ll keep on breathing to the end. You’ll even marginally pay attention, keep an eye out, just in case. But someday, and someday soon it seems, it’s gonna—

The drow are quiet. Not a peep. Not a breath. They’re completely still, until you catch the flutter of hand movements. Are they signing? Hard to tell in the dark with your eyes streaming.

They’re all staring intently in the same direction, though. You try to wriggle yourself enough to follow, but your body’s too fucked up. It gives out and you drop back, panting.

And that’s when you feel it. Shift to press the side of your face to the ground like some “good guy Indian guide” from some dumbshit western.

A rumble. Steady and low, it shivers through the ground.

Somebody says something. Gear rustles.

The rumble don’t change pitch or frequency. It’s kinda…familiar? You blow a blood bubble outta your nostril and try to pop your ears…

That’s a fucking birdshark. The fuck is another goddamn fucking birdshark doing out here? And is it…it’s getting louder.

Oh hot fuck. It’s getting closer. Coming right towards this camp. Why in the sweet, flying fuck—

A presence taps at your mind. It feels like bare feet on cold sand laced with sharp rocks just beneath the surface. Silver bright, like the flash of a trout in the murky depths. A hint of dark humor like licorice flavoring in a strong drink.

You crack open the door to your mind. Just a little. Still trying to keep your wibbling guts from spilling into the connection.

And there he is.

Something hisses. Thwips. A drow rasps horrifyingly and stumbles. One of the women clutches her throat. There’s something wrong with it, with the shape…

Oh. Yeah. An arrow would do that.

Drow draw knives and curved short swords. The rumble gets louder and louder, and Bitch Queen finally breaks the silence to snap an order.

A flash in the dark. Something pale. Something fucking fast erupts out of the shadows. Tumbles into a roll as several arrows hiss over his head. He comes up in a crouch, bow already drawn.

He releases. Catches Skinny, standing in the back, right in the thigh.

“Hello, darling!” he says in Chondathan. And then, in your mind: it’s his turn, now.

Which is when the birdshark explodes outta the ground just behind him.

[pepperonijem]

be here with me || nikolai lantsov

Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x fem!reader Warnings: none Genre: fluff Word count: 788 Summary: it's been a long day, but it's okay because at seven you will be here with me

A/N: inspired by the song 7PM by BSS feat. Peder Elias. there are no thoughts, no lore, no plot. just fluff and nikolai. give the song a listen <3

It wasn’t much of a stretch to say you were tired. The kind of tired that feels like it’s been building up for weeks – sneaking up on you like wavelets against the sand, growing and growing until you find yourself sinking under tsunami tides. 

Rebuilding a kingdom from ashes of a war was no simple task, even for the most seasoned of veterans. Too many things to do and never enough time. Too many people to please and never enough resources. Each day was a paradox, twenty-four hours dragging like molasses out of the mouth of a glass jar while you run on against the stream. Every rise of the moon was a welcome sight to you, a sign that although tomorrow would be its own battle, for a few hours you could enjoy the pale glow of the moon. 

Tonight, however, instead of retreating to your private rooms to enjoy time alone with your lover, you found yourself longing to be outside of the palace walls. You send a courier to deliver a message to the king, a short message of  “meet me at the river,” and make your way to the quiet banks of the indigo waters to wait for him. It doesn’t take long for him to find you – it never does – and with the sound of grass breaking, you feel warm arms wrap around you from behind. 

You don’t turn around until he calls your name — not the name used by the people to address you but rather the one kept secret for moments like this. “My love,” the dulcet tones of his voice harmonizing with the crickets and the river waters. You can tell he’s smiling as he calls for you, as he always does, and when you turn around it feels like falling into starlight. His disheveled hair after a day of frustrated ticks is ever so golden, glowing in the white light of the moon and his blue eyes catch the broken reflection of light against the water. It happens quicker than instinct that you reach a hand to rest against his cheek and for Nikolai to release a soft puff of air, as if only now can he finally find rest. 

“Come sit with me, darling,” you beckon to him and he quickly complies. He gently pries your hand from his cheek, opting instead to hold it in his as he fills the space beside you, close enough to feel your thighs touching and you loop your arm through his to fit yourself to lay in against his shoulder. This is home, you think to yourself. 

It isn’t long before the quietness is filled with stories about the day. Although you had spent most of the day in your husband’s company, it was never enough, with only fleeting glances across meeting tables and secret smiles shared in passing. In the daylight, he was Nikolai Lantsov, the people’s King of Ravka. But here with you… he was your Nikolai, dearest. Although your relationship was well-known among the people, it was moments like this that you indulged in like a delicious secret between the two of you. Once the silence comes to find its way between the two of you once again, Nikolai turns his head to press a kiss against the crown of your head. 

“What’s that for?” you lift your head up to smile at him. He shakes his head bashfully before giving you a soft smile and bringing your entwined hands to his lips.

“I just missed you,” he replies sincerely, his free hand coming up to push a hair back from your face pointlessly as a chilling breeze sweeps it back out of place. You let out a chuckle as Nikolai sighs in exasperation with a pout. However, when he notices the slightest shake of your shoulders in a shiver, he immediately stands and extends his hand out to help you up. “Come? Before the winds turn icy.”  

With a laugh, you slip your hand in his, leaning against his shoulder as he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow. “Is the fearless king afraid of the cold?” You look to see him roll his eyes as he pulls you closer into his side.

“Never,” he replies with a scoff. “But I’d rather like to feel my wife’s skin under my fingers, and I can’t do that when they’re frozen numb.” As if to prove his point, he wiggles his fingers before poking you in the side teasingly. 

To his defense, you completely agree. But more than that, it didn’t matter where you were together, so long as you were together. Come storm or high hell, Nikolai was always your resting place as you were his.

[myosotisa]

Old Heart - Part 2 - Been

‖ chapter summary: Welcome to Memphis, Tennessee. Home of the only Quarantine Zone directly placed on the Mississippi River. It's home to a full cast of characters and you get a brief introduction to the settlement and other people's lives within. Including Eddie's.

‖ tags: enemies to lovers, age gap (41 and 25), forced proximity, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, HEA, "zombie" apocalypse, reader uses she/her pronouns, no y/n, no physical description given, minors dni

‖ chapter warnings: consumption of alcohol (yes that's it, count your blessings)

‖ songs referenced: And Dream of Sheep by Kate Bush, I Wanna Learn a Love Song (Live 1975) by Harry Chapin

‖ word count: 11.2k

‖ prev ‖ ao3 ‖ masterlist ‖ tag list request ‖ next ‖

Tuesday, August 16th, 2016 – Memphis, Tennessee

After 10 minutes of walking through damp and musky tunnels, Eddie asks you to hold his flashlight for a moment as he slides something heavy out of your path. One flashlight in each hand, wondering if maybe you should try to help, all you see is the flex of his shoulders beneath leather as he shifts the object – far enough for a sliver of light to come through and continuing until there's enough room for a single person to squeeze in.

“Okay,” he says in an exhale, both hands shifting to his hips as he dips his head. “You first.” Clicking both flashlights off, you walk up to the opening and peek through, seeing a stone wall opposite, before hesitantly pushing into the new area.

Two steps in and you hear the sound echo for what feels like a full minute too long. Gray light filters in through stained glass and frosted windows across tall, stone walls with impossibly high ceilings. White dust dances, lifts, falls in the stale air around you as you take a few more steps toward the empty hall. Unlit crystal chandeliers hang in an even pattern across the vaulted ceilings, some whole and intricate, some with broken glass and half their shape, others that are just a chain left to shift whenever a breeze passes through one of the shattered windows. Lines of pillars, studiously carved into subtle curves, reach up toward brushed metal decor before melting into the ceiling above. The soles of your boots click across tiled floors as you approach the main structure in the hall.

A statue of what used to be Jesus Christ on the cross sits high above you, a backdrop of beautiful stained glass painted behind. The entirety of the piece is more than 10 feet tall and 20 feet wide – the remains of Jesus hung above an extensive carving of various figures from Christian theology. John the Baptist, Mary Magdalene, the four apostles, the three kings. They all are looking up at him in awe and devotion as they sit easily beneath his crossed and nailed feet.

The head of the statue is missing. There’s jagged stone just above his collarbone where it looks as though it was broken off. Smashed. Desecrated. Cracks descend from the opening and down, weaving their way into the other figures. A split across a king’s forehead into his eye, an diagonal break on the throat of an apostle, a cleave straight through John the Baptist’s torso. With your first glance, it seems the only figure left untouched by the branching tear is Mary herself, kneeling with her head in a bow beneath Jesus’ feet.

A cacophony of scraping and dragging hits you from all sides as the heavy frame Eddie moved is slid back into place, the sound echoing harshly through the empty cathedral and back into your ears so painfully you nearly move to cover them. When you look over to the source, he has just pushed it the final few inches before falling back a few steps. His shoulders rise and fall with a heaving breath and then he turns to you, hands back in his pockets, looking like he wasn’t affected at all.

“Another church,” the repetition of your voice bouncing back to you moments after it leaves your throat is enough to wince.

He lets out a snort of derision on his approach, settling a few feet away from you to also look over the carvings above. “Very astute observation.”

You barrel through his mocking, allowing it to fuel you but not give it your attention. “Dustin said you always want to meet at churches. Louisville, now this. Why?”

Despite that softness of your final question, it still rings out uncomfortably in the silence. You look over at Eddie as he continues to stare up into the space where the head of Jesus used to sit. There’s a reverence to his gaze, a vulnerability to the way his wide eyes flick across it, as if searching for something.

Searching for what?

The moment is gone as quick as it occurred. His head tilts toward you, his expression once again bored, eyebrows set low. “Trick of the trade. Not a lot of people are gonna question a man walking out of a church.” The thought almost seems to make him smile, a bit of mischief in the way he explains it. He spares one last glance up, in a way that’s almost longing, before he’s turning away from the feature and towards the door. “Come on, I’m hungry and ready for a shower.”

You trail Eddie down the shredded rug of the aisle, past what remains of the broken pews and tattered fabrics, and out the heavy twin doors into the afternoon sun.

You’re welcomed into Memphis by the park across the street. It’s dry and dying, a stark contrast to the rest of the greenery you’ve seen since the day began. Like the rain or the ground water from the Mississippi reaches everywhere but this single block of park in the middle of the QZ. It makes you a bit sad to see it withering, but there’s barely anyone around that seems to pay attention to it.

There are people nearby, the first you’ve seen in ages. None of them pay you or Eddie any mind as they go on their way. He veers off to the right, toward what seems to be a much more populated area, looking over his shoulder only once to make sure you’re still behind him. However, as you get closer and closer to where throngs of people come and go, he walks slower, waiting for you to catch up.

“Stay close to me,” it comes out as something close to an order, “things move pretty fast around the market and I don’t want you to get lost in the crowd.”

A completely reasonable request for a good reason. This you can accept. “Okay, can do.”

What shocks you the most is when a hand touches your back for just a moment, though you can feel it continue to hover there as Eddie pushes forward. It’s a good thing too, because you have never been around this many people in your entire life. The amount of people in this square alone could rival the numbers of the entire base at Quantico – and the crowd here is 50 times more diverse. There are children, something you haven’t seen in years, playing together in the streets, kicking a ball through the legs of the adults that continue on their way as if it’s a common occurrence. Probably because it is for them. You’re the only one around who seems to be overwhelmed with the bustle of the Memphis QZ.

The crowd feels as though it parts as you and Eddie walk through, or maybe he’s just leading you along the current as easily as everyone else follows it. It really does behave like a current as faces and bodies pass by on either side, some talking to the people they walk with, others keeping their head down as they move. It all starts to blur together while you let the arm behind lead you deeper into the fold. Part of your brain tells you to start asking questions about where you’re going or what the plan is but you’re struggling to process anything. The sounds, the smells, the sights – it all muddles together in your head and you can’t find something to ground you in the swarm.

“Eddie!”

A high pitched cry has both you and him turning, just in time for the source to barrel into Eddie’s legs.

“Woah,” he laughs as he rocks back to standing straight, a hand landing on the coils on top of the girl’s head as her arms lock solidly around his hips. “Heya squirt, almost bowled me over.”

Her arms release so she can jump up and down a few times in place, her excitement evident. “I missed you!”

You look on as Eddie drops to a knee in front of her, making them the same height. “Missed you too, Libby.” The smile that tilts his lips is stuffed to the brim with fondness and only seems to grow as her delighted giggle gets muffled by the crowd. It’s obvious the girl, Libby, looks up to Eddie and enjoys his company, and Eddie cares for her. It reminds you a bit of his relationship with Dustin: unrestricted affection given and taken in equal measure. “I gotcha something while I was out.”

Her eyes almost triple in size, wet and pleading as she squeals. “Really? You really did?”

He laughs, really laughs, his head hanging down as his shoulders shake. “Yeah, squirt. Picked it out just for you.” The backpack slips off his shoulders as he sets it on the ground in front of him and starts digging through it. Her impatience is palpable but the moment of waiting makes her aware of you for the first time. 

She dips forward, almost like she’s trying to whisper to him but she’s way too loud to actually do so. “Who’s that?”

The question makes Eddie stiffen. You’re not sure if it’s because he forgot you were there or the survival instinct of realizing someone is behind him. Either way, you step further into his line of vision, and closer to Libby, as you offer your name along with your hand. “I’m traveling with Eddie for a couple of days.”

The girl makes no move to shake your hand as she eyes it warily. “Come on, Lib. Don’t be rude.” At Eddie’s goading, she hesitantly takes your hand in her own, the taupe skin of her palm dry and soft, and lets it move up and down once before she’s letting go. She looks a bit shy now that she’s noticed you, causing her excitement for whatever Eddie continues to dig for in his bag to lessen. The fact that she is so shy around strangers but so comfortable with Eddie speaks volumes. Her eyes nervously glance between you and Eddie until an “Ah-ha!” brings the entirety of her focus toward the man before her. He produces a small antler from the bottom of his backpack – 4 tongs of khaki colored bone converging to a shaft with a rough, brown texture almost like bark.

“Wow,” she gasps, eyes wide in child-like delight as she reaches her hands out towards it. “Is it real?”

“Yeah, squirt,” Eddie chuckles, tucking some loose hair behind his ear, “super real.”

“But, but…” those same wide eyes start to water as she cups the antler in her palms. “What happened to the deer that had it?”

“Oh! It, uh…” Eddie fumbles, his own eyes as wide as hers now as he tries to come up with something to ease her rising sadness.

You step closer and drop down beside Eddie, your knee knocking his own with the movement. “Actually, Libby, deer shed the antlers on their own.” Her eyebrows pinch together in confusion as she turns the bone over in her hands. “In the winter time, male deer’s antlers fall off so that when spring comes, they can grow bigger and better ones. See here,” you dip forward a bit more and point toward the base of it. “That’s called the burr, where it connects to the deer’s head. Once a year, the stuff that connects the burr falls apart, kinda like when a plant on a leaf starts to turn brown. Then, you cut off the brown leaf, and a bigger and healthier leaf can grow back.”

Her sadness converted back to awe during your explanation, although still a bit hesitant. “So it doesn’t hurt them?”

“Nope,” you confirm with a smile, “doesn’t hurt them at all.”

“That’s so cool!” She hops again, gripping the antler in her fists. “I wanna go show Mama.”

“Is she at the shop?” Eddie asks as he rises to his feet with a soft groan of complaint. She nods and takes off running towards the crowded square full of tents in the distance. “Fuckin’ kid,” he sighs, although it’s with nothing but affection in his tone. His head tilts toward you, a self deprecating smile tilting his mouth. “Thanks, uh, for the save.”

You wave him off, taking a moment to dust off the knees of your jeans. “No problem. Looked like you needed it.”

“A little bit, yeah.” He shakes his head, a few more shaggy waves falling loose to frame his face. “Y’know I definitely killed that deer and ate it, right?”

“Oh absolutely,” you agree in a tease, knocking your elbow against his, “but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

The knock seems to jar him back into reality, reminding him of who you are and what you’re doing here. It’s almost like watching him physically retreat back into himself as his smile fades. “I guess. Come on, let’s get some food.”

Eddie’s arm is behind you again as you trail after the path Libby had blazed towards the busy market. The crowd is even thicker here, with more people just standing and talking rather than moving, which presses you closer into Eddie’s side as you try not to get separated. He’s alarmingly warm, even through 2 layers – each time your sides brush against each other the shock of it makes you hyper aware of each moment the two of you touch. It gives you something to focus on, to ground yourself, as he leads you off the road and through one of the crowded paths between makeshift market stalls. 

It seems like sometimes Eddie forgets who you are, and in those moments, he’s not as cold to you. It’s confusing, to say the least. The hot and cold treatment. Like he has some preconceived notion of you that affects how he treats you and it isn’t necessarily aligned with how you act toward him. You’ve heard a lot of stories about Eddie Munson over the years. It makes you wonder how many stories he’s heard about you. It’s hard to imagine he’s heard any but there has to be something to make him act this way.

The two of you approach a shop that’s cut into the building beside the market, like a walk up restaurant. There are several people milling about with their heads dipped over steaming bowls, eating quickly before they have to get on their way again. “Hey Mags?” Eddie calls out as he approaches the open door to the inside. His arm falls from behind you as you stop to wait for an answer, but you don’t have time to think about it before the smell hits you. Something rich, meaty, earthy, and just a little bit spicy wafts through the air and has your empty stomach twisting over itself in desire.

“Is that Eddie Munson, I hear?” A woman emerges from the darkened kitchen, wiping her hands on the towel tucked into her apron. Her russet brown complexion is coated in a thin layer of sweat as she brings the towel up to run across her forehead before she greets Eddie with a warm smile. “Libby just ran by shoutin’ something about you being back, bringin’ her something. You know you don’t need to get her gifts like that, Ed.”

“I know, Mags,” he sighs, shifting to the side to lean his shoulder on the wall beside the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. “Just can’t help it sometimes.”

“Well you should try!” She laughs, a deep and melodic chuckle that settles over you like a warm blanket. Her deep brown eyes meet yours as she adjusts the sapphire-toned turban covering the majority of her scalp. “And who do we have here?”

“Oh, sorry,” Eddie stands upright again, waving you a few steps closer. He introduces you by name, citing that you’re traveling with him for a couple days in a repeat of the same thing you’d told Libby.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, darlin’.” She offers her hand, warm and firm on your own with a much nicer shake than Libby had allowed. “I’m Maggie.”

“Nice to meet you, Maggie. Are you the one cooking? It smells amazing.”

She stands a bit taller, looking proud at the compliment. “Got a nice big pot of gumbo going today. Y’all hungry?”

“Absolutely starved,” Eddie confirms, already looking like he’s salivating just at the idea of eating whatever she’s cooked. She waves you both toward the window, going back inside to serve you through it. She pours you each a steaming bowl of gumbo, the chunks of meat indiscernible but the dark roux soaking into the white rice along the bottom of the bowl is more than enough to have you digging in to eat before you even move an inch away. Eddie tries to give her a few pieces of paper between wolfish bites of soaked meat and rice, calls them ration cards, and Maggie adamantly refuses them over and over.

“So,” Maggie looks to you after waving Eddie off for the 4th time, “been travelin’ long?”

Ignoring the scars that flare along your esophagus at the thought, you shrug. “Just over a week, so not too long. Really excited to take advantage of Eddie’s promise for a shower though.” He seems to pause for a moment when you say his name, hesitating, before he goes back to inhaling his bowl. “Just wish I had a change of clothes, really. Had to leave my old place fast.”

She looks you up and down for a moment, as well as she can through the serving window, then she calls behind her. “Hey, Papa?”

A figure appears from the shadows beyond the reach of the afternoon sun. His tan skin is flushed red from the heat of the kitchen, sweat across his brow that rolls down his temples and into the patchy, black beard across his jaw. He twists to her side, resting one hand on the counter before them and the other reaching across to her outer hip. “¿Sí, Mama?”

She leans into his embrace without taking her eyes off of stirring the boiling pot in front of her. “Why don’t you run and grab Ed’s friend some clothes to change into? Then she’ll have something to wear while he washes them.”

The kind gesture has you reeling back. “Oh no, I couldn’t ask that of you. The hot meal is more than enough.”

Her dark eyes reach you again, this time with a glint of mischievousness. “I mean, I suppose if you would prefer to have nothing to wear while you wait for your clothes to dry…”

The obvious implication has blood rushing to the surface of your skin. “No, it’s not – I mean, I –”

“She’ll take the clothes,” Eddie interrupts as he places his now empty bowl back on the counter. "Thanks, Mags. Always too kind to folks around here.” She scoffs, waving him off with a self satisfied smile. The man asks you for some approximate sizes to fish for and you give him your best guesses, saying you'd prefer too big over too small. He gives you a little salute and disappears back into the shadows behind Maggie. You're pulling the last few bites of your bowl back towards you when Eddie speaks again. "You seen Red around?"

She shakes her head, expression falling a touch. "Not in a few days."

He swears under his breath, looking out into the crowd. Almost like he would just happen to catch the person he was asking about if he looked hard enough. "She mention where she was going or who with?"

"Oh yeah," Maggie's tone drops to a smooth monotone. "She told me all about it. And then we braided each other's hair and talked about boys."

Eddie lets out a soft laugh, rubbing along the side of his scruff a bit sheepishly. "Touché."

Maggie steps out from behind the stove to lean down on the counter beside it. “You know she’s fine. Who knows, maybe she’s up there sleeping right now and you’re down here worryin’ for nothing.”

“Yeah… Yeah, you’re right.”

“Always am,” she replies happily, attention shifting to you. “All done?”

“Yes,” you pass your bowl over toward her with a grateful smile. “It was delicious, thank you so much again.”

“Happy to, sugar.” She takes the bowl with one hand and offers a reassuring squeeze with the other. An overwhelming kind gesture that has you choking up against your will. “Ed, why don’t you take her up to get cleaned? I’ll have Gus bring the clothes over when he gets back.”

His eyebrows draw together on his forehead, “You sure, Mags? We don’t mind waiting.” We? He’s thinking of us as a we?

Don’t overthink it.

She waves him off again, using the tips of her fingers to cover that same mischievous smile. “Your smell is scarin’ off the customers anyway. Go on now.”

Suddenly self conscious, you try to subtly take a smell of yourself while Eddie thanks her again and says his goodbye. He turns to leave so you offer a quick wave before stepping into pace with him again. The crowd has thinned out a bit now as the sun begins to sink further toward the horizon. The lack of people seems to make him not feel the need to lead you like he did before, with his hand ghosting over your back. You try hard not to ignore your disappointment and the lingering warmth of his palm along your spine.

“Do we actually smell that bad?” You find yourself asking as you walk with him back the way you came, seeing a bit more of the tan, dusty streets than you could before.

He gives you a side eye, before replying. “I’ve been within 10 feet of you for over 3 days. If you smell, I smell, and neither of us can smell it on each other.”

“Touché,” you echo, a small smile coming to your face as you repeat what he said to Maggie just a few minutes ago. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shake his head. And maybe – just maybe – trying to hide a little smile of his own.

Eddie leads you back to the initial intersection, the road that bisects with the cathedral, but brings you the opposite direction. Peeking between buildings, you can see the Mississippi River running wild only a mile or so ahead. To your right there’s a stately building, with its tall pillars and stone carvings, the words ‘MEMPHIS POLICE STATION’ etched into the stone. Beside it there’s a smaller building, more overgrown, less taken care of. Vines climb up the sidewalls and press into broken windows. Graffiti covers the bright red doors and the smashed out sign of the ‘Firefighters Museum of Memphis’. You press forward, past what looks like an apartment building on either side, through the intersection beyond, and towards the large building on the corner. The awning in front of the door reads ‘The Claridge House’, with the word condominiums written in smaller text underneath.

“Condominiums?” You wonder aloud as you follow him past the marble entry and into the ‘fancy’ lobby. Fancy by 1980’s standards with it's brushed metal detailing, blackish-green marble, and large designs in the tile floor. It’s empty apart from a single man in an armchair, legs kicked up and a hat over his face as he rests.

Your companion doesn’t reply, just heads over to the door to the stairwell and holds it open for you to pass through. After spending the last few days out in the open, you still find yourself on high alert – checking corners and looking ahead as you ascend. The rational part of your brain insists that this is a QZ, people live here, the likelihood of there being a random infected in here is near 0.

The irrational part of your brain supplies that the odds are not completely 0.

If Eddie notices your apprehension, he doesn’t say so. Just directs you to exit the stairwell at the 4th floor and head down the hallway to your left. Every other lightbulb is out as you proceed down the carpeted hall, casting an eerie shadowed effect across the peeling wallpaper on the walls. There is very little noise coming from the rooms you pass, leading you to believe they are either unoccupied or the occupants are elsewhere. Most of what you do hear is very muffled conversation here and there, along with the odd bleed of music through the walls.

As you turn the corner, Eddie brushes past you in the narrow hallway, taking the lead as he approaches the door labelled ‘413’. He digs a key out of his pack, unlocks the door, and pushes inside.

The door opens into a square shaped room with two windows on the far wall. They’re west facing, the first orange tints of the soon to be setting sun filtering in through the makeshift curtains. There are a few random posters stuck to beige walls, mostly bands and movies from when you were kid. There’s a rug across the wooden floor that has definitely seen better days, a sunken brown couch and 2 mismatched armchairs facing across from a homemade shelf of concrete blocks and planks of wood. There’s a layer of dust on the record player on the top shelf and the assortment of stacked vinyls below, some in their paper envelopes and others laying on scraps of fabric or pieces of paper. A few steps inside has the dust rising, dancing in harsh sun rays that press in from outside.

“Oy, Red?” Eddie calls, shutting the door behind you both and pushing past you around a corner. “You here?” Two doors open and close as you slowly approach the shelves, running your fingertip through the dust that sits on the cover of a Metallica vinyl. It’s less dusty than the other records below it, but it still hasn’t been touched in a week or more.

“Damn it,” is Eddie’s mumbled curse as he reappears from the side hallway. Turning his direction, you see him lean a shoulder against the wall separating a small kitchen from the rest of the condo. He wipes a hand across his forehead, causing his greasy and sweat-laden bangs to stick out in odd directions.

“She not here?” You prod, still not even really sure who she is.

He looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise, and crosses his arms over his chest again. “No,” he grumbles, casting a glare back towards the hallway. “No note or anything.”

You nod, shifting awkwardly from where you stand in the middle of his living room. Your feet are killing you and you’d like nothing more than to sit down or maybe take that shower you were promised, but it’s hard to move past the feeling of intruding in a place you don’t belong. “I’m sure she’s fine, Maggie seemed sure of it.”

“I know, I know, I know she is more than fucking capable of taking care of herself, it’s just…” Eddie hesitates, glancing from you to the floor. He sighs, his shoulders falling as his eyes drift closed. “Forget it. You can put your bag in the bedroom on the left, I’ll find a towel or something.”

He disappears into one of the open doors and quickly shuts it behind him, leaving you alone in the dust. That feeling is back; like he wanted to talk to you but then remembered who you were and suddenly decided he couldn’t. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth, the idea that he thinks you’re untrustworthy. Or maybe it’s for an entirely different reason. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Either way you have no idea what you could’ve done for such a reaction.

Inching your way around the corner, you get a better view of the hallway. To your right is the door Eddie disappeared into. Before you are two doors. The one to the right is closed, so you walk toward the door on the left. The room is mostly empty – there’s a full size mattress slightly raised off the floor, a blue quilt spread over it, and a bookshelf in the corner being half used for books and half as a dresser. The only other things in the room are an acoustic guitar propped up in the corner and a mug full of pens and lighters sitting on the wood shelf. Walking closer, you see the mug is a cream color and the design is slightly worn off – there’s a cartoon drawing of an apple and mismatched text saying ‘I’d rather be at lunch!’. You manage to set down your backpack at the foot of the bed before Eddie reemerges.

“You can shower first,” he says from a few steps away from the open doorway. “I left a towel on the sink for you. There’s soap and some kind of homemade shampoo Mags gave me. I’ll go find Gus to get those clothes and throw them in when I have them.”

You’re stunned by the show of kindness. “Oh… Thank you, Eddie.” He shrugs and turns back toward the living room. His backpack is missing but you aren’t quite sure where he put it. “Is there anything about the shower I should know?” You call after him. He freezes, turning back toward you with his face pinched in confusion. “Like there’s only so much hot water or something? I don’t want to force you into a cold shower.”

It’s his turn to look stunned, his gaze hard as if he’s testing you. You struggle to remain firm under his scrutiny, just like you had the first time. After a moment, he tucks his hands into his back pockets as he slightly shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Water is lukewarm at best anyway.”

He pushes out the door before you can say anything else, the lock sliding into place a second later.

You set yourself to the task of getting to some semblance of clean. The shower pressure and temperature definitely left something to be desired, but you were hardly in a place to complain. You scrub your skin down until it screams for mercy and then apply the same treatment to your scalp. Halfway through your battle, the door clicks open, there’s a noise of something hitting the floor, and then the door clicks shut again. Trying to carefully piece through your hair, you have a moment to think about how long it’s been since you last took a shower. Not since the day before…

Don’t think about it.

Forcing yourself out of the shower before more cracks appear in your foundation, you towel off yourself as best you can and then sift through the pile of clothes now on the bathroom floor. There’s a soft, dark gray t-shirt, a denim button up, a pair of sturdy black jeans, a new pair of mismatched socks. There’s also a few pairs of underwear to your embarrassment. You’re grateful to have the extras of course, but the idea of both Gus and Eddie handling them has you a bit mortified. The underwear and t-shirt go on, foregoing the new sports bra for tomorrow, and you’re about to put the jeans on when you spy a pair of boxers at the bottom of the pile. They’re large on you and cover enough for you to be comfortable sleeping in them. Better than jeans anyway. You fold your new clothes and collect your dirty ones in a bundle beneath your arm and push back out into the living room.

You almost run straight into Eddie from where he’s walking out of the room he’d told you to put your things in. “Oh, sorry,” you apologize on instinct, ducking out of his way and back toward the kitchen.

“It’s fine,” his tone is flat, emotionless. He looks like he’s aged another 5 years since you last saw him 30 minutes ago. “You can throw your dirty clothes on the floor, we’ll figure it out tomorrow. Take whatever you want from the kitchen. Can put on a record or grab one of my books or something, I don’t care.”

Trying not to take the dismissal personally, you just nod. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” He shrugs off your thanks and closes himself into the bathroom again. The shower turns on a few minutes later.

Your clothes get dumped on the floor next to the couch and you set the clean things on the end of the bed near your bag. The pattern of the wood digs into your feet uncomfortably so you end up putting the new socks on before you go snooping. There’s a small assortment of canned goods in the cabinets along with 2 sets of mismatched dishware. The only thing in the fridge is a half empty 6 pack of beer and a jug of drinking water. You pour yourself a glass and dig out a can of fruit before settling down on one side of the couch with your snack. The sun has dipped below the buildings beyond now, bathing the faded rug in orange.

The silence becomes too much in less than a minute. You cross the room and flip on the record player, setting the disc already there to play from the beginning.

Little light shining Little light will guide them to me

A high pitched feminine voice drawls out the words over a flowing piano. The melody is almost haunting as she picks through the verse, tone waving between sharp highs and rolling lows. It’s slow paced and bittersweet, but calming. The empty sleeve beside the spinning table says ‘Hounds of Love’ across the top, with a woman laying out across a pink toned bedspread. Not what you normally would have picked, but it fills the silence. 

Let me be weak, let me sleep and dream of sheep

You’re halfway through your can of mixed fruit soaked in a sugary liquid when the bathroom door clicks open. Eddie emerges in the middle of tugging a black shirt over his head. In the moments between, you catch a glimpse of his torso: lithe muscle and narrow waist. There’s a large scar across his left side, but you aren’t able to guess what from before it disappears from view. He runs his hands around the collar of the shirt, releasing his limp, damp waves from the fabric. When it’s wet, it’s near impossible to see the lines of gray you know are scattered through it. He’s wearing a loose pair of sweatpants that skim the floor as he walks over to the record player.

“Kate Bush, huh?” You’re too distracted by his arms to notice. He wore his leather jacket almost the entire time you were traveling with him, and this is the first time you’ve actually seen them. They’re not exceptionally muscular, definitely strong for sure, but what catches your attention is the scars along his skin. There are cuts and slashes that range from barely visible to a bright white against his skin. An indent in the epidermis across his bicep, the skin above it puckered and tinted pink. More evidence of wounds old and new are discovered each moment you keep looking. Realizing he’s asked you a question, but already not remembering what it was, you make a confused hum to see if he’ll repeat it.

“Kate Bush,” he repeats, waving his hand toward the spinning vinyl. “You pick it?”

You shake your head, setting your snack off to the side. “Was already there, I just restarted it.”

“Huh.” His eyes track back to it as it continues to play, moving forward to a song about being stuck under ice. Those brown eyes are settled in a glare, like the vinyl is hiding something from him and he can intimidate it into talking. When it doesn’t budge, he shakes his head, his hair leaving droplets behind as he walks into the kitchen. He returns with a can of his own, falling onto the other side of the couch with a groan. “So you can take the bed and I’ll sleep out here.”

You spin toward him, nearly dropping your glass of water in shock. “What? No, I’m not taking your bed.”

He leans his head back, wet waves draping down across his shoulders. He looks tired. Weary, exhausted. And not the kind you can fix with sleep. Eyes closed as he faces the ceiling, he sighs. “Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.” You repeat, more intently. “I’ll be fine on the couch, if you sleep on this thing you’ll probably throw your back out or something.”

A snort leaves his nose, the corner of his mouth turning up in amusement. “Good one.” You try not to let the acceptance go to your head as he rolls his head to look at you. “You’re gonna sleep in the bed. If my old man knew I made a woman sleep on the couch while I had a bed, he’d roll over in his grave. So please… Just take the bed.”

The bags under his eyes are more pronounced as the light fades from the room. They drag at the bottom lid lined with black lashes, sunken into the skin above his cheekbones. Between the dead stare he pins you with and the heavy weight that presses him down into the flattened cushions of the couch, you find yourself softly agreeing. 

When the record finishes playing, you refill your glass of water and go into Eddie’s room, pulling the chain to turn on the bare bulb above the bed. You push the door mostly closed, leaving it open just an inch or two. You can’t see anything beyond it, but knowing that if something happened, if there was some noise or movement or attack, you’d be a little bit more likely to hear it. It helps.

Eddie’s sheets smell like pine, whiskey, and something human. You take the second pillow along the top between your arms, crush it to your chest, press your face into it. Breathe in deep. And wait to fall asleep.

Wednesday, August 17th, 2016 – Memphis, Tennessee

Waking up the next morning is a struggle. Mostly because you couldn’t sleep for more than 2 hours at a time. It had been awhile since you were given the opportunity to sleep through the entire night and your body did not receive the memo.

The next time your eyes crack open and there is a bit of soft light coming from between the blinds, you decide to admit defeat. The decision is further enforced by hearing a hushed argument from beyond the crack in the door. In your half asleep state, you don’t even think before you’re rolling out of bed and pushing the door open.

Conversation stops the moment the door squeaks open. Standing in the doorway, a pair of deep brown and a pair of bright blue eyes pin you in place.

The bright blues belong to a woman who looks like a cross between a soldier and a viking. She’s armed to the teeth, at least 4 knives visible on her person as well as a pistol in her holster and an assault rifle slung over her shoulder. Her dark green tank top is slightly stained with something that could either be mud or old blood, there is dirt brushed over the entirety of her cargo pants, and her military-grade boots have left definite marks behind her to the door. The pale skin of her defined arms have a myriad of scars, all looking no more than 2 years old. The lower half of her scalp is shaven low and the upper half is pulled together in a long, ginger braid that reaches between her shoulder blades. Her eyes are striking and intense, shocking you still much more than Eddie’s surprised expression.

Breaking the stand off, you take a few steps closer to the edge of the living room. “You must be Red,” you offer your name to her along with your hand.

“Max. Not Red,” is her only response, ignoring the hand you’d held out to her in favor of turning back to Eddie. “Just because you leave a little love letter whenever you’re going out doesn’t mean I have to.”

Eddie nervously glances between where you’re slowly lowering your hand and the badass staring him down. “You don’t have to. It just would be nice to have an idea of where you are, and when you’re going to be back.”

Her arms cross tight over his chest. “So you don’t trust me.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.” Eddie pushes to his feet, his jaw set tight. “It has nothing to do with if I trust you or me thinking you’re not capable or something. You obviously are more than capable of taking care of yourself. It’s just…”

“It’s just what, Eddie?”

Her cold tone settles into the shadows of the room, making the air feel thicker and the temperature drop significantly. It sets you on edge, your muscles tightening and your posture straightening on instinct. It has the opposite effect on Eddie. The weariness from last night reappears; his shoulders slightly rolling forward, his presence getting smaller under her stare. It seems completely out of character for him to shrink this way to anyone at all, to bend to someone else’s will so hastily.

“And if you get him killed, Max will hunt you down.”

Dustin’s warning echoes back to you in the tense silence. Understanding that this human weapon is Max, and that she would kill if anything happened to Eddie, is enough to make you second guess any leniency you had felt toward his warning. This person looks like she could tear you apart and not even break a sweat.

“Forget it. Just think about it, okay?”

The defeat in his tone, how he breaks eye contact from her staredown, seems to be enough to make her soften. “Okay,” she acquiesces, dropping the assault rifle down to lean against the wall beside the couch. She glances back to where you still stand before tipping her head back and rolling her shoulders. “I’m gonna go get some sleep.” She pushes past you, trailing tan dust the entire way, before the right side door shuts behind her.

Eddie drags a hand down his face, taking a deep breath before setting his posture straight again. “Did we wake you?” He asks, his tone dry despite the thoughtful question.

“Oh, no,” you take a few steps closer to the couch, carefully stepping over the trail of dirt Max left along the floor. “I woke up first, heard the talking after.” He nods slowly, dropping back to sit on the edge of the couch. “How did you sleep?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. “Fine.”

You decide to take another chance. “No back pain?”

His exhausted expression shifts to one of disbelief, before he cracks a smile against his will. “Smart ass.” Grateful to have gotten him to smile, no matter how unwillingly, you plop down on the other side of the couch. “I need to meet up with some people today. Around town. Make some trades, get supplies for the rest of the trip.”

“Okay, sounds good.” You can feel his stare into the side of your face, a tingling warmth across your skin. “What? What is it?”

“What’re you going to do?”

I thought I was going with you. 

Turns out you will need to fend for yourself.

You last about 15 minutes alone in the apartment. Well, not alone. But Max definitely wasn’t showing any time soon. So you got dressed and went out.

“Hey! You’re the girl who was with Eddie yesterday right?”

Halfway to where you’d met Maggie yesterday, you’re intercepted by a blonde woman. Her hair is long, pin straight, pulled back in a ponytail. Alabaster skin, high cheekbones, hazel eyes. Looks like every prom queen you would see in every 90s movie. The IT girl. The beauty pageant winner. She’s wearing a yellow floral dress that reaches down below her knees but is slightly hitched up in the front from where it’s draped over her extended stomach. One hand rests on the bump while the other extends toward you. “I’m Sadie.”

“Like, the dance?” You ask through a laugh, giving her a hesitant handshake.

“It would be funny if my last name was Hawkins.”

Sadie explains she heard about you from Maggie and that she was just ‘waddling’ over to sit with her for a few hours. “You should come join us! Unless you had something you needed to get to?”

Her smile is warm, welcoming. You’d read in books and screenplays that people sometimes described pregnant people as ‘glowing’, and looking at Sadie now… You can see why. “That’s so nice of you to offer. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay, but I will definitely walk over there with you.”

You end up staying half the day. There’s an empty stall opposite Maggie’s kitchen with two chairs, one for you and one for her. Turns out Sadie is a talker. A bit like Dustin in that way. She doesn’t ask a lot of questions, doesn’t care too much for if you participate or not. She’s happy to just keep talking. Endlessly going on about life in Memphis, the push and pull of the local groups, who has been rumored to be cavorting with who. You obviously don't know any of these people, but it’s still fun to listen to her gossip. Quantico was a small community, mostly people who all already lived on base before the pandemic hit. There wasn’t a lot of drama or gossip. They almost never brought in new people and there wasn’t a lot of disagreement within the people who were there.

At least, not at first.

“So, what are you doing with Eddie?” Sadie asks, after spending almost 2 hours waxing on and on about the life and times of Memphis.

You’ve been listening and people watching for so long, you almost miss your cue to speak. “He’s, uh, he’s helping me travel. To meet up with family.”

“Oh!” Her smile is bright and full of awe. “That’s so sweet. How long has it been since you’ve seen them? The person you’re going to meet.”

How do you say 'I’ve never actually seen her before'?

“A long time.”

She ‘aww’s, dainty hand gripping your forearm and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Well, that’s amazing. Family is so important, and it can be so hard to stick together in times like these.”

Times like these? Is she for real?

“Yeah, that’s true. How, uh, how do you know Eddie?”

You’re desperate to get the subject back off of you and she seems more than happy to explain. “Everyone around here knows Eddie. He’s the sweetest guy, always so helpful. He runs errands for people all the time. Even the officers. I swear, so many people owe him favors, he could run this whole place if he really wanted to.” Sweet and helpful? “Him and that woman he lives with, with the red hair? Now she’s a brick. Scares me a bit, honestly. It really is a shame what happened. She was so full of life before.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

She looks at you surprised, like she thought you would have already known. “It’s really not my place to tell. I’ve already said too much, I think.” She laughs nervously, rubbing a hand over her bump. Sure didn’t stop you when you were telling me about how Louise is juggling 3 men and none of them know it.

“Yeah, sure,” you cast your gaze back toward Maggie’s kitchen. There’s a walking path between where you’re sitting and the window that has been busy all day, people going this way and that. This market seems to be a big hub of the QZ, at least from what you’ve seen of it. You’ve listened to people trading all day, others talking about different things over bowls of Maggie’s stew of the day. Most of the eavesdropping you’d done had been much more interesting than Sadie after a while. Whispers of ration deliveries coming through less and less often. Some of the upper level FEDRA officers having meetings more often than they normally do. Nothing that is especially salacious, but apparently it’s enough to put some more paranoid people on edge.

Another hour or two passes of half listening to Sadie and half listening to the conversations around you before Eddie appears. He doesn’t notice you at first, walking up to Maggie’s door just like he did yesterday and calling her over. Her and Gus both step up and the three of them lean their heads toward each other, speaking low as Eddie pulls a set of folded papers out of his pocket and starts pointing things out to them. You sit up straighter, focusing in on them to see if you can catch a word or two on what they’re discussing, but you can’t hear anything over Sadie and the people walking between.

Warm, brown eyes meet yours before you can look away. His eyebrows draw together on his forehead, gaze flicking from you, to Sadie, and then back. There’s an obvious question in his expression, but Gus brings his attention back before you can figure out what it might be. “Oh, Eddie,” Sadie says, tapping her hand against your shoulder like you hadn’t already noticed him standing there. You give her a polite nod and smile then settle back into your plastic lawn chair. The trio only speaks for a few more minutes before Gus takes the papers from Eddie and both him and Maggie disappear back into the kitchen. “Eddie!” Sadie calls when she sees him free, waving happily to try to get his attention.

He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, a dark wash compared to the light blue bootcuts he was wearing when you met him, and makes the few steps toward you both. He is wearing a black and red tie dye t-shirt, a white linen button up layered over it with the sleeves rolled up, showing off the scarred skin of his forearms. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail today, though it has a bit more life in it now that it’s been washed. The waves have a bit more definition, fluff up a bit more. It makes him look a bit boyish, more casual than the wolf you’d been traveling with so far. Like being in Memphis makes him softer, more relaxed.

“Afternoon,” he says once he’s passed the walking path. He eyes you both warily, like it makes him uncomfortable to see the two of you sitting together. Given Sadie’s propensity to run her mouth, you can’t blame him, though you can’t say you really learned too much about him or about Max.

“It’s nice to see you, Eddie. How long are you in town for?” Sadie’s smile is just as warm as it was towards you, her voice just as sweet, but for some reason having that same warmth directed toward Eddie makes the boil in your blood kick on.

He shifts from one foot to the other, glancing toward you again before he returns to her. “Only a day or two. We have to get on the road again, just stopped in town to stock up. And I had a delivery for Ahmed.”

“Yeah, she was just telling me you’re helping her travel to meet up with her family,” she squeezes your forearm gently again. “It’s good to hear nice stories like that, seems like everything is so sad nowadays.” He nods, breaking eye contact to look out over the market. “And it sure is lucky you ended up being back in town for the bonfire tonight.”

“Bonfire?” You ask, crossing your ankles over each other as you lean toward her another few inches.

Her expression is once again absolute delight. “Every month or so, we have a big bonfire down at Fourth Bluff Park. Everyone brings what they can, like a big potluck, and there’s music and dancing and everything. It’s the one time the officers get lenient with curfew – as long as nobody gets too rowdy.” Her bright eyes look between you and Eddie, now pleading. “You’re both coming, aren’t you?”

So when the sun starts to set, you find yourself walking side by side with Eddie toward the already roaring bonfire in the distance.

“Do you go to these things often?”

Eddie keeps several inches between the two of you as you walk, arms crossed over his chest. “Try to. Free food, free booze.”

You can’t help but perk up interest. “Free booze?”

He chuckles, his ponytail bobbing as he shakes his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not good booze.”

“Well… Any booze is good booze. At least in my opinion.” He hums an acknowledgement, side stepping out of the way when two kids run past you both in the opposite direction. “Are you planning on drinking tonight?”

His head tilts toward you, the fire already reflecting in his eyes despite the distance. “No, not tonight. But if you want to, by all means –”

“No, no.” You’re quick to interrupt, waving your hands in front of you in denial. “I don’t think so. Y’know, unfamiliar place and all.”

“Oh. Yeah, makes sense.” He kicks a rock out of his path, arms falling to his sides as you both get closer. “Seemed pretty comfortable with Sadie earlier though.”

It’s your turn to look him over. You can’t place how he feels about it, but the fact that he’s bringing it up now only reinforces the idea that he was uncomfortable when you were talking with her. “She’s sweet. Had a lot of nice things to say about you.”

A hand comes up to rub at the side of his scruff, his next breath long and loud. “Yeah, she has a kind heart for sure. Talkative too.”

“Absolutely,” you can’t help but smile, “I think I know the gossip of half the town now. Doesn’t do me much good when I don’t know anyone but… Suppose knowledge can be power.” You think back to what she said about Eddie, about how much power he wields here just by having so many people owe him favors. But, from what you can tell, he isn’t loud about that fact. He doesn’t run around flaunting it or acting high and mighty. If anything, it almost feels secretive. Something everyone knows but no one talks about. A silent power, a quiet force that works in the shadows. Hidden, but not invisible. Waiting for the right moment to collect.

“You’d think that but then you have Sadie, who knows a lot about a lot of people and…” He trails off, leaving the implication to hang there. Like he’s nervous to say it.

You’re not. “She is not the brightest bulb, that’s for sure.”

Eddie laughs, rocking back away from you with the force of it, a barking laugh that hits him expectedly. It’s louder than you were expecting but also makes it that much sweeter to hear. “No she is not.” He agrees once his laughter dies down. But his smile stays all the way up to the large group of people around the bonfire.

You’ve barely arrived before Libby seems to appear out of nowhere, grabbing at Eddie’s hands and trying to drag him away. He casts you a glance that you read as requesting your approval, and you wave him off. He lets the hyperactive girl lead him towards the tables of food. It isn’t long until Sadie finds you, looping her arm through your own and pulling you over toward a group of people laughing and talking. A drink is placed into your hand, one you smell and quickly assign as watered down piss-whiskey, so you nod a thanks and just hold it to have something to do with your hands. No one seems to pay you any mind beyond offering a polite nod of greeting, they all settle into a flow of familiar back and forth between friends.

It feels strange. To be in a community like this, to be around people like this. Laughing and talking and shooting the shit. It reminds you of how you felt when you saw Dustin and Eddie goofing around – this unfamiliarity with the comradery of it. A nagging feeling in the back of your head that it’s irrational to live like this, silly to let your guard down, irresponsible and unrealistic. How do these people act like everything is fine? Like they’re happy to live like this?

The squeal of a fiddle has you spinning on your heel toward the bonfire behind you. Across the way, a group is forming. People pulling together crates and turning over buckets to gather close together. A brunette drags her bow across the fiddle resting on her shoulder, a man holding a homemade banjo beside her, another setting up a hollowed out wooden box and sitting down right on top of it. An older woman settles onto a bucket with an acoustic guitar as a few other people with various instruments gather. The woman on the fiddle leads them into a tune, one you’re not even sure is an actual song, but they all seem to pick it up just the same.

Before too long a few couples have walked out in the space in front of the band, spinning their partners and getting into dances. A group of 4 kids runs over, linking their hands together, and starts to laugh and spin in a circle between the pairs. More people join the fray, enough to block your view. You whisper to Sadie that you’ll be back and part from the group to try to get a better view of the people playing.

You weave through the crowd and closer to that side of the circle, trying to dodge people swaying to the music or laughing boisterously and walking into your way. Half of the people you pass already seem intoxicated on the same piss that's in your cup, and it makes you shudder to think of how much of it they would’ve had to drink to even get buzzed. You find a good enough spot to watch the dancing and the players, standing off to the side, but almost jump out of your skin when someone clears their throat beside you.

Max is wearing a black hoodie over a pair of jeans, her hair down to cover the undercut. She looks so different here than the warrior you encountered this morning, her hands tucked into the pocket of her hoodie. “Hey,” she offers, barely any inflection applied.

“Hey.” She dips her head at your reply, barely an acknowledgement, before she sets her eyes back on the dancing again. You do the same, standing side by side for a while, just quietly watching the party happen around you.

Without warning, you see a few people presenting Eddie to the group of musicians. They greet him heartily, hands clapping on backs and all smiles as he interacts with them. He looks a bit like he’s trying to make a getaway, but it’s unsuccessful. A set of hands forces him down onto a wooden crate and an acoustic guitar is deposited into his hands. He runs the tips of his fingers along the strings, an easy smile growing on his face as the man on the wooden drum leans in to speak to him. From this distance, you can barely see him roll his eyes before nodding to agree. A murmur passes through the group, heads nodding and confirming before the tune they were still idly keeping up comes to a stop.

Eddie counts them off, giving 8 beats before he starts to strum. It’s a rhythmic back and forth across the strings, 4 or 5 times before the banjo plucks a 3 beat tune. The man on the wooden box bends forward and begins to tap his palm against the side, a heart beat that keeps with the melody of the banjo.

I come fresh from the street, fast on my feet Kinda crass and corny Not much meat on my bones and a whole lot alone And more than a little bit horny

A cheer rings out as Eddie starts to sing, his deep baritone ringing out in the clearing. There’s another whooping when he says the word ‘horny’, which sends him into laughs, almost missing his next cue to sing.

The old six string was all I had To keep my belly still And for each full hour lesson I gave I got a crisp ten dollar bill

You can’t take your eyes off of him. He keeps up the strumming as his eyes close, his neck extending as he sings loud and proud. The people around look on fondly, like they’re used to seeing this, like they look forward to when Eddie joins in with the band. You can’t blame them. It looks so natural to see a guitar in his hands, foot tapping, head shaking as he continues to sing. He interacts with the other people playing, leaning this way and that, even goading on the people dancing.

She said, "I wanna learn a lovе song, Full of happy things" She said, "I wanna learn a love song, Won't you let me hear you sing?" She said, "I wanna learn a love song, I wanna hear you play" She said, "I wanna learn a love song, Before you go away"

“He’s really good,” you admit, mostly to yourself. 

“Yeah, always has been.” When you look over at Max, she has a soft smile on her face. The first you’ve seen from the brief interactions you’ve had with her. “Used to be in a band and everything.”

The idea makes you smile – Eddie up on a stage, giving his all to a crowd of happy fans. Just like he is now, completely at ease and not even realizing he has the attention of almost everyone around. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Eddie plays a few more songs with the band, singing all the while, before he excuses himself. There are some claps and cheers as he stands to leave and he treats them with a dramatic bow, earning himself a few wolf whistles. He makes it a few feet away before he spots you and Max in the crowd, his face brightening in recognition before he starts walking over. There’s an ease to how he moves now. Everything about him seems lighter than you’ve seen him so far.

“You’ve got some talent, Munson, I’ll give you that.”

He laughs again, the 3rd time you’ve gotten him to laugh today, as he comes to a stop before you both. “High praise.” It’s a sarcastic reply, but there’s still a dusting of pink across his cheekbones that might not be entirely from the exertion and the heat of the fire. “Hey Red.”

She jerks her head up in greeting. “I cleaned up the dirt I tracked in. Didn’t want to upset your delicate sensibilities.” You aren’t quick enough to catch the snort, bringing your free hand up to try to hide your smile.

“You’re so generous,” he deadpans back, though it’s hard to deny the smile that splits his lips. “Actually, I’m glad I caught you,” he directs back toward you. “I have to go back to the apartment to get something for a deal. Didn’t want to disappear without saying anything.”

“You mind if I tag along?” You find yourself asking without really thinking. “I could use the air.”

He looks surprised, wide eyes blinking a few times. “Oh, yeah, sure.” He looks expectantly over at Max, who waves him off.

“I’ll hang around here. See if I can get some of Mag’s pineapple upside down cake.” He nods, mumbling something about not blaming her, before he motions for you to push through the crowd first.

The further you get from the bonfire, the chiller the air becomes. Your jacket, which almost felt like too much by the flames, is now a welcome warmth as you walk with Eddie back the way you came. There’s almost no one around here, assuming most people are either at home or over with the party, so you walk together down empty and barely lit streets.

“Max said you were in a band.”

He groans goodnaturedly, as if he's embarrassed. “Yeah, before all this. Played guitar.”

You tuck your hands into the pockets of your jacket, your elbow brushing his on accident. “Your band have a name?”

“Corroded Coffin.”

It takes everything in you to try to hold in the laugh. “Sounds… Edgy.”

He rolls his eyes, knocking his elbow against yours on purpose this time. “It was very metal, thank you very much.”

“I’m sure it was,” you concede. The two of you settle into a companionable silence as you walk the now-recognizable path toward the Claridge House. He stands taller than he did earlier, looks happier. This Eddie is a far cry from the weary one you encountered last night and this morning. Was it being at home, around people he knew that made him feel this light? Or was it the opportunity to play for the crowd that lifted the weight off his shoulders?

After holding the door open for you again, the two of you climb up to the 4th floor and walk the carpet down toward apartment 413. Another bulb or two has gone out, along with another that flickers overhead. It makes the shadows stretch longer, look sharper as they press in toward the light. Still, you don’t find yourself checking corners like you did when you arrived yesterday. While not entirely at ease, it does feel a bit safer than it did before. You wait to the side while Eddie fishes the keys out of his pocket and pushes inside. He crosses the living room to flick on the lamp while you close the door behind you. “Should be just a minute, then we can head back.”

“Take your time,” you assure him, not actually in a hurry to go back. It had been a bit overwhelming at first. But really, the thing that stuck with you was this feeling of foreboding. Something you hadn’t been able to shake for years. This feeling that something bad was going to happen, something bad always happens, though you didn’t know what or when. Something about the bonfire made that feeling more intense. Either because it all seemed too good to be true or because it reminded you how unwilling you were to accept that maybe it was just good. Maybe something could just be good. Maybe it wasn’t all just going to hurt in the end.

Eddie rounds the corner from the kitchen, presenting an unmarked container with a smile, right when the apartment goes dark. The lamp, the nightlight in the hallway, the street light that slightly shone in the living room windows. They all flick off at once and send you both into darkness.

That’s the only warning you get before the blaring horn of alarms sound outside.

-

-

-

-

thanks for reading and for giving so much love on part 1 and the masterlist!! if you liked this part, please give it a reblog and leave a comment if you can :)

[pepperonidk]

Be Here With Me || l.sm

MASTERLIST

Pairing: king!dk x fem!reader Summary: it's been a long day, but it's okay because at seven you will be here with me Warnings: none Word Count: 788

a/n: i had written this about 2 weeks ago now when i was at the height of my shadow and bone phase (prince nikolai enjoyers where yall at?) but literally the day i wanted to post it, i went into mourning so... take this as my slow enterance back into writing. I have requests in my inbox that I promise i'm working on... just slowly. it's been a hard month.

It wasn’t much of a stretch to say you were tired. The kind of tired that feels like it’s been building up for weeks – sneaking up on you like wavelets against the sand, growing and growing until you find yourself sinking under tsunami tides. 

Rebuilding a kingdom from ashes of a war was no simple task, even for the most seasoned of veterans. Too many things to do and never enough time. Too many people to please and never enough resources. Each day was a paradox, twenty-four hours dragging like molasses out of the mouth of a glass jar while you run on against the stream. Every rise of the moon was a welcome sight to you, a sign that although tomorrow would be its own battle, for a few hours you could enjoy the pale glow of the moon. 

Tonight, however, instead of retreating to your private rooms to enjoy time alone with your lover, you found yourself longing to be outside of the palace walls. You send a courier to deliver a message to the king, a short message of  “meet me at the river,” and make your way to the quiet banks of the indigo waters to wait for him. It doesn’t take long for him to find you – it never does – and with the sound of grass breaking, you feel warm arms wrap around you from behind. 

You don’t turn around until he calls your name — not the name used by the people to address you but rather the one kept secret for moments like this. “My love,” the dulcet tones of his voice harmonizing with the crickets and the river waters. You can tell he’s smiling as he calls for you, as he always does, and when you turn around it feels like falling into starlight. His disheveled hair after a day of frustrated ticks is ever so ethereal, glowing in the white light of the moon and his dark eyes mirror the broken reflection of light against the water. It happens quicker than instinct that you reach a hand to rest against his cheek and for Seokmin to release a soft puff of air, as if only now can he finally find rest. 

“Come sit with me, darling,” you beckon to him and he quickly complies. He gently pries your hand from his cheek, opting instead to hold it in his as he fills the space beside you, close enough to feel your thighs touching and you loop your arm through his to fit yourself to lay in against his shoulder. This is home, you think to yourself. 

It isn’t long before the quietness is filled with stories about the day. Although you had spent most of the day in your husband’s company, it was never enough, with only fleeting glances across meeting tables and secret smiles shared in passing. In the daylight, he was Lee Seokmin, the People’s King. But here with you… he was your Seokmin, dearest. Although your relationship was well-known among the people, it was moments like this that you indulged in like a delicious secret between the two of you. Once the silence comes to find its way between the two of you once again, Seokmin turns his head to press a kiss against the crown of your head. 

“What’s that for?” you lift your head up to smile at him. He shakes his head bashfully before giving you a soft smile and bringing your entwined hands to his lips.

“I just missed you,” he replies sincerely, his free hand coming up to push a hair back from your face pointlessly as a chilling breeze sweeps it back out of place. You let out a chuckle as Seokmin sighs in exasperation with a pout. However, when he notices the slightest shake of your shoulders in a shiver, he immediately stands and extends his hand out to help you up. “Come? Before the winds turn icy.”  

With a laugh, you slip your hand in his, leaning against his shoulder as he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow. “Is the fearless king afraid of the cold?” You look to see him roll his eyes as he pulls you closer into his side.

“Never,” he replies with a scoff. “But I’d rather like to feel my wife’s skin under my fingers, and I can’t do that when they’re frozen numb.” As if to prove his point, he wiggles his fingers before poking you in the side teasingly. 

To his defense, you completely agree. But more than that, it didn’t matter where you were together, so long as you were together. Come storm or high hell, Seokmin was always your resting place as you were his.

[moseslikellamas]

♱𖣂 Redfork Menace ♱𖣂 pt.6

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!OC

Summary - The day of the Mourning Ceremony has arrived. Shanda has followed through on her promise and gotten her and her two brothers out of attending. They make a trip to the Redfork to conduct their own ceremony.

Warnings - fem!reader, suspense, mentions of injuries, adult language, period typical misogyny, condescension, adult language, complicated family dynamics, feud behavior, benjicot brainrot, Kieran Burton fancast.

Word count - 3.7k

Bit of a chonky chapter. But I’m setting up for some very entertaining scenes and there’s a lot of context to establish first. Per GoT/HotD fashion, no one can ever have too good of a time without something happening. This is very true here.

!MINORSDNI!

Shanda stared out her window, watching the drops of rain run down the glass slowly. Thunder rolled over the castle in waves, the sky a pit of shadows reflecting the somber mood of the day. There was no wind that day, giving the air a stagnant feel and bells rangs in long ominous tones, giving a haunted mood to everything. She was dressed in a long white gown, the sleeves nearly dragging the ground alongside her. A gold belt around her waist was her only accessory, her hair hung in waves around her shoulders. She did not have the heart to look in the mirror, afraid to see her mother’s ghost looking back at her.

Her mother had died in an ambush on the Kings road two years ago while returning from Shipbreaker Bay. Imagine surviving the rough seas in a perilous journey and arriving to die on the “safest” road in the kingdom. There had been little evidence pointing towards the reason for the massacre either. Nothing had been taken from the carriage, no luggage disturbed. Her mother still wore all of her jewelry even. It was strange beyond measure and no one had yet stepped forward with any information. The carriage had been found by a passerby who had notified the nearest neighbor, who had brought news to them.

To say it had been devastating to their family would be an understatement. Her father never truly recovered from it and refused to mention her at all. Royce was worse of all though. He harbored a deep bitter hatred that he couldn’t seem to overcome over the matter. Given the circumstances, Shanda could see why. The mourning ceremony tended to use the deceased as religious symbols for the gods rather than celebrating their lives as individuals. Royce could not stand to hear their mother talked about like a saint.

So despite the oppressive mood hanging around the castle she felt excited still. She had managed to free herself, Royce and Martyn from the ceremony. The Septon had agreed they could just as easily conduct the mourning rites along the Redfork. Her father had insisted Martyn accompany them and that had suited her just fine. She’d get to leave the castle walls and free her brothers from the ceremony. They would share stories of their mother and maybe splash about the river before returning home. The main thing they had to do was wait long enough for the ceremony to end back home.

In the days that had passed since her last outing, the stormy weather had persisted. Some days it was merely a drizzle, others it raged and poured. But they did not see the sun for days and days. It was worrisome that the storms were here so early and so intensely. Late autumn storms weren’t uncommon but typically it would be sticky and hot in the river lands in the late summer. What’s more, the storms here rarely persist this many days. A storm would roll in, rage and then leave. Today’s soft pitter patter was tolerable for an outing.

She had instructed her brothers to meet her at the east gate, wanting to avoid their chances of being held up together before they left the castle. Her father would love to find a reason to delay them if he could. It was still very early and the morning fog covered everything. It was hard to make out which way she was going in the yard and only found her way to the east gate by memory.

“There you are sister, about time.” Royce snapped, clearly already agitated.

Martyn stood stoically beside him looking paler than ever. Okay, maybe her imagining them frockling in the river had been a tad bit optimistic given the day.

“Good to see you too brother. Martyn, are you feeling alright?”

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.” The glassy look in his eyes did not inspire confidence within her.

The three of them exited the eastern gate and Shanda began to lead them towards the river. She took care to lead them further east before cutting north. She wanted to avoid the center of the borderlands where conflict raged between the two houses. Her father had finally bothered to set his own guard in the borderlands, useless as they seemed. She hadn’t seen a single one since they’d set out. Where exactly where they guarding? Their guards seemed to be baited in fights every other day. And they were fights only, not a single death had occurred following the arrest warrant. Reports from the border indicated if they engaged to kill, the Blackwood guards would disarm them before beating their opponents bloody but perfectly alive. There had been a marked increase in broken arms however and that was a disturbing image for her.

They walked for ages, to avoid the Blackwoods, but also because she enjoyed being outside again. Even if one of her brothers looked on the verge of throwing up and the other practically had steam coming out of his ears. The tall grass was swaying softly and the ground wasn’t completely wet, giving them a semi solid surface to walk on. Occasionally a bird would swoop off in the distance, perhaps looking for a dryer spot.

“How long are we going to walk? Shouldn’t we be there?” Royce complained.

“I’ve led us further out, don't want anyone sneaking up on us do we?”

“Why bother? We’ve got Martyn. Right Martyn?”

Royce smacked his arm lightly as if he were jesting but his tone was too angry for it to work. Martyn just kept walking ahead, saying nothing and occasionally swallowing like he had too much spit in his mouth. That didn’t please Royce at all, who was clearly itching to fight someone. She was all the more thankful that she had led them away from the usual haunts of guards if that was the attitude her brother was going to be swinging around. Before he could muster up another snide remark the rushing sound of the river picked up and soon the sight of the blue water could be seen through the tall grass.

“See. Didn’t take us that long after all, Royce. Have some patience.” She said, trying to lighten the mood but he only shoved passed her towards the water.

She took the moment alone with Martyn to talk to him.

“Martyn, what’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

If it were possible, he turned even paler at her words.

“It was just a nightmare I had. Don’t worry about me, Shan. We better look after Royce before he tries to fight the river.”

Incredibly skeptical but unwilling to push him on the matter currently, she nodded. They joined Royce beside the river, he was crouched low his hand in the rushing water. He looked deep in thought.

Due to the rocky weather and the sheer amount of rain they’d received lately the river was moving quicker than she had ever seen it. The sound was so relaxing as it streamed downhill, she found herself wishing it would always rush like this.

“Do you want me to start?” She asked when her brother failed to move at all.

He stood abruptly though at the sound of her voice as if he had just remembered she was there.

“No. I’ll go first.” His voice was hoarse.

“Our mother was a great woman. She was kind and fierce and she loved us all. Though she had reason enough not to.”

Shanda smiled at his words. It was the happiest she had heard in him in a while.

“She was the glue that held our family together and I miss her everyday.”

“That’s really beau-“

Royce cut her off, his tone bitter and biting. “I’m not finished.”

Bewildered at his change in mood she motioned for him to continue.

“She was murdered by those filthy barbarians across the river and you keep frockling out here like they aren’t a bunch of bloodthirsty freaks!”

She was so taken aback she stood there for a moment, mouth agape.

“Whoa, hold on now. You asked me to get you out of the ceremony! I did that. You're welcome by the way, it was a lot of work. And I led us out of the way to avoid the Blackwoods. We also don’t know who killed our mother, that’s a serious accusation to make Royce.”

“Oh that’s rich. Are you seriously defending them right now?”

Shanda took a deep breath trying not to let her rising anger get the best of her as he moved closer and closer into her personal space.

“I’m not defending anyone, least of all those idiots. I’m simply pointing out that you can’t go around throwing around accusations of murder without any proof!”

“Their very existence is proof! Our father told you not to come out here and mess with them. And you just couldn’t help yourself. Now our guards come back covered in blood. What about that?” He pushed his finger sharply into her chest at his question and it was the last straw for her.

She pushed him back with a frustrated sigh escaping her. “Bloody and alive baby brother! They come back bloody and alive. Does that sound like the type of person to murder a woman in her carriage while she was defenseless? Just stop and think for a second would you! I came out here to try and help us. I actually want us to get ahead of them. That’s why I’m out here trying to find a way to bring them down. What have you been doing? Besides being a sulking angry little jerk of a child? Hm, what have you contri-“

Royce cut her off again this time screaming at her. “Shut up!” Then he ripped the sword Martyn had been loosely holding away from him and swung at her. She leapt out of the way at the last second, the sword only managing to nick her shoulder. If she’d stayed still he might’ve sliced her head off. That seemed to snap Martyn out of whatever spell he was in as he immediately began fighting Royce for the sword.

Martyn managed to rip the sword away from him, but Royce was bigger and knocked him onto the ground before turning his attention back to Shanda. The river was at her back and Royce approached her looking half crazed.

“You’re a disgrace to our house. And no sister of mine.”

And then he pushed her as hard as he could, sending her tumbling into the rushing river.

The water was colder than she expected. That was her first thought as her head broke the surface and she coughed up water. The current was sweeping her downstream and already she could barely see her brothers in the distance. Her second thought was that her dear brother was starting to get on her last nerve. I mean really, trying to cut her down with a sword? Kinslaying is the most cursed crime among the gods and he would commit it on the day of the mourning ceremony? He was an utterly lost cause.

She tried several times to pull herself out of the river but the current was much stronger than it looked. She was pulled underneath the water many times as the river bent and turned. Luckily Shanda was a pretty fair swimmer and she was always able to pull her head back above the water. She was pulled further than she ever could have dreamed before a fallen tree gave her the opportunity to pull herself out. She grabbed the low hanging branch and used it to pull herself up and out of the water. Her arms were shaking from swimming in the current for so long and she collapsed atop the tree, soaking wet and exhausted.

She lay there for longer than she should have but nowhere near as long as she would have liked. Eventually she forced herself to her feet, she had to find her way back home. She looked around at her surroundings hoping to see a familiar landmark that could help point her in the right direction. The river ran to the west and as she looked around it became clear she had traveled a great deal. She was too far downhill and would need to trek back up the river to have any hope of finding her way back. The trouble was, she had gotten so turned around while in the river, she wasn’t sure which side was the Bracken side. With the current that strong, she wouldn’t easily be able to cross if she happened to be on the wrong side.

She hadn’t brought anything with her. She was with her two brothers, what would she have brought? Royce was hurting that much was clear but his behavior was unacceptable. She was going to their father first thing when she got back. He would be furious with his behavior. Pushing her into the river, what a joke. She walked for a while before she started taking care not to be seen. She felt silly sneaking around in an empty field but it was always better to be cautious. The tall grass hid her well enough but the morning fog had thickened around the river providing her even more cover. Occasionally she would stop crawling to pop her head out and have a look around at her surroundings.

She traveled for what felt like an eternity before finally off in the distance she spotted the familiar copse of trees that marked the familiar territory of her part of the Redfork. She paused for a moment to rest once she spotted the trees. The sky had grown darker in the time it had taken her to come back. And she wondered if her brothers had made it back home yet. Whether her father had sent men out looking for her yet. She wished they would hurry up if they were looking for her. She bit back a yawn and began crawling in the grass again towards the gathering of trees. Wandering through the thick tendrils of grass she couldn’t help but hope she didn’t run into a wolf out here. Wouldn’t that top this day off as the worst one in a year?

Thankfully no wolves appeared and she reached the trees without incident. She carefully crawled inside before rising to her full height. She had done it! Now all she had to do was walk home. That normally would be an easy task but she was so tired and her entire body ached. Her head hurt and her throat was sore from coughing up river water. Her shoulder also burned from where Royce had cut her. It had stopped bleeding though and she considered that a blessing. Slowly and surely she began the grueling walk home. It took her twice as long as usual and she cursed herself for being so slow. She couldn’t will herself to pick up the pace however and settled for admiring the nature around her.

Looking out she saw the same familiar grass and trees stretching out before her and soon she’d see the back watch tower rising in the distance. She couldn’t wait to take a warm bath and crawl into bed. Maybe her brother could wait until tomorrow. Her walk was more of a meandering sway at this point, the fancy slippers she’d worn out here were gone and her feet were cut from stones in the river and sticks in the mud. The bottom of her dress was filthy and she struggled to keep her head up, having to carefully pick her away around the ground.

When she finally looked up again, sure she would see the watchtower, she experienced a nasty shock at the sight that greeted her. It was a watch tower alright, just not hers.

“Oh. Oh.” She said once she realized.

She turned and ran with what little energy she had back the other way. Why hadn’t she seen any guards? Were the Blackwood guards also as useless as the Brackens? Why were they posting all of these guards if they were nowhere to be found? Her run had gradually slowed into a jog simply because she couldn’t keep the pace up. The wind and the rain was starting to pick up again when she ran into them. A group of six or seven Blackwood guards emerged from the trees, they were laughing and talking completely unaware of her. Her first instinct was to freeze, going completely still. Were they shifting changes this early? It couldn’t be later than the afternoon. Or had she been out later than that?

Thankfully her second instinct was to drop to the ground, hiding in the grass and praying they didn’t walk her way. She waited as the group grew closer, their voices getting louder as they did.

“Did you see the look on the lad's face when I took his sword from him?” One called out to roarous laughter.

“The smaller one could hardly be called a warrior at all. He hadn’t even gotten a punch in. All that shiny armor wasted on Bracken filth like him. Still say we should have stripped it off of him.”

Shanda felt a horrible terror grip her. A wash of hot fear went through her at their words. Surely they weren’t talking about Martyn and Royce. Heart pounding in her ears she listened for more.

“No, it would only make you a worse man for having touched it. It’s better that we tossed them.”

Her heart seized up at that. They hadn’t killed anyone right? She waited on pins and needles for them to pass, sure one of them was going to spot her. Or worse, stumble into her in the grass as they walked by. But as the voices gradually grew further away she could have wept for joy. Not wanting to take any chances she kept her head down and continued crawling away through the grass. If she made it out of this unscathed she was truly going to stay inside, the river clearly wasn’t a place of luck for her lately. It was while crawling through the grass that she ran straight into the enemy.

Because she never looked up, she ran right into a straggler from the earlier group of guards. Right into his knees that is. She crashed her head against his knees, falling backwards and just laying there. She hadn’t really expected to make it out of here unseen. She had ventured much too far into enemy territory to come out the otherside unscathed. It was when her enemy leaned over her, casting a shadow that she decided maybe the river lands weren’t cursed. Maybe it was just her. She was too tired to react. This day had it out for her and she was tired of fighting against what seemed to be her fate.

“Hello there little criminal. Come to face your trial after all?”

The smug grin on his face would have made her angry if she could summon the energy. One hand rested on his sword, the other he held out to her.

“Would you believe me if I said I got lost?” She asked, taking his hand and heaving herself up though she did not want to.

“A seasoned warrior like you? I’m well and properly shocked.”

She ignored his mocking tone. There was no chance she got out of this predicament now. She cursed Royce for being such an annoying immature child. She didn’t want to go on trial for attempted murder. The Blackwoods wouldn’t exactly give her a fair trial. Maybe her father would kick up a big enough fuss to get the Tully’s involved.

“I have to insist you send a letter to my father, telling him of my capture.”

Benjicot smiled at her before wrapping a hand around her wrist and leading her back toward Raventree.

“As it is, criminals don’t get to insist on anything. However I’m sure your father already knows. We encountered you brothers earlier looking for you. Only we found them and they didn’t find you.”

Despite her outwardly calm demeanor she was freaking the fuck out. Her thoughts were anxiously spiraling into the worst case scenarios. She had seen the guards that came back half beaten to death by the senseless brutes over here. Martyn had been half mad today already, she couldn’t imagine he could have held his own. And Royce was still so young, he spent his days laying on hay bales for the Mothers sake!

“Are they okay? What did you do to them? Tell me!” She demanded trying to yank her hand out of his grip. Unable to feel his skin on hers for fear of her brother's suffering.

Benjicot just laughed and pulled her closer against him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

“They’re fine, silly. We needed them to be able to walk back. How else would your father know you’re going to face justice for being a little sneak? When we told your brother we caught you on our land, spying again in broad daylight. Well, you should’ve seen his expression.”

She stared at him in horror.

“That’s not true. I got lost. And besides you’ve only just found me now!”

The foul man beside her shrugged, still grinning.

“He believed us and it turns out you were actually here committing the crime anyway. It’s all the same thing.”

“It is not the same thing! My brother pushed me in the river, you jackass. I got swept downstream and I couldn’t figure out where I was. I thought I was walking home. Believe me I’ve had a bad enough day without adding you to it.”

He squeezed her shoulder replying, “Aw, you poor baby. Have you not figured out by now you don’t belong out here?”

Her face burned in embarrassment before she snapped back at him. “I was out here for the mourning ceremony. Gods, can we walk back in silence? I’m a prisoner right? You don’t do idle chatter with prisoners do you?”

“No.” He agreed. “But I also don’t let them walk my land. I’m being generous to you, little criminal.”

“I am not a criminal!”

“Are you a prisoner or not? Make up your mind, love.”

“I’m nothing okay! Let’s just get on with it.”

“Okay nothing, are you going to admit to your crimes?”

“I haven’t committed any crimes. The land is neutral anyway. You are insane and should be stripped of your title.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Raventree Hall loomed impressive in front of them and Shanda tried to hide her fear as he led her up the hill.

[ficsbyuzi]

Wait

Part-2 (Read Part 1 here)

Aemond Targaryen X Alys Rivers (Modern Westeros)

Summary : Aemond feels a mix of curiosity and irritation towards Alys.

Word count : 2250

"Your mother is worried about you," Criston told Aemond, sipping his coffee and instantly flinching at the taste.

Aemond responded with a noncommittal hum, emitting a billow of smoke out of his lips. Observing his employees from the glass walls of his spacious, sophisticated office, Aemond silently wished that his mentor and confidant, Criston Cole would not initiate the conversation he had been avoiding having with his mother.

“You texted her a week ago when you arrived here," Criston continued, placing the cup on the sleek glass table and reclining on the plush couch. "She hasn't heard from you since then.”

"I am busy cleaning up the mess my uncle made here," Aemond interjected, his eye now narrowed on an artwork of the ancient Harrenhal castle hanging on the wall, trying to locate his office in the Tower of Kingspyre painted on it.

Criston's concerned gaze remained fixed on Aemond as he observed the shadows under his eyes, conspicuous on his pallid skin.

"Aemond, she wants me to shift here and help you in.."

"There would be no need for it," Aemond interrupted, not allowing Criston to finish. "You must stay in King's Landing, mother and Aegon need you more than ever now," he asserted, turning to face Criston. "I can handle things here."

His words were clear and steady, but couldn't sway the middle-aged man, who knew him inside out, having practically raised him.

"Your parents brought you here for a vacation many years ago, but had to leave the next morning.”

“Have I been here before?”

“Of course you don't remember, you were not even two, and you kept crying the whole night,” Criston deadpanned.

A chuckle escaped him as Aemond paused with his cigar halfway to his lips, his lack of amusement evident at Criston's recollection of his childhood.

“I have a hunch that you aren’t liking this place,” Criston said.

"I'm alright. The place... it's a bit weird, but I've seen worse. I'll get used to it."

Criston nodded at Aemond's reassurance, tearing his gaze from him and shifting it to the immaculately clean white marble floor. In the moment of silence between the two men, Aemond took a drag from his cigar.

"About your engagement..." Criston hesitated to touch upon the topic, and Aemond sighed, rolling his eye. "Have you even reached out to Floris once? She's having a tough time coping."

Aemond replied, rubbing his fingers on his scar, "I haven't, and I doubt I will. The decision is made.” Flicking his cigar into the ashtray, he continued, "My life is tangled up in more important matters than thinking about a woman right now.”

The words he had been repeating to himself for the past week, spilled effortlessly from his lips.

After all, layering a veil of indifference over his true emotions was a skill he had been mastering since childhood.

Ignoring the nudge of unwelcome thoughts came naturally to him. Thoughts that were misaligned with the stature of someone like him, and acting as a hindrance in his duties.

Silencing such thoughts with logic had always been a more rational thing to do for him.

Indeed, why should thoughts of a woman, likely married with children and undoubtedly older than him, occupy his mind?

A woman he had only encountered twice. An employee, no less, working under him.

No, she didn't stir any curiosity within him with her enigmatic countenance. And the way she silenced him when correcting him on a historical fact, failed to impress him. Her wisdom and aplomb did not appeal to him.

If anything, her nonchalant attitude and apparent indifference to his imposing presence, irked him.

And when his museum tour was scheduled with the assistant curator instead of Alys Rivers, he scoffed at the disappointing feeling creeping into his heart. It wasn't as if he longed to see her again or anticipated engaging in a thoughtful, intellectual discussion with her. He was well-versed enough in the history of arts himself- his favorite subject during his undergrad years.

He wasn't affected even a bit, when she showed up for a few minutes at his welcoming party a day before, but didn't even say a word to him or look at him.

What if she simply isn't very friendly with others?

Why should it be of any concern to me ?

I don't know her. I don't care.

If only she let a bit of herself seep out of those cracks.

He scoffed again at a kernel of wishful thinking in his mind, daring to suggest he might want to know her better.

“What are you scoffing at?” Criston enquired with furrowed eyebrows.

“Huh?” Aemond realized he had let out an audible scoff, over-expressing his thoughts. “Nothing, I was just thinking about the work,” he segued, “there’s still a lot to be done here to streamline the management. I've had to let go of ten people in the last four days, and every report I see has some..”

Two knocks at the door interrupted their conversation.

Aemond straightened up in his seat upon noticing the person standing there, snuffing out his cigar in the ashtray. The scrunch in Criston's forehead deepened as he observed a stir in Aemond's usual placid demeanor in response to someone's presence. A rarity.

“Ms. Rivers,” Aemond nodded, clearing his throat and acknowledging her, “Please come in.”

Criston shifted on his couch to see the new entry in the room. Clad in a navy pantsuit, as Alys approached the seating area, her aura hit him with an alarming wave of unease and apprehension.

Seemingly unaware of Criston's intense glare fixed on her, Alys handed over a folder to Aemond. “I need your signatures on these documents, regarding a shipment from Essos.”

Aemond detected the simmering scrutiny emanating from Criston, and sensing its potential to unsettle Alys, he swiftly intervened by introducing them. "Ms. Alys Rivers, Manager and Curator at the museum," he announced, his voice cutting through the sound of flipping pages and the scratch of pen on paper. "Mr. Criston Cole, my mother’s personal assistant and a close family friend."

Alys shared a fleeting eye contact with Criston, while his gaze bore into her.

“Mr. Cole.” She nodded in a robotic acknowledgement, and he reciprocated the gesture equally stiffly. His eyes narrowed upon the dragon tattoo on her hand, as she extended it to take the files back from Aemond.

“You could have sent it to me through a subordinate,” Aemond stumbled for words, “I mean.. you had to come all the way up here..”

“The documents are confidential,” she replied, “and I wanted to personally inform you that your museum tour is now scheduled with me, a week from now.” An inviting warmth trickled from her voice.

Aemond stiffened his features, schooling them into neutrality and resisting the urge to soften them into an acknowledging smile. Instead, he responded with an indifferent hum.

Criston silently observed the two of them, growing uneasy with each passing second. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but his guts kept reiterating that there was something about her that was setting his nerves on edge. A strange urgency to stand between the two rushed through him again.

“Aemond, I will be leaving now,” An instinct to cut the conversation between the two, pushed an abrupt declaration out of him.

Alys took the cue. “Mr. Targaryen, Mr. Cole,” she nodded and left the room.

Once he ascertained that they were left alone and the door was shut, Criston enquired, “How long has she been working here?”

“I am not aware of her job tenure, yet,” Confused at Criston’s wary, curious reaction, Aemond asked, “is something wrong?”

“I don't know..” came a tentative response. He then mumbled to himself, as if avoiding answering Aemond, “that name..it rings a bell..”

“I didn't get you.”

“Anyway..." Switching to his normal voice and rising from his seat, he approached Aemond and enveloped him in a fatherly embrace. "I shall take my leave now. I'm just a call away if you need me," he reassured, patting Aemond's back and gently cupping the back of his head.

As he withdrew from the embrace, his gaze casually swept over Aemond's shoulder, drifting beyond the glass walls of the office. Among the many moving figures on the bustling floor, one figure stood still in a secluded corner.

This time when Criston noticed Alys, she was already watching him. Their eyes briefly locked before she quickly averted her gaze. She pretended to fumble with something on a nearby desk, before turning away to leave.

The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end.

-

Fire. A blinding streak of light.

His flesh singed in the roaring flames that consumed him. And as it charred, it did not turn into ashes, but water.

He burned, yet merged with the water, becoming one with it.

He was drenched, enveloped in a chilly , hopeless deluge.

Drenched in sweat, Aemond jolted awake. His heart threatened to crush his ribs, pumping fear through his veins. He instinctively raised his arm to shield his face from the sharp beam of sunlight piercing through the crack of the curtains. His eye, tired yet wide-opened, scanned the surroundings frantically as he tried to shake off the lingering remnants of the nightmare.

His ragged gasps softened into longer and deeper breaths as he spotted his Great Dane sitting by the door of his bedroom, whining softly. Instantly, he was pulled back into his reality.

“Come here,” Aemond breathed out, calling his loyal companion and patting the empty space on his bed. Vhagar whined again and eagerly obeyed her master's command.

“Feeling bored, are you?” He petted his best friend, affectionately rubbing her neck, eliciting more huffs and whines.

“Wanna go out for a walk? Hmm?” A soft chuckle left him at Vhagar’s bark of approval.

“Let’s go.”

-

A busy, bustling weekend at the resort, had faded into a more relaxed midweek. Aemond opted to start his day at a slower pace and spend the morning away from work. Dressed in a casual ensemble of a deep green turtleneck, black jeans, and his comfortable walking shoes, he left his mansion with Vhagar, for a stroll through the wooded area behind the castle resort.

The path from their residence to the woods meandered through manicured fields, speckled with the shades of autumn, surrounding the shimmering God’s eye lake.

As they delved deeper into the heart of the woods, the tranquility of the picturesque countryside intensified. The gentle crunch of Aemond's footsteps, crushing the dessicated leaves beneath, echoed softly in the crisp, damp air. Sunlight, filtering through the thick canopy of towering oaks, birches, and pines, painted a shifting mosaic of light and shadow on the forest floor.

Vhagar’s exuberance at being out in the wilderness seeped into her master, as he observed her silent companionship with a smile. She trotted beside him, her tail wagging eagerly, as she occasionally explored the earth with her nose.

Despite his past camping experiences in the forests, Aemond had never felt the same profound connection with any. As if each rustle of a leaf, every chirp of a songbird, and the gentle murmur of the stream meandering through the trees, were whispering secrets meant only for him.

“All forests are the same,” he reasoned, dismissing the similar nagging sense of familiarity that nudged his consciousness quite often now-a-days.

Yet, an energy, an essence gripping his soul, seemed to defy the explanation he gave to himself. Deep down, he knew that these woods - once the sacred Godswoods of the mighty Harrenhal castle, were different from the ones he had been to.

Perhaps, Vhagar sensed the same energy or the effect it had on her master, as she began to grow restless. Suddenly, she erupted into agitated growls and barks, dashed ahead leaving Aemond behind and disappearing into a dense thicket.

“Vhagar, what is it? What’s wrong?” Aemond shouted and hurried after her.

“Vhagar! What's there?”

Emerging from the thicket, Aemond found a quaint, log cabin standing in the shadow of the ancient, weirwood heart tree. In a small clearing nearby, Vhagar stood, sniffing a woman sitting amidst her canvas, art supplies and a basket brimming with an assortment of twigs, leaves, and wildflowers.

On that canvas, was an unfinished yet perfect depiction of the weirwood tree. The five-pointed, blood red leaves, the bone-white trunk along with the grotesque face carved on it, had been painted with impeccable precision. The brushwork, thoroughly professional, seemed to have brought the tree to life on the canvas.

The woman’s luscious ebony locks cascaded freely down her shoulders, trailing to the small of her back, and pooling around her seated form. They draped over her like a cloak, almost concealing her entirely, save for her hand that peeked through the balloon sleeve of her black sweater. Her fingers were tenderly caressing Vhagar’s muzzle, the only indication that a real person was occupying the space.

Bewildered, Aemond called out, “Vhagar! Come back here!” And she obeyed at once.

His defensive instincts, triggered by a stranger appearing out of nowhere, instantly melted into a mix of surprise and relief when the woman rose from her seat, and turned to face him.

Chaos and charm woven together. Each hiding behind the other.

And there it was again - the glint in her eyes that seemed to penetrate his very being. Her smile, hinting that she knew parts of him that even he hadn’t uncovered, was back too.

A tide, both enticing and terrifying, a force he yearned to be swept away with, and yet kept rowing against it.

As she neared him, she spoke in her airy yet deep voice. A voice that had settled into his senses since their first meeting.

Aemond’s eyebrows knitted together, as her words left him unsure how to respond. The words which sounded more like a statement of fact than a question -

"You found me.”

[lidiasloca]

the joker and the queen

jude x cardan

post-queen of nothing

cardan's pov

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

"I might have the king." Jude smirks to herself as she raises the bet.

I stare down at my hand—a miserable one, if I’m being honest. Still, I could make something work if the king of hearts showed up on the River.

But of course, the very card I need is likely resting in her hand, leaving my fortune in her grasp.

"I hate this game," I mutter, both in words and with the irritated look on my face.

"Don’t be a sore loser," she teases, and if my queen weren’t wearing that infuriating yet irresistible smile—one I suspect I’ve taught her myself—I’d remind her of the inherent advantage she holds in this so-called "poker, Jude's version," complete with rules she and her sisters invented.

Rules I barely understand, courtesy of a rushed, one-minute explanation before the game began.

"I haven’t lost yet, love," I say, grabbing her wine glass since mine is already empty. I take a sip, one I desperately need.

Naively, I match her raise. Roach, who we’ve roped into dealing, flips the final card.

No king.

Which means: I have nothing. I lose. Jude wins. And mercifully, the game is over.

She sets down her cards with a triumphant flourish, revealing the king that pairs with the queen of hearts already on the table—a pair that, according to Duarte’s rules, is unbeatable.

"Yes! I knew you’d win," Taryn cheers from Jude’s side.

Unlike Jude’s poker partner, my teammate, Vivi, snorts in disapproval. "How are you so bad at this?" she asks, not for the first time.

We were paired together—yet another odd rule—and both Vivi and Taryn had already lost, leaving Jude and me as the last players standing.

"It’s not as if you did any better," I shoot back, watching Roach drag away the pile of our team's money—"The Immortals with a Weakness for Mortals," as Vivi so lovingly named us.

"Don’t be too hard on my king, will you?" Jude says, grinning at me.

The way she says "my king" sends a warm, familiar sensation through me, even if she’s clearly mocking me. "He’s not that bad. I’m just that good," she adds with a chuckle, making me laugh despite myself.

As Taryn collects their winnings, I rise from my seat and walk over to Jude.

Around the table, everyone pauses to watch: Roach, the Bomb, Taryn with the Ghost, Vivi beside Heather, and others who were observing the game. I don’t care.

I stand beside her, looking into her deep, brown eyes, and offer her my hand.

To my surprise, she takes it without hesitation, her warm, tanned fingers curling into my cold, pale ones. She rises gracefully from her chair, lips parting in mild surprise. The teasing smile she wore a moment ago is gone, replaced by something softer. Her green silk dress, the one I picked for her—with her permission, of course—flows elegantly as she steps closer to me.

"Where?" she whispers, just for me, her breath sending goosebumps down my neck.

"Wherever."

I suddenly remember the eyes still on us, and so does Jude. She turns to Vivi, who’s now smirking as if she’s discovered our deepest secrets.

I snort, turning Jude’s face back to me with a gentle hand on her chin. I ask her again, this time with my eyes. She nods, her mischievous grin returning as I smile at her.

With her hand still in mine, I take a step back, never breaking eye contact. Everything else fades—except for Taryn’s incredulous, almost disgusted grimace as Vivi whispers something in her ear. Knowing Vivi, I probably don’t want to know what she said.

We leave the room and step into a quieter, more private space. I finally turn around to walk properly when Jude pulls me back, stopping me from crashing into a cabinet. A drink cabinet, to be exact—lucky me.

I kneel, retrieve her favorite bottle, and stash a couple of juice boxes in my pocket for good measure.

"What did you take?" she asks, as I stand and take her hand again. I ignore the question and start heading for the exit, but something stops me at the door.

I can hear the faint sound of the revel’s musicians outside.

"Wife, I have no heart for the party," I confess. I should. I’m the one who arranged it, after all. But ever since I woke from that nightmare earlier, the night has felt off. The party’s in full swing now, and there’s no undoing that, but there is another option—this quiet moment away from it all.

Jude looks at me with those soft, caring eyes—eyes I didn’t even know she had until a few months ago, when we finally dropped our armor around each other.

"Husband," she says, lifting a hand to stroke my cheek. I cherish these rare moments of tenderness from her, treasuring every one. "May I remind you that you’re the High King? If you don’t want to go, then don’t."

I smile, handing her the juice box I’d stashed away. As we both open our drinks, I continue, "And since you’re the queen—"

"The High Queen," she corrects me, smirking over her straw.

I laugh. "Yes, sorry, the High Queen. And since you’re the High Queen, you get to decide what we do instead of going to the party."

She bites her lip, pretending to think about it. "I want..." she says, trailing off as if I should already know.

"Mmm," she grins, and I grin back. I know that look all too well.

"That's what you want?" I ask, watching her expression closely. She nods, and I can’t help but smile wider as I start walking with her again.

"Why are you so happy about it?" she asks, feigning mockery. "I thought you hated Duarte’s poker."

Wait—what?

"Poker?" I repeat, incredulous. "That’s what you want to do? Again?" I sigh, shaking my head. "I thought—never mind."

But she starts laughing—full, unrestrained laughter—and I can’t help but smile too, even though I try not to.

"Okay, love, stop. It’s not that funny," I say, my attempt at a serious face failing miserably.

"You’re funny," she says, though I know she means I’m ridiculous, not amusing. "Sorry," she adds, raising an apologetic hand as her laughter dies down into a smile.

I stare at her with exaggerated judgment, which only makes her chuckle more. "I do hate Duarte’s poker," I confess, though she already knows that. "But I find it funny how terrible you are at cheating when you steal and hide cards."

"Hey! That’s not true." Jude pretends to be offended. "You really think I’m bad at it? No one’s noticed."

I laugh, pulling her closer by the waist. "Well—" I pause, reaching into the secret pocket in her dress and pulling out a hidden card. "I noticed."

She gasps, smirking. "Are you always watching me like a creep?"

"No," I say, caressing her cheek. "Not like a creep."

She grins, pulling out yet another hidden card from a pocket I didn’t even know existed. This one is the king of hearts.

"You," I say, staring down at her in amused disbelief.

"Yes," she admits with a satisfied smirk. "I stole this one too."

Of course she did. And the irony—that she once again holds the king of hearts—makes me smile like an idiot.

-Characters by Holly Black

[genderoutlaws]

thank you for being such a beautiful light and resource of queer history. it’s made me so happy to scroll your blog for hours and learn and love my and others’ queerness. i was wondering if you had more sources about drag kings or places to go digging for history on drag kings? i checked your tag and i didn’t see much there sadly. or if you have any favorite drag kings that you’ve seen performances of! i went to my first drag show in august and i fell in love with the kings that performed ❤️❤️❤️ much love from my corner of the world

thank you so much ♥️ i’m still in the middle of tryna organize my tagging system but everything should just be under #kings now — i also really recommend checking out Drag King History !

and some fave kings 👑🕺

luc ami

tenderoni

penis envy !!

river glass

manny dingo !!!

krēme inakuchi !

myself hehe

andro gin !! huge inspiration to me

[revelisms]

to sacrifice a human heart

Or: Zaun, through her visionary.

She is rot-blackened teeth gnashing on the innocent and damned—a mistress chained by her own gluttony; her breath a brittle curse, winged and glittering; her steel forge an angel welded in shrapnel.

To him, she is a magnetism of the Kindreds' own. His City, with her glazed eyes and misfortune-sold tongues.

She takes him by the hand, river-born and drenched in red: lays retribution in his clammy fist, and squeezes his knuckles about its broken glass. No kings this far down to rule—foolish, the one who dreams of taming her—but he will cradle the sulfur of her skin; will glide a blood-diamond ring on her rusted finger: wed their past and future in a dazzle of neon gloss.

She will devour his humanity for nine years, and pick her teeth with the bones of what remains.

She will throw a howling demon of a girl into his arms, and call it even.

A mutual curse, perhaps. A blessing to a dying man.

Her people will crawl across the graves of their brethren, to reach in vain for his climbing heels: snag their splintered claws about the tide of his coattails, and cling.

They will drag him back, one day. Take the obsidian of his claw-tipped wings, and shatter them: take the lifeblood beating power-violet-effervescent, and gut it from their veins, once they've had their fill, grown strong enough to stand on their own bastard legs: and his City will devour him, again.

It's a fate he gambles on, as a gambler already on borrowed time.

He was born in the blood, born from the wretched depths of her wreckage—and to them all, to her, he'll return.

[awesomehoggirl]

(to a girl in the club) so when i was tiny like still learning to speak properly and just forming memories and growing sentient i would imagine this unicorn called unicorn who would go on adventures, my fav one was called unicorn in the water and in that one she would swim through a long winding river in a technicolour field. then one day when inwas 6 i dreamt that unicorn got hit by a car and was killed and mangled instantly. i dragged her inside a museum and she was pulled into a spiral vortex, then violet was birthed out from it in her place. violet was like unicorn but younger and shorter with a mauve coat and a light pink mane and tail which felt like cotton candy. and violet lived in a hill with her brother blue and their friend mouse change, a shapeshifting yellow mouse. the hill house had brown kitchen tiles and a door with a heart carved in it. violet was from an island inhabited by unicorns pegasi and pegacorns called quayahiia, which had a capital city with sand streets and huge blue glass buildings with bubble wand-like ring structures built on the top which refracted rainbows, and the rainbows were these huge loop the looping roads and the unicorns could ride them. their horns were detachable and powered by sparklelava from this huge volcano and young unicorns would need to pilgrimage there to refill their horns during adolescence. the islands number one enemy was the king of the hunters and his hunting dogs, who collected unicorn horns as trophies, and his unicorn crony derek. i was a unicorn whisperer and my familiars were violet the unicorn, an excitable pegacorn called boom and a maternal pegasus called honeybee. i could summon each of them with their own poem (i only remember violets one lol). and then the alicorn academy was founded and

[iviarellereads]

Harrow the Ninth, Chapter 33

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Sixth House icon) In which Harrow finds some unexpected friends.

In the fourth hour, Harrow feels like she's being followed. She sets an ambush for her predator, but it's no predator. It's Camilla Hect.(1) Harrow isn't sure how, as she saw Camilla's body.(2) Harrow feels a trickle from her ear, and she touches it to find "blood so dark that it was almost purple".

Still, Harrow remembers one of her more impossible seeming letters read "If met, give to Camilla Hect." So she extracts it, gives it to her construct, and has the skeleton walk over to hand it to Camilla. Harrow asks if she can know the contents, and Camilla reads off that Harrow promises to help her, if she can, for services previously rendered by the Sixth House. Harrow can hardly believe it, and tries to grab Cam with the construct.

It had been a long time since you had been around those who were not Lyctors. You grasped for her, thoughtlessly, with your construct; you were astonished by the speed with which Hect drew those big, balanced knives from each shoulder, and hurled herself at your skeleton like a stone from a sling. [...] You said, "Cease," but she levered one knife into the base of the spine, severed it, pulled the spine back toward her with a twang--and you heard your voice rise to say: "I need to know you are real!" [...] Camilla Hect sheathed her knives with as much speed and fury as she had unsheathed them, and she said: "No sudden moves." "I am Harrowhark Nonagesimus," you said. "I am the ninth saint to serve the King Undying. I am his fingerbone; I am his fists and festures ... I am a Lyctor, Hect. What hope would you have against me?" "None," said Camilla. And then she added calmly: "Yet."(3)

Harrow asks why Cam is here, when Harrow examined her body personally. Cam ignores the question and examines Harrow's ears and nose, and congratulates her on the impressive "intercranial haemorrhage",(4) which would kill most non-Lyctors.

Camilla came to find Harrow. She gives Harrow a bit of human skull, belonging to Palamedes, and says that he's still in it, but she wants Harrow's confirmation anyway. Harrow can feel thanergy, for sure. Camilla says Pal is a revenant, he fixed his spirit to a particular spot on his skull, and she needs to be sure she's got the right fragment out of all the pieces he was blown into, because the Cohort took the rest away.(5)

Harrow tries, out of curiosity about the kind of man who would do such a thing. She takes the skull piece, and she sits down and enters the River, just partially, to locate him.

You prepared for the ice, and the initial panic of ghosts exploding outward from your body, that safe predatory entry of your brain--the cloudy water, foggy with old blood-- --and you were standing in a room. Your wet robes were dripping onto a scrubbed wooden floor.

Harrow's eyes wander around the room, taking in its small but cozy and lived-in vibe. She even sees a book, The Necromancer's Marriage Season. A voice explains that it's about a Third house adept, Abella Trine,(6) who's "considered a poor prospect on the marriage market". Harrow turns around and sees a man, taller than herself, very thin, playing with his glasses. He keeps talking about the plot of the book, until he puts the glasses back on and says, "Long time no see, Reverend Daughter."

Then he did a very terrible thing. He stepped forward, and he pulled you into a wild embrace--the hold of a man drowning in deep water who cannot help but drag his rescuer down to the bottom with him. He dug his fingers into you in a way you were a little familiar with: tight against the chance that the person in front of you might be a cloud, or a mirage. He lifted you off the ground in his impatient, overfamiliar eagerness, and then he set you down again and saw your face. "Excuse me," you said, with sodden asperity. "Oh. Apologies," said Palamedes Sextus. "Misread the moment. Let's call it cabin fever. Nonagesimus, is Camilla--"(7) "She sent me," you said, wringing out your wet hem.

He thanks God for Cam, and says Harrow's a sight for sore eyes. Harrow first looks for the letters, though they're back on her physical body and besides which there was never one for Pal.

Then she asks incredulously about this projection inside the River. He says it's only really on the bank of the River, if anything, and explains how he anchored a bubble in the River to himself to his body, as he died. Harrow points out that he's defied every law of the River's physics, loose as they are. Pal is more concerned with how many papers he can write about the work he's done.(8)

They discuss the room, the place of Pal's death, and Harrow sticks her head out the door to see how much of the surroundings he was able to retain. He admits he's drafting a sequel to the novel on a piece of wallpaper.

The discussion turns to how impossible it is for a human soul, even a revenant, to live this way for long. Pal asks how long, and Harrow says eight months. Pal asks why it took so long, she should've been here in a week, and Harrow says Camilla only brought her the skull now. Pal says Cam should never have left Harrow's side, and Harrow gives her full name and rank and asks what the hell right he or Camilla has to pretend to know her.(9)

It is in this moment that Pal realizes Harrow became a Lyctor. She confirms it. He asks her to confirm that she did it "correctly", that she figured out what he was on the edge of. Harrow says that her cavalier fuels it.

Before he can do more than come close to cussing about how much God takes and takes, something shifts in the space. They look out the window, and see a figure in an orange hazard suit, with a huge gun.

Sextus was saying, "The hell is--" You said, and your voice sounded strange to yourself, as though you had heard the word only in dreams and never articulated by waking tongues:(10) "The Sleeper."

Pal says Harrow's brought something with her, and it's changing the theorem that's keeping him alive and sane. He needs her to go in hopes that what she brought will follow her out. He confirms with her that Cam has the right piece of skull, that he can focus on it, especially if Harrow can change it into something that articulates. Then he tells Harrow to get out the door.

As they struggle to hold it open, he suddenly looks awestruck, and Harrow doesn't understand the sharp smile that takes over his face. He kisses Harrow's brow and tells her to GO!

Harrow obeys, finally. She gets a little lost in the corridor, which then isn't a corridor at all.

But you were always too quick to mourn your own ignorance. You never could have guessed that he had seen me.(11)

=====

(1) RETURN OF THE QUEEN! (2) Probably in reference to the revised version in the slashed icon chapters. (3) Ohoho, what has our Cam planned now? (4) Intercranial - inside the skull. Hemorrhage - bleeding. And now we have words for what happens to Harrow whenever she's reminded that something is missing in her life and her memories. (5) So, we know what Cam was off doing when she disappeared from Gideon and Harrow's story. (6) Recall from the bonus content of the Gideon paperback, Abella was an alternate name for Ianthe. Love that she managed to squeeze it in here anyway. (7) So sweet that his first act is unthinking gratitude to Harrow for finding him, and his first thought is of Camilla. (8) Ever an academic, wouldn't have it any other way. (9) Harrow doesn't remember any of the real details, it seems she only remembers what has happened inside the slashed icon chapters we've seen. Which does seem like a plausible explanation of the events at Canaan House… ish. Except for the part where she's not pursuing the Lyctorhood at all over there. (10) Admittedly, all the slashed icon chapters HAVE occurred during periods where Harrow was sleeping. Every single one started when she passed out or was laying in bed. (11) And just who would be hanging on to Harrow so tightly, and wanting to narrate this series of events? Who would know that much about sword care and how Harrow was doing it so carelessly, and care so much about why and how Harrow was doing it wrong? Who, fitting those criteria, would Pal be even happier to see, to know that Harrow wasn't telling the full truth even if she thought she was? Who's been telling Harrow's story for and to her, all along? The Eurydice to our Orpheus who physically cannot turn around, for better or worse.

[p-isforpoetry]

"The Waste Land" - The Fire Sermon by T. S. Eliot (read by Fiona Shaw)

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu

Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

“This music crept by me upon the waters” And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala ..........................

Source: The Waste Land

[hvrricaneromeo]

spellscar ; noun ; a mark or scar on an individual who was exposed to raw, undiluted magic that has the potential to grant unique and dangerous powers to the afflicted individual.

romeo has never been a religious person. prayer for him has never been about ancient rites, pre-written words repeated from pages, or asking for forgiveness and penance. since his arrival at camp, prayer has been a sense of communion and communication, a means of connection to the king of the gods. his words have been answered, unanswered, forgotten, and remembered. the words returned have been emblazened upon him, down to his marrow.

now, romeo isn't sure what he prays for or why. now, he only asks himself will i still be enough?

he slips away from his cabin and the comforting embrace of those that he loves in an attempt to find solace elsewhere. he need not burden those with the weight of the storm within him, not this time. for this, he must suffer it alone—in a sense, at least. he pays some gold to the satyrs and nymphs of the temple to ensure that he's undisturbed and has had them move a mirror before the statue of zeus.

once inside, the temple doors locked, romeo strips bare and stands between statue and mirror. he turns to look at himself. lichtenberg scars run down his neck, his arms, flashes of lightning pressed into his skin. the strange scar over his heart stands out now, as if empowered by the new markings. he stretches his right arm out, charcoaled fingertips grazing the mirror's surface, color sapped eyes staring back at him.

he sighs.

romeo valiente has never been a religious person, but today he seeks the divine. he bends down and picks up his spellblade, dragging the dagger along left palm, then right and he let's the blood drip at his feet before raising them before the offering bowl. he can feel the divine spark of electricity spark and crackle where the cuts were opened.

another sigh and he begins, a divine man, seeking that which is in his veins but unattainable all the same.

"father zeus, upholder of the good and king of the gods. you, whose wrath is endless. you, whose favor rains upon those honorable enough to bear it. father zeus, wielder of lightning and lord of storms, whose might is what draws together the darkening clouds before illuminating those in truth." the words feel thick on romeo's tongue, nearly hollow. he's not sure how the son of thanatos can pray to his father in such a way. he feels disconnected, carved out like a pumpkin or a lightning burned tree.

he shakes his head, tears hanging like raindrops in the corner of his eyes. romeo valiente has been strong for too long. he has said i'm fine too much and now, alone before his father, he allows the storm to break.

"i'm scared, dad." he clenches his eyes closed before he tilts his head up toward the statue and opens them. "i thought i was strong enough to tap into the storm, to control it and it nearly sundered me. i thought i could lend my power to keep the lighthouse and the seas safe and it took more from me than i thought."

slowly, the son of zeus rises, naked and bathed in the moonlight that comes from the glassed roof, blood still dripping down, down down, flowing over the scars like a crimson river.

"it changed something in me, i can feel it. something missing and something still there, like a phantom limb. i've worked so hard, i've tried so hard to not be a liability to the rest of them." his voice chokes, the lump in his throat forcing him to swallow it down so he can continue. "i don't want to hurt them. i don't want to kill them if i lose control." he's eye level with the statue, eyes pleading, voice a quivering stream of wind that howls in his own ears.

he moves closer to the statue, resting his forehead against that of his father's marbled visage. "once, you told me you were proud of me. once, you protected me from a cruel fate and granted me power. once, invoking you saved me from certain death when the corruption was ready to claim me and my magic."

with his eyes closed, with lightning crackling from his palms and the scars illuminating on his skin in a brilliant, beautiful blue, he continues.

"help me. this...the scar can be useful, it's a blessing and a curse, a give and take. but please, please, please don't make eric right. don't let me become the thing that will tear this camp apart. i want...i need to control it." his voice is quiet, a simple whisper, barely audible. he floats down after a moment, letting his thundering heart return to a gentle thumpthumpthump. he sits before the offering plate, filled with blood and tears, and reaches into his bag of holding. he pulls the crown of the gods from it, a gift from the goddess circe, and he places it atop his head. then, with the javelin of lightning, he dips the tip in his blood and sets it at the statue's feet.

"i am your heir, your prince. i am your storm." he looks up once more. "don't let me be ruinous. grant me the power to protect myself and the others. grant me the power to keep going when i feel like falling." he thinks about how he willingly let himself fall from the test of faith instead of catching himself on the wind, how he would make sure that he would fall with those that had, too. he thinks about how he dove into the river of souls for the people he cares about, even if it was a strange vision. courage, recklessness, has always been something wielded by the son of zeus.

"please just...tell me i'm not an idiot for not wanting to look into the spell scars more and that i can master it. that i have the power to control it. i think i can, i know i can try." he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, taking a deep inhale before letting out the shaky breath. "thank you for listening to me rant. thank you for believing in me, if you still do." he stands up, pulling on some pants, the marks on his skin still glowing against tanned skin.

"i'd do a heartsong if it meant protecting them from me. i know you know that and i love you for not judging me for risking myself for their sake." his words are nothing more than a murmur, a whisper that fades out.

"i love you, dad, even if i have yet to truly meet you. and...i hope to be worthy. i hope...i hope i'm enough."